Dear Daddy Warbucks,
Please excuse the tear-stained condition of this letter. Contrary to my stoic exterior, I, Punjab, am an emotional man. I have been unable to remain composed as I write these painful words.
After many days of contemplative levitation, I have decided to step down from my post as head of Warbucks Security Detail. We have crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed, an emotional Rubicon, of sorts. It has flustered my heart and eroded my judgment. As the Buddha said, “A bodyguard without judgment is like a night without stars.” For this reason, I feel that I can no longer adequately protect you and your cheeky red-headed orphan from the bomb-throwing Bolsheviks. I leave you in the capable, impartial hands of my partner, The Asp.
Please know that I do not blame you for the unexpected turn in our relationship. How could you resist the dancerly way I rid your office of live bombs, or the seductive manner in which I eat fruit off the blade of my throwing knife? I am, by nature, an exotic and alluring man, capable of powers beyond the average mortal. If anyone is to blame for our star-crossed love, it is I, Punjab.
Please do not take my resignation to mean that I did not enjoy our time together. You made me so happy the night I took you to see the samurai movie—happier still when you professed to enjoy it! I should have known, when you un-sheathed my samurai sword and admired its finely whetted blade, that things between us were about to get weird.
And please do not mistake my resignation for disloyalty. If you do come to think in this way, I ask that you remember that terrible night in the concert hall when the Bolsheviks rioted so savagely. I lifted you up above the chaos and violence and carried you through the smoky, littered back alley to the safety of the Duesenberg.
If that memory does not sufficiently convince you of my loyalty, then consider the night I rescued your cheeky red-headed orphan from that reprobate Rooster. Recall the way I descended from the auto-copter on my unfurled turban to retrieve the mewing child stranded at the top of the railway bridge. Remember these events and ask yourself, were these the actions of a disloyal man?
Please understand that my decision is final. Do not chase me down the drive and beg me to reconsider. Do not ask me where I am going, but be assured that it is an exotic and faraway place and I have absolutely NO plans to reside undisclosed in the woods around your estate so that I can visit your bedroom window nightly to watch you sleep.
I know, as a wealthy, cueball-headed industrialist, your first love will always be capitalism, but I do hope that when you think of me, it is with affection, for that is certainly how I will think of you. Though it may be bold of me, I say it—no, I croon it—with conviction: I Will Always Love You, Daddy Warbucks, Sir.
So goodbye. Please don’t cry. We both know I’m not what you need. I wish you the best with that prancing hussy, Miss Farrell.
Your loyal and loving bodyguard,
Patricia Grant aspires to be a serious writer, but stories like this keep coming out of her. Follow her on Twitter.
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