Gleg Tamperhorn: From The Beginning
17Dear Reader,
My name is Rodrigo Estíamez, and assembled here are a number of the letters I received from my greatest friend, the late adventurer Gleg Tamperhorn. I apologize for not including my responses, but they were written in an ancient alphabet that, following Gleg’s passing, only three people in the world can read, and I am simply too heartsick for a translation project. Still, the through-line should be clear enough without my often long-winded philosophical interjections. So please, I entreat you: read Gleg’s words, enjoy them, and moreover learn from them.
Dearest Rodrigo,
I’m sure you’ve been concerned, so I will waste no time relating the conclusion of my latest escapade: having replaced the false sceptre with the true one in the temple at the peak of Mount Glore, I turned and found Sir Oliver and his goons had followed me. They were terribly out of breath and hit hard with hypothermia, but still, there were twenty of them and just one of me. Or two if you count the spirit some say is trapped inside the sceptre, but that matters not. I was outnumbered.
You’ll be delighted to know that what leapt into my mind as they began closing in was the ancient Brazilian riddle you taught me (about the bowl of sugar sweets and glowing orange trout). I posed it to them and they were naturally confounded, so much so that they turned on each other in anger, which gave me a chance to slip away and grab the skis I’d fashioned from a Cyprus tree on my way up the mountain and hidden in the temple’s long-frozen well.
And just in time, no less, before the sceptre fully clicked into place, triggering the avalanche foretold in the scroll, which I was able to ride safely to the valley below. There has been no word from Sir Oliver or any of his awful cronies, and I fear the worst for them, but I had to do what I had to do.
Which is all to say, I could certainly use a break from the adventures!
Thus, I have decided to stay home for a time and explore something new: the limits of my NOTILUS 3-in-1 Antimicrobial shower head. But do not mistake me; I am not speaking in hyperbole. I will approach this task like the true explorer I have always been. You see, not only does the NOTILUS’s antimicrobial jets refuse to clog, there is also tell that its 6 pre-defined settings can be manipulated to produce up to 42 additional settings, for a total of 48. Perhaps, thanks to a mind that is keen for adventure, I can unlock even more!
For example, what if there is a setting wherein a certain type of pulse makes cold water feel warm, so that you can enjoy a hot shower without taxing your hot water heater? Or what about a setting that rains down rare gems and rubies? Maybe there is a setting where there will be no shower at all, only the smell of plum cake cooking on a hot stone and the sound of a young grieving maiden named Esther singing softly in Gaelic.
And, if not, no bother. It’s good to get cleaned up. Honestly, I’m still finding dirt caked in unmentionable places from our trek through the mud swamps of Eastern Olbernia en route to the river of pure gold. Those were the days, were they not?
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
Once again, I must apologize for leaving you so long without knowledge of my whereabouts or well-being. Furthermore, I am truly sorry that I did not heed your many warnings concerning my latest undertaking.
It was just as you predicted in your last correspondence: the invitation from the elusive prince to go spelunking through the ancient caves–replete, he claimed, with stalagmites of pure gold–was a trap set by the notorious criminal Henri the Skull to avenge Sir Oliver, his cousin and childhood confident. I had barely stepped foot in the false prince’s villa (which I now know it is a property oft rented on the blackmarket to scoundrels such as Henri as a venue in which to carry out their nefarious plans) when the floor beneath me gave way.
I dropped some nearly thirty feet into a snake pit. My legs cried out in pain as I made contact with the ground, but luckily my mind remained lucid and clear. Thus, I was able to recall your splendid lesson on the ins-and-outs of reptilian pressure points and render each lunging snake unconscious with a single touch. These I then tied together into a rope of sorts, looped at the end, which I used to essentially lasso a light fixture in the room above. From there, I pulled myself out, fled to the local port, and escaped on a fishing vessel.
The captain said I could work for my passage at first, but after we’d left the port, he saw among my belongings the rope of snakes, many of which I must admit were handsome creatures, and demanded he be paid with them instead. His intention was to skin them and craft them into a matching hat and jacket set. My knowledge of snakes is much slimmer than yours, Rodrigo, but even I could tell that these were of a rare endangered species, and so I could not in good conscience hand them over.
When I told him as much, he ordered the crew upon me. They drew their swords and the fight began. I managed to hold them off with my barehands–as well as the ‘paralyzing stare’ trick shown to me by a renegade monk some years earlier–but in the scuffle, a lowly deckhand seized the snakes and delivered them to the captain. It was unfortunate timing; the snakes awoke that moment, untangled themselves, and soon the one-on-many melee had turned to each-man-for-himself pandemonium. The snakes, as it turned out, were as venomous as they were rare and beautiful.
This time, the scene was too frantic to use your stunning technique, so I hid in a steamer trunk until the ship–now rendered without crew by the slithering swarm–ran ashore. Once I was certain the snakes had all departed, I emerged and explored what turned out to be a desert island. There followed the usual progression: the building a small fortress, the discovery of a treasure, the planning of escape, the construction of a raft, etc. We’ve both been through this so many times that I won’t bore you with the details.
At any rate, I’m home now, and once again, I’m thinking of my hygiene. This time, rather than a shower, I think I’ll take a nice relaxing bath. Perhaps I shall even set out some scented candles, which I will light using one of my four Rechargeable Plasma Beam Lighters!
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
As my lapses in communication have become all too frequent, I hope that, from now on, the apology for such will simply be implied. As to where I’ve been, I’m almost embarrassed to admit it: Do you remember the night we deciphered the Ancient Scrolls and located the site of the Lake of Visions, in which it is said a man can see his future reflected in the pristine waters? But you said that it was almost certainly a mere myth not worth our time in pursuing?
Well Rodrigo, while I outwardly agreed with you, I must confess that the lake has weighed heavily on my mind since that evening. So, when a commissioned treasure-hunting cave-dive brought me near the apparent area, I could not resist seeing for myself.
And I must say, the lake did reflect the future: in it, I saw notorious criminal and mortal enemy Henri the Skull approaching me with several henchmen, all of them grinning murderously. This, as it turned out, was the very near future. What I saw was in fact a mere reflection; Henri and his men were immediately behind me. Luckily, I remembered the recipe for the blinding tincture you taught me–the one involving sacred water, common dirt, and a specific type of grass that grew conveniently at the lake’s edge–and was able to assemble it with haste. I combined the ingredients in my mouth, gave them a swish, and then spun around to spit them into the eyes of my stalking enemies.
Henri and his men cried out in pain and stumbled without sight, falling at last into the Lake of Visions, where they desperately (and somewhat ironically) tried to wash their damaged eyes. This earned the attention of the Lake Guard, a collective of warriors who practice an ancient form of aquatic martial arts. They emerged silently from among a cluster of lily pads to apprehend the splashing criminals. Me, they took in as a friend, and taught me many things, including said combat technique, as well as many great truths of existence. So, I have returned home these many months later a changed man.
And now my girlfriend doesn’t know what to do with me! Perhaps because I spend whole days submerged in a kiddy pool among the sprawling gardens of my estate, or perhaps due to my speaking a language that is a mixture of Latin and dolphin-speak. My only hope at redeeming myself is the Pacific Pearls Pendant Necklace I purchased her for Valentine’s Day. I will let you know if this smoothes things over.
After all, there is no jungle as thick and dangerous as love, is there, Rodrigo?
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
Your kind wishes for mine and Fiona’s anniversary were well received, as was the painting, and the poem, and the sheet music. I played it on the vibrantly engraved lute we found while exploring what was said to be an ancient asylum for cursed musicians. You really are quite the songsmith, my friend!
Unfortunately, the other gift I received–from Fiona–was not nearly as nice. I remember opening the box. I remember seeing what I believed was a scorpion pendant, but was actually a real scorpion. I remember a prick, and then all became cloudy, as I descended into a strange swirling hell.
You of all people will not be surprised that, as a man of adventurous nature and an open mind, I was able to parlay the hallucinations into a spiritual awakening. Though, considering the many other spiritual awakenings we have both experienced over the years, calling it that feels a bit overblown. It was not, in other words, among my favorites: not nearly as thought-provoking as when we ate the Forbidden Berries, nor as terrifying as when we harvested the Mushrooms of Truth, nor as funny as when we accidentally made a sandwich from the Archetypal Cucumber of Gallindan.
Nonetheless, it served a purpose: I saw the truth, which was that Fiona was Sir Oliver’s former lover who had, for the duration of our relationship, been working alongside Henri the Skull to avenge him. After this was revealed, there came an onslaught of scorpion-related knowledge, during which I remembered the trick you taught me, of how to communicate with one’s physical body from within a hallucination through a series of coded blinks. Thus, while many vibrant and unspeakable scenes bloomed around me, I was able to guide myself to a zoo, smash through the glass of a particular terrarium, and lure a second scorpion (this one possessing a venom that served, I had just learned, as the anti-venom to that of first) to sting me.
Which is to say, I’ve only just now fully reentered reality after several days in a state more tiring than wakefulness, and I’m very exhausted. But alas, as we both know, in this line of work there is no rest. So, it’s very lucky that I happened to have two Primula Cold Brew Travel Bottles around! That way, I can always have one brewing, while from the other I drink delicious, smooth, cold-brewed coffee as if it were the Elixir of Golden Tears (which I think you’ll agree, in retrospect, provided a spiritual awakening that was subtle and nuanced, yet rich).
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
I have put off writing this letter for I know you will be disappointed by its contents. Do you remember when we traveled to that Eastern European country so remote it did not have a name? And we explored the chamber of the disappeared princess? And I pulled the cord that was both lathered in skin-eating poison and also initiated a lockdown sequence that would’ve left us entombed within for a millennium had you not intuited the location of both the secret passage and the Sacred Salve? You words that day: “Why, Gleg? Why do you have to be this way?”
For that oversight, I had no answer. For this one, the answer is clear: for love.
I’ve been in touch with Fiona again. I had not heard from her since the scorpion incident, and though I knew her intentions to be harmful, I still followed her summons when they came. The journey involved many of the standard elements: a canyon with some riddles; darts when I least expected them; a complicated lock that required a key whittled from a branch of an ancient tree whose bark, legend had it, contained “an innate understanding of all things”; etc.
It all lead me to a modest villa with an expanse of manicured grounds. On the door, a simple note told me to remove my shoes. Which I did, out of respect. And out of love. Inside, I found nothing: no Fiona, no furniture, no art hanging on the walls. The only thing that gave the place any character was the lush high-pile carpet covering every inch of the floor. It was comfortable at first. Then uncomfortable. Then, I gathered, deadly.
You’ve likely already guessed what I’m about to write: this carpet had been treated with a noxious substance concocted by the disgraced podiatrist turned developer of foot-related torture technology, Dr. Green. This I found out some time later. At the time, I had but one thought: run!
Luckily, even in such mental disarray, I was able to remember your trick involving a shortened gait and the strategic wiggling of toes in order to essentially glide over dangerous substances such as hot coals. I used it to escape from the house (without stopping to put on my shoes; such a pause might have been my end), and to run across the aforementioned grounds (which were also treated with the substance), and for another several miles up the road (not treated, but very pebbly and unpleasant).
Needless to say, this excursion has left me a little suspicious of the ground. But as you know, I’ve never been one for sitting down. So it is lucky that I happen to have a GOTRAX Hover Board! It has great power, its electrical safety has been certified, and moreover it keeps my feet a safe distance from the potential dangers of the floor.
You should consider buying one. It would be the perfect mode of transportation to get from your yurt to the Institute of Nonconformist Cartography each morning without breaking a sweat! Congratulations, by the way, on the tenure. Though I doubt you’ll make much use of it. People like you and I don’t stay in one place for long, Rodrigo.
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
I remember once, when we were lost in the Desert Of Silver Sand, you turned to me and asked, “What is our purpose, as adventurers?” We’d just built a tumbleweed fire and your famous cactus stew came to boil in that moment, so we didn’t discuss it further, opting for sustenance over philosophy. Still, I’ve thought about this question nearly every day of my life since then. Often we do what we do for glory, or to better understand this world and its many intricacies. But, Rodrigo, I’m ashamed to say, I made my most recent journey for a much lower cause: revenge.
I’d learned that Dr. Green, the podiatrist-turned-tormentor, lived on a remote island in an abandoned sanitarium built into the side of a live volcano. It just so happened that, according to my sources, he was looking to build a security team of criminals to protect him while he conducted his work. I saw this as a way to get close to him. So, I grew my hair out, wore an eye-patch, covered my arms and legs with primitive ‘X’ tattoos–for each of the adventurers I’d ended, or so my story would be–and called myself Claude LeBlade.
I arrived on the island for the security try-outs ready to compete with the lowest of the low. So, as you can imagine, I was surprised to see that all of the “criminal” hopefuls were actually other good men of adventure, dressed in similar costumes to mine. Gernham was there, for example. As was Fenton. And Dilly. We circled up outside the sanitarium and discussed why we’d heeded such a call for ne’er-do-wells, at which point I learned that I was not the only one seeking retribution. It seemed Dr. Green had held all of our feet to the fire at one point or another, figuratively speaking. And also literally speaking in poor Gernham’s case.
There seemed an obvious course of action: we had a small army assembled. We should storm the castle, so to speak. It was then, though, that we looked up and saw Dr. Green making his escape by way of hang glider, laughing maniacally as he soared through the air away from us. And it was also then that Dilly’s nose perked up and she informed us that we had only two hours before the volcano would erupt. You know Dilly! Always the lava-enthusiast! A rumble in the ground confirmed her theory some time later, but by then we were hard at work.
There is some good news to report out of this. Do you remember at the cantina in The Isle of Isleo? When you drew out on a napkin the plans for a pedal-powered gyro-copter made from palm fronds and bamboo? Perhaps not, as you’d been challenged to drinking contest by a group of sailors hunting the colossal eel that had terrorized their fishing village for decades. But that’s no matter. The point is, it worked, Rodrigo! We were able to construct it and fly to safety just as the volcano erupted, destroying the sanitarium and much of the surrounding wilderness.
And now we’re recovering at one of my beach huts. As you know, having helped me build many of them, quarters are tight for four men and three women. And even worse: there are so few outlets for all of us to plug in the various gadgets we use in the name of exploration. So it’s a good thing I happened to purchase a 2-Pack of Monster Core Power 8-Outlet Surge Protectors! They even have USB ports to charge the more modern devices!
Everyone expresses regret that you’re not here. I’d invite you to join, but you know how these people are–how we are: you could arrive in an hour and they might all be gone, off seeking some new thrill in the wilds we call Planet Earth! And perhaps beyond, if Fenton really can manage to turn his Cessna into a vessel capable of interstellar flight.
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
(Continued below…)
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Dearest Rodrigo,
“Only when it comes to a satisfying end can an adventure be called as much.” Do these words appear familiar? Because they are yours. You spoke them to me some years ago while we scaled one of the lesser Alps in search of a village of men and women who, legend had it, had developed the thick fur of malamutes to combat the cold. It was a bold message about finishing what you start, one that I try to follow whenever I can. Unfortunately, I must err from it now.
If you hoped for some conclusion to my escapade involving Dr. Green, you will be disappointed. Forgive me, Rodrigo. Funds were getting a bit low.
In fact, I was on the verge of selling one of my medals from the Society For Honorable Exploration when an offer came in: I would be paid a handsome sum in exchange for delivering a keynote speech to an encampment of aspiring butlers. So, I put a temporary pause on my personal pursuits, wrote some remarks–titling the lecture, “Discipline And Routine: The Greatest Adventures Of All”–and departed for the bluffside Italian fishing village where the soon-to-be-manservants gathered in tents awaiting my wisdom.
When I arrived, I noticed two strange things: first, the makeshift stage I was instructed to stand upon had been set up on the lip of a cliff; and second, the supposed butlers-in-training were each in excess of seven feet tall, their arms rippling with muscles.
Still, I had been paid to give a speech, and so a speech I would give. I began speaking, making it only through the first anecdote–telling of a time when I had to arrange jewels into the appropriate holes to cease the spikes from descending upon me, and relating it to proper table settings–when one of the men lunged at me. Instinctively, I stepped back. Off the stage. And plummeted. And I would have certainly died had I not remembered your secret for non-fatal cliff descents. I won’t note it here, in case this letter is intercepted, except to say I really didn’t believe you when you told me elbows could do that!
On the stony beach at the bottom of the cliff, waves crashing all around me, I awaited the butlers’ arrival unscathed, prepared to fight. By the time arrived, though, I’d changed my tact. They stumbled en masse down the narrow path, thirsty for a scuffle, but I calmly held up my hand. They stopped, confused by the gesture, at which point, I delivered my speech in full. In the end, there was not a dry eye among them. They admitted they were not aspiring butlers but goons, though many promised to become butlers now, having been shown the way to a better life by my sage words.
They’d been hired by a mysterious entrepreneur who goes simply by the letter M. The whole thing was an elaborate audition to see if I were the man for the job he has planned. Needless to say, I exceeded expectations. We have since video chatted three times, although all I ever see of him is a dark silhouette. We talk for 4 sometimes even 5 hours at a time, and never has he divulged a single personal detail about himself.
At any rate, it’s a good thing I have my SmartStands! I can simply set my phone on one, and no longer do I have to hold it for the duration of our lengthy discussions. And if I adjust the angle just right in my study, I can make sure that M gets an eyeful of the most recent sculpture you sent me. It is a remarkable piece of art. Many have looked upon it, even touched it, and still asked: “Is that a real sheep?”
Specifics about the nature of M’s job are sparse so far, but I’ll be sure to keep you posted. Who knows, Rodrigo; perhaps there will be a place in it for you as well! It would certainly be wonderful to be reunited in something more than the epistolary sense. But only time will tell.
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
In your reply to my last letter, you expressed doubts about my potential employment by the elusive figure known only as M. And, just like the time when we had a differing opinion of how to solve the riddle involving Himalayan moth migration in order to be admitted to the secret club inside of a pyramid made entirely of platinum, I must admit: you were right.
After further vague discussions of the job he had for me, M finally summoned me to his chateau. It was easy enough to get there. There was only one naval vessel to sneak onto and just two zip lines. And you know what we adventurers say: Any less than two naval vessels and three zip lines is a dream!
When I arrived, though, things grew more complicated. Immediately upon entering through the chateau’s ornate double-doors, henchmen seized me and tied me to a chair. M came down the granite staircase, at which point I saw his face for the first time (very handsome, aside from the x-shaped scar above his left eye). He began to ask me many questions about a woman named Cecilia who’d gone missing. I quickly came to understand that Cecilia was his lover, and, when he showed me a photograph, that Cecilia was also Fiona–my own lover at one time and current enemy, given that she’d tried to kill me after I dispatched her true lover and my even greater enemy, Sir Oliver, in an avalanche. I also learned that she is no longer merely in cahoots with the podiatrist-turned-tormenter, Dr. Green, but also someone who trains dogs.
This final realization came when a pack of well-trained attack dogs swarmed into the chateau. They quickly neutralized the henchmen and had designs on M and me when I remembered the ancient whistling technique you taught me that mentally returns all dogs to puppyhood. I inhaled, and released the note through my lips, and suddenly M was not being mauled but instead playfully pounced upon and licked.
Needless to say, after that he was indebted to me, and once we cleared up the misunderstanding concerning Fiona–or Cecilia–we became fast friends. The only thing I don’t understand is this: her motives for my destruction are clear enough, but why did she also seek to eliminate M?
This is a question I’ve pondered often these past several days while enjoying a free extended stay at M’s private spa in the Netherlands (a way of apologizing, he said, for misjudging me). One thing that is thankfully not on my mind while I’m away: my electricity bill back at home! Thanks to my Save-a-Watt Power Saving TV Standby Killer, I don’t need to worry about my television wasting a lot of energy by remaining unnecessarily in standby mode!
I’d recommend you buy one yourself, Rodrigo, but then I remember what you always say: “Why watch a screen when you can read the wind?” I’m still not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds very nice!
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
I recently set out to find the Great Unnamed Sea, in the hopes that I might give it a proper title–the Sea of Gleg. As you rightfully supposed in your previous letter, I was disappointed. The Great Unnamed Sea, it would seem, remains unnamed because it is so entirely unremarkable. How it can be labeled ‘Great’ I have no idea, except that perhaps it is only in comparison to other unnamed seas, of which there are so few these days.
At any rate, such a boring and isolated locale as its shores gave me the perfect place to do some research into some unanswered questions concerning M and Fiona. What I discovered was this: M’s full name is Marshall Marlon. Having been born into extreme wealth, he’s made a number of investments over the years, the most notable of which was in a company that produced an innovative orthopedic pad. It was a great success, and put to shame its competition, a similar pad developed by podiatrist-turned-tormenter, Dr. Green. So, it is likely, that the doctor was not a mere hired goon assisting Fiona in her quest to avenge her former lover and my greatest enemy, Sir Oliver; rather, it seems that they perhaps had an agreement, wherein Dr. Green saw to my end, while Fiona saw the end of his enemy, M.
I still know nothing about the attack dogs who previously stormed into M’s chateau, except that they’ve returned: when I called M earlier to tell him of my findings, his butler informed me that, in the middle of last night, he heard barking, and furthermore, M did not come to breakfast this morning. The butler suspected he might be strolling the grounds, lost in thought. I have other suspicions.
Luckily I was able to conduct all this research and place the call without fear of my smart phone dying, thanks to the Tzumi 12000 mAh Power Bank I brought with me. The shores of the Great Unnamed Sea are not replete with outlets, after all!
I am sorry to say that I may have to postpone our annual tea at the summit of Kanchenjunga, as it appears M might need my rescuing. Perhaps we can reschedule for a time when both of us are not quite so busy. Although merely writing that is enough to make me laugh. A not-so-busy time? For men such as us? Ha!
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
Whenever I have needed rescuing, I’ve turned to you. Whether it be from the Chupacabra Pit, the Tiger Pit, the Lion Pit, or the oft maligned but really very formidable Well-Organized and Highly Motivated Maine Coon Pit–you’ve always been there to pull me out and set me back on my feet, alive (though perhaps a little scratched up). And so it was with you in my mind and my heart that I set out to rescue M.
As I mentioned in an earlier letter, his butler heard barking one night and the next morning M was missing. After consulting my sources, shaking down a number of hooligans, and exchanging folders with a number of trench-coat-wearing men in the park, I found out that M was being held in an abandoned castle near an inexplicable geyser in a vast desert.
Getting there was easy enough, if not a bit frustrating. There were at least four bridges, each with an old man tending them, each of whom wanted me to solve a riddle to gain passage. But all of the riddles were the same! This, I fear, is what happens when big riddle companies consolidate power and put the mom-and-pop riddle makers out of business, Rodrigo. There is no variety!
The castle itself was quite beautiful on the outside. Inside, it was in utter disrepair. And there were attack dogs everywhere. Luckily, I remembered your trick for reconfiguring one’s glands through meditation to emit inhuman odors. In this way, I made myself smell like a dog, which allowed me to easily integrate into the pack and extract M without a fight.
And yet, successful though I was, I must admit: I am not satisfied. You see, when I went looking for whoever commanded the dogs, I found that they responded to no present master but to a series of clicks, whistles, and buzzing-noises emitted by their collars. In other words, they were being controlled them from afar. And so we are no closer to finding her.
Were we in the same room, you might shush me now, tell me to speak no more. And while you have abided by this yourself–you have not mentioned her once in all these years–I have seen the ghost of her in the margin of every letter you’ve written me since I first mentioned the dogs who stormed M’s chateau. And so now I will put into words what we both have been too fearful to admit: I believe the dogs’ master to be none other than Mlegan Tamperhorn–my twin sister and your former fiancé, who left your nuptials unfulfilled after disappearing along the Super-Egoterod, a dog-and-sled race much like the Iditarod but with a focus on moral conundrums.
This should be a time of celebration–she who would bring love back to your life and render us a true family may have, at long last, resurfaced. And yet, if it is her, she is working with our enemies. Just putting the words to page is enough to make me sob for hours. Which can be very dehydrating. So it’s good that I have three Halcyon 17oz Vacuum Insulated Stainless Steel Bottles at hand. At least two of them are filled with the discharge of the aforementioned geyser. It incredibly crisp and clear, Rodrigo. If only life could emulate it, rather than remaining such a murky mess of confusion and betrayal.
Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn
Dearest Rodrigo,
As adventurers, we often speak of lasts that are no such thing. This will be the last time we outrun an alligator with diamonds for eyes, we say. Or this is the last time we will participate in a fire ceremony to endear ourselves to the villagers. And yet, perhaps not even a full year after we’ve cried, ‘no more,’ we find ourselves charging charging from the swamp, pursued; or sighing and telling Olga, ‘Pass that flaming clutch of ignited ferns this way, will you?’
Today will be a different kind of last in two ways: first, it will be definitive, and second, there will be no relief, only sorrow.
Let me explain: as I mentioned in my previous letter, I suspected that the various attack dogs I’d run into were being controlled by my twin sister and your former fiancé, Mlegan Tamperhorn. And I was right. Moreover, I found her, Rodrigo!
I received an invitation from Fiona to the condemned sanitarium from which she and Dr. Green were running their operation to bring about my end. I found them in the main lobby, with my sister at their side. She had almost no hair, which made it easy to see the Venezuelan Brain Tick lodged in the side of her head. As you know, it’s a terrible body-depleting parasite that puts its vessel into a trance in which they are susceptible to diabolical suggestions. So, she was not an enemy after all, but a prisoner within her own mind!
Seeing this did lift my spirits somewhat, but there was the issue of Fiona and Dr. Green wanting to kill me. And I was outnumbered. Or so they thought. Little did they know that I had not traveled alone. In through the great skylight above us came crashing the Lake Guard, the collective of warriors I’d met while exploring the Lake of Visions. These seized Fiona. Dr. Green made a run for it, but I was able to lasso him using a rope of snakes I had subdued on my journey there that day–thanks again for that lesson on reptilian pressure points, old friend!
The building then began to rumble. Apparently, the reason for its condemnation had been the instability of the ground beneath. It sounded as if a colossal sinkhole was about to open up and swallow us whole. Luckily, I had some extra subdued snakes and was able to fashion them into a rope ladder so that the members of the Lake Guard and I, with Mlegan and the two criminals in tow, could climb up through the skylight. On the roof, Dilly waited with the gyrocopter we’d constructed from bamboo and palm fronds, based on a napkin doodle of yours. We were able to fly to the safety of M’s manor, where the authorities were waiting for Fiona and Dr. Green.
But this is not about them, nor about M. It’s about Mlegan. As you know, the Venezuelan Brain Tick slowly erodes the body in its entirety. We have removed it, but Mlegan is very far gone. She won’t make it without a miracle, or more specifically, a donor. She needs a strong working heart, one just like hers used to be, her heart’s twin, if you will. But I can say this without pause, Rodrigo: she will have one. Mine.
Mlegan has spent the last however many years in a terrible trance. You have spent the same span of time waiting for her to surface, so you may know love again. Meanwhile, I have enjoyed a lifetime’s worth of adventures nearly every day. It’s only right that I give myself to you two, who have suffered so long.
This is why I began with a discussion of lasts. This will be my last letter to you, Rodrigo. The surgery is in an hour. You will have no chance to intervene.
Also: I want you to have my Que 1080p HD Video Sunglasses. Perhaps if you wear them, it will be like I am there with you, seeing life through your eyes. Although, not really. I’m not sure why I decided to end with this, but alas, there’s simply no time left for a rewrite.
Thank you for all of the great adventures,
Gleg Tamperhorn
An Addendum:
When I decided to make these correspondences public, it had been my goal that they be allowed to speak for themselves. Since their release, though, some issues have arisen that I simply must address.
First, there is a rumor going around that tells a much different end to this story: upon finishing his final letter, it goes, Gleg turned and found me in the doorway. I had been in contact with the Lake Guard, it goes, and had anticipated this. I had also, it goes, been able to develop a synthetic human heart in my lab, so Mlegan could live without Gleg dying. But we did not burn his letter, it goes, because secretly Gleg needed time away from adventuring and the only way out was to fake his own death. I bring this all up to say how ridiculous it is, and to ask that this rumor cease to be discussed, out of respect for mine and my wife’s mourning.
Then there is the issue of the cook Mlegan and I hired following our wedding. I must ask those who visit to deliver their condolences to please stop calling him Gleg, even if he does look shockingly like my late brother-in-law. And please stop making snide comments about how, for a professional cook, he never seems to be in the kitchen. And please stop asking me what it is that me and Mlegan and this new cook can often be heard laughing about late into the night, while convening in my study. The workings of our house is our business and our business alone.
Thank you for reading,
Rodrigo Estíamez
I was sad to read this was the last adventure of Gleg. Thanks so much for the entertainment.
rest in pleas, gleg
Well done Gleg, well done. The world is poorer for your passing.
That new cook may not be great shakes in the kitchen, but he’s a pistol with a scepter. Or so they say…