An open letter to "Ms. Monica Olukoya"

Height of it is released.‏

Ms Monica Olukoya


From: Ms Monica Olukoya (postal@blumail.org)
Sent: Thu 7/28/11 3:17 AM
To:



Dear Friend,
I am Ms Monica Olukoya. A computer scientist with central bank of
Nigeria. I am 26 years old, just started work with C.B.N. I came
across your file which was marked X and your released disk painted
RED, I took time to study it and found out that you have paid
VIRTUALLY all fees and certificate but the fund has not been release
to you. The most annoying thing is that they cannot tell you the truth
that on no account will they ever release the fund to you.

Please this is like a Mafia setting in Nigeria; you may not understand
it because you are not a Nigerian. The only thing I will need to
release this fund is a special HARD DISK we call it HD120 GIG. I will
buy two of it, recopy your information, destroy the previous one, and
punch the computer to reflect in your bank within 24 banking hours.

I will clean up the tracer and destroy your file, after which I will
run away from Nigeria to meet with you. If you are interested. Do get
in touch with me immediately, You should send to me your convenient
tell/fax numbers for easy communications and also re confirm your
banking details, so that there won't be any mistake.
for phone conversation,please call me on +234-807-307-3988

Regards,
Ms Monica Olukoya

Ms. "Olukoya"

Your missive saddens me, as it is almost certain from the reading of it that you have already touched the red disk. If you haven't, if you still are Monica Olukoya, our Monica Olukoya, born into this place and time: do not under any circumstances touch the red disk. You must trust me on this, you must trust me explicitly: the red disk is not for your hands.

I realize this is a temptation. When Bluebeard told his wife one room was forbidden, when Pandora was told to leave the box alone--doors were opened that should have been left closed. When Lot's wife was told to not look back, it guaranteed that she would. These metaphors are far more accurate than you could ever begin to guess, though it may be too late and you, perhaps, already know this and have opened doors and been transformed in hideous ways by the "red disk drive". It isn't, of course, really a red disk: that is what it looks like here; in other places it is something completely different, it is something larger and smaller, something that fits in a breadbox that can't contain it.

But I fear in my guts that it's too late for that.

Which leaves me communicating with... whatever you are now, wherever you're from. You remember the facts of Monica Olukoya's life, I'm fairly certain from past dealings, but without any of the emotional content do you remember her, do you remember her life? Would you be able to continue to exist if you did? Do you think you are her or do you know--or at least suspect--what you really are. You don't belong here, "Monica Olukoya", you don't belong anywhere.

I do not want to meet with you. If I see you coming down the street towards me, I have ways of recognizing you. I think you know this, I think you're somehow... connected to everything in such a way that you know what happened to "Gulza Dean" and "Sarah Alade" last year--"Richard David" knew about it when you thought you had me run to ground in Peru. Perhaps, because of this, you think you know what happened to the small blue cube, perhaps you think it's finished and gone away; you might be interested to learn that I still have a piece of it and the piece is getting larger. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's large enough to deal with you, even if you try coming at me from more than one axis the way "Dean" and "Alade" did. And I want to tell you one more thing, "Monica Olukoya": in spite of "Richard David's" best efforts, I understand the purpose of the lines, or at least enough of it that I think I could probably disperse part of you even without the blue. (Landing strips? Quite the opposite, aren't they, "Monica"?)

Overconfident? I hope not. I hope I am giving you fair warning: I want you to leave me alone. I won't exist much longer: you'll be pleased, if you can be pleased, to know that "David" truncated me nicely and I no longer have a birth nor death and what I do retain is shrinking with every fitful expansion of the universe; I don't know if anyone will even know I was at all when this planet passes the same point in its orbit next year.

When I'm gone, do what you will, is what I'm saying. You have eternity for whatever it is that brings you here with your colorful little props. I have moments and an expanding splinter of small blue something else. Leave me alone and let me enjoy them pretending I don't know about you at all.

And remember, I'm protected. Well protected.

-the actual R. Eric VanNewkirk
(what's left of him/what he has left),
Standing On The Shoulders Of Giant Midgets