Scarlet D'Vore
Funny you should asked (not funny ‘haha’ but the other one). My grand-mama, Ada died back in England. It was rough dealings for me, but I’ve since made peace with it (sorta). Anyhoo, me and mom traveled abroad to settle up her affairs and clean out her loft (it was less than a penthouse, yet more than a shanty, like ones you’ve seen on the original Shameless TV series). We’re cleaning, boxing and even discarding and as I walked her living room floor I kept hitting a certain spot that had an awful creak.
Finally, I felt a strong need to screw with it, more out of emotional frustration than to resolve an issue, and when I yanked back the throw rug and fiddled with the source of my anger, the hardwood piece came loose. WTF? Underneath was a hidden cubby; a secret stash and there were personal items inside it. Not illicit drugs mind you … wait, is Marijuana an illicit drug? Oh … never mind. Let’s just say she had some goodies tucked away. Goodies that were of both questionable legality AND gave you the munchies after you inhaled it … in a cigarette-like form … with fire at the tip. I also unearth an old ratty diary. I was intrigued because I never knew that grandma was a writer.
I check out her most inner thoughts and was floored by the heavy amount of four letter words and other deviant ‘tid bits’ that were on her mind, most of the day. Needless to say I will never look at Sexpot the same way again. But beyond that I found five cool-looking symbols, a serial number and a set of telephone digits on the middle page, and it stuck out like a sore thumb, in the midst of very descriptive adjectives (that woman needs her mouth washed out with soap for more than one good reason!)
Uh. Okay. What’s this? I couldn’t figure out the weird symbols that looked like ancient hieroglyphics and Google was no help. Mom didn’t have a clue either. I decided to call the telephone digits, yet when I did it just rung... and rung … and rung, with no recorded greeting to leave a message. Maybe they were friends. Maybe they hadn’t heard she passed … maybe they could shed some like on my findings. I kept the diary and snapshot the rest on my iPhone 6 and I tried calling the number later that evening and this time there was a recorded beep on the first ring. So, I left a heartfelt, but semi-generic message about Sexpot, being I had no idea who I was leaving the message for. The next day, I called once more, figuring I’d be forced to let it go and move on and I swear on my life the damn phone digits were disconnected.
WHOA!!
I accepted the dead end, buried Sexpot, her horny and unique secrets, put her stuff in storage, washed my hands thoroughly and returned to the states.
About a month later I received a letter without a return address. It was sent from Cannes, France. Inside the thick manila envelope was a host of U.S currencies, and a short note attached.
It read as followed:
Ada loved you very much, Scarlet. She even bet me Euros that you would find her hidden treasure before anyone else did. Some of the answers you seek are already in your possession (I assumed the diary). Give it time. It might come to you. There is much you do not know about your grandma (no sh^%), and I cannot tell you … yet. This was the last request of Ada. Until we meet again- your truest confidant.
P.S. Don’t lose the diary, don’t show anyone what you’ve found, and don’t spend all of her winnings on PlayStation video games.
Okay. At this time I’m completely bugging out. Who sent me this? How did they get my address? And how dare they tell me how not to spend $3000 of Ada’s windfall. That was a year ago. I haven’t looked at her ratty diary in a minute (think I will tonight), and since I’ve yet to receive any new clues and/or free money my investigation has run ashore. The phone number is no longer disconnected, but all it does is ring … and ring. I told a couple of sorority friends of mine and they offered to assist researching one Saturday evening, if I supplied the booze, but the letter told me not to share, and since my girlfriends drink liquor like an old V8 engine going a hundred miles an hour on the freeway, I’m stuck. But, maybe one day the telephone will be answered and my quest will continue...
Finally, I felt a strong need to screw with it, more out of emotional frustration than to resolve an issue, and when I yanked back the throw rug and fiddled with the source of my anger, the hardwood piece came loose. WTF? Underneath was a hidden cubby; a secret stash and there were personal items inside it. Not illicit drugs mind you … wait, is Marijuana an illicit drug? Oh … never mind. Let’s just say she had some goodies tucked away. Goodies that were of both questionable legality AND gave you the munchies after you inhaled it … in a cigarette-like form … with fire at the tip. I also unearth an old ratty diary. I was intrigued because I never knew that grandma was a writer.
I check out her most inner thoughts and was floored by the heavy amount of four letter words and other deviant ‘tid bits’ that were on her mind, most of the day. Needless to say I will never look at Sexpot the same way again. But beyond that I found five cool-looking symbols, a serial number and a set of telephone digits on the middle page, and it stuck out like a sore thumb, in the midst of very descriptive adjectives (that woman needs her mouth washed out with soap for more than one good reason!)
Uh. Okay. What’s this? I couldn’t figure out the weird symbols that looked like ancient hieroglyphics and Google was no help. Mom didn’t have a clue either. I decided to call the telephone digits, yet when I did it just rung... and rung … and rung, with no recorded greeting to leave a message. Maybe they were friends. Maybe they hadn’t heard she passed … maybe they could shed some like on my findings. I kept the diary and snapshot the rest on my iPhone 6 and I tried calling the number later that evening and this time there was a recorded beep on the first ring. So, I left a heartfelt, but semi-generic message about Sexpot, being I had no idea who I was leaving the message for. The next day, I called once more, figuring I’d be forced to let it go and move on and I swear on my life the damn phone digits were disconnected.
WHOA!!
I accepted the dead end, buried Sexpot, her horny and unique secrets, put her stuff in storage, washed my hands thoroughly and returned to the states.
About a month later I received a letter without a return address. It was sent from Cannes, France. Inside the thick manila envelope was a host of U.S currencies, and a short note attached.
It read as followed:
Ada loved you very much, Scarlet. She even bet me Euros that you would find her hidden treasure before anyone else did. Some of the answers you seek are already in your possession (I assumed the diary). Give it time. It might come to you. There is much you do not know about your grandma (no sh^%), and I cannot tell you … yet. This was the last request of Ada. Until we meet again- your truest confidant.
P.S. Don’t lose the diary, don’t show anyone what you’ve found, and don’t spend all of her winnings on PlayStation video games.
Okay. At this time I’m completely bugging out. Who sent me this? How did they get my address? And how dare they tell me how not to spend $3000 of Ada’s windfall. That was a year ago. I haven’t looked at her ratty diary in a minute (think I will tonight), and since I’ve yet to receive any new clues and/or free money my investigation has run ashore. The phone number is no longer disconnected, but all it does is ring … and ring. I told a couple of sorority friends of mine and they offered to assist researching one Saturday evening, if I supplied the booze, but the letter told me not to share, and since my girlfriends drink liquor like an old V8 engine going a hundred miles an hour on the freeway, I’m stuck. But, maybe one day the telephone will be answered and my quest will continue...
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