Dear Jenny who lives across the street from me (Not Jenny who lives down the road and who’s dad drives the blue car), you’ve probably heard by now that the dust monsters have reclaimed territory in the attic. You may have considered  that propaganda by peaceniks who believe we can live in harmony with the monsters. However, I’m afraid the rumour mill is correct. We have lost much of the attic. We’ve managed to hold only the trapdoor, and barely that.

The situation is dire. The monsters are getting bold. An attempt was made on my life on Boxing day, and scary shadows with teeth have been sighted lurking in the basement again. About the assassination attempt, please don’t fret. I am fine.

Dearest Jenny who lives across the street, how I envy your safety and peace of mind. Take heart from your house which is newly refurbished. It is peace. With your basement which has a pool table instead of a gravel floor, your track lighting which eats away the shadows, and your shiny furnace which never, ever clunks at night, you remain far from the front lines of this war. I envy that peace, and I battle onward so that it never be disturbed by fierce gurgles beneath your bed at midnight, or by a black hand emerging from your closet when the lightning flashes in your window.

I fear in my deepest heart that I shall never know such peace, that this war shall be the end of me. Just today I visited ten of my men in the hospital, brave soldiers who fell in our great battle with the dust monsters. I consider myself a hardened veteran, yet their spirits enlivened me to no little end. To see the smiles on their faces while their noses hung from their faces like great elephant ears... it was very moving. I’ll have no complaints about my bread crusts this week, I promise. Not after seeing their hardships.

Jenny who lives across the street, how I wish this war was over so I could chase you and the other Jenny who’s dad owns the blue car around in my yard again. I long to pull on your pigtails. You, out of all the girls, have the best pigtails for pulling. With their length and your thick hair it’s much easier to truly get a good grip on your pigtails than it is the other girls.’ Their hair slides through my hand like blades of grass. Only you have hair that I can tug properly. I wish I could tug on your hair right now....

But I digress....

Oh! One more indulgence: curse this war!

Jenny, I write as I have business with you. I need your help. Recently a trooper of mine bravely sacrificed his own well being for the greater good. His body has since healed but his spirit hasn’t been the same. I hesitate to say that it is broken. Fractured, perhaps, but not broken.

I have taken the liberty of placing Fightmaster Stormshadow on the ledge outside of your first floor window. I have made sure that he will be surrounded by lush vegetation, lots of light during the day, and most importantly, no monsters. I feel that the time away from the front lines will do him wonders. I would appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him for me. If there is any change in his condition, please alert me.

I would recommend not listening to Fightmaster Stormshadow, or doing anything that he says. He is harmless, but you know what louts most of these soldiers are. Also, he has taken to babbling incessantly in a strange Scottish accent, insisting that I give him missions immediately or else he'll 'scoot me in the scupper,' whatever that means. It’s the damndest thing. I don’t know what to do with him.

Yours truly,

Billy From Across the Street (Commander)

ps: please don’t let your little brother play with Fightmaster Stormshadow. The last time one of my soldiers vacationed with your little brother, that soldier returned missing a head, and hasn’t been the same since. It is imperative that Fightmaster Stormshadow is returned to me unmolested as he is an integral cog in the machinery of our war operation. Thank you, Jenny from across the street.

pps: tug tug.