our stove was broken too

To Whom it may concern in the offices of Garden Spires Associates,

Five months ago, my wife and I moved into apartment 421 in your building on Taaffe Place. In the hopes of building a home that could one day become that of our would-be family, Jennifer (my wife) and myself have, in that time, spent countless hours toiling over paint and fabric swatches, shopping for furniture, and finding just the right table settings. The task of sculpting this apartment into our image has occupied the majority of our time and creative energy, and I must say we have grown quite fond of the place. For these reasons, we feel compelled to address the issue of the newly discovered Hell Mouth in our kitchen.

Don't get me wrong here, we love the apartment and the neighborhood; the rent is reasonable and the building is tasteful and pleasing to look at from the street, but this black gate to the netherworld has got to go. You see, after all the work we've put into this place, it's kind of a slap in the face to just wake up one morning and find that your kitchen has become an entrance to, and exit from, the pit of eternal pain and hellfire. I mean, what gives? Imagine our surprise as we both, bleary eyed and drowsy, nearly fall into the darn thing on the way to make coffee! That's some scary stuff.

I'm sure that the summoning of this dark passage to the Necropolis is no more than a misunderstanding, but we do feel that the building should shoulder the financial burden of its banishment. It has truly become an incredible nuisance, as to its clutches we have lost several of our favorite Ikea Dinera dinner plates, our Swiffer, and most of our cat, Dr. Phillip T. Tibbins. On more than one occasion, I've caught Jennifer ambling dangerously close to its mouth, ready to plunge in as though beckoned by its dark will. And I am just dog tired of the Blackened Legions of the Army of the Dead using my living room as a staging ground for their final push on the shores of Heaven. I'm telling you, it really chaps my hide.

Honestly, if you were in our position, what would you do? If you were in the market for a new place, and you came across ours, would you agree to pay what we do knowing that beyond the couch lay a doorway to Sheol, abode of the dead, and common grave of man? I doubt it, mister. You'd say “No thank you good sir or madam, I'd rather find a home without a portal to a dark place thronged with the souls of the damned that lay beyond the roots of Yggrasil.” Same thing anyone would say when faced with this kind of situation.

Sorry to come off as nitpicky here, but my wife and I are truly quite peeved. Seriously, I'm about this close to alerting the neighborhood diocese of this little foray into the forbidden arts. Trust me, the last thing you want is to have the Catholic church all up on your balls, cause they will really fuck you on this sort of thing. Hopefully we won't have to resort to measures that drastic, assuming we get a little cooperation from you and the building staff. The way I see it, we could solve this problem with a few obscure incantations and perhaps a little low-level necromancy. We've already looked into a few agencies, and pending your approval, we could have an estimate on this whole thing by the end of the week.

Jennifer and I would like to express once again, that despite the gaping Sarlac pit in our home, we do not wish to leave. There are very few vacancies in the neighborhood and the school system here is just fantastic. Thank you very much for your time, and hopefully we can come to some sort of agreement regarding this relatively minor inconvenience.

Sincerely,

David and Jennifer Grier

P.S.: Our stove is also sort of on the fritz, so if you could have the super come take a look at that too we'd really appreciate it. Thanks!