I've Been Infected.

Splotchy is at it again. He is handing out a viral tag like pox infected blankets to Indians here. The last one of these he created was what sent Evil Genius into the tizzy he is still recovering from, but the able Red is minding the lair while he's out, so stop by. By the time the last storyline reached me, it was more than my paltry ability to top it, so I let it pass.

Not this time. The story begins:

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.

In the capable hands of Bubs, we continue:

I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read.

From there we pick up with Skyler's Dad and his own unique brand of humor:

As I sat down to go over the contents of the letter, I noticed snapping and grinding noises coming from the dogs. I made a mental note to myself to de-bone the Yak hips before I give them to Cujo and Sampson next time. Since losing my job as a stunt penis in adult films, I was running awfully short on cash. I ran my hands over the five Benjamins and felt a stirring in my loins and thought to myself, "Great, now you start to cooperate!" But the 500 bucks was only a start on trying to get rid of my bills and stay one step ahead of Guido and the boys. I needed a break, a good run of luck. Maybe lady luck was waiting in Pensacola, cause I sure hope I didn't have to go to Niceville. I spent a week there one afternoon...The first paragraph of the letter read like an email from a nice man in Nigeria, with the promise of a ton of money. Before I read on, I picked up the card and dialed the number.

Skyler's Dad was kind enough to invite me to sit by the campfire and spin my own yarn, and as I can refuse him nothing, here goes:

A fast talking squeaky voice answered with a mouthful of marbles and garbled out the name Melvin Fishbine, Attorney At Law. I gave him my name and he starts babbling on about some dead Uncle Jack S. Foggbound, a haunted Manson, family treasure, the Civil War, nude photos of Bobby Kennedy, and something or other about clam divers. He spoke so quickly it was hard to take it all in. I arranged to meet him at the Bearded Clam in Niceville in three days so I could sign the papers to get my hands on the money of Jack S.

I never heard the blast of the shotgun that cut the hit man in half, I just remember the jolt of it in my hands as I leveled it at his belly button. What had happened in the three days between hanging up the phone and finding myself in a third rate strip club gunning down professional killers? Where had this shotgun come from? Why was my lawyer contact lying on the floor gasping his last breathe through a hole in his neck?

I bent over him and he gurgled his last words: "squirrel spunk" and died a quivering death. Oh well, I had time enough for one more beer, and it was going on his tab.

****

Well, there you have it. That should leave plenty of story threads to pursue, and I'm looking forward to the stories that this virus breeds. That brings us to the next crucial step, who to tag. After all, I want to make sure that my strain of the virus is the most potent, so I want to tag the most potent of bloggers. Therefore, I tag:

Flannery Alden, of "Prone To Whimsy"

Cap'n Ergo Jinglebollocks, of "A Twist Of Lemon"

Red, the executrix of "What I Like About The Universe"

Mr. Patrick Hillman esq., of "Blowing Shit Up With Gas"

My friend $teve, of "The Eclectic Eccentric"

All of these wonderful people are listed in the sidebar, as I can't be bothered to link all of them. Besides, it gives you a good excuse to visit the bar, even if it is only a sidebar.

I'm very much looking forward to your spin on the story. Have fun!

Doc