“He, who Fall in Love with My Wife” by Moazzam.

He, who Fall in Love with My Wife inscription: for 69 96.

OK, first thing first: the ‘he’ in the title of this article is an alien, not Billy Nye—an American (I presume)—in Paris, threatened by unexpected rain, but an actual alien—the kind they show in Arrival (how much more real can it get than Hollywood, anyway). So, why did I tell you—innocent reader—where the bomb has been hidden?

Well we live in the Hitchcockian world, and I wanted you to know and fall in love with it—the bomb, I mean, not the alien; he is as ugly as they come. And, hey, shouldn’t he fall for an alien chick with 2 pointed antennae (e for erudite). Come to your own, man; don’t send rice to Mauritius—ashes to ashes, stardust to stardust, not sawdust (and dandruff).

Time for a dark fantasy (joke in my parlance): Why are there so many Caucasian pornstars in US? Because most citizens of US are Caucasians, bro. Mr. Nobody is laughing, good ’tis healthy. Who am I, you may ask. Well, I live in Bruges. My wife is very beautiful, and I have the magnet that pulls beauty to itself—money. Her beauty also throws a boomerang of her own. On one of its return trips, it came back with an alien heart. Since, I don’t know his name, and so you don’t end up thinking that this is some allegorical piece (which it isn’t, I assure you), I named him 1780—a most befitting name; who knows, he might as well be from A.D (after all, who today sends letters).

OK, you’ll think, he’s alien, a powerful guy, can do anything, he must have just thought words and they’d have been automatically printed on a paper made from alien sources, not to mention killing me outright, and running away with the prized Europa aka Persephone. But he is not Zeus or Hades; even if he is, he believes in morality, democracy, winning hearts, and so on, which effectively rules out the possibility of him being Macedonian. FYR or not.

The Love Letter, delivered by hand, wasn’t printed paranormally, of course. It was a most simple one, printed in a nearby ‘net café (I know because I had printed some “ex officio” (wink!) papers there, and the printer had refused to print 0 in its usual form), printed on an ordinary paper and enveloped in an envelope in which he must have received receipt of some replica watch. It bore no address. The letter was just a series of numbers sans alphabets. Although it didn’t announce itself as a love letter, I instantaneously discerned its intent and purpose: it was electronically signed with my wife’s name—a bit illegible yet fully recognizable. So, the unknown alien had already found himself in the cul-de-sac of ‘i am You’—not the first loner of my wife, and surely not the last one either. Let’s say I’m somewhat stuck here, or that its appropriate now for you—who’d know the location of the bomb but won’t be able to tell which wire needs to be broken so as to preempt explosion—to see reproduction of the Letter (minus original signature, withheld for privacy reasons) :-

20 1 1 3 69 96 111 140 120 1 30 1 2 2 1 7 1 7 55 50 1 5 8 202, 5 8 1 6 1 6 1 7 5 111 4 1 50 202. 7 1 50, 111 10 1 7 140 5 2 1 120 1 50 1 5 8 1 1 5 202 1 120 1 7 30 1 3 1 4 1 10 1 7 20. 60 2 1 1 4 1 6 1 3 3 70 61, 111 50 1 2 2 1 2 50 1 70 4 80 1 1 60 202 8 1 60 60 70. 1 2 50 1 70 4 209,


Now, I know you want me to tell you the meaning of this letter, but I’ll let you diffuse the bomb yourself, leaving you but with 2 hints—the least used alphabets of English language are given higher place values, and certain words and suffixes have specific values of their own, (for instance, 69 and 96 are, respectively, the first and last names of my wife.) I first thought of going to the polizei, but then I decided against it: Oh, so you received a letter from an alien, you say… where, where. Here, here. Eagerly taken, skim-read, placed on the table, taken again, this time read more carefully, dismissed as a hoax (on my part), ordered as if not to offend me, please escort this gentleman to a mental asylum (read whatever you want in lieu of asylum, you alien!).

My wife, after seeing the letter, smiled one of her sweet smiles for which 1780’d ‘ve killed himself without being asked to. The next letter arrived soon. It seemed that the alien had only 2 things pressing upon his heart: his left hand and a doc’s prescription (he was diagnosed with clinical depression, and the remedy suggested for this was gingko biloba). So, he sent the one he could, i.e. the remedy for his malady: his second letter was handwritten on the back of the said prescription; it ran thus:-


Seeing him in such a terrible condition associated with us human beings, my wife felt some empathy for 1780. To cheer her up I said, “In case of alien invasion on our planet, who would this lover boy of yours support? Us!”came a strong reply (it happens, especially when one has recently watched Animatrix again).

“Wow!” I chuckled. Love conquers all. I felt a bit jealous, which was abnormal since I am secure within a mansion whose tax was exempted for one reason or another, and providing my wife with proverbial golden food. 1780 must have got busy in one of those emotional dramas where his grandfather—a leader of his faction, no doubt—’d ‘ve came in his dream, and pleaded for his return in the name of saving his planet from inter-faction warfare. While he, stricken with love, would have been unable to even lift one finger.

You don’t belong to Martian race, said the grandfather alien, and left our 1780 with participants of Alienna d’Universe Pageant, all wishing to caress his broken heart, which he is trying hard to preserve as it is in order to be mended by my wife’s slender fingers. But sooner or later he had to come back to reality. And hence the 3rd letter, typed, I presume, by the secretary of an old-fashioned lawyer, on a typewriter no less. Enclosed wherewith was an attested copy of a legal document, declaring that 1780—Alien—has officially changed his name to the name of my wife (but since I am a sadist, therefore, I shall continue to call him 1780). The letter was brief:-


I am not sure what 205 52 111 means; yes 111 usu. meant ‘I’, but here I don’t know. The salutation, perhaps, has something to do with 50 1 3 4 8 1 60, whose meaning I’m not going to disclose. My wife felt flattered at this lunatic demonstration of unconditional love. For a sec, I thought I had lost her, but the gold anklet that I had given her yesterday proved to be decisive. Without telling her, I sent a letter to that attorney-at-law, asking him the whereabouts of 1780—Alien—and my reasons for asking. Few days later I received a letter trumpeting about the attorney-client privileges, & al. So, I paid him a visit.

His antique secretary faintly protested at this intrusion, while the attorney himself could only muster enough strength to drink a glass of water at one go (post removing his dentures, of course). Where? Here. He placed an old file folder on termites-eaten table. I noted down the address of 1780—Alien, torn up the file into pieces without bothering to remove papers from within. A slight protest resulted in I kicking the table, thinking it’ll fall apart, but it stood firmly. I was escorted to a nearby hospital for a broken toe.

Next day, I went to 1780’s address. I was polite enough to have knocked on the door of my adversary—had there stood one. From outside, I saw his silhouette bending upon a book or something. His antennae must have picked up the signals of my presence, for he said something which I obviously couldn’t understand. I remained silent, thinking to return without crossing threshold. But, then, he got up, came nearer holding a book, and held his ugly hand for me to shake, which I did with repulsion. But he was ecstatic as if he was shaking hands with his beloved… um, my wife—yes I am very possessive.

I told him unequivocally that if he sent another communication in any form, I will kill him. I don’t know if he understood, but he smiled, or at least tried to. The book (8 1 6 2 1 5, 60 3 1 … 1 3 80, with the picture of Bard on its cover) he had in his left hand, he let fall, and he slowly went back to the corner where he was previously sitting. SOAB was sobbing. I returned and said nothing about the encounter of the 1st kind to my wife. A few days later, however, my wife received an SMS from an alien no.:-


I became angry and thought of teaching him a lesson, but my wife restrained me by kissing me on my lips. No other letters were received, but boomerangs cannot be stopped, you know.

Clarification: the writer is NOT involved in any way whatsoever with Convention on the Marking of Plastic Explosives for the Purpose of Identification.

For further work, visit WerticalHorizon.

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