An Brooklyn Artist's coverletter for the post-apocalypse

From: Tucker McCokey
On your left just after the fetid squirrel carcass on the stick
North Brooklyn Slave Colony, Duchy of Trumpland


TO: His Highness Hrunting Silverback,
Duke of Paramus
Kingdom of New Jersey

DATE: 3rd Moon of the Cold Season
Year 10 of The After Times


RE: Employment in your tribe

Dearest Duke,

Let me begin by saying that news of your kingdom’s bumper crops this winter of beets and possum milk warmed my heart over here in the cold depths of Trumpland, where we’re back to eating stocks of lime-flavored pork rinds and Crystal Clear Pepsi left over from The Before Times.

That you are reading this letter is of great relief to me, as it concerns my very life. Your majesty, I seek asylum in the your humble, drab, unfashionable kingdom.

As you may have heard, times are tough here in what the Before People called New York. Ever since the vile fustigation of Prince Neil Patrick Harris and the ascension of King The Donald, few here have known joy*.

While all are suffering down here at the hands of King The Donald, none are doing so more so than the artists, writers, philosophers and musicians. He’s got us holed up in this one big ghetto and often speaks publicly about “feeding the kingdom’s starving artists to the starving escaped zoo carnivores.”

I’ll grant that many artists aren’t so terribly useful in our new reality. I don’t think the artist folk prepared well for the Napalm Frog storms of The First Day After, nor the Buffalo squall of The Day After That, Nor did we take advantage of Free Bat Day at the stadium The Following Wednesday. And of course there’s that old joke: “those artists should have spent less time painting pop pictures of canned goods and more time stockpiling them under several feet of concrete and asbestos.” I am so sick of that goddamned joke.

While I too am guilty of these oversights, I think I have a unique skill set that could prove useful to you and yours. Therefore, I humbly ask you to review the attached resume.

Regards,

Tucker McCokey, Artist at large

*Well, there are some joys. For, instance, last week I won a cup of rubbing alcohol and a Funyun at the fights when a Water buffalo failed to eat a toddler. The toddler still died, of course, when the water buffalo crushed it underfoot, but the bet was very specific-- ingestion did not take place.