To My Loving Daughter,
Hey, honey! Remember me? It's your daddy! Yeah...anyway, it's been a long time since we've seen each other, so I just thought I'd write. Oh, and you know, while I have you, I was wondering if you could send along a little money for Daddy? Daddy's special hospital bills are kind of steep, and the doctors are getting a little mad 'cause the Social Security won't cover everything. I try to tell 'em that I don't need to be here, but after Daddy's last little "accident," the judge just won't believe I can manage things on my own without your mother around. (And that stupid chicken's fuckin' Jew lawyer isn't make things any easier, let me tell you. Er, um, no offense to you and your new family now, honey, say hi to him for me.) Anyway, I enclosed my medical bills, so if you could just send along a little money, it would be really great. Or you know what would be even better? If you could pay to help me move to a different hospital! 'Cause I mean, I know they call this a "mental health" place, but let me tell you---everybody here? Cra-zy. And I keep getting these annoying little burns from the nurses' cigarettes.
Anyway, hope to hear back from you soon.
Love,
Daddy
To My Loving Sister,
Hey. sis. It's me, Chris. Hey, that rhymes! Heh-heh-heh! Anyway, I haven't seen you in a while and just thought I'd write. I'm actually having some problems right now. Vanessa broke up with me, and I lost my job when the factory shut down; you know we just can't compete with all those high-tech robots the Iraqis keep making. My stupid landlord kicked me out, and when I went to Vanessa's new apartment to try to make up with her, her new boyfriend (you remember him, that evil monkey I tried to set you up with for the prom?) attacked me and I had to get stitches! Anyway, I really need to find a new place, but there's nothing around here that I can afford with my savings, and it doesn't look like I'm going to be able to find a new job anytime soon. Is there any chance you could send along a little cash to tide me over for a couple months? I'd really appreciate it.
Your brother,
Chris
To My Oldest, Dearest Friend,
Okay, let me just begin by saying that I can't BELIEVE I'm still in here! Okay, okay, sorry...but I mean, COME ON! It's been---how many years now? You wouldn't think that in the FREAKIN' UNITED STATES, we would still have political prisoners like some sort of---some sort of---of Russian gulag! And for what? Some hyped-up TERRORISM charge? Just because I held the mayor at gunpoint for a few hours to try to subvert the democratic process or some bullshit---I mean, it was for a good cause! How is it terrorism to do what you think is right, even if you have to get a little...violent to do it? It's not like I bombed an abortion clinic or something that a freakin' CONSERVATIVE would do. It was for gay marriage! I was doing it so that the people I loved could live together, in peace and with a tax refund too! Although I have to admit, if Jasper's stupid beaner husband hadn't gone and ruined it with the divorce, that point might have stuck a little better in court...
Anyway...that's kind of why I'm writing. See, I have this parole hearing coming up next week, and...it kind of doesn't look good. It would be a lot better if the stupid prison guards hadn't completely INVADED MY PRIVACY by reading my mail. (I mean, Mr. Monkey-Face isn't even president anymore, who cares what threats I'm sending him?! And as for the Obama ones...I mean, can you BELIEVE he refused to pardon me?! My dad was totally right about people like that...stupid n****r.) But the point is, I really need a good character witness to come and convince the parole board I'm a good guy. And you know I am, you remember all the times I was there for you, don't you? And it's not like I could even do anything if I ever got out...I mean, remember kiddo, 17 is pretty old for a dog. The fact is, the vets say I might not even be too long for this world anyway. So, could you come help a poor old mutt out? I really need you.
Your old friend,
Brian
To My Loving Sister,
By Jove, I need your help! I have to get out of here! I've only been here for a couple of months, and if I have to stay here any longer there's no chance that I'll survive! And they want to keep me in here until I'm eighteen?! Come now, you must realize that I didn't kill our dear mother! It was...an accident, a fluke...I mean, none of us knew about that little peanut allergy of hers, did we? So how could it be my fault, just because some mashed-up bits of shell somehow wound up in that arsenic I put into her cereal?
You just...you don't know what it's like in here! I'm only eleven years old, for G-d's sake! Everybody here is older than me, except for Bertrand, but he just keeps turning all the other kids against me! And apparently killing your mother is one of those things that even the criminals look down upon, because they are all insufferably horrible to me, they beat me up, make fun of my accent, and I have thirty different adolescent men who want to make me their bitch, which it turns out is a lot less fun than it sounds! (Oh, by the way, it turns out I'm actually straight. Frankly I'm as surprised as anyone.)
Please, you have to do something to help me! For G-d's sake, you married a Jew, you must have a good lawyer or someone who can do something! Please, dear sister, I need your help!
Your increasingly-desperate little brother,
Stewie
Sitting in her spacious office, the entire New York skyline spread out through the massive windows behind her, Megan Goldman stared down at the four notes on her desk, hands folded in front of her face, thoughtful.
Four letters. Four family members. Four different, desperate pleas for help.
Her heart wretched for them. But it wasn't each letter's sob story that had caught her eye.
It was the openings.
To My Loving Daughter...To My Loving Sister...To My Oldest, Dearest Friend...
Taken one way, they were really touching. In another, ego-boosting sort of way, they could be read as groveling, desperate, a sign of how they each realized they needed her and were willing to suck up to get her help. Some people would have loved these openers.
But Meg saw through the words to the writing underneath.
Meg saw the eraser marks, and the ever-so-faint writing that remained on each palimpsest.
She saw the other names.
To Mandy, Brian had first written, before rubbing that out. To...Mellie? To Martha? He at least got the first letter.
To Peggy? Stewie had ventured. "Peg" sort of sounded like "Meg."
To Stacy? Chris had been way off.
And her father...he, or more likely whoever he had dictated the letter to, considering the good spelling, hadn't even bothered to erase. He had just X'ed it out. Dear Deb. X'ed out. Dear Mary. X'ed out. Dear Bobba Fett. X'ed out. The writer had then just stuck To My Loving Daughter over the corrections, squeezing it into the cramped space left at the very top of the paper.
All four of them were sending her letters, saying they loved her, begging for her help.
And not one of them could even remember her name.
The phone rang; Meg looked up, startled, then blinked and answered. "Hello?"
It was her secretary. "Ms. Goldman, your husband is here to see you."
"Oh." Meg quickly straightened out her clothes, pushing back a loose strand of hair. "Thank you, Connie. Send him in."
She hung up. A moment later the door opened; a tall, muscular man with long red hair entered the office, a bouquet of red roses in his hand and a broad grin on his face.
"Knock knock, m'lady," he said, brandishing the flowers toward her. "Sorry to interrupt, but I have a delivery for the most beautiful woman in the Alpha Quadrant."
"Oh...Neil. You shouldn't have."
"But I wanted to."
Meg smiled to herself as she took the flowers from her husband, pressing them to her face and breathing in their delicious smell. She looked up at him, her depression vanished. "So how did your meeting go at work?"
"Heh-heh...let's just say that the Nobel Prize Committee was very impressed by Goldman Pharmaceuticals' new AIDS vaccine," Neil said, gliding behind Meg's back and gently caressing her shoulders. "So I felt like celebrating."
Meg giggled. "Celebrating how?"
Neil rested his chin on her shoulder. "How's a weekend on the French Riviera sound?"
"Now? Just like that?"
He kissed her temple. "The company helicopter is waiting on the roof," he whispered, tickling her ear.
She giggled again. "But I can't just leave! It's the middle of the day!"
"Honey, none of these little redshirts are gonna complain when Captain Janeway decides to go on a little...romantic away mission."
Meg blushed. "You're so cute when you're nerdy." She grinned coyly, giving him a little peck on the cheek. "Just let me take care of a little paperwork first, okay?"
"Oh...how little?"
Meg slipped out from his arms and leaned forward, scooping up the four letters on her desk into a neat pile. She bent down; the trash bin by her desk had a shredder attached. One small whirling noise later she straightened up, beaming.
"All done," Meg said, giving Neil a kiss on the mouth. "Shall we go now?"
He made a dramatic flourish and a bow, hooking his arm with hers. "After you."
And the two walked out of the office, closing the door and switching the lights off behind them.
Author's Notes: My first Family Guy (anti-)fanfic; I hope you enjoyed it. Please review! (Just don't tell me the title is grammatically incorrect, I already know that.)