Dear Mex,
Firstly, what kind of name is that?
I bet your real name is something like Greg, or George, or Bob.
I’d be ashamed, too.
Secondly, who the hell do you think you are?
You come in here all tough and rugged, acting like a hero, thinking you know what you’re doing.
You have no idea.
You don’t know a single thing about me.
Gosh, if you did, you would know you’re playing with fire.
You want what I have – don’t they all?
Here’s the thing, Mex, you’ll never get it.
You’ll never get a single thing out of me.
So, lock me up in your wilderness bunker, keep me cold and hungry.
My desperation will only strengthen my resolve.
I won’t break.
Keep me here until the flesh rots from my bones, but I promise you…
I. Won’t. Break.
You’re nothing on the horrors I’ve seen.
You’re handsome, though. At the very least, we could have some fun while you’ve got me chained up here, like a wild animal.
Anyway, I look forward to what you have planned.
Because I promise you, Mex, it’s nothing on what I’ve got up my sleeve.
Let’s go. Me verse you. We’ll see who comes out on top.
Sincerely yours,


Prisoners of Purgatory, #4

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