You are expecting me home in a few days, but the cadaver on the sidewalks of Rio De Janeiro is telling me I might be a little longer than originally anticipated. Brazil is beautiful. It's the filthiest city I have ever been in, but it's the kind of filth you have to admire. There are flower kiosks in every corner of the city, but even they cannot shield the foul air so fragrant with excrement from the alleyways and gutters.
I met a woman that went by the name of Astrud a few days ago. Together we saw the sites and she gave me her delicate hand to hold in mine for most of the afternoon. She was absolutely enchanting. When it came time to bid farewell, she begged me not to leave and allowed me to swallow her petite figure in my arms. We kissed for what felt like an eternity and I felt as if my whole life was simply preparing me to meet Astrud.
The love we made wasn't merely under the stars, but beside them. They adorned the sky in such a brilliant way that the light penetrated our nude bodies. I cannot for the life of me (appropriately enough) remember what happened in the following minutes, but came to the next morning in a pool of blood and a shard of industrial plastic embedded deep into my side. I cannot say Astrud was quite as fortunate as I, considering she'd basically been split in two at the neck. This is where the dilemma begins.
The blade that filleted my love's sweet neck carried my fingerprints.
I don't know who else to turn to with such a problem. I have been confined to a cell throughout the investigation. Superstitiously enough, growing out of a crevice on the floor of my cell is a flower far more beautiful than any found in the thousands of flower shoppess crowding the city.
Do not alert the royal family about my situation just yet. I'm at a loss for words and I don't even speak Portuguese,