An open letter to Mr. David Ramsey

Unpaid-Beneficiary...............‏

Mr. David Ramsey



From: Mr. David Ramsey (davidramsy1115@att.net)
Sent: Thu 2/10/11 8:00 PM
To:


Unpaid-Beneficiary


It is obvious that you have not received your fund which is to the tune of 5.8million dollars due to past corrupt Governmental Officials who almost held the fund to themselves for their selfish reason and some individuals who have taken advantage of your fund all in an attempt to swindle your fund which has led to so many losses from your end and unnecessary delay in the receipt of your fund.


The National Central Bureau of Interpol enhanced by the United Nations and Federal Bureau of Investigation have successfully passed a mandate to the current president of Nigeria his Excellency President Goodluck Jonathan to boost the exercise of clearing all foreign debts owed to you and other individuals and organizations who have been found not to have receive their Contract Sum,Lottery/Gambling, Inheritance and the likes.


Now your payment will be send to you by ATM card that will be coming alongside a custom pin which you will use to withdraw up to 10,000 dollars per day from any ATM machine that has the Master Card Logo on it.


Also with the ATM card you will be able to transfer your funds to your bank account. The ATM card comes with a handbook or manual to enlighten you about how to use it.
Your payment would be sent to you via UPS, Because we have signed a contract with them which should expired by January 30th 2012.


Below are few list of tracking numbers you can track from UPS website(www.ups.com) to confirm people like you who have received their payment successfully and whose payment is on the way.


Traci Murphy==========J203272988 7
Chris Roddy=========J2032729921
Levi Ring=========J203272955 6
Bob Miles========J203272984 1
Amanda L. Lawson======2187529953
Thomas Dyal=========J2129159266
Francisco Vargas=======J2129159220
Jeffrey Allen Bradley=========1Z54AR672210095463
Peter Perez============= 1Z 54A R67 22 1009 5525
Barbara Boris==============J229 021 8003
David M. Stevens ===========J212 915 9346
Paul Forsberg=============J229 058 6473
MarJo Properties LLC=======J229 058 6482
Synergy Real Estate Andy=====J229 058 6508
Tuscan Bend=================== J229 058 6517
Diana Gissel==================J229 058 6526



To effect the release of your fund valued at 5.8 million dollars you are advised to contact the director of payment and delivery officer Rev.Cole Davis with the information below email drevcole@yahoo.de On contacting him do provide him with the
following informations:
Your full Name...
Your Address:................
Home/Cell Phone:...................
Yours sincerely,
Mr. David Ramsey
CC: Federal Bureau of Investigation
CC: National Central Bureau of Interpol

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Dear Mr. David Ramsey,

It's obvious I haven't received my fund? Is it? Is it really? Or is it possible that I am three moves ahead of you. Check the fund. Check it again. Are you sure it's there? Maybe I have the fund already. Maybe I took the fund and gave it back to you just so you would never know it was gone although I established my dominion over it, made it mine, used my power.

Maybe you are playing checkers while I am playing three-dimensional chess. In the future. With Mr. Spock on the Enterprise while hippie space children play electric sitar and sing Utopian songs, dig? Maybe I'm so far ahead of you, I'm behind you already. Look over your shoulder. Missed me. Now I'm there again. No I'm not.

I am playing games with you that you can't even imagine, Mr. David Ramsey. You work in Tinkertoys; my toybox is your brain.

You say you've sent me an ATM card. I say I've sent you an ATM card. Your ATM card is in the mail, unless it isn't. I could give you a tracking number, but that would ruin the surprise. You say my ATM card will work in any machine that has a MasterCard logo on it. The ATM card I've sent you will only work in places that take Discover. Nobody takes Discover. You say you've sent me a PIN. I snuck into your room while you were sleeping, Mr. David Ramsey, sedated you with chloral hydrate, and tattooed the PIN for the ATM card I sent you onto the inner lining of your eyelids. Also, sorry about the kidney, but I know a guy who knows a guy, and you saved an orphan's life. But it's okay: you had an extra one, and I left a cashier's check for a very large amount of money where I found the kidney. Fair trade.

This e-mail is coming from inside your house.

Thank you for the offer of the manual on how to use the ATM card. I appreciate the thought. But I wrote the manual. I wrote the manual in a dead language that can only be known by three people on Earth at any one time. I killed the person I learned this language from when he passed along the last syllable of the forgotten tongue, so for that moment between the last breath he took and the moment my fingers blocked his airway, there were four people who knew the secret name of God (it begins with a "D" and rhymes with "save"--that is all I will tell you). I wrote the manual on how to use ATM cards and I sent half of it to one of the people who speaks the secret tongue and the other half to the other one who shares our dark curse. I sent them alternating pages; in retrospect, it might have been easier to just send the first five-hundred-and-fifty pages to one and the second five-hundred-and-fifty to the other, but I was in a hurry and did the first thing that came to mind. Half the pages were translated into binary and half were translated into Esperanto, but I'm not sure which half is which.

Here is an excerpt, but it is all I will repeat here:

Rapide pasig la karton 011010010110111000100000011101000110100001100101001000000111001101101100011011110111010000101110.

I tease you with this text to mock you, Mr. David Ramsey. Mock, mock, mock. Do you know where I am now? I am composing this response on my cell phone, from beneath the table at which you're reading this.

Made you look.

You have been exposed, Mr. David Ramsey. You are known. You are being photographed by a satellite high in orbit above you. The satellite has been programmed to home in on the peculiar and unique radioactive signature of a strain of salmonella bacterium living in a small colony on the underside of your tongue. You were infected with this bacterium when you ate a tunafish sandwich. You cannot remember eating this sandwich because a posthypnotic suggestion was worked into the cellophane film on the front of the package; this cellophane was really a specialized polarized material invented by 3M in 1957 on behalf of the CIA: messages encoded into the material are only visible under fluorescent light and only from a single direction. This sandwich was placed in the refrigerated display case in your favorite convenience store, carefully placed in the refrigerated container so that your eye almost had to catch it while you were walking down the aisle you always walk down in the direction of travel you almost always take. You did not see the packaging on your first visit or your second, Mr. David Ramsey, but on the third day your eye caught it and you saw the pre-hypnotic suggestion--Buy this sandwich and eat it--and the posthypnotic suggestion--then forget about it. Also, there was a suggestion that you purchase and smoke a carton of Marlboros. Sorry about that. The economy being what it is, we had to get sponsorship somewhere, and Nicoderm stepped in when we needed them. You will remember all of this as if it happened yesterday (which, coincidentally, is when it happened) when I show you the secret word that will relieve you of the posthypnotic impulse.

That's me, outside the window, pretending to be interested in the May 8^th, 1917 New York Times. And now I'm not there. Do you remember the man you passed three times in the hall yesterday, the one with the eyepatch, wooden leg and Frankie Goes To Hollywood t-shirt? That was me, too. But I don't really look like that. The t-shirt was a disguise, and also I'm taller in real life.

You are a fool, Mr. David Ramsey. You promise me things I have and offer me trinkets, trinkets, while I am the one who has the antidote for the venom of the thousands of nearly-microscopic scorpions stinging you right now. You thought that was a rash, but in in fact you have been stung thousands or perhaps millions of times by Scorpiones pestis, a near-microscopic predator whose poison is 10,000 times more deadly than rattlesnake venom. Scorpiones pestis, found in a tropical/semi-tropical range from the northern part of the Indochine Peninsula to the southern parts of Indonesia, is a shy predator that subsists primarily on very small aphids and fleas. A retiring creature, interactions with humans are rare and are almost never fatal, as the species prefers to use its stinger sparingly, the stinger can only barely penetrate the topmost layer of epidermis, and the amount of poison the scorpion can inject is minute. That having been said, swarms of Scorpiones pestis can take down very small birds and rodents, the accumulative effect of microdoses of their lethal neurotoxin eventually having a fatal effect. And members of the secretive Longo Cult of religious self-flagellants and assassins have adapted the scorpion as a nigh-untraceable mode of homicide; having attempted milking the scorpions for their venom with a remarkable lack of success, the Longo Cultists will now gather millions of swarming pestis scorpions and place them somewhere a victim will almost certainly come into close contact--usually an article of clothing like a jockstrap, tight-fitting shirt, or a sock, Mr. David Ramsey, a pair of socks one might own, such as a pair of lucky black socks with a design featuring lots of little pictures of Elmo from Sesame Street, purchased by a beloved ex-girlfriend in better days as an ironic joke but still sometimes worn as a pick-me-up for a stressful job interview or to make one feel better when he called in for a sick day to stay at home because he was feeling nauseous the day after smoking eight-and-a-half packs of cigarettes in one sitting while eating a three-day-old tuna sandwich.

I am waving from across the street. Now I am pretending to take a photograph of that fire hydrant. Look again--did you notice that I had no camera, that I merely framed my hands in a rectangle before saying "click" in a loud voice? (That sound effect is what convinced you I had a very fine, expensive camera, when I was merely holding my hands together in a crude squarish shape.) If you want, I can send you copies after I have them developed. Now I am in your backyard. You can't see me because I am behind a tree. I know, there aren't any trees in your backyard--that's because I'm upstairs in your bathroom. I didn't flush on purpose.

Doom is coming for you, Mr. David Ramsey. Doom, doom, doom. But if it's any consolation, its connecting flight was canceled because of snow. You did not know who you were getting in touch with when you contacted me, but now you do. Oh yes. Now you do. Do too. Do too. Do too. Do too. Do not. A-ha! Gotcha!

There will come a time when you will wonder what happened to your life, Mr. David Ramsey. It's alright. We all wonder that sooner or later. What happened was you got older and then you died, and then you came back to life, but it kept happening and the stretches in which you died got longer and longer and longer. And someday you will die and you won't wake up for the longest time, for longer than the moon will zoom around the world and longer than the stars will shine, longer than the last vibration of the last atom left in the universe. And when you at last wake up, you will be alone, and it will be cold, and it will be dark, and the universe will be floppy and overextended like a stretched out rubber that will never return to its original shape and just lies there on the side of the highway where some fucker threw it out an automobile window, and all the light in the universe will have traveled from the most distant parts of the expanding universe and gone right past you, so that you are behind the starlight and see nothing.

You will find this very, very, very boring.

LEMUROID

Sincerely,
Standing On The Shoulders Of Giant Midgets