Mr. Richard Allen Davis
If you know how to read then I am sure you will find this letter particularly amusing. Although, considering what I know about you, I'm guessing you are one of the most uneducated, ignorant, useless waists of a human life imaginable, and it wouldn't be a stretch to fathom the possibility of you not being able to read. Actually, I imagine you trying to read this letter, stuttering about as you go, before Scott Peterson chimes in from the next cell over, "come on, sound it out Richard." That's all fantasy, but the fact of the matter is, I'm about 99.99 percent sure that you are not human. Maybe you were at one point, but now you're just an animal, an animal who has a predetermined date with death. Sure, you probably won't ever see the likes of the death chamber at San Quentin (and I'm not sure it matters to me either way), but I find it incredibly hard to believe that it's not in the back of your mind, lingering, eating at you, consuming your thoughts. You see, you no longer have power, you lost all that on November 30, 1993. If I know you, and I think I do, I know you like power, it gets you off, and it irritates you when you realize it's all gone (even though you'll never show it.) Now I have the power. The power as a free citizen of this country to remind you, time and time again, what a horrible person you are.
Guess what. Yesterday, I went to McDonalds, got 3 cheeseburgers, smoked a pack of cigarettes, and had sex with my girlfriend. You will never do any of those things as long as you remain on Earth, aside from have sex, but that's with an inmate, and he's a dude. Man, it sucks to be you.
I know I'm not alone in my writing here, and you probably get letters like this on a daily basis. You probably interpret that as having power, but your wrong. Let me be frank, and put it bluntly, you are scum. It makes me feel good to let people who are scum know it. Maybe it's what I was put on Earth to do. You could have chosen this path, but you chose a different one, and now you'll suffer. I mean, think about it like this, the only reason people write you is because your evil, and we get the thrill of making you feel like crap, but that's all your good for, period. Nothing more, nothing less.
At this point, you're probably wondering, should I stop reading this letter and throw it out? And I don't blame you for wondering that, but again, I know your type, you'll keep reading, because quite frankly, you have nothing better to do. Your an animal, caged, locked up, away from the rest of us. It's either reading this letter or watching reruns on the Disney channel via your 19'' black & white television.
You try and portray someone who doesn't care, who is the badest of the bad, the worst of the worst, but in reality, you're a coward. Despicable, contemptible, inadequate. Always have been, always will be. At this point, there is absolutely nothing you could say or do to shock me. You tattoo your arms to "look tough", you throw up the middle finger in court, you kill a defenseless child. You're the epitome of an evil man, but you're not scary, you're not tough, and you're not a legend.
Your also ugly, both mentally and physically. I mean god all mighty, did your mom mate with Chewbacca? It's no wonder you had to resort to molesting and underage girl, you couldn't get a woman.
I want you to know what we hear about you from outside San Quentin's walls, because it's an important detail. We hear stories of you being tortured by other inmates, spit on, knocked out, and failing to commit suicide. Every time I hear one of those stories, my heart races with happiness, and I rejoice. Again, it must suck to be you. Always looking over your shoulder, wondering who is going to coldcock you in the jaw next. Surrounded by other individuals just as sick as you are. But even most of those guys deserve a little dignity, you deserve none. If by chance you don't die beforehand, I hope to god I am allowed to be present at your execution, and you'll know it if I am. I'll be the guy smiling, waving, and then throwing a party after you expire.
You could try and write me a heated response to this, but it wouldn't make it 30 feet from your cell before prison officials confiscate and destroy it. Also, I will purposely leave an ambiguous return address just to make sure I never hear back from you. So you'll sit, in pure solitude, wondering about this angry "white man" who is waging a literary war against you. Alone in your cell, thinking of snide remarks you would say if you had the chance. You'll never get that chance though Richard, because I am out here living my life on this beautiful Earth, and you, well, you're are already dead. You died on August 5, 1996.