The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I just got my first blackmail letter. Maybe you get them infrequently, but I live a pretty scrupulous life, as you probably know. So when I found this in my inbox, believe me, I was shocked. Shaken to my core. Suddenly paranoid. Probably I should have gone directly to the police, but … with the protests and riots and vigilantes, I knew there was no time left for the gendarme to investigate a crime that didn’t directly involve violence. Although! The tone of the extortion letter certainly didn’t rule out suggested mayhem if I didn’t cough up some future request for money or …? Or what?

This is the email I received last night:
What’s going on, my man? My son reports that he saw this guy in a beat up old cowboy hat dressed in clothes that look like he slept in them and slowly realized that it was you, the stained glass wizard of the south end.
OK so far. But, I just could not believe my ears when he said that you were driving not your old beat up, cow pasture, red-neck pickup but, (and I can barely get the words out of my mouth) a brand new Prius?? Tell me it ain’t true? You haven’t gone over to the dark side more often associated with them high-brow folks who live north of the Mason Dixon line, more familiar to newcomers as Mountain View?? I mean, how you gonna carry your still around? And how is it gonna look when you and the South End String Banders show up in fancy new wheels. My god, man, your rep is surely gonna take a hit.

My blood stood still reading this. Believe me, I wanted to change my email address, disconnect my land line or even move to another county. I’ve watched enough cheesy TV cop shows to know that blackmailers never stop. Once they have their claws in you, the demands escalate faster than riots after pepper sprayings. The next message would undoubtedly be for a small amount to keep quiet. The one after that, who knows? Acreage? Musical instruments? My unsold stained glass windows? All of the above eventually, I’m betting. Especially when my extorter learned the worth of my homemade instruments and stained glass panels and fell into an inchoate rage.

So I did what any red blooded American would do in these dire circumstances. I wrote him back with my own demands.

As my commander-in-chief would tell you, these are damnable LIES, faux news, some sick conspiracy and obviously a pathetic attempt to extort money from poor old Skeeter. Your son was no doubt drunk or drug addled or both, probably huffing hi octane directly from the pump and mistook some wretched geek for myself. Get your boy some help before it’s too late!! I can recommend any number of discreet dry-out houses if you need the ones that require references. We can let this sordid attempt at blackmail die quietly on the vine. As you well know, nobody would believe this story anyway. I do NOT wear a beat up old cowboy hat nor wear clothes that look slept in. Mine are what we call weathered. And my truck, albeit possibly riddled with two or three ‘bullet’ holes from flying lawnmower rocks, is certainly not a redneck pickup, rather a well traveled and vintage half ton with the proper patina. Exactly, patina!

But I will say, not so much in self defense as simple justification, the mizzus’ car gets twice the mileage of that vintage truck of mine. My new motto and possibly the epitaph for Skeeter’s headstone: 65 mpg. Your son asked if it was a bit sluggish on acceleration. Tell him what a Tesla does in full stomp mode. Hang onto yer hat!! Not that Skeeter would ever be seen driving a Tesla. No sir, not unless he took off the cowboy hat.

Needless to say, the tactic, so far anyway, has worked. Let this be a lesson to all future blackmailers.

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