Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.
If you are reading this note, it means that I have died, and that a year has passed since my expiration. I hope you are well. I hope your mother is well, and that you are taking care of her. Although she would vociferously deny such things, she tends to be too stoic when it comes to complicated matters.
I will not flatter myself and refer to my demise as ‘tragic,’ but I am willing to believe my absence has complicated things. At the very least, financially.
On to the nub of the matter…
In 1970, I started dressing up as Bigfoot and charging through the forests around Walla Walla, Washington. I did this for no other reason than the vast amusement it gave me. Your uncle, Rocky, and I crafted a Bigfoot costume out of beaver fur, which we purchased through a mail order catalog, and my disused high school hockey uniform. He and I would take turns in the Bigfoot get-up. His portrayal was broader and more comedic. Mine leaned towards mystery.
Many locals claimed to have seen us. Incredibly, not a single denizen of Washington state seems capable of operating a camera; none of their photographs were anything but agitated blurs. Once, I chased a man across a softball field and climbed under his car while he struggled to take a Polaroid. The whole escapade lasted at least ten minutes, and the old fool was still unable to pop off a decent snap.
‘Bigfoot’ once trapped Shitty Dave Russo in a headlock while he was walking home from The Continental Saloon, one evening. The next morning, Shitty Dave called the parks service to report the matter, but the ranger on duty was skeptical. All the better for us.
I ask, my darling son, that you continue my legacy. In this crate, you will find the original Bigfoot costume, two cans of red spray paint, a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon, a bag of marijuana, a small bottle containing some Ecstasy, a small sheet of blotter acid, and an envelope containing $50 to be put towards the purchase of a pizza.
I urge you to concentrate your efforts within The Pacific Northwest, between the hours of 1AM and 5AM.
Son, remember, people will believe most things you tell them and absolutely fucking everything they read.
Proudly and with love,