For years, we’ve done everything you told us to: we put out an article every day, we banned cum and poop content, and we even pulled that sick fucking joke with the eggs that one Easter. You told us that if we just did as you said, that our beloved daughter would be safely returned to us.
It was an honest mistake, posting two red Instagram graphics in a row rather than alternating red and white, as per your instructions. But not 15 minutes after the article was posted, we received a note with cut-out letters, just like the first one you sent us all those years ago:
YOU HAD ONE SIMPLE JOB. YOU LEARNED COLORS AND PATTERNS IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, DID YOU NOT? I WILL NOT HAVE THE LEGACY OF THE MISNOMER TARNISHED BY YOUR IDIOCY. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE. NO MORE MISTAKES, OR I FEAR YOUR DAUGHTER WILL MEET AN UNFORTUNATE END.
Accompanying the letter was unmistakably a lock of our daughter’s beautiful hair, bloodied and delicately formed into the shape of a jester’s hat—certainly a threat of harm. What did you do to her? Also, how did you learn to do that?
Please have mercy, this was our first offense—unless you include all those days we forgot to post or the fact that we were banned from multiple org fairs. But those shouldn’t count; we were sooo busy on those days, and the Data Analysis Club was asking for it. Just give us one more chance to prove that we can keep up with your demands, and don’t hurt our precious baby girl.
Do you ever plan to release her from your clutches? Will we ever be free from this godforsaken satire publication? If you have any trace of kindness in your sick, twisted heart, send us some sign that she’s okay and that we’ll one day see her again.
We’re begging you: bring our little girl home to us. Please.