Dear Micheal Eggert Jr.,

You had better reconsider how you speak to me, I'm Jack Ketchum! You are a nobody. I am the personal manager to the greatest monster hunting electronic band of all time!

I could have Ethan Magloofabits rip your fingers off of your hands and use them to stir our martinis as we poke pointed spears into your abdomen. I could ask Tiny Wight to kindly slash your head off with a samuri sword and practice tossing quarters into your headless neck. I may even tell Silica to travel into your past and mame you before you ever had the chance to say such mean spirited things to me, Jack Ketchum! You will forever watch your back wondering  when The Vigilante will come and pound a John Deere brand chainsaw into your heart. And if that does not persuade you to be kind to me, Jack Ketchum! I will politely ask Ms. Donna Matrix to flog you until you are on your last breath and then smash your head with a stone of her choosing. Let's not forget how much I would enjoy mentioning to Dynamo Habeeb that you had something unkind to say about me, Jack Ketchum!

The last time that happened, Dynamo finished a entire bottle of Easy Times wiskey and then took out his six shooter, fired 5 shots into a jukebox for playing "When We Were Fab" by George Harrison then fired his last bullet into that mans heart.

You really don't want to fuck with me, Jack Ketchum!

Send a public apology Mr Eggert, and you may be forgiven.

J. Ketchum

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