Dear Clarice,
I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your disgrace and public shaming. My own never bothered me, except for the inconvience of being incarcerated, but you may lack perspective. In our discussions down in the dungeon, it was apparent to me that your father, the dead night watchman, figures largely in your venue system. I think your success in putting an end to Jame Gumb's career as a couturier pleased you most because you could imagine your father being pleased. But now, alas, you're in bad odour with the FBI. Do you imagine your daddy being shamed by your disgrace? Do you see him in his plain pine box crushed by your failure; a sorry, petty end of a promising career? What is worst about this humiliation, Clarice? Is it how your failure will reflect on your mommy and daddy? Is your worst fear that people will now and forever believe they were indeed just good old trailer-camp, tornado-bait white trash, and that perhaps you are, too?
By the way, I couldn't help but noticing on the FBI's rather dull public website that I have been hoisted from the bureau's archives of the common criminal, and elevated to the more prestigous ten most wanted list. Is this coincidence, or are you back on the case? If so, goody, goody, because I need to come out of retirement and return to public life. Clearly, this new assignment is not your choice, rather I suppose it is part of the bargain, but you accepted it, Clarice. Your job is to craft my doom, so I'm not sure how well I should wish you, but I'm sure we'll have a lot of fun.
Ta-ta,
H.
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Hannibal Lecter's letter to Clarice in the movie Hannibal. I own none of this (unfortunately).
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