Dear Megan,

Hi. It’s me, Sharon. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been invited to my estate, but that’s what bitches like you who insult my swamp villa deserve. Anyway. I’m not writing this out of the goodness of my heart. Oh, no. My husband (Devon) wanted to invite you to some big get-together he’s hosting, and seeing as he’s illiterate, he asked me (begged me) to write it for him.

So.

You’re invited by Devon, not me, to Gator Great House on October 9. You know where it is. You know where you trampled my Spanish moss and stained my genuine mangrove coffee table with your appalling lack of manners and disregard of drink coasters. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that. I’m sure you’ll have no problem roaring your way through the delicate Floridean ecosystem with your 2001 Toyota Camry that literally exploded in my five-paddleboat-garage when you drove it into the bayou. I had to fish it out with the jaws of my pet alligator Snaggy and he lost a tooth in the fender of that hunk of junk. And then you know what you did. You stole MY Porche and ordered for the Toyota Camry to be towed to your embarrassing, disgusting, hardly-worth-mentioning it’s so lame SUBURBAN DEVELOPMENT.

I haven’t forgotten any of this, Megan. Don’t for a second think that I have. Not a second goes by without me reliving the bitter fury of watching you feed the catfish without asking about their strictly vegan diets. The haunting image of your knockoff Coach bag hanging among my panther fur coats drives me to madness. You will pay, Megan. Party or not, you will pay.

You might be wondering how this letter reached you. After all, you may well know the address of Gator Great House, but I have never condescended to learn the location of your revolting lair. And no, I didn’t ask Devon, even though I know he’s been having an affair with you for the last three years. Don’t worry about that, Megan. I don’t care about the affair. In fact, I embrace it. Anything to get that buffoon out of my way. I even hope you’ve been enjoying his enthralling talks about how many letters there are in his name and how many Gatorade bottles he can down in one sitting.

But back to the important things, Megan. I’ve been watching you. I know more about you than your address. Much, much more. I’ve infiltrated your Facebook under the pseudonym swamphater420 and I’ve been following every update you post about little Tammy and Jammy. I’ve found you on Instagram, too, and I see every story about wine night with the white women. I’m on your TikTok, your Snapchat, your Twitter, your Goodreads, your Wattpad, your JSTOR, your TurboTax. And, oh yes, Megan. I’m on your Tinder.

I don’t blame you for being fooled. It is impossible for even the most discerning individual to see through my disguise of sunglasses and a fake mustache, and you are no discerning individual. You are a simpleton. It is too late, Megan. I have shown myself as the clever, swampy genius, and you as the naive fool who has no respect for the swamp. Bow down to me — or to my alias that you are more familiar with, Mr. Archibald Gator.

So come, Megan. Come to Gator Great House. Party with Devon, who thinks his name is a palindrome. Defile my bluegrass and pollute the murky waters of my domain. I don’t care. I’ve already had my revenge. You must be devastated over this realization of Archibald Gator’s nonexistence. I’m laughing. Laughing!

One last thing.

If you want to come to Gator Great House, you’ll have to survive long enough to make it here. I’ve coughed into this very letter that you’ve been reading for the last hour (I assume it will take you that long at least). I may not have any hazardous diseases, but maybe you will die anyway.

Good luck, Megan. See you on October 9. Or not.

Ahahaha!

Lots of love,

Sharon

————

Justin Schwab is a liar. If you see him, tell him to return the sweater he “borrowed” from me last October, and also that we’re done.