To whom it may concern,

 
     Hello. You don’t know me, but my name is Leopold Francis Hastings III. I am descended from a long line of some of the most honorable people in all England. We are wealthy, smart, and respectable citizens of the court. I currently reside in a lovely Victorian abode up in the clouds. I live there with my wife, who is of “normal” stature. We garden, tend my goose, and generally live a quiet and peaceful lifestyle. There is one not-so-small problem, though. We are...rather tall. I am the tallest of our brood to date. I stand at 9 feet and 7.5 inches in height. Though it may seem as though that is of little importance to the topic at hand, I find it quite relevant. You see, recently my house was broken into. The perpetrator was a Caucasian male, around 10 years old. The boy’s name is Jack. He lives with his mother in the mansion down on 5th Avenue. Yes, the one who “slayed the giant.” Well, I am that giant. Constable, if you will but listen to my story, you will find more than enough cause to arrest this boy on several charges. Some of these include Breaking and Entering, Burglary, Larceny, and Pet Theft. 
My story begins on a beautiful summer morning. I was relaxing on my porch, enjoying the beautiful weather with my wife when I received a call. It was my brother Edwin, who was calling to ask for my help. He was moving houses at the time and needed some help moving all of the boxes. I had nothing else planned that day, so I agreed to go help him out. I asked my wife if she wanted to come along and talk with Darlene, Edwin’s wife, but she declined saying that she had several things she needed to do around the house. So I left the house and went over to Edwin’s for a little while. When I got back home, I was affronted by an awful stench. Now, I understand what you must be thinking: “What was the horrible smell?” Well, I hesitate to tell you because I am afraid you will be offended. The awful smell turned out to be Jack. I didn’t know his name at the time, though. I only knew he smelt like a human. You see, giants have very specific cleanliness standards. They are taught to us from a very young age and maintained throughout our lives. Humans do not have such standards. Thus, when a human makes its way into the nearly sterile environment of my home, well, let’s just say it’s...noticeable. My papa taught me this trick when I was younger for getting rid of pests. You simply repeat these words, “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum! I smell the blood of an English man: be he alive, or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.” You see, it’s an empty threat. All I need to do is scare him so much that he leaves and wouldn't dare return. I have no intention of ever following through on it, I just have to look like I would. Besides, have you ever tasted bread made from human bones? It has an awful chalky texture with the slight hint of marrow. Gordon Ramsay would not approve. The boy does not leave, though. My wife helps him hide from me! I could still smell him, of course, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. Eventually I was so exhausted from searching that I lay down on the couch and was out like a candle. While I was asleep, Jack took a bag of gold coins from my table and scampered off down my express elevator. Oh, you may know it as the beanstalk. It may grow from seeds and have the appearance of a beanstalk, but climbing the outside of it is hardly the most prudent use of it. Simply rap on the side three times. Then a door will open, and you will be able to ride the elevator straight to my home. I only use it in emergency situations, and how my activation seeds wound up in some market I will never know. Nevertheless, when I awoke, I was furious that someone had stolen my pouch of gold. I wanted to contact you, constable right then and there. My wife insisted against it though. “Oh, we don’t need to trouble the Constable with this, Sweetheart. I’m sure he already has enough on his plate, what with that little blonde girl invading homes all over the west end. Not to mention that double homicide in the east village. That poor little girl and her grandmother, both gobbled right up! I’m sure you just misplaced your gold, dear. It’ll turn up at some point.” Well, I took her advice and decided to just let the matter slide. The next morning, I was sitting at my breakfast table, reading my newspaper, drinking my coffee, enjoying the peaceful music emanating from my sentient harp, and generally having a very enjoyable morning.  
Headline: Brother and Sister abandoned and kidnapped, shove captor into oven (more on page 3). 
It was such a beautiful day that I decided to go for a walk. Before I left, I checked on my beloved goose. This goose has been in my family for several generations. My grandfather, Leopold Hastings, raised this goose and passed it to his son, Leopold Hastings, Jr. Then my father passed her down to me. She is not a normal goose, though. She lays eggs entirely made out of solid gold. These eggs have added to my family’s fortune and have often been coveted by many people. The only other person I have heard of possessing a goose like mine was some man named Fitzwilliam. I think he bought a house, or something like that. Anyway, while I was out on my walk the boy came back. My goose enjoys listening to “classic rock” on my harp. Personally, I am more fond of Billy Joel, but perhaps that’s just me. My harp was entertaining my goose to keep her stress level down. If she gets too stressed, the carat of the gold drops significantly. When Jack returned, he found them together in the pen. What did he do? He stole them! He stole them both right from my home. How do I know this? I was there! I had just returned from my walk to find this boy stealing my harp and goose! He took off running through the house, dodging under furniture and every which way. He flew out the front door, down the front steps, and down his beloved “beanstalk.” I called for the elevator several times, but it wouldn’t come. Perhaps it was broken or something, but I would have to worry about that later. Then I did something I had been warned a million times as a boy not to do: I climbed the outside of the elevator. As I made my way down, I began to hear this faint noise growing from the bottom of the elevator. It started in low, then it started to grow. I was about halfway down when I began to sway back and forth at an alarming angle. I risked a peek down at the ground and saw a terrible sight. There was a crowd gathered down at the bottom, cheering at the top of their lungs. At first, I’ll admit, I thought they were cheering for me. I thought they were encouraging me to face my fear and go get my things back from this juvenile delinquent. Then I saw that they weren’t looking at me at all. They were looking at the base of the elevator. They were cheering for a small figure who was swinging—a baseball bat? No, it wasn’t a baseball bat; it was an axe! Jack was attempting to chop down my elevator! I began to quicken my pace. I was halfway to the ground when I heard, “TIMBER!” The next thing I knew, I was lying in a giant field with several birds pecking at me.  My entire body ached, and my head felt like it was about to split in two. I got up and slowly and dejectedly walked back to my home. I discovered that it had been two days since the “Beanstalk Disaster.” My house was in shambles. My fortune was gone. My harp was gone. Everything had been taken away from me. That is when I decided to write this letter to you, Constable. I need you to know of the grievous transgressions that have been committed against me.  
That is my tale, one as old as time: a young upstart comes and takes everything from a kind soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Take this letter and do everything in your power to put him behind bars and get back what is rightfully mine. Should you need any assistance or follow-up statement of any kind, please let me know. My wife and I are more than willing to testify in court about the wrongs that have been done to us. Thank you for your time. 
                                                            Sincerely, 
                                               Leopold Francis Hastings III