| Dear Charles,
I feel we have become informal over the years, even though you
and I have never spoken. We must meet. I have had plans to come
see you for quite sometime, but my many requests have been denied.
I know why you don't want to see me, and it's all right to
be afraid. We do need to sit down and iron out our problems. You
see, you've been talking to too many people about me. I wish that
you would show some restraint when using my name.
Another matter before us is: you seem to think that I will interject
on your behalf when the time comes. You don't seem to understand
that I like you where you are. You cause too many problems for me
elsewhere. You make me look foolish, and for this I am deeply ashamed
of you. In the past, you have tried to make yourself a part of my
affairs. You can never be a part of what I am. Your manipulation
of people's minds was quite inventive, but you slipped. You made
an ass of yourself by contradicting your own philosophies. Kids
would not follow you today.
The truth is something you hold very dear, but you haven't learned
to be honest with yourself. The only way you made these "children"
believe you is through drugged dementia. They don't believe you
now, do they? They resent you, Charles. Much like they resented
their parents when you dragged them into your "family".
They see your contradictions. They looked for something more than
what life had already shown them, but all you gave them were illusions
of what life could be. You lied to them because that was all you
had the power to do. That is all the power you have now, but now
you only have one follower to lie to.
We must also talk about your definition of evil. You have told
certain members of the media that you are, in fact, evil. So, that's
what you think you are? You are no more evil than a stubbed toe
or a hangnail. Look at it from my point of view. You kept a city
on edge for about a week. In my eyes, a week is a fraction of a
second. Charles, look at the big picture. Even an idiot like DeSalvo
kept Boston terrified for longer than you. Let's face it, evil...
you are not.
I am coming to discuss these issues with you. Please, do not deny
my request this time. I will see you soon.
Sincerely,
L. Morningstar
Dear Rev. Phelps,
It is so nice to see someone working for the greater good of this
country. I never thought a man who could devote himself to God could
be so easily taught to hate, but I was wrong. You have become one
of my favorite people to correspond with. Your literature, though,
is lacking the true vision you have. I know deep inside you want
all homosexuals dead.
I have been asking myself why you do what you do? I feel very responsible
for what made you. I was there the night you started to hate. It
truly was a horrible sight. You cried for hours and hours. I was
so glad to see you finally go to sleep after what had happened.
I was wondering if you still remembered that night? Sorry if I brought
up a bad memory, but it was such a fulfilling moment for me that
I can't help myself sometimes.
The storms were coming in from the northwest. You sat in the smallest
chair in the room. That was your favorite chair. Your mother was
out, and your father wasn't home yet. Your uncle was there to make
sure you were all right. Oh, did he make sure you were all right.
You can remember him forcing you to the ground and raping you,
can't you? The only bad thing about this memory is how much you
liked it. You couldn't stop yourself. Your father walked in and
saw. He knew how much you liked it. He punished you for years, and
you began to hate. You couldn't just stop with the hate you felt
toward your father. Instead, you had to show your hate to the world.
Your no better than the flamboyant little queer. You must show yourself
off to the world.
I just wanted to write, and thank you for all your hard work. Please,
keep it up.
Your Biggest Fan,
Mr. L. Morningstar
To whom it may concern:
I very rarely choose to voice my true opinions anymore. I let people
make their own decisions and live with the consequences of those
decisions. Of course, when these decisions turn out badly... I get
blamed. I get blamed when anything turns out badly. No one looks
toward heaven and says, "Oh, God made me do it." It's
always my ass in the hot seat.
You all get the same chance. Flip a coin. Life is fifty-fifty.
I reclaim half of you anyway, regardless. The sins were put there
merely as an outline. Look at pride, for instance. Sometimes, it's
a wonderful thing to be proud. You've accomplished a goal that you
most likely never thought you would, and that's why you're proud.
That's also where you went wrong. You're greatest accomplishment
should humble you to the fact that you can do better. Thus, no pride
involved. Thus, no sin, etcetera and so on. My favorite of the sins
is lust. If you've never felt lust... too bad for you. Of course,
lust is the majority of my repossessions. Damned mortals, you can't
resist it can you? I admit, lust was the great equalizer. Without
it, you'd all get to go to heaven. God had to give me something.
Lust, god it's a beautiful word. A little word that describes the
strongest feeling in the world. I know, some of you are reading
this thinking love. How do you think you get there? If it weren't
for animal lust there would be no such thing. Well, in some cases
it's just a good bartender, but that's another point altogether.
Come to think of it, lust is what got you to where you are now.
Look at what your lust has cost you. All you have to do is look
around you. Lust is the beautiful woman with the bitchy attitude,
lust is the rohypnol slipped into the woman's drink by the date
rapist, and lust is the nightmares she has for the rest of her life
not knowing if she consented or not.
Sweet Dreams,
Dr. Beelzebub
An open letter to sluts:
I can feel the first time you touched it. How your hand was like
silk running up and down the shaft. You were amazed at how big it
was, and how you thought it would never fit. You could feel the
excitement in his low moans. Your body started to tingle as his
moaning got more and more frantic. I can hear your inaudible squeal
as he came all over your hand.
The next week was incredible. He told all his friends, and you
were overwhelmed with dates. With every step closer to going all
the way, your excitement reached new peaks. I can feel the confusion
of your first orgasm. Did you push his hands away from your crotch
because you couldn't take it, or hold his fingers inside you
so he could feel your muscles spasm?
I'm sure you were scared that first night. You had heard
all the stories about how much it hurt, and how you wouldn't
enjoy it. What was there to enjoy? You barely had time to know whether
you enjoyed it or not, or whether or not it hurt. I can feel the
awkward moment when he rolls off of you, and both of you wonder
what to say. Did you make it home before curfew that night?
Now, you search. You want to feel the hands from so many men ago.
You want to feel the tingle throughout your body that you haven't
felt since. Almost every man looks like a possibility, but none
of them can give you back that feeling. Drugs and drinking bring
on new feelings, but they fall short of perfection.
Never fear, that feeling is just around the corner.
Stay optimistic,
Prince Lucifer Morningstar
To whom it may concern:
I stand at the end of your bed and masturbate as I watch you fuck.
Your heart racing, your blood pumping through your body, and your
bodies thrusting in unison. No one would give up sex, no matter
what the consequences. There are no longer thoughts of procreation,
only thoughts of ejaculation. There's no disease, operation,
drug, or act of God that can change this.
Nude pictures of mothers and daughters are all over every fourteen
year-old's computer screen, pornography is a billion dollar
business, and there are more adulterers than Christians. It's
beautiful to see that a naked person can sell anything, and no one
cares when a six year-old boy finds his father's hidden stash
of Playboys. Sex has become culture.
Like junkies, everyone looks for that miracle fix. It feels so
good, it's hard to resist. Some people can't hide the
obsession, people call them addicts. How hypocritical is that? No
matter how well it's hidden, everyone wants sex and everyone
thinks about when they'll have it next. There's not
a person alive who doesn't know how long it's been since
the last time they had sex, or who their best lover was. Everyone
has the feelings, odors, and sounds of their best sexual experience
stored in the back of their head, ready to come forward at any time.
And for this, I can't thank you enough.
Thanks again,
The Angel Morningstar
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