A/N: So this idea sort of sprang into my head for a while and it’s been on back order but now I finally have the chance to work on it. This is only a little bit, but tell me what you think so far. I’ll get more into a plot later, I just wanted to establish something like this for the first chapter.

1. Summer Corresponding

Summer of 1941

LETTER SENT TO: Andrew Dodge

DELIVERY: Regular

FROM: Cayden Fletcher and Zachary Kink

(But mostly Zachary Kink because Cayden’s a moron who can’t write for crap. Or so says Zachary Kink).

(It should also be mentioned that Zachary Kink isn’t letting Cayden Fletcher use the pen and is standing over the letter that he’s writing like a little girl with a diary. Or so says Cayden Fletcher).

(It should also be put down—in large writing, of course—that Zachary is nothing like a girl. A big strong man, yes he is! Or so says Zachary Kink.)

(Cayden Fletcher would like to apologize for abusing parentheses and will obviously be Dodger’s favorite for the apology because as we all know, Dodger is a grammar nazi.)

(At least Zachary didn’t miscapitalize. Nazi is a proper noun. Idiot.)

(At least Cayden doesn’t make up words like ‘miscapitalize’. Bitch.)

(At least Zachary doesn’t swear. Douchebag.)

(At least Cayden doesn’t still have a teddy bear from when he was five.)

(FUCK YOU, IT’S A BLANKET AND IT’S A KEEPSAKE!)

(Cayden would like to point out that Zachary Kink DOES in fact swear.)

(Zachary would like to point out that it was a low-blow and Cayden doesn’t have proper comma usage).

(Cayden wants Zachary to shut the fuck up and finish the letter.)

What’s going on Dodger?

Fletch and I are getting a little worried. So worried that we’re willing to pen this out and waste ink and kill trees. Aren’t we great people? And we do it all in your honor. That makes us even better people. Because, you see, that means that should some random tree-huggers come up to us and reprimand us and beat us with things that are probably (and ironically) made out of wood, we can blame it on you.

I think that’s three strikes against the average moral code in one act. See how much we risk just by writing to you? All because we love you. But not in that sort of way, don’t get too happy.

Anyway, yes, Fletch is here. The idiot arrived yesterday and has already hit on my sister three times. Situation has been dealt with:—threatened to cut his balls off.

Didn’t believe me. Threat was attempted. That made me one of the best people in the world and probably goes against all moral codes alike. I feel that I should get a medal. Victim mumbles about guest abuse, but I think he got what was coming to him, don’t you?

Anyway nothing really interesting has happened so far to kick off summer (minus the near de-ballsing. Isn’t there a word for that?). Oh wait, I take that back! Cross that out, cross that out, pretend like you never read that (except tell me what the proper word for de-ballsing is, I really want to know. And maybe we can write to the Webster’s Dictionary people and get them to put de-ballsing in the dictionary as a cross reference or something for the word? New mission. You should be personal with these people, right? You…read and stuff…?). Anyway the other day Mister Fletch and I went to something truly odd called an “Oyster Festival”!

What is it, you ask? You didn’t ask? Shut up and let me tell you already, why must you be so difficult? Dammit, Dodger, sometimes I wonder why I like you. And no, before your perverted little mind wanders, an Oyster Festival does not have anything to do with the aphrodisiac. No, I wanted it to have that connotation as well, but sadly it does not.

No, actually, when you go to an Oyster Festival, you are surrounded by the most eclectic crap ever. (I USED THE WORD OF THE DAY FROM THE WORD OF THE DAY TOILET PAPER YOU SENT ME, TAKE NOTICE!

Eclectic –adj. made up of what is selected from different sources.

Actually this is Wednesday’s word—Fletch took a massive shit that clogged up the toilet—which we later named Geoff, by the way—and had to use more W.O.D.s of paper—harhar a pun. Wads sounds like W.O.D.s get it?—to clean…well you get the idea). I swear people have food and clothes and jewelry and hemp things (for the druggies and "forward thinkers"). As a matter of fact, we saw a druggie--an attractive one. Her name was Lisa.

Or Janine.

Or Cindy.

Something like that.

Anyway LisaJanineCindy—whose name was actually ‘Anna’ (or so says Fletch, as he’s reading over my shoulder currently)—was trying to sell me something hemp. I think it was a bra.

She was high. I don’t want to ask. Anyway, she tried to sell me the hemp bra that she had on. As in was currently wearing. I’m telling you, man, girls just love taking their clothes off for me.

It was a very interesting bargain. I almost bought it too, but I was a few dollars short. Oh well, perhaps next year.

Anyway, do you want to know what was missing from the Oyster Festival? Oysters. Isn’t that a kick in the crotch, eh? That’s the only thing I really wanted that day, really, was the promise of oysters. That wonderful little aphrodisiac, man. I mean I actually don’t really like oysters, they’re kind of like giant boogers, but for some reason they turn people on, so I’m down.

Fletch is scoffing at me because according to him, I haven’t hooked up with anyone all summer, so I threw the pen at his eye. Bitch. Not like he has either, he was de-ballsed. Notice how this entire paragraph is in red? It’s because I had to get another pen.

I’m writing in red because that is the color of fire.

Well mostly it’s yellow. And there’s some orange. But can’t there be a really hot fire that’s red?

No? Well fuck, they don’t make orange or yellow pens.

Hang on.

Okay now I’m back and I’m writing in orange because it’s the only colored pencil I could find that would show up well enough for me to write the rest of the letter in. And it’s the color of fire!

Fletch just informed me sometimes fire can actually be blue. Well fuck me running, did you know that? I didn’t know that. Fun fact of the day, that is. Blue fire. Do you care at all? No? Good, me neither.

Promptly gave Fletch the middle finger because I know he told me about the blue fire just to be difficult. He threatened to eat it. ‘It’ being either my finger or the fire. I’m not sure which. Either way, it’s weird. Cannibalism or something. Fire-ism.

Anyway not much else has been going on so I guess I should end this letter. I’ll talk to you soon, Dodger darling, and write back dammit. I realize that it’s such a burden to let your two best friends know how you’re doing in whatever foreign country has a hold of you (New Zealand or something?) but you do know that Fletch and I have a tendency to worry about you. Especially since you don’t have our brilliant presence which must make your life doubly difficult over there. It’s a tragedy when you go on exotic trips, really. Your life must suck.

Fletch wants to write something. I’m saying ‘no’ because he’s got shit handwriting and mine is better and Cade Fletcher stop reading this over my shoulder and screaming at me, you make me want to punch infants sometimes.

Must end this letter, Dodge. Sorry I couldn’t do it more poetically. I’m interrupted.

-Kink

P.S. It’s Cade. Sorry the letter’s wrinkled. We fought. I won. That stain over there? His spit. Avoid contact with it, we may never know what kind of diseases Kink carries around. AND MY HANDWRITING IS NOT THAT BAD. Anyway I just wanted to say ‘hello’ and that I miss you and that you’re coming to Kink’s house as soon as you get back from Russia (isn’t that where you are? What the fuck, he’s retarded for putting New Zealand. Opposite ends of the equator. Dumbass.). Have fun! Shit he’s coming to find me. Did I mention I was writing this in his sister’s room? What? She has the best writing desk!

-Fletch.

X-X-X

LETTER TO: Misters Cayden Fletcher and Zachary Kink

DELIVERY: Regular

FROM: The only person who will ever write these two.

Hooligans—

Sometimes I question why you two are my best friends and then I realize that you risk getting beat up by tree-huggers (normally peaceful people, but violent when necessary) and I understand that the depth of our friendship can brave waters like that.

Or woods, since we’re going with that metaphor.

First of all, I’m solving your mystery of where I actually am in this world (regardless of how amusing it is to sit here and watch you play ‘Where In The World Is Andrew Dodge?’I fear that one of you is going to get a massive headache trying to locate me on the globe). I am in England, so you both lose. New Zealand? Russia?

…Really, guys?

I’m glad you let your mom address the envelope or I have no idea where this would have ended up. And by the way, so you both know, both of 

you have awful handwriting. It took me nearly an hour to decipher your letter.

But I’m a little insulted that you can’t remember that I’ve gone to England every summer since I was five….

Anyway I’m coming back to Connecticut soon so that we’re able to wreak a bit of havoc together before school starts up again and we have to roam the wonderfully dull halls of Doling for another nine months and then you won’t have to worry about missing me because we’ll be dorming together as per usual.

Small request this year, can we at least try not to grow anything under our beds? And by ‘our’ I mean Kink. That’s just gross, man. It was moving.

Another thing that’s gross? Naming your poo. Stop that. We’re not fifteen anymore.

We’re seventeen. There’s a difference.

It actually isn’t acceptable if you’re fifteen either, but then, you lot have never followed the same standards set by normal people. I’m assuming that’s why your moral code wasn’t bothered by the three strikes of atrocity, yes?

For the last time, stop killing parentheses. Stop it. I know, they’re fun to make positive or negative smiley faces with and they’re enjoyable (I guess) if used properly, but really. Another thing? You burn my eyes with your poor grammar. The fragments. Oh the fragments. I judge you for them.

Did you catch the irony? I used a fragment right there to demonstrate the crime for which you are guilty. No one likes to read sentences that sound as if a person with a breathing condition had written them. This. Is. So. Bloody. Annoying. Make this. Massacre of. The English language. Stop.

Do you see what I mean?

While we’re on the subject, ‘miscapitalized’ is most definitely not a word, we will not be adding ‘de-ballsing’ in the dictionary (poetic as that may be) and don’t even try to say that Shakespeare made up his own words so that means you can too (because I know you’ll try that reason.). Shakespeare didn’t kill parentheses and overuse fragments until my eyes bled. The Bard laughs at your incompetence. I, on the other hand, chuckle mildly because I’m a good friend.

And the word you’re looking for is ‘castrate’.

Incidentally, you probably saw this in your word of the day toilet paper that you had to use to clean up after the mess of Geoff and that’s where you learned about people de-ballsing other people because the ancient Romans used to do this as a form of punishment.

Sick culture, huh?

Ironic, that a word like that would be on word of the day toilet paper, don’t you think? It’s a weird place to talk about castration—the bathroom.

Anyway my summer’s been fairly decent here. I’m coming back with a bit of an accent like always. The way people speak here sort of grows on you. Please don’t ask me to say ‘cheers’ or call you ‘mates’ or say 

something about the Queen five thousand times like you do normally. No, I didn't meet the Queen, nor will I be meeting her in the near future. She’s a lovely woman, I’m sure, but I don’t have ‘tea and crumpets’ with her and regular basis. We’re not that close.

The girl’s name was probably Denise or Danielle or something. It’s always something with a ‘D’ whenever Fletch thinks it’s with an ‘A’.

I’m pretty sure they don’t have Aphrodisiac festivals, and if they do please don’t ever drag me to one. Please. You can go until your heart’s content, but so help me god, Kink, if you ever drag me to one, unmentionable things will happen to you. Although I’m glad you had fun at the Oyster Festival.

I appreciate Fletch’s addition to the note, you should really let him write more often, Kink. And I did know about the blue fire—it happens when you burn drift wood and light gas fires and things of that nature. Anyway I’ll see you in about a week or so, I’m not sure if your reply would get here in time so maybe a simple telegram would suffice (we can do that, you know, guys. I’m not sure if you realized that).

Regards,

Dodger

X-X-X

LETTER SENT TO: Dodgerface

DELIVERY: Rush

FROM: Fletch betch and Kinky McKinkerson (I like that my name can be turned into something so sexual so easily.)

We are collectively writing this, which makes for cooperative…cooperation of sorts so that we can get it done as quickly as possible and sent to you before you leave to come back here.

Ye of little faith.

We would like to justify our handwriting (in as little words as possible). It’s better than a third grader’s so there.

We’re very argumentative.

We skipped over your lecture about grammar. Somewhere in there we saw that you said we would not be able to make up words. Screw you, Shakespeare does it! If he can, why can’t we?!

Yes, Dodger, but whenever you think that a girls name starts with a ‘D’ it normally starts with an ‘L’ which brings us back to the name Lisa.

Or maybe it was Tina.

Fuck.

As mentioned before, we only skimmed over your letter, but you’re in England, eh? So we were kind of close when we said Russia.

Did you have tea and crumpets with the Queen?

OH! Are you going to come back with a funny accent?!

GET BACK HERE SOON!

-Kink and Fletch