Letters from Siddig: March 2007

I owe you guys another letter. Not just because it’s been ages since I last said hi, but because when I do occasionally get around to checking up on what you’re all saying – I find it very encouraging and one good turn deserves another.

Last time I wrote, I think I’d just conquered the Romans outside their capital before committing suicide. I was about to head off to the Middle East to talk to this kid about the fact that she was pregnant, which I did, which she was, and that opened a whole new can of worms – believe me! I thought I was delivering an ordinary message to an ordinary girl – the sort of message that doesn’t always go down so well. So I was figuring out who I’d recommend in case she required some counseling – I was going to advise her to be sure to get some sleep before the big day. I had even lined up a very smart Pharisee I knew who’d have been happy to file the right tabletwork to ensure some modest child support (I was pretty certain that the ‘father’ was prepared to cough up the dough). But she took it all surprisingly well. Even after the “this is going to change your whole life” speech, and “you do realise you’re never going to wake up at midday again?” I didn’t even begin to get into the whole subject of how much older than her the father was.

I had problems with Joseph. Nice(ish) guy – sorta guy you’d be happy to take back to meet mother – and leave him there. I asked him to perform the simplest of tasks, which in all honesty he had trouble doing. All he had to do was say a teeny white lie! That he was the father of this kid. Most normal men have no problem with that one.

I swear, there are some clients I have to revisit again and again and he was one of them. Decent guy – just not cut out for the whole immaculate conception routine.

I think it worked out in the end – but the actual kid was never easy – always getting into trouble. He was talented though. I’m told he could turn Perrier into Champagne. I never touch the stuff.

At this point I decided that it was time to come clean – to say enough is enough. No more.

I thought I had a good excuse to go see the President of the United States and lay it all out for him. Not an easy guy to get to. First I had to meet with this other guy who (I was led to believe) enjoyed kicking the living daylights out of people if he couldn’t figure out an answer to something he needed to know. It turned out he didn’t have the stomach for it so I had to nudge him a little – remind him how it was done. He caught on pretty quick – not like Joseph at all! Anyway – it was the same situation all over again: the message I had to deliver was so important that it was okay if a few people died along the way. And they did. I usually die too, just so people don’t get offended.

That reminds me – and I think this is pretty odd – I have died – wait a minute I have to write this down because I can’t do the math easily on my fingers … I have died … okay the first time was just stupid – a real amateur – I got caught in the cross-fire during someone else’s thing – nothing to do with me, no heroism or nothing – in Jerusalem – that was dumb. But the second time was much better (not great but on the way there). I was walking up a mountain with a bunch of people I didn’t know (as you do) in order to save someone I had never met with a backpack full of nitroglycerine (I think it was nitro – anyway it was yellow and weird and smelled bad). Me and my friend decided it was time to relax. Our only error was that my backpack leaked and this stuff bled onto the snow and (they never explain this shit before you sign up) when it came into contact with the sun, it exploded. And so did I. And so did my friend. Sherpas get a raw deal.

So that’s twice.

Then I met up with these guys in a really remote part of the world where there was a castle and … a dragon. That should have been a warning sign to me right there. That’s thrice.

But no! I hadn’t had enough. There was more dying to be done. I still hadn’t tried to persuade a young kid (hello?) that it was a bad idea to put an end to his miserable life by blowing himself up. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t bad to try and dissuade him, it was just a bad idea to be anywhere in the vicinity. Which I was – for a very brief time. That’s fourice (how does it go after thrice? I’m going to run out of ‘ices).

After that humiliation, there was simply no point trying get close to a bomb before it exploded, so I drove out into the middle of the desert where, just for giggles, I was met by a bomb attached to unmanned aircraft. I think I got in one good punch before the lights went out again. But by this time I’m beginning to get the message – people just can’t be bothered to turn up anymore and see to my death personally. That’s five-ice!

But I’m not so easily beaten. I have another trick up my sleeve – I can kill myself too. So I do, during a game of cards. Six-ice.

Hannibal – eightice.

Assad – ninice.

Hmm … there’s one missing. How on earth does that happen?

Is there something wrong with my career? Am I supposed to be on this planet to survive? Is that the meaning of life? Just don’t die!

I’ll write again soon to talk about all the people and places and thank you for being around to witness all this carnage.

Love,
Sid