The International Writers Magazine: REALITY CHECK

---

OPEN LETTER TO FIDEL CASTRO • James Campion Il Presidente, Please die. Seriously. Just die...

We need your country. Well, I need your country, really. You see I have plans. Big plans. These include your demise. Anything will do. Shotgun wound to the cranium, bathtub accident, arsenic, 15 minutes in a room with Geraldo Rivera. Pretty much any mode of suicide is acceptable, as long as it results in you ceasing to exist asap. Believe me, it would be much appreciated.

I recently met with a team of accountants in North Carolina, and it was decided that much of your land is being, and has been, wasted on needless poverty and disease, when rapacious clods such as myself can acquire it at desperate discounts and turn it around for mucho dinero. You see, cheap land in one of the world’s finest hot spots, once the playground of the mafia and American hotel chains, is now littered with crack ghettos. You can help by dropping dead. We don’t have to kill you per se. This kind of thing is messy and costs money, and, as we all know, hasn’t worked out to our advantage. Anyway, the Hussein fiasco has really strapped us over here; big time debt and all. We need a more cost effective way out. So fall down the stairs or suck on a tail pipe. Please.
Think of all the affordable real estate that is just rotting down there. Batista’s original infrastructure has got to be still around. Well, Batista. Shit. Who are we kidding? The United States’ original infrastructure is still there. We’ve sent out feelers, who have assured me reconstruction would be well worth the investment. Sugar, cigars, casinos, prostitution, gambling; oh there is much to exploit. We miss it.

Florida is too crowded and far too sticky. We need some offshore breezes and fine pina coladas. Enough is enough. Die. And really, how long can you expect to live? Honestly. You’ve been around long enough. You’ve had a good run, but let’s face it; you fucked up with this communism thing. There’s no money in it. And that short-sited Urban Reform Law? Who did that aid? Your pockets? Maybe, for a while, but you were never a long-term thinker. It’s always been about you – you, you, you. Don’t get me wrong. You’ve been a fine ruthless thug, but it’s time to give back.
Hey, I’ve seen some of the places you live now. This is not living. It ain’t like the old days, when you had Russian bank loans and underground American aid. But even that came at a cost. I guess you’ve never stopped laughing when we came for you. Man, we should have noticed the decline of the CIA then, huh? But the Kennedy’s were too busy riding Marilyn Monroe to pay attention to detail. But they’re all dead now. And so are communism and the Soviet Union. The jig is up. So why not give it a shot. I’ve heard a poison enema can be quite refreshing.

Here’s the deal: Prices of real estate have gone mad here in Jersey. New York is nuts, and only dead-eyed Caucasians live in Connecticut. It’s not for us. We like the adventure of diversity. Listen, truth is we love it here, but we no longer want to work like dogs just to hang our hats. It’s time we expand. I am not interested in Canada or Puerto Rico. I see a great opportunity in Cuba.
And, admittedly, I love cigars, really good cigars – the kind of cigars that taste like chocolate cake. Mmmm. I know you can appreciate a good stogie, Fidel. So, spark one up, smoke it down, and slit your wrists. Do it vertically. It’s more effective. A survey of teenage girls proves it out. We’re looking for expediency here. Once you’re cold, we’ll take it from there. Bribes are in place. You won’t have to worry about a thing.

And since you’re such a man of the people (are we still selling that nonsense?) then you’ll be happy to know we’ll take care of yours. Wal-Mart and Target and Nike and General Motors will be down there before you take your last breath. Jobs a-plenty. Red Roof Inn is on board. It will be great. As long as we can get in cheap, and, of course, you die right away.

Try to understand, this country of ours is in a tailspin of economic madness. Our president is a dumbstruck hick, and we’re nearly broke. We’ve got wars and enemies all over the place. The time to cash in the chips and buy up acres of prime Cuban real estate is now. But we know you have to save face and despise capitalism and American ingenuity, so it’s best if you shuffle off this mortal coil and let us bring home the proverbial bacon.

Thomas Jefferson, one of our nation’s greatest minds, and a guy who could knew well how to make an honest buck on the backs of free labor, once lovingly referred to your fair country as "a fruit that will soon fall into our hands." It gets me misty to read it. How about you? I’m warm and fuzzy all over when I think of you now in your run-down study, chomping down on a Cohiba contemplating your principled exit. The joy wells in my soul.

You see yourself as a great man. Therefore, you deserve to go out on your own terms like my hero, Doctor Thompson. Take a tip from him and swallow a pistol. It is the honorable way out. Hear the Cuban band playing your song. "Good-bye cruel world, let someone without shit for brains run things for awhile." The ghost of Hemmingway implores you. He loved your country. He loved guns. And he killed himself. Are you getting the picture? In closing, I would like you to recall the ancient Zen proverb: "There is no point to life if one cannot profit from a land grab."
Thanks for your time and consideration,

© James Campion July 30th 2005
realitycheck@jamescampion.com

See also Deep Throat and other stories in our Comment section

Going Legal - the case for drugs

We Want Bolton

Den of Iniquity

GOP Gridlock

Caveat Emptor

Karl Rove - superhero

Home

© Hackwriters 1999-2005 all rights reserved -