Chilton's Hands
John Patrick Nelson
You’ve maybe seen writer/TV editor John Patrick Nelson on Popcorn Fiction, or the horror anthology “Plague.” You can catch him in the Fall 2024 issue of “Guilty Crime Story Magazine.” John is married to writer/director Alison Star Locke; they have an adorable daughter, Bethany, and live in Los Angeles. Go party at johnpatricknelson.com.
June, 1867
Good sirs,
I am penning this letter to put in writing my resignation from The Chilton Railway Company, The Chilton Feed Collective, the Chilton Beverage & Entertainment Concern, as well as any other businesses owned and operated by Mister Gladstone Chilton, and to detail my list of expenses incurred in the remaining days of my employment of said company. Though I know Mister Chilton acted mostly independently in these businesses, I also know that you gentlemen have invested notable sums in these affairs, and will be assumed to be taking custody of said businesses, in the event of Mister Chilton's death.
I have acted as bookkeeper and accountant of record for Mister Chilton for the last three years, and have been satisfied in my employment. However, given the events surrounding Mister Chilton's death, I have decided at this time to leave the town of Chilton's Berth with my family, to seek residence and employment elsewhere. My decision to leave is predicated on the events of the night of June Ninth. Mister Chilton had called me to conference in his office atop the Chilton Saloon. We had been going over the books, both the ones for his legitimate businesses, the bars, the brothels, etcetera, and the less-legitimate ones as well, which I will not detail here, but which I believe you are all fully aware. The legitimate businesses continued to turn their healthy profit, being as they have no competitors, and effectively operate as a monopoly. The less-legitimate ones had, of course, been suffering the last few days, as the Preacher had been methodically showing up and butchering everyone.
Now, to that time, I knew not why the Preacher had suddenly taken it upon himself to burn Mister Chilton's concerns to the earth. Naturally, one could guess that a preacher might take umbrage with robberies, rape and murder, but in all honesty, most men of clergy in this town had seen fit to turn a blind eye. Even the Preacher himself, to this point, hadn't inserted himself directly into Mister Chilton's affairs, in all the weeks he'd been living in Chilton's Berth. His arrival had been unremarkable, and as he had elected to mostly sit in silent observance at the town's two churches, he had become a mostly welcome fixture. The minister and priest, respectively, of the Protestant and Catholic churches, had both spoken at length with the Preacher, and had both relayed that he had simply expressed a desire to understand their various faiths. When pressed as to which denomination the Preacher himself favored, no answer could be discerned, the Preacher being of few words. But both the minister and the priest were taken by the Preacher and his taciturn ways.
In any case, as I say, I and many others were shocked to say the least, when a week ago last Thursday, the Preacher rode out to the Lucky-C Ranch (an off-the-books subsidiary of Chilton Farming, Incorporated) and dispatched all of the residents (to wit, Mssrs. Beauregard, Clayton, Votreg, Slaptin, and Keefe, all off-the-books employees of the Chilton Realty Company). I was not present to witness the massacre myself, but the bodies were discovered tied together inside the burnt-out husk of the LuckyC Ranch, holes where the front of their skulls used to be, and each of their hands missing. We did not then know it was the Preacher who had done the deed, as we would come to learn in the days that followed, or the Preacher most certainly would've been hunted down directly. However, I cannot say that the results would have been any different.
I should perhaps pause here. You gentlemen may be wondering what services these "off-the-books" employees performed for Mr. Chilton, assuming you do not already know, given your knowledge of Mr. Chilton's disposition. These men acted as Mister Chilton's enforcers, performing services that are not, strictly speaking, legal, and thus, not eligible for legitimate employment. These men called themselves "the Regulators," but behind their backs, everyone else called them "Chilton's Hands." It is perhaps the latter name that inspired the Preacher to remove said appendages from their living bodies, before finishing them. As to what they "enforced," well, I hesitate to put any such detail in writing, for fear I may one day be accused as co-conspirator and accessory. Suffice to say they performed the duties of "regulating" Chilton's will in town, be it negotiating the price of goods with sellers, overseeing the town Sheriff and his men, and relaying Mister Chilton's wishes and advisements to the Mayor and other political staff. As one may expect from such men, they cause a fair amount of violence and misery with the people of the town, but without legal recourse (i.e., the Sheriff and Mayor both being in the employ of Mister Chilton), nothing could be done to stop them, and previous attempts to bring them to heel had been met with failure.
Until the Preacher, of course.
In the days that followed, the Preacher made a steady meal of Chilton's Hands. They would all be found with their hands and faces missing. The hands, according to the town doctor, were removed by blade, whilst the hand's owner was still living, the doctor citing the substantial blood flow and trauma to the wrists as evidence. The faces were then removed by means of a bullet.
There had been no survivors to this point, up to the night of the massacre at the Chilton General Store (which acts as both a legitimate business concern and an off-the-books storehouse for many of the ill-gotten gains of Mister Chilton's unlisted businesses, i.e. the selling of goods procured by means of theft, forcing town residents to re-purchase their own previously-owned goods). That night, while performing his typical butchery on the men he found there, he paused when Hobart the shopkeep begged for his life, saying he played the role of indentured servant to Mister Chilton, operating the shop against his will (a claim I know to be true, as Hobart had many times tried to make an escape of Chilton's Berth, and been recaptured and tortured by Chilton's Hands). The Preacher heard his pleas, and was merciful, offering to escort Hobart out of town himself. Hobart took him up on it, loading down the shop's delivery buckboard with goods, before the Preacher set the store ablaze. Thus, the whole town saw as the Preacher and Hobart rode out, silhouetted against the burning store.
I believe it was the next morning that Mister Chilton ordered his remaining men, save the two bodyguards he kept as constant fixtures, to follow the Preacher and Hobart, and to gun them both down like dogs. A full day and night passed, and when no one returned, we of the town wondered if perhaps they had all killed each other in gunplay, or if the Preacher had taken the opportunity to escape to more welcoming climes.
But when dawn broke, the Preacher returned to town, dragging a sled behind his horse. The sled contained a pile of Mister Chilton's men, deceased, faces and hands missing. Hobart was nowhere in sight, and it has been widely assumed that he escaped free. The Preacher left the sled of corpses in the town square before disappearing.
It was that night Mister Chilton called me into conference, one bodyguard posted at the foot of the stairs, the other outside his door. Mister Chilton wanted a thorough dissection of the monies the Preacher had cost him over the last week, and I did my best to provide it. Though, I was constantly interrupted by Mister Chilton's curses and ravings, threatening to find the Preacher and perform obscenities upon him I do not wish to repeat here.
It was in fact during one of Mister Chilton's ravings that we heard a scuffle downstairs. We couldn't make out what was happening, but the bodyguard posted immediately outside the door yelled for Mister Chilton to stay inside and bolt the door. Chilton did, and produced a pistol, standing behind the door, the pistol aimed head-high, waiting for the Preacher to charge through.
There was a notable ruckus outside, some grunts and a few shots fired. Then there was silence. I sat huddled in my seat, fearing what might happen if the Preacher were to get through. Then came a loud THUMP at the door. Then another, sounding like someone trying to break through. The thumping continued, as the door began to crack, and the hinges lost their grip on the wood.
And then there was silence. For long seconds.
And then, suddenly, a figure came crashing through the door. At that point, I must admit, I saw the event through my hands, as Mister Chilton emptied his pistol into the figure, blowing his head clean open. The body slumped to the floor.
It was then that we both saw that it was not the Preacher, but indeed, one of the bodyguards, a gag in his mouth, and hands removed.
Mister Chilton, realizing his error, started to aim his pistol. But, as you can imagine, he was not allowed to fire, as the Preacher stepped through the door, pistol pointed at Mister Chilton.
He gently removed the pistol from Mister Chilton's hands, then nodded for Chilton to resume his seat behind his desk. The Preacher sat down next to me and across from Mister Chilton, and it was then I noticed that the hand he held the pistol in was bone white, covered in hundreds of razor-thin scars.
After a long moment of silence, Mister Chilton said "Enoch,I wouldn't -"
"Keep my name out of your hole, filth," the Preacher said. Mister Chilton sat back in his chair.
"I see. You got religion, and now your sainted butthole has never done wrong? Cause I know of a fairly long list of sins about you. Preacher.”
“I do have a long list of sins. And one day I’ll be held to account for ‘em. Til that day, I comfort myself in knowing that I never killed a woman nor child that wasn’t part of this degenerate life of ours.”
“The whore? That’s who this is all about?” Enoch cocked his pistol.
“Be gentle how you speak on her. From what I’ve read, Jesus felt a fair more sympathy for prostitutes than rich men.”
It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. Then I remembered some business that had gone on a week or so back, an incident at one of the brothels. Chilton's Hands had stopped in for their evening respite, and one of their regular ladies had refused their advances, as she was tending to her child's illness. In a fit of pique, the men had used her and her child for whipping posts.
As this was hardly the first time this sort of thing had occurred, I had taken practically no notice of the event, and had not correlated it with the bloodshed that followed.
"So, now you take my face and hands, is that it?" Chilton demanded of the Preacher. "Do you think my suffering will bring the whore or the child back from the dead?"
"You've shown to be a poor shepherd to this town," the Preacher said, "so think of this as me relieving you of your duties."
"You will be hunted, sir!" Chilton spat back. "I am a most important man in this town, I am Chilton's Berth! On my word, should you carry out this cursed violence on me, you will be hunted to the ends of the earth, and ground to meat!"
The Preacher smiled for the first and only time I'd ever seen since he arrived in town.
"Well," said he, "If that is how it's to play out, then I welcome the challenge. If the quality of hunters is equal to the quality of your men, I don't much worry about my health. However, my guess is, your death will mean nothing to those you speak of. They'll likely wipe the stain of you off their shoes, and be glad of your passing."
Chilton's face blanched at this.
The Preacher reached in his coat, pulled something out, and threw it on Chilton's desk with a loud clang.
A machete, the rusty blade soaked in dried blood.
"I'll be havin' those hands now," the Preacher said.
Chilton's lip curled. "In Hell!" he said, rising from his chair. "You will have to kill me first, sir, before I would willingly maim myself -"
The Preacher's gun erupted fire, and Mister Chilton was thrown back into his seat. His nethers had been torn apart by the shot.
Mister Chilton looked at the Preacher then with a fear I'd never seen in his eyes before. In truth, it pleased me to see after all this time. I have done my job, sirs, willingly and for money, but Mister Chilton's arrogance and condescension had been a factor of the job that I suffered, not enjoyed. And to see him thus humbled, it gave my heart joy.
"I imagine the fires of Hell seem much clearer to you now," the Preacher said. "Set about removin' them hands."
I will not detail the process that followed, save to say that Mister Chilton, hands shaking, did manage to remove his left appendage himself, though not at first try, and not without a fair amount of gore. When the time came to remove the other hand, Mister Chilton had passed out on his desk, and the Preacher removed the second hand with a single hack of the blade. Mister Chilton only regained consciousness once more, to find himself thus enfeebled, blood soaking his marvelous oaken desk. He only remained conscious for a few moments, a look of abject horror on his face, eyes and mouth agape. No words left his mouth, only a tiny whine, and then he lost consciousness again. To my knowledge, he never regained it before the blood slipped from his body and covered his desk, chair and floor. The Preacher never executed his usual final stroke, that of a bullet to the face. I did not ask why he didn't bother, but as we sat there in silence, watching the blood flow away with Mister Chilton's life, I imagine it was because he preferred it slow.
Finally, when it was clear that Mister Chilton would rise no more, I slowly stood, straightening my vest, and looking at my pocket watch. "Well," I said, "This business seems complete, and I will be on my way."
With my hands trembling, I gathered my books and took a step toward the door.
"Hold," I heard the Preacher say.
Hold I did.
"There's one last bit of business unaccounted for," he said.
I turned back.
"What might that be? Sir?" The Preacher rose to look at me.
"The shopkeep pled for his life, claiming he was an unwilling servant to Chilton. Would you say the same?"
I thought about what I might say, carefully working over the words in my mind.
"Be aware, to lie is death," the Preacher said.
I will spare you my confession, gentlemen, but suffice to say, I did not claim to be an indentured servant of Mister Chilton. Thus, in my honesty, did the Preacher spare my life.
But he did have thoughts on my participation in the affairs of Mister Chilton, which he relayed to me directly. Those words, I will take with me to my grave.
I feel this sufficiently details my reasons for resignation. My remaining expenses are as follows:
~ Five dollars, for my last two weeks of services rendered
~ A additional five dollars for the medical expenses incurred as a result of being in the employ of Mister Chilton
~ Two hundred dollars, pain and suffering
~ Five hundred dollars, for the loss of my writing hand to the Preacher
~ a dollar to be paid to the Smithen boy for writing this letter under my dictation.
I have already tendered the funds to myself and the Smithen boy from monies kept in the petty cash fund. If anyone should take issue with the amounts, or the manner in which these funds have been executed, they are hereby invited to kiss my entire puckered asshole.
Yours,
Richard E. Hurley
Good sirs,
I am penning this letter to put in writing my resignation from The Chilton Railway Company, The Chilton Feed Collective, the Chilton Beverage & Entertainment Concern, as well as any other businesses owned and operated by Mister Gladstone Chilton, and to detail my list of expenses incurred in the remaining days of my employment of said company. Though I know Mister Chilton acted mostly independently in these businesses, I also know that you gentlemen have invested notable sums in these affairs, and will be assumed to be taking custody of said businesses, in the event of Mister Chilton's death.
I have acted as bookkeeper and accountant of record for Mister Chilton for the last three years, and have been satisfied in my employment. However, given the events surrounding Mister Chilton's death, I have decided at this time to leave the town of Chilton's Berth with my family, to seek residence and employment elsewhere. My decision to leave is predicated on the events of the night of June Ninth. Mister Chilton had called me to conference in his office atop the Chilton Saloon. We had been going over the books, both the ones for his legitimate businesses, the bars, the brothels, etcetera, and the less-legitimate ones as well, which I will not detail here, but which I believe you are all fully aware. The legitimate businesses continued to turn their healthy profit, being as they have no competitors, and effectively operate as a monopoly. The less-legitimate ones had, of course, been suffering the last few days, as the Preacher had been methodically showing up and butchering everyone.
Now, to that time, I knew not why the Preacher had suddenly taken it upon himself to burn Mister Chilton's concerns to the earth. Naturally, one could guess that a preacher might take umbrage with robberies, rape and murder, but in all honesty, most men of clergy in this town had seen fit to turn a blind eye. Even the Preacher himself, to this point, hadn't inserted himself directly into Mister Chilton's affairs, in all the weeks he'd been living in Chilton's Berth. His arrival had been unremarkable, and as he had elected to mostly sit in silent observance at the town's two churches, he had become a mostly welcome fixture. The minister and priest, respectively, of the Protestant and Catholic churches, had both spoken at length with the Preacher, and had both relayed that he had simply expressed a desire to understand their various faiths. When pressed as to which denomination the Preacher himself favored, no answer could be discerned, the Preacher being of few words. But both the minister and the priest were taken by the Preacher and his taciturn ways.
In any case, as I say, I and many others were shocked to say the least, when a week ago last Thursday, the Preacher rode out to the Lucky-C Ranch (an off-the-books subsidiary of Chilton Farming, Incorporated) and dispatched all of the residents (to wit, Mssrs. Beauregard, Clayton, Votreg, Slaptin, and Keefe, all off-the-books employees of the Chilton Realty Company). I was not present to witness the massacre myself, but the bodies were discovered tied together inside the burnt-out husk of the LuckyC Ranch, holes where the front of their skulls used to be, and each of their hands missing. We did not then know it was the Preacher who had done the deed, as we would come to learn in the days that followed, or the Preacher most certainly would've been hunted down directly. However, I cannot say that the results would have been any different.
I should perhaps pause here. You gentlemen may be wondering what services these "off-the-books" employees performed for Mr. Chilton, assuming you do not already know, given your knowledge of Mr. Chilton's disposition. These men acted as Mister Chilton's enforcers, performing services that are not, strictly speaking, legal, and thus, not eligible for legitimate employment. These men called themselves "the Regulators," but behind their backs, everyone else called them "Chilton's Hands." It is perhaps the latter name that inspired the Preacher to remove said appendages from their living bodies, before finishing them. As to what they "enforced," well, I hesitate to put any such detail in writing, for fear I may one day be accused as co-conspirator and accessory. Suffice to say they performed the duties of "regulating" Chilton's will in town, be it negotiating the price of goods with sellers, overseeing the town Sheriff and his men, and relaying Mister Chilton's wishes and advisements to the Mayor and other political staff. As one may expect from such men, they cause a fair amount of violence and misery with the people of the town, but without legal recourse (i.e., the Sheriff and Mayor both being in the employ of Mister Chilton), nothing could be done to stop them, and previous attempts to bring them to heel had been met with failure.
Until the Preacher, of course.
In the days that followed, the Preacher made a steady meal of Chilton's Hands. They would all be found with their hands and faces missing. The hands, according to the town doctor, were removed by blade, whilst the hand's owner was still living, the doctor citing the substantial blood flow and trauma to the wrists as evidence. The faces were then removed by means of a bullet.
There had been no survivors to this point, up to the night of the massacre at the Chilton General Store (which acts as both a legitimate business concern and an off-the-books storehouse for many of the ill-gotten gains of Mister Chilton's unlisted businesses, i.e. the selling of goods procured by means of theft, forcing town residents to re-purchase their own previously-owned goods). That night, while performing his typical butchery on the men he found there, he paused when Hobart the shopkeep begged for his life, saying he played the role of indentured servant to Mister Chilton, operating the shop against his will (a claim I know to be true, as Hobart had many times tried to make an escape of Chilton's Berth, and been recaptured and tortured by Chilton's Hands). The Preacher heard his pleas, and was merciful, offering to escort Hobart out of town himself. Hobart took him up on it, loading down the shop's delivery buckboard with goods, before the Preacher set the store ablaze. Thus, the whole town saw as the Preacher and Hobart rode out, silhouetted against the burning store.
I believe it was the next morning that Mister Chilton ordered his remaining men, save the two bodyguards he kept as constant fixtures, to follow the Preacher and Hobart, and to gun them both down like dogs. A full day and night passed, and when no one returned, we of the town wondered if perhaps they had all killed each other in gunplay, or if the Preacher had taken the opportunity to escape to more welcoming climes.
But when dawn broke, the Preacher returned to town, dragging a sled behind his horse. The sled contained a pile of Mister Chilton's men, deceased, faces and hands missing. Hobart was nowhere in sight, and it has been widely assumed that he escaped free. The Preacher left the sled of corpses in the town square before disappearing.
It was that night Mister Chilton called me into conference, one bodyguard posted at the foot of the stairs, the other outside his door. Mister Chilton wanted a thorough dissection of the monies the Preacher had cost him over the last week, and I did my best to provide it. Though, I was constantly interrupted by Mister Chilton's curses and ravings, threatening to find the Preacher and perform obscenities upon him I do not wish to repeat here.
It was in fact during one of Mister Chilton's ravings that we heard a scuffle downstairs. We couldn't make out what was happening, but the bodyguard posted immediately outside the door yelled for Mister Chilton to stay inside and bolt the door. Chilton did, and produced a pistol, standing behind the door, the pistol aimed head-high, waiting for the Preacher to charge through.
There was a notable ruckus outside, some grunts and a few shots fired. Then there was silence. I sat huddled in my seat, fearing what might happen if the Preacher were to get through. Then came a loud THUMP at the door. Then another, sounding like someone trying to break through. The thumping continued, as the door began to crack, and the hinges lost their grip on the wood.
And then there was silence. For long seconds.
And then, suddenly, a figure came crashing through the door. At that point, I must admit, I saw the event through my hands, as Mister Chilton emptied his pistol into the figure, blowing his head clean open. The body slumped to the floor.
It was then that we both saw that it was not the Preacher, but indeed, one of the bodyguards, a gag in his mouth, and hands removed.
Mister Chilton, realizing his error, started to aim his pistol. But, as you can imagine, he was not allowed to fire, as the Preacher stepped through the door, pistol pointed at Mister Chilton.
He gently removed the pistol from Mister Chilton's hands, then nodded for Chilton to resume his seat behind his desk. The Preacher sat down next to me and across from Mister Chilton, and it was then I noticed that the hand he held the pistol in was bone white, covered in hundreds of razor-thin scars.
After a long moment of silence, Mister Chilton said "Enoch,I wouldn't -"
"Keep my name out of your hole, filth," the Preacher said. Mister Chilton sat back in his chair.
"I see. You got religion, and now your sainted butthole has never done wrong? Cause I know of a fairly long list of sins about you. Preacher.”
“I do have a long list of sins. And one day I’ll be held to account for ‘em. Til that day, I comfort myself in knowing that I never killed a woman nor child that wasn’t part of this degenerate life of ours.”
“The whore? That’s who this is all about?” Enoch cocked his pistol.
“Be gentle how you speak on her. From what I’ve read, Jesus felt a fair more sympathy for prostitutes than rich men.”
It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. Then I remembered some business that had gone on a week or so back, an incident at one of the brothels. Chilton's Hands had stopped in for their evening respite, and one of their regular ladies had refused their advances, as she was tending to her child's illness. In a fit of pique, the men had used her and her child for whipping posts.
As this was hardly the first time this sort of thing had occurred, I had taken practically no notice of the event, and had not correlated it with the bloodshed that followed.
"So, now you take my face and hands, is that it?" Chilton demanded of the Preacher. "Do you think my suffering will bring the whore or the child back from the dead?"
"You've shown to be a poor shepherd to this town," the Preacher said, "so think of this as me relieving you of your duties."
"You will be hunted, sir!" Chilton spat back. "I am a most important man in this town, I am Chilton's Berth! On my word, should you carry out this cursed violence on me, you will be hunted to the ends of the earth, and ground to meat!"
The Preacher smiled for the first and only time I'd ever seen since he arrived in town.
"Well," said he, "If that is how it's to play out, then I welcome the challenge. If the quality of hunters is equal to the quality of your men, I don't much worry about my health. However, my guess is, your death will mean nothing to those you speak of. They'll likely wipe the stain of you off their shoes, and be glad of your passing."
Chilton's face blanched at this.
The Preacher reached in his coat, pulled something out, and threw it on Chilton's desk with a loud clang.
A machete, the rusty blade soaked in dried blood.
"I'll be havin' those hands now," the Preacher said.
Chilton's lip curled. "In Hell!" he said, rising from his chair. "You will have to kill me first, sir, before I would willingly maim myself -"
The Preacher's gun erupted fire, and Mister Chilton was thrown back into his seat. His nethers had been torn apart by the shot.
Mister Chilton looked at the Preacher then with a fear I'd never seen in his eyes before. In truth, it pleased me to see after all this time. I have done my job, sirs, willingly and for money, but Mister Chilton's arrogance and condescension had been a factor of the job that I suffered, not enjoyed. And to see him thus humbled, it gave my heart joy.
"I imagine the fires of Hell seem much clearer to you now," the Preacher said. "Set about removin' them hands."
I will not detail the process that followed, save to say that Mister Chilton, hands shaking, did manage to remove his left appendage himself, though not at first try, and not without a fair amount of gore. When the time came to remove the other hand, Mister Chilton had passed out on his desk, and the Preacher removed the second hand with a single hack of the blade. Mister Chilton only regained consciousness once more, to find himself thus enfeebled, blood soaking his marvelous oaken desk. He only remained conscious for a few moments, a look of abject horror on his face, eyes and mouth agape. No words left his mouth, only a tiny whine, and then he lost consciousness again. To my knowledge, he never regained it before the blood slipped from his body and covered his desk, chair and floor. The Preacher never executed his usual final stroke, that of a bullet to the face. I did not ask why he didn't bother, but as we sat there in silence, watching the blood flow away with Mister Chilton's life, I imagine it was because he preferred it slow.
Finally, when it was clear that Mister Chilton would rise no more, I slowly stood, straightening my vest, and looking at my pocket watch. "Well," I said, "This business seems complete, and I will be on my way."
With my hands trembling, I gathered my books and took a step toward the door.
"Hold," I heard the Preacher say.
Hold I did.
"There's one last bit of business unaccounted for," he said.
I turned back.
"What might that be? Sir?" The Preacher rose to look at me.
"The shopkeep pled for his life, claiming he was an unwilling servant to Chilton. Would you say the same?"
I thought about what I might say, carefully working over the words in my mind.
"Be aware, to lie is death," the Preacher said.
I will spare you my confession, gentlemen, but suffice to say, I did not claim to be an indentured servant of Mister Chilton. Thus, in my honesty, did the Preacher spare my life.
But he did have thoughts on my participation in the affairs of Mister Chilton, which he relayed to me directly. Those words, I will take with me to my grave.
I feel this sufficiently details my reasons for resignation. My remaining expenses are as follows:
~ Five dollars, for my last two weeks of services rendered
~ A additional five dollars for the medical expenses incurred as a result of being in the employ of Mister Chilton
~ Two hundred dollars, pain and suffering
~ Five hundred dollars, for the loss of my writing hand to the Preacher
~ a dollar to be paid to the Smithen boy for writing this letter under my dictation.
I have already tendered the funds to myself and the Smithen boy from monies kept in the petty cash fund. If anyone should take issue with the amounts, or the manner in which these funds have been executed, they are hereby invited to kiss my entire puckered asshole.
Yours,
Richard E. Hurley