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Dear Prisoner nr. 248,
By the time you read this, I'll be pushing up the daisies. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise. I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really, to you, seeing as we made all those plans to continue grossing out teens and old people with our cherished "skinny dip and snogging" expeditions to the fountain in the public square, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are not as good looking as your MySpace photo made it appear, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like urine sample collecting, pretending to be Captain America, and feeding rice to sea gulls, and I'm just not sure I can ever share your joy in those things. How can two people so different ever make it for the long haul? I think we should date on Mars. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I spy on you and your secret lover with the telescope from the treehouse across the street. I'd really like us to become road sweepers or something, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, my left hand and I. Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.
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