Krappler: a snivelling wreck
Krappler: a snivelling wreck
I am appeased. Krappler has received his condign punishment and perhaps more. He is a broken and chastened man. He has capitulated to all demands and is sending me another cheque. I have decided to show mercy and end the campaign against him.
Thankyou to everyone who mailed the wretch to remonstrate with him. I never knew I had so many friends, or how many of the people who read this site are borderline psychotic. Some of you may have gone too far. Some of the abuse he has received or the pranks that have been played on him almost made me feel sorry for him. I am touched, and in a couple of cases, slightly alarmed. Thankyou anyway. The time has now come to show mangnaninimimnty. A great victory has been won today, but let us be generous in our triumph. Let us say, 'Go thou, and sin no more.' Leave the poor bastard alone now, for Christ's sake.
The original tirade:
This is a tale of love turned sour, of perfidy and sadism and implacable revenge.
This man's name is Brian Krappler. He owes me fifteen U.S. dollars, a little over eight of our English pounds. He must be taught a lesson.
Brian, my love, I am writing this for you. For I did love you once, Brian. Back before I knew the evil that lurked in your heart. Or that you have a face like a Cabbage Patch Kid having a shit.
And I still love you. I love you, but I must destroy you. I do what I do only out of my great love for you, in order to save you from your own sin.
Do you remember how it used to be, Brian? Do you remember how it was in the early days? Do you remember that first mail you sent me, the one that won my heart? I do. I still treasure it, Brian.
Hello Mr. Kelly.
Somebody sent me what you call your "bloody 'French intellectuals in
Afghanistan' bit" as a "found on the internet" item. I was all set to reprint
a condensed version (150 words or so) in our newspaper, until five seconds
with Google demonstrated your claim to it.
So: would you take $50 U.S. to let us reproduce a short version (text
appears below) in The Gazette? We're a daily newspaper with a circulation
around 150,000; you would be selling one-time rights to us; however any of
our sister Southam papers (in several Canadian cities) would be eligible to
pick up the piece for a lesser payment to you, generally about $10 each I
believe.
I know, I know. But it's better than nothing, isn't it?
Please let me know.
Thanks
Brian G. Krappler
Editorial Page Editor
The Gazette
250 St. Antoine St. W.
Montreal Quebec Canada
What boy would not be won over? The honesty, the righteousness, the good deed in a wicked web. You were my knight in shining armour, Brian. I forwarded your words to half a dozen other newspapers who had stolen my work, to shame them into crediting me. And of course - you offered me money. But it was never about the money with us, was it, Brian?
Of course, I tried to resist. I played hard to get. Your condensed version of the French Intellectuals piece appeared to have been written by a retarded five-year-old, and I said as much. Fondly, I pictured you as a doting father encouraging his educationally sub-normal child to take its first faltering steps in journalism by rewriting my piece in the secret language of cretins. I had to decline your offer.
But you weren't deterred. You pressed your suit with honeyed words.
OK, how about the same money for the full version?
Cheers
BK
Of course, I crumbled. I think it was the 'BK' that did it. I lisped the syllables to myself over and over in my bedroom. 'Beekay,' I sighed. 'His name is Beekay.'
How happy I was in those days! If only I had known.
Things did not run smooth. The stars were against us, my love, even from the first. There was a hitch in our plans. You had to ask me to cut the last paragraph from my piece. The squares who bought your paper, you said, would not approve. They would not understand our love.
So I did it, Brian. I did it for you. I would have cut the last hair from my head if you had asked for it.
Then came another hitch. The pre-nuptial contract you insisted I sign.
Tiresomely, I must by company policy here ask you to sign a standard "freelance agreement." Nothing in it contradicts the understanding you and I made by E-mail this week, but I can't use the piece 'til I have your John Hancock.
Sordid, sordid to intrude the mean minds of lawyers into the world of our love! And 'understanding'? Was that all we had, then, an 'understanding'? I had thought it was so much more than that. I was hurt, Brian. But I agreed. I trusted you, Brian.
But then the dark days came. The dark days of deceit and duplicity. The fax you promised to send but never did.
How many hours, Brian. How many hours did I wait by the machine for the fax that never arrived. That cold contract I had never wanted but which might have your handwriting on it, some cheery little greeting from snowy Canada.
It never came. It never came because your heart is as cold as the Quebec winter, Brian.
You had forgotten me. There was no fax, no mails, no word from you at all.
Weeks went by. I tried to forget you, and time started to heal my disappointment.
Then, by chance, a friend mailed me.
Hey, I see the Afghan piece got printed in the Montreal Gazette!
I was puzzled, disbelieving. There must be some mistake. There had to be an explanation. My kind Brian would not betray me. He would not publish the piece on the sly without paying me. Still, I was troubled. I sought reassurance. I swallowed my pride and contacted you.
What the bloody fuck is going on, Krappler?
Your explanation was glib.
As we were buying reprint rights rather than original work, you needn't sign the form, I was advised late last week. I have the cheque-request form on my desk, for your payment, but don't have a mailing address.
Except I knew I had sent you my address, Brian. And if you had lost it, you had only to ask. Still, I sent it to you again.
And heard nothing for a week. So I wrote again.
Duplicitous snake,
Shall I expect a cheque or must I invade Canada?
You had lost my address again, you said.
I performed calming exercises with a cricket bat and an effigy of your loathsome gob, and sent my address one more time. And waited.
And waited.
Weeks passed. I gave you an ultimatum. You urged patience. One more week, you said. By this time my love had turned to a seething, furnace-like hatred unknown outside the deepest pit of hell, but in memory of what we had at first I was patient. I waited two weeks. Nothing. I was annoyed and said as much.
Your reply was cool, uninterested.
What can I say? They tell me it left here.
I gave another ultimatum, and requested that you inform me as to whether the piece had been picked up by any of your sister papers as per your original mail. You never responded. Why, Brian? Why won't you talk to me, Brian?
On the day of my deadline a cheque arrived - dated a few days before - a cheque for $35 U.S.
35 dollars is not 50 dollars, Brian.
I wrote to you and pointed out the discrepancy, and also asked you again to tell me if the piece had been picked up by any of the other papers in your group. But you never replied.
I have written to you many times, my darling. I have given you every chance. Even now, I think, after all your deceit, you could still have twisted me around your little finger with a few smooth words.
But instead, you chose to ignore me.
I will not be ignored, Brian.
Have you forgotten me, Brian? Have you moved on to other writers, seducing them the way you did me? I think they should be told, Brian. I think the world should know what kind of man you are.
More than that, you must be punished.
Everything that happens to you now is your own fault.
And I want my money, you unprincipled dick, and then I want you to drown in your own shittiness and die, you poisonous little turd.
A rough translation of the above is that this bloke has dicked me around interminably and owes me money, perhaps only fifteen dollars but possibly much more. I can't honestly work out whether he's just negligent or is doing it deliberately because he can.
Out of principle, I can't let him get away with this, even if it is only eight or nine quid. It is my eight quid and I bloody want it. Whereas I would spend the money on beautiful objets d'art, rare books, and crisps, Krappler would only fritter it away on Bryan Adams CDs and, for all I know, kiddy-porn.
If he gets away with it with me, he'll do it to some other poor, struggling, unemployed writer who's not feeling very well at the moment. And then he'll get bored of petty meannesses and move on to larger things, such as murder. The more I think about it, and the more I study his picture, the more I am convinced that Krappler is a one-man crime wave waiting to happen.
Please help me stop him now. His mail address is [deleted]. If you have enjoyed this site (not now, I know no-one enjoys it now that I only update in order to whine about something, I mean in the past when I was funny) please send him a mail and urge him to pay me my money so we can all move on with our lives. No abuse, please, just something along the lines of, 'Pay Michael his money, you unscrupulous toad, and I hope your dick falls off.'
(Seriously, don't abuse him in case he reports it to your mail provider, but I would be glad if you'd take the time to send him a brief but stern reproval.)
Oh - and if anyone happens to have seen the French Intellectuals piece printed in any other newspapers, please let me know.