The Providers – Letter 1

Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiill,

Dude, dude, DUDE.

I’M SO DRUNK. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

HONESTY-TIME, HONESTY-TIME, man. I’m from the future. No no no no no, wait… seriously. YOU STUPID SHIT, LISTEN TO ME! This writing back to the past is serious business. Me and Greg – Greg from the future who don’t know yet – have been drinking a serious amount of Cuervo at his parents peacock farm. It is some f’d up s, man. They have this weird idea that peacock-dancing is the entertainment wave of the future – well, after SURGE BALL, of course.

Then me and Greg had this idea. CHECK IT OUT! We tell someone in the future to start the peacock-dancing trend, so by the time we come around it’s mega-popular and Greg’s parents (and us, of course) can reap the benefits – and by benefits I mean a dick-load of CASH MONEY.

So here’s what you basically need to do: If you’ve got 2 peacocks, bring ’em round the yard and teach ’em how to dance. If you’ve got just one peacock, get another one, then bring ’em round the yard and teach ’em how to dance. If you are 100% sans-peacock, acquire two peacocks, bring ’em round the yard and teach ’em how to dance. IT’S THAT SIMPLE.

In return, we’ll give you tiny hints about the future so you can maybe possibly benefit from them.

Dude, this is going to be SO SICK. I LOVE YOU DUDE, I FUCKING LOVE YOU, MAAAAAAAAAAAN!

Eat my balls,
Dom

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The Providers – Letter 2

B-Fuckin-Ill,

If you’ve got 2 peacocks, bring ‘em out round the yard and teach ‘em how to dance!

Do you even know what that means? Probably not because you’re too busy BEING LAME.

Man, we are from THE FUTURE. We are here to totally HARASS YOU via the Postal Service!

That’s right. It’s super-antiquated in our era. People only really use it to splice through time itself and send people junk mail and bullshit pranks. Where do you think all those stupid letters come from that promise you credit cards, discounted insurance, and larger penises? The effin’ future, that’s where.

Do we have a bigger purpose, you ask your STUPID self?!?!?! I will answer you with a whispered “perhaps.”

Dude, it’s like this: I just dropped some mad flim on some honey chilies.

You stupid past assholes don’t even understand how AWESOME that is. That means I just bought myself some great socks. In the future, we call socks “chilies.” Why? Because we are so much better than you and can do whatever we want!

MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

So, you got a letter from Dom. That is not my name. My name is Greg. Both of us want you to shut the hell up, break up with anyone you’re currently going out with, and focus all of your time on us.

Oh, and bran. Buy a whole truck-fuckin’ lot of bran. Eat that shit. Love that shit. And write letters to your government about the importance of bran and bran research & development.

I will leave you with some lovely words from the greatest non-presidential vocalist of your generation: Mr. John Travolta

Look at the rain and look at the stars tonight
All fallin´ down on me
See them tumble through my door
I look at your face
The light is in your eyes
And there´s something there I need
I long to hold a little more

FUCK YOU,

– Greg