The Collected Correspondences of Rupert Raskolnikoff

Unearthed in late 2013, these letters date back to a simpler time, when men were gentlemen, all women were royalty and cars were seen as eccentric wheeled horse-buggies. It was early 2013. Rupert Raskolnikoff died recently from a freak bullet accident, without receiving a reply to even one of his many, many letters. This was because he wrote them all in small print, on the back of stamps, then stuck them on blank postcards. Rupert Raskolnikoff (may he rest in peace) was a demented idiot.

The letters:

To the honourable premier, Jay Weatherill,
Greetings and salutations. Verily, forsooth and also anon, many happy returns unto thee our most illustrious grand vizier and royal dragoon. May it please the court to allow the witness to approach the bench? I kneel prostrate upon the bench, from whence cometh justice in accordance to thy rulings.
Hello. I pick my nose and eat the findings. Cheese is my favourite fruit.
In humility and subservience, world without end,
Rupert Raskolnikoff, Esquire.

Dear Howard P. Lovecraft,
Why did you not respond to my emails? I am simply trying to set you up with a great lady. She’s a computer programmer so she’s into science and probably eldritch geometry and all that stuff you love. Her name is Ada Lovelace and you could marry and have the most arcane and dread namelessly hyphenated surname: Lovecraft-Lovelace. Or LaceCraft. Or LoveLove3000. One little drawback is that she died thirty-eight years before you were born and you died seventy-six years ago.
Disregards and whoopsies,
R. R.

Dear Sirs or Madames,
I am writing to complain about Adelaide Comedy. The comedians were too funny and I broke my face in the laughter-gristle area. I needed stitched up right good. Please stop everything at once and make me feel like I did before the laughter: hungry for gold.
I remain mine,
Rupert Raskolnikoff

Dearest Crabs,
Please leave my dreams alone. You once meant the world to me but I can no longer accommodate your scuttlings in my brain. You must each find a new, larger shell for your respective hermitages. Fly free, my pretties. Spread your crabby wings. We shall always have Bolivar Wastewater Treatment Plant.

Yo Vanilla Ice,
Why did you never patch up that beef with Eminem? Aren’t you both like the same guy or something? Is this like one of those famous split-personality movies, like Fight Club or Identity or Aladdin? Please, Eminem, stop rapping about Vanilla Ice. We all know he is you. And stop telling the Beatles to write songs about me so I have to decode them using a dog only I can understand.
Rupert Raskolnikoff
[Address Redacted]

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