Scott Macclesfield: European merchant

From: Mr.Scott Macclesfield

Dear Beloved,

This letter may come to you as a surprise due to the fact that we have not yet met. Firstly, I have to say that I have no intentions of causing you any pain. My name is Mr. Scott Macclesfield, a European merchant. I have been diagnosed with Prostate and Esophageal cancer that was discovered very late due to lack of caring for my health. It has defiled all form of medicine and right now, I have only about a few months to live according to medical experts. I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone not even myself but my business.Though I am very rich, I was never generous, I was always hostile to people and only focus on my business as that was the only thing I cared for. But now I regret all this as I now know that there is more to life than just wanting to have or make all the money in the world. I use to say to my self that if God should give me a second chance I would live differently from how I have lived. I was meditating on my hospital bed and something told me that God is giving me a second chance by keeping me alive though doctors said I won’t last long.

I know my time is near, that’s why I have willed and given most of my properties and assets to my immediate and extended family members as well as some few close friends.So far, I have been able to give alms to a few charity organizations in the U.A.E, London, Sudan, Zimbabwe I gave donations to the Global Fund for Children, GCF and I met two people over the internet that have successfully distributed my funds to charity organizations in their country. Now my health is deteriorating so badly, I really need you to help me distribute the last of my fortune. I want this to be one of the last good deeds I do on earth. You might be wondering why I did not pick my close relatives for this task, but I once asked members of my family to close one of my accounts and donate the money there to a charity organization in Bulgaria. They closed the account but refused to donate the money to the organization, but instead shared the money amongst themselves. From the way they are acting around me, something tells me they want me dead so they can split my last remaining assets and money.

Hence, I do not trust them anymore, as they seem not to be content with what I have left for them.The last of my money which is a huge cash deposit that I have with a security firm will be put in your care if only you will agree and are capable of seeing this through. I want you to help me collect this deposit and dispatched it to charity organizations of your choice and let them know that it is I Scott Macclesfield that is making this generous donation. I am writing this from my laptop computer in my hospital bed where I wait for my time to come. I pray for you to support and assist me with a good heart. I hope we can build a relationship based on trust because I want to do this by all means possible before I die.But the choice is yours Please you can contact me as soon as possible in my personal email address:

Be blessed my beloved,
Mr.Scott Macclesfield

Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 09:49:32 -0600 [04/26/2013 09:49:32 AM MDT]
From: Feargal Smalls

At last, Mr Macclesfield, we meet again! Don’t remember me? Zimbabwe, 1983? Thirty kilometers outside of Harare? There was a diamond shipment traveling overland from the Marange mines to the secure compound in the KLM district east of the airport. I was the KLM official in charge of that shipment. Alas, the convoy never reached the airport, as it was ambushed, the couriers slaughtered, all loose ends tied up neatly. All but one.

If you’re going to shoot someone, Mr Macclesfield, you’d better be prepared to finish the job.

My deepest sympathies for your current dire health straits. The toll it has taken on you is immediately noticeable via your odd syntactical choices and elementary misuse of several verbs, almost as if you had no experience with or facility using conversational English whatsoever. A consequence of the pain arising from your various cancers, no doubt.

I imagine lying in bed, in a hospital, with nothing and no one left to comfort you except a laptop and a feeble connection to the internet must be trying. I can recall a similar time when I myself lay in a hospital bed: it was in an understaffed facility, electricity two hours a day, no running water, in a little village on the stifling banks of Lake Manyame. Two bullets lodged in my viscera. More dead than alive, with only a burning desire for revenge and a kindly, buxom nurse standing between me and surrender to that last black void we all must bow to one day. Yes, my deepest sympathies. If only you’d had the same compassion for me thirty years ago on the African veldt.

But how I go on about myself and my troubles! Be comforted that not everyone has forgotten you. I have not forgotten. And this happy–dare I say miraculous?– coincidence that is your email to me is the final piece of a puzzle I’ve been endeavoring to piece together ever since that fateful day in Zimbabwe.

My team of internet experts tells me that it is only a matter of days before they have ascertained your exact whereabouts. I don’t pretend to understand how they can trace the almost haphazard movements of a few electrons across the globe to their source, but that is what I pay them to do, and they seem confident.

It was a merry chase you led me! I picked up your trail in Cairo in ’88, then followed it through the Levant to the shores of the Caspian and on to Moscow and Stockholm. Always a step behind. But there, in a forest cabin outside of Bjorklinge, I nearly had you. The twinkling embers in the hearth, the still warm half-eaten dish of lutefisk upturned next to the Nintendo 64, showed how very close I was. I followed the hurried footprints left outside the back door, but the driving snow erased the trail after only a few minutes, and my good luck was at an end. Until this email.

Be of good cheer, my dear Mr Macclesfield! Your long suffering is arriving at its final destination, mercifully or otherwise. My associates and I will be paying you a visit at your bedside soon. Very soon.

Until then, I am your servant, Feargal Smalls.

–anxiously awaiting Mr Macclesfield’s reply–

This entry was posted in humor, money, pirates. Bookmark the permalink.