My Dear Wormwood,
As discussed in my last letter, your patient's decision to join the police department seemed a mixed development at best. It is true that Hell follows no law save the most ancient, "Eat or be eaten." But as a general rule we want to discourage the creatures from obeying any laws, even of their own devising. Despite the best efforts of our most fiendish disputants, we in the Lowerarchy are unable, as yet, to remove from their laws all that reeks of the Enemy, such as justice, temperance, chastity, and respect for their fellow vermin. Still, we have made great strides in this age toward bending those who enforce the laws, such as your patient, to the commendable vices of cruelty, corruption, graft, influence-peddling, and the forsaking of oaths. So I did not discourage your patient's occupation, as long as he could be steered onto a path which would eventually bring him to Our Father's House.
Until I received this report from our colleague Skrimcheez, who is in charge of the local newspaper editor: Henrico police shoot pet as they notify family of son's homicide. As you can see, the report is lavishly illustrated, and spares no detail. It appears that your patient, while performing his mundane duty of notifying one of the humans that her child had been murdered, discharged his weapon into the child's dog. Your patient claimed to have done so out of fear (no doubt of your urging) that the animal posed a threat to the patient's safety. I have carefully read the report, and it raises several questions regarding your care of the patient.
The first of which is: ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND? What kind of FUCKING LUNATIC would shoot the GOD-DAMNED FAMILY DOG as he was approaching the GOD-DAMNED FAMILY HOME to notify them that THEIR SON HAD BEEN MURDERED? YOU ASSHOLE! Hell is TOO GOOD for this son of a bitch! I thought I was cruel! I thought I was merciless, but YOU…
(Here the manuscript breaks off, and is resumed in another hand.)
In my rage and fury at reading of your despicable patient's exploits, I find that I have transformed into a vampire bat. My secretary shall compose the remainder of this letter under my dictation.
There are some things, Wormwood, that are too vile even for us. Admittedly, before today, I could not have named one of those things. But shooting the family dog, on the way to notifying the family that its son has been found murdered in the street, is such a thing. Hell has majesty, Wormwood. Even the foulest fiend in the most abysmal of our pits would not sink to such a depth.
Rest assured, Wormwood, that your patient has found his place in Our Father's House. Indeed he shall be most welcome here. We shall make a sport of him, a plaything, a feast to be savoured slowly with all the cruelty our tormentors can devise. And yet, for all of the anguish that shall be his, for eternity and more, his torment will only barely exceed what he has brought upon this family. Common murderers are, as the Americans put it, a dime a dozen. It takes a special cruelty, one I would call beyond diabolical if there could be such a thing, to kill the family dog before notifying the family of a death.
Your disgusted uncle,
(Signed in his abysmal excellency's disability by his secretary, Toadpipe, B.S.M., D.T.)