Jack

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I was your next-door neighbor eight years ago.

I go by Tony these days, but when you knew me, I was Jack Carlson.

Pretty sure that name still rings a bell.

You probably remember when I cut out, jump in bail rather than face the consequences.

I heard that you and your wife helped Karen during the aftermath of the mess I left behind, and that's why I wanted to reach out to you.

This isn't a request for help or forgiveness.

I know I'm beyond redemption.

But it could be a way of thanking you for what you've done for my family.

Fair warning.

What you're about to read is pretty fucked up.

Believe it, don't believe it, that's up to you.

As is whether or not you decide to play the game for yourself.

All I ask is that you take this seriously.

Even though it sounds crazy, everything you're about to read is true.

So after I left, I drifted a bit before finding a permanent gig as a bartender at a hole-in-the-wall joint in Cincinnati.

It's what we used to call a dive bar.

This is back before the granola crowd, no offense intended, co-opted the term.

This wasn't a repurposed bike shop in the gentrified part of town serving craft beer to gay-jeered hipsters with tattoos bought on daddy's credit card.

Now this place was a true fucking shithole.