As part of Dr. Wormhole’s Certified Grief Counseling Services, Marty Fleming was instructed to write a letter to his dead parents for therapeutic purposes
Dear Mom and Dad,
Well, I’m in showbiz now! I host a Telethon with a good buddy named Sal Stevens! Maybe you remember him from Name That Poop? He’s FAMOUS! I couldn’t ask for better work, even with all of the torture and psychological warfare! Sure, those two things are pretty nasty, but Sal says better me than him. I end up taking the brunt of it, no big deal. Sure wish that one or both of you could make it to a show sometime. I’ve got a Box Bit (a trademark thing I do! I have a trademark!) prepared just for you two! I call it, “Box Up My Heart, Ship It Out to San Juan!” It is pretty cool, if I do say so myself.
The main reason I’m writing this (aside from Dr. Wormhole withholding medication if I don’t) is that I need to get something off my chest. I know the two of you burned alive in that fire years ago, but I wanted to say sorry for not refilling the sugar jar before you were both incinerated in the raging inferno that catastrophically altered my entire life. Mom had bugged me about the sugar for so long, and she even said “Marty, if you leave the sugar empty, who knows what’ll happen?” Well, now I know. If you leave that sugar jar empty, your parents are ripped away from your life and this mortal coil.
Aside from the showbiz thing, life is pretty grand. My tapeworm, Harold, is in good spirits. Sal isn’t a cyborg anymore, I got promoted to be the Sheriff of Teletown, and Mr. Hanks sends his best (I won’t write down what he actually said, cause it’s a little bit PG-13). I hope to hear back from you soon, but I doubt I will. Corpses don’t send letters and that would just be weird.
Your still breathing son,
Marty Fleming
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