It's been passing long since last we embraced. After months of fighting in this damnable battle between the states, I fear I shall never hold you in my arms again. It's the Yetis, Clarabelle—they've torn off my arms at the shoulders. I write this hasty note to you with pen firmly in mouth. I trust my tears shall not disrupt the ink and that our love will carry me through the challenging months to come.
In the weeks after the traitorous Secession, the shaggy beasts came from the darkened forests of the Canadian north. My grandfather remembered tales of the hulking monsters serving in the front lines of the enemy in 1812, but this time, the generals claimed, they would battle on the side of the righteous Union.
Believe me, Clarabelle, these Yetis fight on no side but their own. In the first few battles their razor claws and savage maws tore great bloody holes in the ranks of the enemy, but bullets in a territory of war know no difference betwixt friend and foe. This Wednesday last I had occasion to misfire my carbine into the back of one of the shaggy white beasts, and he turned on me with the fury of a savage beast. It was all the doctors could do to save my life that wretched day, and the worst of it is that my wedding band now rests with my festering fingers in the belly of that overgrown, odiferous meat-monkey.
I write with trembling lips that Johnny Reb has Yetis of his own, disgusting hair-patched beasts they purchased from the distant North. I am no longer certain of the future of our Union, but I can say with confidence that war breeds greater and greater weapons of destruction, and now that the Yetis have joined the field on both sides, there can be no assurances as to the eventual victor of this conflict.
May God above save us from the wretched Yetis. May God above save the Union!
