If you succeed, you must purchase one of those tiny
one-column ads that run along the bottom of the daily New York Times front page, and print my name there. That’s all: Just printmy name.If you do not, then… well, this is the fun part. You willtake note that the second sheet of this letter contains the namesof fifty-two of your relatives. They range in age from a newborn,barely six months old, the child of your great-grand-niece, to your cousin the Wall Street investor, and capitalist extraordinaire, who isas dried-up and dull as you. If you are unable to purchase the adas described, then you have this choice: Kill yourself immediately or Iwill destroy one of these innocent people.Destroy.What an intriguing word. It could mean financial ruin. It could meansocial wreckage. It could mean psychological rape.It could also mean murder. That’s for you to wonder about. It couldbe someone young, or someone old. Male or female. Rich or poor.All I promise is that it will be the sort of event that they-or their lovedones-will never recover from, no matter how many years they might spend in psychoanalysis.And whatever it is, you will live every remaining second of every minute you have left on this earth with the knowledge that you alone caused it.Unless, of course, you take the more honorable approach and kill yourselffirst, saving whichever target I have selected from their fate.There’s your choice: my name or your obituary. In the same paper,of course.As proof of the length of my reach, and the extent of my planning, I have this day contacted one of the names on the list with a most modest little message. I would urge you to spend the remainder of this evening ferreting out who was touched, and how.