Nigerian Letter, Part 2
Another letter, sent after the one below:
Mr. Wetauba,
It is with great and sincere regret that I read this missive on the loss of your dear client. It is with further regret, however, that I must decline your generous offer.
Even a cursory inquiry, you see, would reveal that my credit is somewhat less than Sterling. It is, in fact–in the going financial parlance–something closer to “rust.” The road to this unfortunate set of circumstances is long, circuitous, and probably dull to the uninitiated. Therefore, I will lay it out in detail. Someone of your financial experience and acumen, I’m confident, cannot but be impressed.
It began, appropriately, at birth. My grandfather, Rachid Tariq al-Flannigan (Algerian, of Irish descent), died shortly before I was born, and willed me–his only grandson–his entire estate. Normally, this sort of thing is the stuff of fairytales, and a cause for rejoicing. But given that Grandfather’s estate consisted of a run-down cottage in Wales, a few forlorn-looking sheep (found locked in the cottage, and wearing lipstick; we never did figure that out), and 1,798,332 pounds sterling in debt, it’s safe to say that I’d been born under a bad sign.
And things got worse. On Good Friday, just days after I was born, the cottage–with the sheep still inside–burned to the ground. The villagers, who greeted Easter, 1972, with a lamb and mutton feast the likes of which had never before or since been seen in Wales, were overjoyed; if not for my extreme youth and naivete, I would likely have been deeply depressed.
Setback followed upon setback. First my parents, then myself, set about finding other heirs of Grandfather’s. We hoped beyond hope that we might find someone else who would share in our misfortune. No-one was found. Then I frittered away my young adulthood on investment schemes of dubious provenance, losing more and more money each time. The last involved a supposed herd of Peruvian alpaca, to be had for a pittance, which I would then (I was told) be able to sell at a markup. They were neither Peruvian, nor Alpaca, and turned out to be a motley group of mongrels kept penned in an abandoned car lot in the Bronx. The shame of that was bad enough, but what was worse was that instead of losing my shirt on the deal, they came for my pants instead.
So, in summation, I may not be the best person on whom to pin your hopes. But I have a proposition of my own, Mr. Wetauba. If you can find someone willing to take on 9,707,120 pounds sterling in debt (what with interest and late fees), the ashes both of Grandfather and of a few of the overdone sheep and lambs, and a rapidly multiplying pack of feral mutts, I think we may be able to work something out. I’ll even cut my 40% share to 30% if you can get my pants back from the pawnshop down the street.
I anxiously await your response.
Sincerely,
Dennis al-Tariqi Rosenbaum-Rodriguez-Llosa
(Irish-Mexican, of Algerian and Jewish descent. Incidentally, you should come to visit us for Passover, or perhaps Ramadan)
Tags: 419 Scams, creative writing, Nigerian Letters, Spam