Jake Arthur

To be Delivered Upon my Demise

Hey, Bob and Dawn,

I don’t know if this is legit. Jake Arthur is (was?) a reporter for The Stranger. He was working on a story about the homeless encampments in the Jungle. I know someone who knows him. Anyway, this Jake guy started acting a little strange, apparently. I heard it on more than one channel, so people were talking about him a while ago. He was going around claiming Chris Cornell was “suicided” by the Illuminati or something. Fringe stuff.

Anyway, my buddy caught this email floating around some twisted chat room he’s a part of. It’s a Tor thing, so don’t ask for a link. Bob would have to do some reconfiguring…

Idk if it could be used for the website? I can’t verify even a modicum of authenticity. But then, can anyone these days?



To: Cindy_B@xxxxx.com

RE: To be Delivered upon my Demise

From: Jake.A@xxxxx.net

Cindy, baby, bad news. But if you’re reading this, you already have a clue something’s up. I wrote this like one of those romantic notes, you know, to be delivered after my death. I sent it to your sister and told her not to read it, but to send it to you if I went missing.

First of all, I might not really be dead. I give it 50/50. HOWEVER, I either had to leave to protect you and me both, or I got TAKEN, like the movie. In which case, fuck it. Liam Neeson ain’t coming to save my ass.

I want you not to be surprised by anything they say about me. Anything they claim to know. They don’t know shit. I KNOW. Because I know who they’re chasing, Cindy. I know the doctor from that cringy Aerie Farms place. That land is fucking TOXIC, I’m telling you! But I have everything in my head. Like Keanu Reeves in that movie. What was that movie where they stored all that data in his brain like it was a hard drive? For real. Like that.

Listen, if you meet some new guy and fall in love, I’m totally happy to do the Tom Hanks for you, okay? Remember that movie? Castaway or something? I loved that dumb Wilson volleyball! But if I come back some day and you’re hooked up with a dude and a dog and some kids and all, I’m cool. Really. As long as I can sleep in the garage.


(Not really.)

Babe. This is some deep shit. Like Tropic Thunder deep shit. “WE’RE IN THE SHIT!” And I hope I’m alive and I get to see you again, even if it’s you and your family living happily ever after. But, Cindy. It’s probably more likely that I’m dead. So I’m sorry about that. Because I know you kind of liked me. 😉 But sorry also because I probably did something stupid, or else you wouldn’t be reading this.

But this guy Tuck! Smh. He’s crazy REAL, and SO fucking smart! And he’s like trying to catch a lightning bug. That’s how quick he is. And he’s got hoofs! You think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I have all the records. All the evidence. I took the notebook from that crazy ass Langner’s creepy Breaking Bad motorhome. So. Right now I’m either being tortured to death, or I’m chilling in sequester with my notebook, waiting for the right moment.

I can’t say more. They’re reading this. (They read everything. And yes, they can turn on your camera without turning on the green light, so put some tape on it, finally, okay?) One day I’ll figure out this encrypted shit and maybe we can talk on the phone for a minute.

I love you, Cindy, you are my soul-mate! But this thing is bigger than us. It’s bigger than Star Trek!

Peace and joy to you–my love, my best friend, my savior,


(Oh, and that thing we used to talk about going visit one day? It feels bigger in person. Just like we thought it would. You know what I’m saying? I know you do. I don’t want my girl thinking this is some kind of a HOAX!)

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