Caveman, Cave, Western Pangaea, 10,000 B.C.
Me Og. Me no like make fire for Kron. Og can make fire better and bigger, but Og no get opportunity. Og stifled. Me give two moon cycles’ notice unless me die next moon in stampede. Me hope Og and Kron remain friends.
Soldier, Trojan Horse, Troy, 1184 B.C.
I am resigning from the Trojan Horse team for three reasons. One: no work-from-home policy. Why do I have to be, as you say, “physically in the Horse to be of use”? Why can’t my mind be strategizing for the Horse while my body is at home, sleeping off the wine? Everyone agrees with me, but whatever. Second: working conditions. It’s too crowded. Sure, you want as many soldiers as possible on the other side, but have you ever tried to think when someone’s knee is jammed into your butt? Trust me—no one can focus when they feel like human souvlaki. Third: diversity. Or should I say a lack thereof. Every single person in the Horse is Greek. Um, red flag! Everyone prays to the same god of war! I mean, wouldn’t it be better to get a couple extra gods of war in here to hedge our bets? One day, you’re going to look back on this all-Greek horse thing and think, That was a mistake. So I’m leaving to pursue my lifelong passion: playwriting.
Yours in prayer to the all the gods of playwriting (not just ours),
Jester, King’s Court, England, 1224 A.D.
Dear King Henry,
The time has come for me to turn in my fool’s cap. It’s been great to be able to talk shit about you without being punished, but it’s kind of disheartening when no one laughs at my bawdy jokes. I know I’m funny, though. You just don’t get it. But that’s not why I’m quitting. I’m quitting because I’ve started dating the most beautiful, wealthy, and powerful woman in the kingdom. She has tens of dollars from selling extremely tight corsets and she’s only looking for a man with a sense of humor. It doesn’t matter to her in the slightest that I live with my mother. Happy to stay until the end of the month to train a new jester.
I would appreciate you not beheading me,
Chico le Fool
Sailor, Santa Maria, Atlantic Ocean, 1492 A.D.
Thought we’d go to the edge and turn around. No edge in sight. Want out at next stop.
Nurse, Hospital, London, 1665 A.D.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am not sure who will read this, as my superiors have all perished in the plague. Maybe Winston?
Needless to say, this has been a rough couple of years for nurses. Even though a large percentage of our population has died, and the deaths continue to mount, no one—and I mean no one—is still wearing their bird mask. It’s, like, don’t they understand that if they don’t wear a beaked mask, they’re never going to scare off the devil?
Also, in the beginning, there weren’t enough priests to go around, so we said that the most vulnerable (i.e., people who were already plagued by a demon) were supposed to get their holy blessings first. But here’s the problem: anyone can just say they’re already plagued by a demon, and no one ever knows the difference!
Finally, we asked for more leeches ten times, and I could not get the hospital to give me a single extra leech to suck out toxins. Then we had to use goats, but that made things way, way worse.
Someone has informed me that Winston has perished, so I’ll just leave this letter on a table and trust it will end up in the right gangrened hands.
Yours in delirium,
Cashier, Taco Bell, Bergen, New Jersey, 2019 A.D.
Won’t work another day till you bring back the Mexican pizza.