I know you’re coming for me, Jessica Fletcher.
As I write these words, my hands trembling at the thought of what might come to pass, I jump at every creaking floorboard, cry out at every shadow that resembles your old-lady hairstyle, and I know that the last sight I gaze upon in this world will be your eyes, filled with pure malevolence, as you stand above me, your machete dripping with the blood of my friends and family.
I trusted you, Jessica Fletcher. I welcomed you into my house in Cabot Cove, and even though my hometown had the highest weekly murder rate in the United States, your kind face, and your amazing detective skills, were always a comforting reminder that no matter what happened, everything would turn out okay in the end.
But look at me now.
Look at me NOW!
Hiding in a rat-infested motel, desperately trying to evade you, you sick, vile excuse for a human being!
When I look back on my previous life, I can see it all with perfect clarity. What a fool I was! Was it simply a coincidence that Cabot Cove had such an incredibly high murder rate? Wasn’t it more than slightly unusual that death seemed to follow you wherever you went? We thought you were so good at detective work because of those mystery novels you wrote, not that you were simply framing another innocent person, every single week, in order to cover up your own dark work.
Idiots! We should have seen it coming. It was right before our eyes!
Wasn’t it only ever a matter of time until your bloodlust became unquenchable? Until you finally snapped and went on the worst murder spree in American history? Butchering every man, woman, and child in the Cabot Cove area, laughing manically as you did so, and chanting verses from the Satanic Bible?
But then you didn’t manage to kill EVERY man, woman, and child, did you, Jessica Fletcher? Because I managed to get away, didn’t I, Jessica Fletcher? And you hated that, didn’t you, Jessica Fletcher? And you’ve been hunting me down like an animal ever since, haven’t you, Jessica Fletcher, you blood-thirsty psychopath?!
“What a sweet old woman,” I used to think. “So friendly, helpful, loving and caring. The kids love her, my wife loves her. She’s never been affected by her fame as a best-selling author. What a truly beautiful person.”
How wrong could one man possibly be?
In fact, the only grain of truth in your tissue of lies was your incredible success as an author. But with hindsight, it’s no wonder you were so prolific. When it comes to murder, you were never short of inspiration, were, you, Jessica Fletcher? You disgusting, hate-filled, homicidal lunatic!
But even the murder wasn’t enough for you, was it, Jessica Fletcher? On the day you finally cracked, you REALLY cracked, burning Cabot Cove down to its foundations, leaping up and down on the hood of your car, clad only in a furry loincloth, blood smeared across your face, screaming profanities towards God in his heaven, and only stopping as you saw the taillights of my car disappearing into the distance. I knew you’d seen me, Jessica Fletcher. I knew that you’d recognized my car, that I hadn’t really escaped, and that I would never be free, not as long as you wander this earth, you hideous demon-made-flesh!
But I will not go quietly into that good night, Jessica Fletcher. Oh, no! As I sit here, strapping sticks of TNT to my chest, my only consolation is the thought that I’ll be able to drag you down to hell along with me, you blood-sucking epitome of evil!
I’ve even given every single one of your books a one-star review on Amazon, Jessica Fletcher. Yeah, that’s right. Every single one!
Except the last one, of course, which was truly magnificent, and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Raymond Chandler in its magnificent use of dialogue to create a sense of place and time. I had to give that five stars. I’m only human. In fact, it was quite possibly one of the best novels I’ve ever read. Bravo!
So, yeah. Come and get me, Jessica Fletcher, you prolific, talented, award-winning monster!
