1st Class Priority Space-Mail from Blortinon
Dear General Tlanbuun,
Well, I can see already that this process of so-called negotiation in regards to the safe return of your spies is going to be a turbulent one.
And yes, I do mean spies, children or no. After all, the average age of a Xantharian suicide bomber is thirteen, but we don't refer to those guerilla warriors as "the happy rainbow brigade" just because they're still wearing piddle-proof underpants, now do we?
What you fail to realize, Tlanbuun, is that the ball is very firmly in my court. Here I am, with a pocket full of snoops sent to do your dirty work behind enemy lines in blatant violation of the Parpacia convention, and you're going to make me an offer? General, I'm well aware that you are a clown, but is there no end to your self-mockery? I've got you by the balls, fool, and now you must bend to my every whim!
Oh, and speaking of your offer, I am afraid it leaves little to be desired. When you imprisoned those four, poor Blortinese tourists more than a quarter of a century ago for merely leaning on your precarious and shoddily constructed statue, even the most cynical Blortinite couldn't have predicted the horrors that would await them. According to those rather sobering photographs published by the Xathnarian Associated Press, thirty years of cruel and revolting genetic experimentation by corrupt Xantharian scientists have transformed them into something more resembling robotic beasts than anything even remotely Bortinese in origin.
My demands:
1) Blue-prints, specifications and building materials for your black-hole generator. One of these days, Xathnar's recklessness will literally swallow this universe, but not if Xathnar is too busy being swallowed itself.
2) Three hundred and fifty million ramperrods in small bills, because your unnecessary bombing of our national mint has started a very, very small and nearly insignificant recession on Blortinon that we'd prefer to get past as soon as possible.
3) One written apology to PARXON 7, the last living Nanark, who was spared the wanton destruction suffered by his species at the hands of your aforementioned black-hole generator. Oh, I know how you love to blame the incident on our peacekeeping and soon-to-be legally recognized negative energy weapons, but I guess that's the beauty of a black hole: Plausible deniability!
4) A new and improved inscription on the placard at the base of your statue: "General Tlanbuun; Father of Race Murder, Rapist of Galaxies, Cannibal Extraordinaire"
These four, quite reasonable things are all that I ask. Sometimes my fairness is so absolute that it nearly becomes mercy, or even pity.
Anticipating your reply with bated breath,
General Proncfrood
P.S. I was not at all surprised to learn that the complex allegory and rich, lyrical stanza of our great versifier Aldimus Globulon was far beyond the limitations of your Xantharian brain. I would like to leave you with an excerpt from one of his works that I found fitting.
Incoming bandits I seem to have found
From here in my crawlspace way up on the rafter
Xathnarian, presumed, based only on the sound:
One farting and four laughing loudly thereafter
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