Alger Hiss was framed.
There is nothing preventing me from going to work- nothing but a crippling migraine, a nausea surging greasily in hangover intensity, not from any particular excess the night before, but rather privation… lack of good clean oxygen. Small wisps of seventy per cent death, twenty five air, and five the effluvia of dreams and lust, a resonance with my wife drowsing next to me. It’s the sort of malady that philosophy professors will write short collections of fiction about, thin volumes with covers that could pass as rejected Peter Gabriel album cover designs. I am in good company.
Fatty Arbuckle was framed.
I am a time traveler. I am casting a light forward into the future. I am a seeker of forbidden knowledge, tidbits of tidings that will turn my head around. Or blow it apart. You should see my show. You should eat at my restaurant. There is nothing to be cooked but jasmine rice. Each batch is cooked with slight variations in cooking time, amount of water, burner temperature. It provides an infinite variation of flavors and subtle aromas. I also have a bridge to sell you.
Gilles de Rais was framed.
I have fallen into the pit. The pit is tenanted by old couches, rolls of backdrop fabric, forgotten crumbs of joint and a nimbus of pubic hair lost in hasty fumbling. This is inaccurate. I am pushed into the pit, and above the cheers of the audience- below the cheers of the audience- I hear her laugh. A snarling sound. I fall onto the cushion, but I have been pushed with too much vigor. She is responsible. An excess of zeal. My foot makes a terrifying clapping sound as my harness boot hits the concrete. My brilliantine stains the cushion.
A year later she visits out of the blue, and bodily tries to stop me from entering the girl’s dressing room.
“There are naked girls in there.”
“I know. Fuck off.”