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Dear Sarge,

Ten years. How time flies. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you are dying. No one deserves it more. I almost didn’t write you, but soon enough I would be left to my regrets and you would be in the ground and all I could do is spit on your grave. This is better because I can stick it in your craw while you can still feel pain and you can’t do anything about it.

Hope you believe in Hell, Sarge, because personally, I hope you rot there. Just thinking of the eternal fires eating at your everlasting soul and constant, delicious pain forever titillates my testicles.

Yeah, there’s a picture makes me feel good.

Remember, Sarge? Remember Lisa and me? Remember? Of course you do. You took her away from me and now she’s dead, you slime, and you drove her to it. We were made for each other, but you couldn’t have that, could you? I came back a part of a man from Afghanistan and you came back whole.

Remember? Only a leg and you’d never know it now with the prosthetic, but you worked on her head until she thought I had no future. You lied your way into her good graces. Well, let me tell you about a disabled guy with no future. I’m president of my company and I’m worth more than your sorry ass could ever hope to be.

You have to know I don’t blame Lisa. I saw her as one of the innocents of the world. It’s a special thing I loved about her. Her kindness, her forthright gaze, her earnestness and her light. Yes, that inner light that lit up everything and everyone around her. She couldn’t see through your suavity, the worse your shame. Even I believed you until you whisked her away to California. Then I realized how you had duped me. I never gave up looking for you after that.

Best buddies, right? I saved your life three times in Afghanistan and you thanked me by taking away the only thing I ever loved. You were a good Marine until you mustered out. Then your colors changed. You became a man who takes and gives nothing in return, not like me, the man who wore his heart on his sleeve.

Yeah, me, Sarge! Look into this letter and you’ll see me staring right out at you. You used to think of me as a wimp; I’d never do anything about the girl you stole. But maybe you felt something, a little fear maybe, because you took her three thousand miles away and it took years for me to catch up to you.

Think about it now, in the dark hours of the night as you lie in that hospital bed and the morphine starts to wear off and you signal the nurse, but she’s "busy" with other patients and you have to lie there in increasing agony and you want to scream for help but nobody comes.

You want to know how I know this? You want to know who led me to you? Sure I’ll tell you. The nurse, the gal who’s reading this to you now. She and I graduated from high school together. Good friend of Lisa. Lisa confided in her at the last, when she could no longer handle your abuse. Sally got in touch and told me about your condition. We’ve been writing back and forth for months now, and she knows me pretty well at this point. I sent this little letter to her to read to you on her night shift, to make you suffer like you made me suffer.

Throat cancer is tough, isn’t it? Dying may not be worse, so I’ll stick it in your craw until the end. Sally will do that for me. She’ll read this to you over and over until there is no more of you. She’ll do this for me. Isn’t she sweet?

Remember Afghanistan? Remember friendship? It didn’t mean a thing to you, did it? Pity.

Semper Fi,


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