I am Bruno Leti and I have broken into Adamson's computer because I was told you slandered me. Here is exactly what you said of my work and my clean reputation:
“As for Leti, he's been hand-fed like a gang-gang by the Pollock-Krasner foundation for too long. It will do him good him good to starve in a hole with a blindfold and a wire-mesh mouthguard for a while.”
I am clutching a plank as I type with one hand. The fingers are white with my rage. The pulse in my left temple reminds me of the past in Sardinia, of blood spilt on the black decks of the flat-fish boats. The past comes to my mind as I type, I remember now the run of redfish that ate the entire population of yellowtail. It is swimming its way toward you, herded by my cousins on jetskis: watch this now if you want to be warned how they will come:
The Red Oblong is in the coffin you idiot.
I call you a swine and I am going to slowly twist your neck until your throat swells with pulsing arteries and my blade dances before your damned eyes. I am drawing your image first and Wallace Crabbe will use it for dart practice as we wait here in some Tasmanian black hole of boredom and privation. You are going to pay on a vast scale, the size of the gibber plains in Randolph Stow's counterfeit silence. Though you will not be silent my enemy, you will be moaning with infinite pain and regret, you will know the meaning of Guiseppe Ungaretti's image of a man's finger caught in the hinge of the jaw of a spotted Italian wagga-fish.
Let me say, and it must be said, that you will be slung in the very gimbles of unease as you shudder in spasms of awful pain and terror.
Your Enemy, Friend of the Jobfish,