The following transcriptions are the documents recovered from the coat pocket of Thomas E. Northbend (1952-1979). For the full scripts, please refer to The Burnout Star, by Neil Crowder.
October 19, 1971
Mr. T,
Your brother nearly broke free of his comatose at 4:39 a.m. His muscles convulsed suddenly and he kicked the bed sheets clean off of the mattress. The NA recalls Fredrick’s eyes opening before he relapsed. Nonetheless, we view this happenings as a positive promise…
With Sincerity,
Dr. Bryant Marshall
(Undated)
Tommy!
Devil’s blessings, babe! Whole Ratchet Gang ridin thru next week. Still curious? How bout you an Freddy cruise on over to my home and we chew cigars? That’s the posse, baby! They been wanting to meet a hotshot singer, ya know?
Don’t be shy, alright? We blood. You got a request, than I got a mission.
-with hugs and kisses ya won’t need to pay for,
dick double dee
October 21, 1971
Mr. T,
…at your soonest haste, please come to St. Mary’s hospital. We have news…
With Sincerity,
Dr. Bryant Marshall
(Undated)
Tommy!
Your hand rotted green or what? Can’t write a letter or what? Nah! Listen man, Ratchets comin' up Wednesday, I figure I best let ya know. They all talking bout you, man, how you supernova star now. Wow! Frickin Colgate grin on television, they say! Candy cheeks bloated across the cover of Sexy magazine! Richness, man! They cumin here just to see you!
double dickey dee
October 23, 1971
Mr. T,
Due to your lack of response, we enclosed the death notice and other pertinent information in a letter to Sara W. Laren, of Boston, New York, 784 Dual Street. I apologize for your loss...
You have my deepest remorse.
With Sincerity,
Dr. Bryant Marshall
(Undated)
Tommy!
Listen baby, you don’t come by here, then all us Ratchets comin' to you. Don’t, man. Thay all thinkin you thinkin you bigger than them. Man, I’m starting to think that too. Hit us back.
your favorite,
ddd
November 1st,
To Thomas Northbend,
…simmering in hell! How does it feel, knowing you got Freddy killed (yeah, I got the notice)? Thomas was my boy! Dear, God!
Did you tell him the truth? Does anybody know?
I loved my boy. That’s why I left. And my boy would still be alive if he hadn’t stayed with you.
Written before I kill you,
Sara Laren
(The following message was discovered on a scrap of jumbo mailing envelope, spattered with blood--forensics identified the blood to be Fredrick Northbend’s).
October 15, 1971 (Three days prior to earliest letter)
Here’s a hand to help ya write back, baby.
-ddd-Ratchets
November 7, 1971
Thomas Northbend,
So your gang buddies kill our son—cut off his hand like a wart—yet you won’t write me? Are you still denying it? God, Thomas!
You daddy really pumped up some D-grade sperm with you, Thomas. O! Why did I let you have me?!?! And you tell everyone he’s your brother…why are you so ashamed?
Like I don’t already know.
Can you sing yourself to freedom this time?
Sara
(The calligraphy of the following lyrical matched that of Thomas Northbend, the final recorded document in his hand) (Undated)
Don’t say a word
Unless it’s beautifully sang
Because they won’t listen
And you’ll be hanged
A torpid doctor
A flaky wife
A child with deformities
They torch holes in the heart
But friends burst arteries
I die.
