I tried to grab you behind the BART station the other day, because I care about you, son. You left me naked at the motel tied to the bed and ran away with your girlfriend, Shanna, back on the I-5, but I still care.
Son, I'm a private investigator and I used to be a male nurse. I know all about fingerprints and dna. I KNOW you killed your grandparents last Thanksgiving. I KNOW you framed your Uncle Vick. You run away from me all the time because I know the truth. You hate me because I know the truth about you.
Maybe I haven't been the best father to you. I was gone a lot when I worked for the police, and before that when I was a nurse. Your mother was addicted to Mezaclodiaphinac. I didn't know she was using my Nurse ID and getting prescriptions filled through the doctor I worked for.
Mezaclodiaphinac was an awful drug. Great pain killer but no one knew it would cause unsightly facial air pockets beneath the skin, when abused. Your mother became unrecognizable. Hell, I thought she was your Uncle Vick one night and that's when we knew it was time to go to rehab!
Your mother was a liar. So are you. But, I still love you. I found my green silk shirt and slacks in the bathroom of the motel, and I look like hell, but I'm not leaving San Francisco until I find you. If you can own up to what you did to your own grandparents and that annoying goody two shoes social worker last November, maybe we can get you the help you need.
Son, you've got to admit you have a problem. Your mother did. Sure, she's dead now, but she left this world an honest woman. Her face was so bloated she looked like Don Rickles does now, but I was proud of her.
Make me proud of you, son. Please. I can't bend fully over.
Your Dad,
Lonnie Rorg
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