A Love Letter From
Hildy Volstagg

"You know what a love letter is? It's a bullet from a fucking gun, fucker!"

- Frank Booth

It's been a while since we've heard anything from Hildy Volstagg. Many of our readers will vividly remember Ken's notoriously psychotic former paramour to whom he was he was married an awkwardly improbable three seperate times. For those who do not we refer you to a tastefully edited account of those and his five other marriages here. Meanwhile, it's been an uncomfortably quiet three years since there had been any communication from the Vicious Vixen until this blood and perfumed stained missive arrived in our mailroom today...

My Dearest Kenneth,

Well, I'm out. I'm out and and I'm hungry for love-stink.

Which means, of course, that I'm thinking of you, Ken, my hairy, tight-buttocked stack of prime-cut man meat.

You should know, my love, as I sit here writing this in a puddle of my own slowly cooling sweat, the seventeen year old Salvadoran room service boy sleeping coma-like beside me, his body, covered in an assortment of fresh bruises, welts and claw marks, drained of all fluids and desperately trying to recover itself after so many hours of snarling, animal lovemaking, that it's really you on my mind. You, my darling.

I think of you often, you know. Many times during my incarceration, during the darkest hours when there were no more rats to torture and the lonliness hit the hardest, it was only the thoughts of our glorious times together that kept me sane. Just ask Dilly, the ghost girl who would visit at night to sing me lullabies and recite the periodic table of elements, how I talked about you. She knows better than any what the thought of you meant to me during those long nights.

I think of that first time we lay together, third if you count the times when one or the other of us was unconscious, and how you asked in that quiet, low tone you use when you're nervous, why there was a car battery and copper leads next to th bed. Oh, how I laughed that night. Oh, how the wax burned so deliciously and the rough scent of burning human hair filled the air.

I think of that remote island we stopped off at during our first honeymoon and how you scolded me for setting fire to the native villiage there and driving it's habitants screaming into the sea to swim for their lives amidst a torrent of RPK-74 fire. How I had you on the beach that night, submissive after a ritual clubbing, and climaxed to the sound of a tiger shark feeding frenzy in the surf beyond the reef.

Those were the days, Ken. Golden days, beautiful days. And torrid nights by the likes of which even the Gods were made jealous.

So, where have I been you're wondering?

Like you even care, you heartless booty-panther. I'll tell you anyway, though. Just so you understand the lengths I will go to to prove my undying love to you.

I've just escaped grom Guantanamo.

That's right. Maybe you heard,a few years back, about how the oil tanker Levaithan II went missing in the Bermuda Triangle and how, six months later, it's entire crew turned up working as amusement park ride operators at the Texas State Fair, each one partially lobotomized and the word "Volta" tattooed down their spines. What you didn't hear about was the NSA sting operation that followed and my betrayal at the hands of a trusted compadre, flamboyant bush pilot and machete master, Kenko Deezchen, who sold me out to the Feds to beat some voter fraud charges in Florida.

Believe me, he'll get his. That's the first thing I'll do after I leave here. Track that bitch down and strap him to something that conducts electricity, believe you me. He'll regret the day makind stopped walking on all fours, he really will.

And after that? Well, don't you know, Kenneth, my big, juicy pile of oozing machismo, I'm coming for you. It's been far too long since I last tasted your sweet taste and heard you wailing the names of random Superheroes into the darkness. Calling out like a frightened calf for someone to come save it from it's inevitable orgasmic slaughter. Too long since I showered in your splashing love spray. Too long since I scented your spore and was driven wild by it.

Nothing that walks this Earth can stop our love. Should the sun itself go supernova our passion would remain, the last living thing in the solar system, outshining even that radiant cosmic event.

Never forget, Ken.

You.

Are.

Mine.

I have to go now. I've found a cannister of axle grease and some rubber tubing and it's time to wake up young Alejandro, here.

See you soon, my love.

Obsessively Yours,

Hildy