Lobe the Second
A Letter from Jacques

				       Jacques
				       18348 104 Terrace South
				       Boca Raton, FL 33498
				       (407) 852-7721

Dearest Katie,

I was in the Cafe waiting for my bottle of Weird to come when I realized it was about time I should either write you or fly to Germany. I am sorry for the lack of correspondance but my recognition card went haywire because of a convergence loop in the main system. I know this means little to you (probably as little as it means to me), but there is something I must tell you: IT finally happened.

There was the sensation of a sudden shift of perspective as I hobbled out of the closet towards the makeshift hut that juxtaposed the boulevard with such efficiency. Three weeks later, that would not have made so much of a difference, but it was not three weeks later, and the Rubber Band had not played the game yet. I went into the Cafe on the Corner and ordered a bottle of Weird to calm my nerves before the game started. Jeff and Monty were playing as well this time (You remember them, don't you? They died in the war you started.), and this meant that the game would be much harder to play. After only a short time, they discovered a weakness in my playing style and had traded sixty dollars for a speckled crow. I knew I was in severe trouble, though, when the one-legged man nearby started preaching about the evils of anvils and heavy iron weights. He was furrier than normal, and I regret that his long ears and snout distracted me from my game. Fortunately, I lost that hand and was not required to forfeit the remainder of my left nostril. Please excuse the somewhat relaxed nature of this story, Katie, but I know you've experienced most of this yourself, in your own way.

I miss your cooking.

It was at this point that Jeff and Monty killed each other yet again, this time in such a hideous bloodbath that the Cafe had to close for five seconds in order to rebuild. Fortunately the time loop that you and I engineered some fifteen seconds ago (at seventy-three revolutions per minute, central- vitrillic time) had shortened the duration of some of the nastier aberrations of the local rifts. I watched and snickered. I re-entered the Cafe and ordered a bottle of Weird before I returned to the game. Monty was there, wearing more Band-Aids(tm) than humanly possible, and Jeff had turned back into a gnome. He was winning, but at least I had the extra head on my side (pardon the pun) to help me lose the next fifty thousand hands. At that point I re-entered the Cafe and ordered a bottle of Weird before I mowed down Monty, Jeff, and the entire Rubber Band with the machine gun you sent me in the mail. Thanks, it's really quite fashionable. I hope you enjoy the large plastic flamingo enclosed with this letter, assuming the mail doesn't explode.

I went back to the nursery school and moved my clothes to the lower peg.

At this point, I awoke from my dream, ate breakfast, and then went down to the Cafe and ordered a bottle of Weird. Monty and Jeff were strangely absent, but the waitress said they had taken a short step off campus to a local garage. That waitress is nowhere as pretty as you are, but back to the story at hand.

It seems that the local bacon had taken the time to trap some poor customers who dealt in antiques, including some pork slicers, in a matchbox. Melted cheese was the sentence, although nobody believed a word of it.

It was at this time that I forcefully entered the Cafe and ordered a bottle of Weird. The Cafe has changed since you visited, what with the heated lake inside the conference room, but I'm sure it will be here when you next visit. Molten lava pours from the ceiling, too, but nobody notices it, except for myself and perhaps Monty. Oh, yes--and Batman. In any case, Waldo had arrived (Enclosed is one of his dimes, which I know you keep with such alacrity. Also enclosed are dimes from myself and a gentleman who calls himself "Weasel." Please send validation certificates at once, lest you fall into the same senility trap I repeatedly trigger.) and bought us each a bottle of Weird. I don't know why I drink the stuff, except for the fact that you hooked me on it. Three wise-acres came in and harassed a bastard in the corner while Waldo, the waitress, and I played the next hand before Jeff arrived, allowing me to discard a layer of clothing and a pound of flesh. Jeff arrived and I won a hand, but it didn't fit very well and I had to start over. Such is life.

Then I woke up, had breakfast, and opened the Cafe. Before anyone came in, I drank two bottles of Weird and a poached stoat lager. Today was Word Game Day and that meant the athletes would come in soon and die of steroid overdoses. Eventually Scrabble came in, and I gave him an extra sweet roll. As you remember, Katie, we make the best sweet rolls in town. Yum. The waitress du jour made a pass at me, but I sold it for table stakes in the game. Monty won the Rubber Band and I won Jeff, who I carved up into meat pies (great recipe, Katie) and sold for table stakes in the next game. The next day, Jeff ate himself and became terribly sick, turning into a flatworm. Still, I had to admit that the form suited him very well and had excellent potential in the next game. I ordered a bottle of Weird for him and burned down the Cafe.

There is nothing like a good fire, and that was nothing like a good fire. (Sorry, Katie, but I've waited several years to use that joke.) A new Cafe rose from the ashes; I entered it and ordered a bottle of Weird. I came over and greeted myself, since I was also Proprietor of the Day and an excellent cheeseburger. It was at this point that I decided to write to you. The letter was fairly easy to write, even with the surprise ending, and I'm glad I wrote it. I hope you can find somebody to read it to you.

It was at that point I entered the Cafe, ordered a bottle of Weird, and crumpled up this letter, throwing it away. I hope it finds you in good health.

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