11 February 2001
Dear Bishop Hackle:
This is one of those "Father, forgive me for I have sinned" confessional letters. Harry, I am murderously angry at a certain Presbyterian minister from Minnesota, and were he not residing some 1500 miles due west I'd be tempted to knock on his door and bop him over the head with a ball bat. Thanks to a little holiday present from William Duane Brown, B.A., MDiv., I burned down my hunting cabin up in the Berkshires yesterday. I'm slightly distraught right now, thus if I sound like a psychotic madman on the verge of exacting bloody revenge . . . well, that's precisely what I've got in mind at the moment.
Three years ago I accompanied Perry Fuller to the Land of Lakes for the sake of getting personally acquainted with Pastor Brown. We had established an e-mail correspondence via the intervention of Mr. Fuller and found we had so much in common that when the chance to visit the man in person came about, I took full advantage of the opportunity. The good Reverend turned out to be an engaging gentleman, kind and considerate in all respects (except when he was driving) and quite generous with his tobacco. Although he revealed himself to be a fisherman completely partial to spin casting equipment, I was able to overlook the transgression since he consistently displayed an ardent love for English blends loaded with Latakia. Our fellowship was sweet, though severely trying at times. You see, my dear bishop, the pulpit master of Longville had the infuriating habit of lighting his briar with one of those terrible butane blow torches. The temptation to snatch the thing and smash it to smithereens nearly overpowered me--often. Diplomacy prevailed, however, and I complimented Duane (as he prefers to be called) on his exquisite taste in smoking accessories. Indeed, the lamentable device looked lovely--a fact even I couldn't deny. Huge, giant mistake: I should have kept quiet. When--oh, when--will I ever learn?
Last Christmas the Reverend Mr. Brown suddenly got possessed by the spirit of charity, whereupon he mailed yours truly the nicest pipe scorcher imaginable. Curse the day I ever opened the pernicious package, for thereupon I unwittingly committed myself to a course of total devastation. I swore never to use the contraption, but guilt over ingratitude can be extremely persuasive. Therefore, the gift found reluctant placement amongst the various items I tossed together for a bobcat hunting trip along the ridges of Rowe this weekend.
Unfortunately, the cats were not cooperative. Paw prints abounded, the hounds locked onto a strong scent, yet we never actually cornered a kitty. The hunt must have covered miles of territory because the trek back to the cabin was incredibly long, making me cold, hungry and tired by the time I arrived. After stoking a fire in the fireplace, I fed the mutts and myself, then sunk into the recliner to enjoy a bowlful of fine Erinmore flake. It seemed reasonable to try the aforementioned lighter since the corncob I intended to puff hardly qualified as the best. Bad call: the flame boomeranged out of the bowl, bit me squarely on the nose and burnt my finger. In a fit of rage I foolishly tossed the offending devil straight into the blaze of the hearth where it abruptly exploded, spewing red-hot sparks everywhere. Minor conflagrations quickly conspired to form an inferno beyond control. The available options immediately dwindled to a singular mandate: run, brother, run. I grabbed the dogs and bolted outside, only to watch the whole deal burn to the ground. Nothing else could be done, though somebody did call the volunteer fire department--a neighborly gesture, I suppose.
Harry, I'm considering a very special big game safari for next week. Do you know if Minnesota has a winter season on preachers? Well, if not, I just might have to poach one. I don't figure anyone would really notice he's gone, do you?
Sincerely,
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