Iptuous, Won't You Grieve With Me?

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Iptuous, I'm writing this to you, because I think you may be the one person here who will truly understand the tragedy of the situation, and may have some comprehension of my sense of loss.  But first, I have to explain my position.  Arrange my defense, for the horrible sin I have perpetrated against that one addiction that you and I share.

The last few weeks, you see, have been a little...blurry.  I've been doing my level best to fly straight, to be a good citizen for my Jenn, to not be the insane bastard that stalked the shitty streets and back alleys of Tucson with other crazy people, all those years ago.  But the wire can only be stretched so far, til it sings under tension, one molecule after another beginning to separate.  Then the inevitable happens.

The Horrible Truth is that I was born a criminal, and that things haven't improved as I've aged.  I haven't slowed down any, I've just started missing on the cylinders a bit.  So it was no real surprise to discover the following:

1.  A 65 pound crate of .45 long is inexplicably empty (I'll get back to this).

2.  Every bottle of booze in the house has mysteriously evaporated.

3.  The entire teak chest of cactus that I have kept hidden from Freeky is gone.

4.  Two of my more trusted employees say I have been acting even weirder than normal for the last few weeks, and have slept in my office damn near every day, screaming obscenities at anyone who even thinks of knocking on my door, between frenzied bouts of pounding shit out on my keyboard.

5.  My van is somewhere.  Possibly impounded.  The Jeep is covered in new dents, and the entire engine compartment is full of bits of plants.

6.  Weird phone calls from my detective friend "Brian", screaming nonsense at me about "Fucking with the Tohono Odham's fucking religion, man, what the fuck is WRONG with you?  They want YOUR ASS.  If they ever find out it was you, you're fucking DEAD."  I have no idea what he's talking about.

Finally, the TRAGEDY.  My SIN:

I have, it seems (with the help of Freeky & possibly Jenn) fired the rifling right out of the barrels of my custom, matched Bisleys.  I called Hal down at the gunsmiths, and he just laughed at me and called me a jackass.  They are FUCKED.  $2400 worth of pistols, which are now USELESS SMOOTHBORE GARBAGE, which I wouldn't dare fire, even if I thought I'd hit anything.  This does, however, explain the weird welts on my index finger, and the burns on my right wrist.

I plan to melt them down and make a toilet seat out of them.  I really can't think of anything else to do.  Thire action is all fucked up, and the barrels are slag.  I am left with one ridiculous Derringer and a handfull of rounds with which to defend myself against the wild animals and criminally insane people which surround me on a daily basis.

But what the fuck?  I mean, aside from the pistols, why should I be complaining?  I am what I am, and there's no sense arguing with The Beast, when it grabs you in its jaws and runs off into the fucking mountains.  You just grab your nutsack and enjoy the ride.  I tried to behave and live right, but there's just no fucking ROOM, this place is TOO SMALL.  I have to bang against the fucking walls until they break, or I do, and this straight life just DOESN'T CUT THE MUSTARD.

Enough of this whiny garbage, right?  You and I know what's fucking important, so pour a little out for my dead Twins, and I'll catch you on the flip side, when I've had some sleep.  And talked to a man about a possible career change.  Because, you know, I gotta be me.  I feel like I could sleep for fucking years.

Or Kill Me.

[Richter]

Remember at the start of "The Mummy", when they're about to hang Brendan Fraiser for "having a good time"?  So they ask the large jailer why that warrants death, and he just replies that apparently it was a VERY good time.

That comes to mind.   

[Luna]

Ah, hell...  Sorry about the twins, Roger, that sucks a lot.

[Elder Iptuous]

That's a damned shame, Roger.
Although i haven't had a catastrophe on anything as elevated as matched Bisleys, i can understand your loss. when the 1919 ran away and chewed up its innards to the point that it was scrapped, well....  at least the sideplate was salvageable, which was the important part for me. 
These kind of losses make your throat lump up, and you know your going to have to go through a decent amount of lead just to make up for the loss of testosterone that crying like a child that night will cause. 

A thought... perhaps you found out about the revolvers already once, and the loss of spirits and buttons were an attempt to purge yourself of the memory? If so, it seems that it worked, but next time, you're going to have to hide the guns from yourself before medicating, and perhaps you'll have to visit the Akimel Odham this time...  (i'm unfamiliar with the specifics of the indigenous relations of your neck of the woods, so perhaps an even further drive would be required.)  There may be blessed forgetfulness over... there.  next to that wall.

Sleep well, my friend.  I hope to hear from you again when you have finished mourning and mopped up the resultant mess. (When you're ready for a new baby, perhaps Precision Weapons can help you.)

Deepest Sympathies,
Iptuous

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Wow, Roger... I think you might be stuck to the Wall.

[Disco Pickle]

Rog: I would buy in bulk, and distribute to every person I come in contact with, any book you might be inclined to write. 

You're wasting your gift in a plant in AZ man. 

Sorry about your twins, and the Jeep.  That's a god damn shame.

Mostly about the Jeep though. 

[Freeky]

A thought... perhaps you found out about the revolvers already once, and the loss of spirits and buttons were an attempt to purge yourself of the memory?

That wasn't him.


Freeky,
Waiting for the right time.  Muhahaha.