a story with frank sinatra, dedicated to vacuous cardboard cutouts
I knew he was real, and apparently my fingernails knew it too, for they kept scratching me, all the time, to remind me of this, that something was horribly wrong under the surface. I had red marks from constantly scratching my arms, my face, everywhere I could. At night I gritted my teeth until I got lockjaw; at times they chattered, yet Frank Sinatra didn’t seem to mind.
I lived with Frank Sinatra in a two-bedroom apartment somewhere uptown, I forget which town. It doesn’t even matter; I worked underground anyway. Which is only appropriate; the surface pressed me with its ignorance and thus I preferred the squallid, musty world of the subway tunnels, maintenance rooms, cramped offices where I worked as an electrician.
It’s so easy to disregard the blatantly obvious and still you all do it. I look at you from time to time, and almost none of you grit your teeth. You know he’s out there, you must know! Are all people who discover the truth silenced? Has this gone too far already and there’s no-one left to stop this giant plot to cover up the truth? You vacuous cardboard cutouts!
One night Frank Sinatra was in a bad mood; he went out without straightening his bowtie; it was crooked and he wouldn’t let me fix it. He snapped at me — to remember to take my pills this time, put on his trenchcoat and slammed the door behind him. I was left alone with my thoughts, as I was wont to do every night, and I kept searching for him.
You know who I’m talking about. Everywhere I looked, there was no sign of him. All throughout history, there was NO-ONE named Mercurio Maldoror. No-one. Everywhere I listened, nothing about him ever once came up. Everyone else was either in on the cover-up or brainwashed. I was neither and I had to pull the thread that would unravel this global conspiracy.
Mercurio, bane of my existence. I googled him every night and no results turned up except my own searches. His only digital trace was what I frantically searched for. I thought — Mercurio, you scum of the earth, you have to make a mistake one day, and leave a trace, and that’s when I’ll be on your trail, ever vigilant!
That night, the pills stopped working. Frank Sinatra, that heart of gold, was helping me with my vitamin D deficiency and kept reminding me to take them, to combat the effects of working underground. Whenever I took them Frank went away for a short while, but he always came back, that heart of gold, and reminded me again to take my vitamins.
My dreary life revolved around Maldoror. Mercurio, I had to ensnare you and cleanse the world of your evil, subterfuge and scheming! Are you the Antichrist?
I died stupidly, was it you who ‘done me in? I was in a hurry, hadn’t bathed nor shaved in about a week, my temples were aching from sharp pains like they did every Thursday at 7:30ish.
I died stupidly. I hadn’t achieved my purpose.
I died stupidly. My messenger bag got caught on the rails and I felt I had to try to set it free. I should have only taken the notes, there was enough time.
I died stupidly. I’ll remember the screeching of the brakes for the rest of this afterlife, however long it may take. It’s always Thursday 7:30ish pm here, forever.
I died stupidly. Maybe it was you who killed me, Mercurio Maldoror, you who wanted me dead so I wouldn’t expose you!
I died stupidly and it’s all your fault.
After I died, they started an investigation, they harassed my psychiatrist, my employer, my parents. They searched my offices underground and found everything I had on Mercurio. They even started searching to see who, where, what he was. Everyone came up empty.
I met Frank Sinatra in the afterlife. I must mention, if you hadn’t caught on yet — I wasn’t crazy, my roommate’s name was Frank Sinatra; he obviously wasn’t THE Frank Sinatra. The Frank Sinatra was here with me in the afterlife afterlivin’ it up, as he put it.
I kept watching over the world; I waited for Maldoror to show up or join me; that hasn’t yet happened. My aching temples never stopped throbbing; my stubble never went away.
I became famous after dying; they named a syndrome after me. Well, not after ME, since my name ended up being wiped from my medical chart, which was anonymized. They named the syndrome flavor Mercurio Maldoror Manic Obsession or Compulsion or Paranoia or something.
I finally did it! Everyone kept talking about him, about Mercurio Maldoror! The word was out! It was a matter of time until he would be outed, and here in the afterlife time is all I had and what he, on the outside, didn’t.
I knew I was real, and apparently my fingernails knew it too, for they kept scratching me, all the time, to remind me of this, that something was horribly wrong under the surface. I had red marks from constantly scratching my arms, my face, everywhere I could. On Thursday 7:30ish pm I gritted my teeth until I got lockjaw; at times they chattered, yet Frank Sinatra didn’t seem to mind.
You know who I’m talking about. Everywhere I looked, there was no sign of me. All throughout history, there was NO-ONE named after me. No-one. Everywhere I listened, nothing about me ever once came up. Everyone else was either in on the cover-up or brainwashed. I was neither and I had to pull the thread that would unravel this global conspiracy.
Originally published at http://trepanatie.wordpress.com on November 6, 2019.