Is P.F. Jones?

An Open
Letter to
Miss Parson

by Wes Paxton
Post Kent Reader
April 30, 2012

Dear Ms. Parson,
My name is Wes and I knew your daughter, Sandy.
I'm sorry to say you'll probably never see her again.
You have my deepest condolences.
Let's not focus on that right now.
Let's focus on how it's not my fault.
Sandy and I met in Fort Lauderdale during Spring Break.
Though I had considered slipping something into her drink, it wouldn't have been necessary.
She was wicked drunk and ready to party!
I tell you what- that girl was sexually insatiable.
I thought she was going to kill me.
She said she was down for absolutely anything I wanted to do with her body.
So we took a boat down to Jamaica so she could mule heroin back to the states for me.
We got really drunk and high the first night down there and passed out in our hostel.
We woke up tied down in an abandonned clinic.
It seemed the locals were going to harvest our organs to sell on the black market.
I broke free from my restraints, but couldn't save Sandy before the organ poachers started to come back.
I ran back to the hostel and cleaned out our locker.
I had to take Sandy's credit cards, cash and splice my photo into her passport since I didn't have my own.
I flew back to Ohio on the Mastercard for which you're probably just now getting the bill.
I had managed to survive, but Sandy may be lost forever.
I like to think she made it out of that clinic alive, though.
Hopefully she's just selling her body on the outskirts of Kingston with close-to-the-same number of kidneys as she used to have.
Again, I can't emphasize enough- not my fault.
Good Day.




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