Margarita, luminé of my life, sparkler of my loins. Your very name makes my heart go pittypat. Margaret, yes, but so many permutations. Margie, Maggie, Peg, Greta, Marguerite. But to me you will always be my Margarita, the human I have loved best in my long and languorous life. Hundreds preceded you, of course, all of them aeons dead along with my thousands of children.
But you remain stunningly alive and vital. My multifarious limbs tremble at the merest thought of you. Everything, it seems, summons up some particularity of yours – your lovely womanly scent, your azure eyes, your tawny hair.
And I know that you adore me as well, no matter how shocking or incomprehensible my behavior has been.
What follows is an explanation. Not a full one, of course. Such do not exist. But I owe you at least a glimpse into my manifold intricacies.
A caveat. I am bound by solemn oath to my Father not to reveal our plans for you and your kind so you will see some of our schemes unfold but never know the ultimate outcome. This is as it must be.
So you may show these pages to whomever you wish. They will not believe you and nothing I say here can affect the fate we have concocted for your species.
I hope you will pardon the haste with which this narrative has been composed. As you will understand upon reading it, I literally had to assemble it on the fly.
Your Devoted and Loving Husband,
Roger O. Thornhill (AKA LOKI)