Toacho
The ‘Friend of a Friend’
Mr. Irving S. Fernsby's favorite joke was none other than the one about the doe and the hunter and a punchline that he could hardly even remember straight; not for the humor, but rather the circumstances in which it was delivered that would inevitably lead to the death of one of his largest future rivals only a mere decade later. After all, neither had recognized the humor behind the strange meeting at the bar all those years ago. Only an audience that was never present for the unfolding events would be able to appreciate the start to the joke; two artists walk into a bar...
One should not find themselves bogged down in the details of the meeting, as neither of the two men could recall the exchange anyways. To state it as simply as possible; they met, they left, they re-met, they butted heads, Mr. Fernsby won, and two years later a maid would be sitting on the floor of a hotel room scrubbing away at a red stain on the ground as her manager fussed over being forced to order new paint to coat the splattered and forsaken wall. If one were to care all that much, the death itself could be summarized by three words as well; messy, resigned, and if you were to ask Mr. Fernsby, expected.
Of course, there were many factors that lead to the suicide. The man's encounter with Mr. Fernsby was not his sole undoing. Mr. Fernsby had only been the initial spark. From the divorce in his family troubles to the parasitic 'students' he had mentored causing his financial troubles, all that Mr. Fernsby had done was insult his work and push him to social troubles. After all, it can be quite difficult to function when nobody cares for their work and is only capable of seeing the flaws. Considering that fact, this was all hardly Mr. Fernsby's fault at all. He was merely an artist helping another artist, pointing out a few awkwardly canted fingers in his comics, to the tediously annoying way that the man wrote his a's. It wasn't his fault that everyone else paid so much mind to these little mistakes. Perhaps the man should have not made so many of them?
Nonetheless, this man was dead, and Mr. Fernsby was alive. That — above all — was the most amusing joke that Mr. Fernsby had ever heard. Two artists walk into a bar, ten years later, one of them kills themselves in a hotel room above one. Isn't that funny?
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Paint is quite a disgusting thing to work with. Firstly, the smell is atrocious. Some of them tend to be a little bit more bearable than the last, but it's still like looking at a fresh and steaming pile of dog dung and saying at least it's not from a horse! The last brand that he had used had made the entire mansion reek of ammonia for weeks. Opening the windows sometimes solved this issue, and it was a good paint with lovely streaks and consistency, but as the wintertime began to roll in, it was clear that opening windows would no longer be an option. It was still better than a few brands prior that Miss Gabler had decided to spark with some of her perfume after a night of both drinking and him complaining about the stench, leaving the house to smell flowery for approximately a whole hour before the old stench of rotten eggs rolled back in. The paint that he had currently, while not his favorite — the makers of that one had long been abandoned back in Germany — was better than the last few tries. It had a lovely consistency, and allowed him to create some lovely and smooth strokes, but had the awful issue in the area of its smell.
Rotting books. That was the best way he could describe it as he laid on his back, nose hardly a foot away from the wretched thing. Unlike the descriptions provided by those damned starry-eyed and cotton-brained poets, the smell of rotting books was not a lovely one. A mixture of mold, mildew, tossed in with the smallest relief of a hint of nature. Of course, when one has been around such a disgraceful smell for so long, it becomes difficult to smell any of the pleasant earthiness and becomes only a noseful of rot.
After one can get past the smell, which Mr. Fernsby was still full-heartedly working on, the next issue would be keeping the paint where it is placed — primarily an issue when one is painting neither in front of or under themselves, but rather above. Fact one for painters, paint drips. That was one of the primary reasons that Mr. Fernsby had chosen a pen as his preferred tool. For this circumstance, however, that was not an option.
So, he kept his back as straight as possible while resting on the makeshift scaffolding, hands occasionally shaking softly from strain as he held them up to the ceiling. He had gotten skilled at noticing a droplet just before it would fall, leading him to use his right hand to sweep it off before wiping it away on a towel sitting draped over the edge of the scaffolding. While his eyes constantly darted between various sections of the large canvas, he would keep his left hand up, sometimes steadying it with the right, and would paint the thin details. He sparsely ever changed his brush, only selecting a new one or cleaning it after these spurs of mindless activity, every little and large detail being stroked with a brush hardly bigger than half of a pinky finger.
The scaffolding looked like the remains of some great beast that had long perished and rotted on the floor, only leaving behind its skeletal remains of jarring metal and wood jutting out from various parts of the beast. The bottom supports were its rib cage, broken and unsteady in various areas. The stairs were the spine, starting somewhere near the bottom at a steep slope — almost like a ladder — before curving up into a nearly smooth place at the top.
It had never been intended to be permanent, merely tossed together by an acquaintance who owed Mr. Fernsby a favor many years ago as a means to reach the giant ceiling. While it had been at least somewhat decent in its first year, it had quickly fallen into disrepair before eventually just becoming an eyesore among the living room. While the scaffolding looked hideous and took up nearly a fourth of the entire room as it spiraled up towards the ceiling, that was surprisingly not his most hated feature that he was attempting to block off; rather, it was the canvas that it reached up towards.
Hideous. Ugly. Atrocious. Misshaped. Unattractive. Awful. Grotesque. Unseemly. Appalling. Beastly. Deformed. Loathsome. Uncomely. Foul. Repulsive. Repugnant. Vile. Disgusting. All around, his least favorite piece yet.
To a typical eye, craned up to look at the giant and expansive ceiling above, it actually looked half decent. Ten people all dressed in mostly muted colors and similar features. Some were sitting, some were standing. Two were in white; a woman and a young boy. Nothing exemplar about the painting until a trained eye could pick up all the strangeness hidden inside it. For one, it seemed that physics did not apply in this painting. An older woman dressed in black at the back of the painting had an odd texture to her fabric, it seeming to be just a little too weightless than it looked like it should be. Another detail was how a young boy, also in black, had an odd sort of conflict in how the lighting was drawn, appearing to come from somewhere above and to the left in the painting, while his chair reflected that the light was coming from the back right. Countless details slowly made it look more and more distorted. As soon as you spotted one, there would be three more.
However; perhaps the most noticeable fact about the painting was not the misshapen and odd details, but rather, where it lacked these details.
Three people from the painting had no such mistakes; both of the two in white as well as a familiar man standing at the top left of the painting in black. For the woman in white, everything was perfectly painted. Her dress folded elegantly, and the light was very clearly centered in front of her. For the boy in white, his doll was painted with the same care as the woman and he appeared as if he could step right out from the painting and nothing would indicate he was not a true human being.
For the man at the corner? Well, it was none other than the man on the scaffolding himself. Similar to the other two, there seemed to be nothing wrong with the physics or lighting of his picture, it only turning to distortion at the bottom where his hand dipped down to rest on the shoulder of a slightly younger man — whose clothes did not fold right under Irving's grip.
There was no food resting on the balcony with him, only a single glass of water, muddied with various shades of dull blacks, greys, whites, and sometimes a green, violet, or blue. Black was for the jacket around the largest man in the painting. Dark grey was for the vests of the few boys of various ages. White was for the women's dresses. Green was for some of the eyes of all the people depicted. Two of the people, an older looking girl, and a younger-looking boy had white in their eyes as well, giving them an odd fish-like sort of tinge to muddy their eyes just as much as the water. Violet was for the oldest woman's necklace. Blue was mixed with the black for a deeper black. Throughout the entirety of the painting of the ten people, not a single dab of red was used. Not in the lips of the girls, or the cheeks of the children. No red. Nowhere.
As he worked, two servants began to gather just outside the living room, both timidly watching him paint in silence before exchanging looks. One of them, the boy opened his mouth to speak, but quickly fell short. In his place, the girl quietly spoke. "How long has he been up there?" She asked in a hushed whisper. Even if she raised her voice, it seemed unlikely the man perched by the ceiling would notice.
"It's been a few hours now. I've been checking in occasionally. He hasn't even shifted," The male said, looking back up to the painting before scrunching his nose slightly. "How much time does it take to paint a stupid dress hem?"
The two both fell silent, watching the man work for a few more seconds. Sure enough, just as the male had noticed back earlier this morning, Mr. Fernsby had not moved from his spot just under the picture of woman, currently trying solely to perfecting the lace around the hem of the young woman's dress. It was detailed, all of it was, but it surely did not warrant the amount of time and dedication he was giving to it? "Should we bring him something to eat? Maybe some water too?" The girl finally asked.
The male shook his head before cracking a small smile. "He's probably surviving off drinking his paint water up there. I bet he's actually dead. Don't people's muscles tighten up when they kick it?"
The girl punched him in the shoulder, causing the male to give a small whispered cry of surprise before wearily watching her. The two then shared a quiet pause before they looked up to the man again. "Well, he's been off. I just don't want anything to happen to him." She said.
"He'll be fine."
"He's our paycheck, you remember this, right?" She asked, barely missing a beat the moment he spoke.
The two exchanged another look, both between themselves and then to the man on the scaffolding. This was not the first time the two had seen this strange behavior from the man and it surely would not be the last. For nearly every day for the last few weeks, he had climbed up those rickety steps every morning and worked all day, only for him to still be working by the time the two quietly returned to the basement and slipped out through the backdoor. They had been warned of this behavior by his last servants, he was known for getting a bit lost in his head and taking it out on the painting so far above the living room. It had caused the entire room itself to be practically ruined. Droplets of paint that had escaped his hand lay splattered across the entire floor and even some of the furniture, the smell was the worst in this room, and the scaffolding gave off the appearance of a constant construction effort that had been nearly ten years in the making. Some of the staff a few years prior had tried to persuade him to get a professional painter to finish the painting while he was distracted with his work.
To this day, the two remaining members of his staff had never heard him shout louder.
Now, things were much quieter. They tended to always be quiet during these times. They would seldom see him anywhere else than at his little perch, occasionally leading them to worry over the man and bring small things like snacks or drinks for him. The snacks were always ignored. The drinks, when they were anything but water or tea, were given a little bit more attention.
Of course, where these episodes of silence occurred, it was nonetheless difficult for the two staff members. They were naturally skilled, quick at their jobs, rarely ever requiring more than a couple of hours to complete their work for the day. Usually, when he was either out in meetings or working on his other art, it was surprisingly easier for them to finish their work and then slip down to the basement to wait until the afternoon when he would sometimes leave his office. Now? It was a bit more difficult. If he were to come down from the scaffolding and discover that one of the jobs was either not completed or that one of the two were slacking off, they would never hear the end of it and would likely require a new place to work — a task that was easier said than done.
"Fine, I'll get him something. I think we shouldn't bother him too much. I'd rather avoid setting him off." The male eventually said, giving when the girl gave no slack. She smiled back at him, watching him proceed down one of the many halls before turning her gaze back to the man at the perch and frowning slightly. As a few seconds passed, she would watch a small droplet of paint fall, slipping between the cracks of the scaffolding, and hit the ground. With a resolute sigh, she reached to her waist and pulled a small towel from her belt and approached it, cleaning the blemish off from the ground.
As she began to rise, she heard a gentle creak from above her, causing her to jolt, cursing as her head hit one of the many bars strewn haphazardly together to support the entire structure. Backing out from the rib cage of the beast, she looked up to notice a figure steadily beginning to make its way down the creaking stairs, all while keeping a tight grip on the only remaining rail. Quickly, she straightened her back and tucked the rag back under her belt, then folding her hands in front of her and giving a small bow as Mr. Fernsby reached the bottom step — the woman trying to ignore the pain blossoming in the back of her head from where she had struck it. "Good morning, sir."
Mr. Fernsby looked briefly across the room to the doorway she had entered from, searching the room for a brief second before he noticed her as he began sliding his glasses off, a small smear of dark blue paint across one lens. "Miss Ferro," He acknowledged with little mind, already flicking his gaze elsewhere as he held his lenses in one hand while running the other paint smeared hand across his forehead, not seeming to notice the flecks catching in his hair.
"Sir, your hand!" She cried out, trying to stop him in time from smearing it across his face.
He hesitated briefly, lowering it with little regard, glancing at it before reaching it out to her.
There was a pause before he eventually let his eyes settle back on her, noticing the confused daze in her look. The edge of his lips twitched into a slight frown before he waved his hand sharply. Finally, she seemed to take the hint, quickly fumbling with the rag at her waist before pulling it out and handing it to him. He wiped the stray smears of paint off both his hand and glasses before calmly speaking again as he began to tuck the glasses in his pocket. "What time is it?"
"It is currently ten thirty, sir."
He did not look back at her immediately, seeming to fumble with the rag slightly as he continued wiping at some paint crusted onto the side of his hand. Instead, his eyes trailed up to his work. They flickered across the features of the painting. The different people depicted. The flowers that one man held. The small child clutched in a woman's arms. They eventually fell away as he looked around again, eyes not seeming to land on anything in particular. Briefly, he looked to part of the wall before he quite literally shook it off. "When?" He asked again, looking back up to the maid.
It is then that he noticed the crease between her eyebrows. She hesitated before delivering her next words. "Ten thirty, sir. Morning." She clarified.
Mr. Fernsby did not let his gaze linger on her, eyes still flitting across the room before he eventually looked to his hands, settling with their newfound cleanliness, and returned the rag, nearly dropping it as he passed it back to the woman and began to quickly turn to exit the room. "Clean up the paint on the balcony." He demanded, already turning his back on the woman as he proceeded towards the couch and took his vest from the side — luckily having been working nowhere close to it this time and not spilling any paint onto it. Buttoning it swiftly, he heard the woman beginning to stutter an argument before she quickly gave in. Finishing the final button, he could hear soft feet steadily proceeding up the rickety skeleton.
He did not look back as he found his coat from the closet, noticing a figure beginning to return with a glass of water and a fruit of some kind in the reflection of the front door's window. Regardless of the type, as well as their intentions, he tugged the coat over his slightly paint-stained shirt and vest, then began towards the door. "Light some candles, it smells dreadful in here." He said as he left, closing the door behind him and only briefly catching a glimpse of his two servants. The young woman was steadily working her way up the supports, concern written across her face as she tried desperately to not stumble on the steps; and the young man was standing only a few feet away from the entryway, apple in hand and a raised eyebrow. Contrary to his former belief, it was not water, but rather a very light looking wine. Or perhaps a glass of champagne? As appealing as day-drinking sounded, he believed it would be best to hold off until later. "Drink it or throw it out, I don't care. Make sure to tidy up and finish the preparations for this evening."
With those final words, he closed the door behind himself, already feeling the cold begin to nip at him as he began on his way towards the deeper city region.
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If not for the fact that the body lay only a few feet away, dipped deep into the Earth with only a few shovel-fulls of dirt covering it so far, perhaps nobody would be able to tell that this was; in fact, a funeral. Just a couple of short nights prior, a man had decided to take his life — from who, nobody could tell, it was not exactly missed — and everything was the same as when he had left. The sun was still shining, a soft birdsong could be heard from a distance, the morning dew still left the grass somewhat soggy, and the Earth still spun with almost no recognition of the life that had been lost. If not for the crowd tamely gathered, perhaps the world would have not recognized it at all.
The man was unimportant, a penniless and heavily depressed gentleman who had once been the face of a popular Saturday-morning comic. His golden age had passed years ago, leading to a steady decline and, eventually, his passing. The details of the matter, just like the man, also happened to be unimportant. A gun and a bit to drink from the building below his hotel room, as one would find if they were to get caught in the minutiae of it. Of course, there was little more than that. Not even a note remained to urge the healing process for any loved ones. Perhaps that was because there were no loved ones? No, not even the ones watching the Earth slowly take him back in.
The crowd was insignificant at best, although each individual were collectively some of the most creative minds in their given fields. One woman, a lady with a distasteful choice to wear a bright red dress for the funeral, was the lead actress and a scriptwriter for the dramatic show, Whoopsie Macy. Another gentleman, quickly rushing to catch his blown off hat from the winds, was the quiet mastermind lyric writer behind a few prominent musicians from the London area. However, it was neither of these two individuals that were of particular interest — not even one of the many geniuses — but rather a larger gentleman with scraggly hair and a dirtied aviator's jacket that stood alone with his shoulders slightly hunched and his eyes on the stone grave. Even as the others kept to their own small clutters a short distance away from him and eventually began to disperse back towards the church, he said nothing.
A woman and her husband would briefly pass the towering gentleman, his eyes briefly following the woman before quickly returning to the smooth stone structure as he noticed the other man's eyes greet his.
The man remained in place, slowly finding himself deserted by the others of the group that had neglected his presence. Eventually, with a final gentle sigh, he would look out to the lake before bringing his gaze back down to the grave. "Well," He hummed, eyes skimming over the name but not quite taking it in. "Have a good rest, my man." He mumbled, raising the shovel slightly as he began to return towards the grave. With little grace, he gave a sharp push of the shovel into the mound of dirt and began about his job.
"I see that you are still not used to it." A voice cut through the air, sharp and articulate, familiar but distant enough to make the man guess again whether he had truly heard it. Bringing his head up sharply while mid-way to pulling another shovel-full of dirt back to its place, he was greeted by the sight of the other man. The clean jacket and slacks, expensive shoes, and face with the features just as sharp as his voice.
The man gave a small snort of laughter and pulled his gaze back to his job, pushing the dirt back onto the grave with little regard. "Yeah?" He asked. "Used to what?"
"How little they speak." The other man responded. "Didn't you talk for nearly almost an hour when your father died?"
He jabbed his shovel back into the earth, giving a slight huff as he scooped up a particularly large amount. "Just looking to fill the silence. Gets too unnerving when you bastards just stand around there like damn sheep, clearly just waiting for one to break out before you can deem it fair to leave and resume your damned lives."
"It seems you have learned of our secret?" The edge of Mr. Fernsby's lip twitched up into a smirk as he spoke, his hands politely tucked in his pockets as he continued to watch the man working on filling the hole back up. For a moment, he let his eyes turn to the headstone. After a second or two, the smirk was gone and his eyes returned to the other man. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, Mr. Kiemer, I am not just here to gloat."
"What? You waiting for when nobody is here to spit on you when you do?" The man asked, starting to break a slight sweat. "Look, I ain't stopping you. Say whatever you want. Doesn't make me the sentimental one."
Mr. Fernsby raised an eyebrow at the comment. He had never considered himself to be sentimental. This was just a body and a slab of stone, just like the hundreds of others here. It did not matter that he had once known the soul that inhabited it. However, that was not the only thing to strike him odd. The giant of a man before him — the very same one that had threatened him with quite vivid descriptions of violence at every meeting almost a year ago — had been castrated. Everything that had made the man who was seemed to have been ripped out. It was, above all, pathetic.
"I came here to see you, not to be sentimental," he said, biting out the final word harshly. "Where have you been for the last year?"
His words caught a glance from the larger man, but not much more. Despite the irritation bubbling up underneath Mr. Fernsby's skin, he did not comment on the matter, instead taking a couple of seconds to compose himself before he walked a few paces closer and kept a firm eye on the other man. After another pause at the odd way the man continued to neglect him, he looked away as he began to retrieve a small and faintly crumpled letter from his pocket. As he brought his gaze back to the man, he noticed him to be watching his movements, the larger man looking back to his work quickly and feigning indifference. "Fuck is that?" He eventually grunted out while still shoveling dirt.
"Perhaps you should take it and find out?" He responded without wavering.
Finally, he caught the man's attention. Slowly, the man pushed another filling of dirt into the grave before returning his gaze to the letter, his lips tugging into a slight frown as he pushed the shovel sharply into the ground and stared. His eyes flickered back up to meet Irving's and for just a second, Mr. Fernsby had to restrain himself from smiling. It was a losing battle, though, and the edge of his mouth would sharply curve up the moment that the larger man snatched the letter from his grip.
He folded his hands, remaining in place as the man took his time to open it and skim over the contents. Eventually, the larger man gave a small snort of laughter and looked back up. "A 'celebration of his life'? Are you kidding me? Everyone knows you don't give a damn. Why try to fake it?" Mr. Kiemer grunted. "Besides, why would you invite me? I'm just here to bury the poor bastard. Ain't really my place to just show up."
Irving closed his eyes briefly, feeling a small pain begin to rise in his head as the other raised his voice. Briefly running his hand through his hair, he gave a soft sigh. "You're not invited." He calmly stated. He kept a close eye on the other man, even as he glanced back down to the letter and read over it a second time, watching closely. He watched the brown eyes flicker over the paper, taking in the delicately written cursive words all while he took in the quiet expression of the larger man. The way his eyebrows furrowed again just faintly. The way one of his hands held the paper slightly tighter than the other. The way his shoulders remained hunched over but unnaturally stiff.
Just a year ago, as Irving could recall, this man had been so close. Close to fame, wealth, and prosperity. Every word that the man wrote had been gold written on paper, a poet who had quietly chosen to linger in anonymity. He has been so skilled, so artistic, so passionate. Then it had faded. So quickly after simply losing someone. A talent unused and abused. Wasted. Honestly. Perhaps that was why Irving despised the man. Maybe it was not hatred, but respect? These days, such concepts seemed to blend so harshly like paint on a canvas. But that was not the only reason he both hated the man and was fascinated by him...
"I saw your poem in the newspaper last Sunday."
The two stood in silence, a cold wind blowing the lake behind them gently onto the bank while the grass wavered alongside Mr. Fernsby's jacket. They looked tiny in comparison to the rest of the vast graves among them. Mr. Kiemer's head eventually looked up after a pause from hearing the line, a distant church bell from just up the hill softly sounding as their eyes connected. As the bell sounded and eventually fell back into silence, it was Mr. Kiemer to break it.
He sighed, tired and reluctant, before raising a hand to the back of his neck and rubbing at it, giant shoulders still hunched. "You're not going to-"
"No, I would rather avoid being the first one to disrespect that honor among artists." Mr. Fernsby said as he briefly closed his eyes and shook his head.
There was another timid silence. "Look," The giant began, looking back down to the letter for a second as he hesitated, sighing again. "I was in a bad place. I got help, that's all it is. Why don't you just go somewhere else and get-"
"I've tried." Mr. Fernsby said flatly, his sentence punctuated with a few drops of spite and a frown tugging at the edge of his lips.
Mr. Kiemer hesitated again, raising an eyebrow at the man. Eventually, he turned his look away, back towards the lake. Watching it for a few moments, he eventually cracked a small smile. "You sent them all out the door, didn't you?" He asked, turning his gaze back to the stern man. "Let me guess, they were all too personal. Too pushy. Or maybe just a bunch of fucked up fanboys who'd pop a hard-on for some random children's comic. Am I getting close here?"
There was only silence on the other end.
Kiemer couldn't help but give another breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly, "The great Cray Marroon, asking a gravedigger for a favor. Seems like I dodged a bullet," He said as he flicked the letter to the ground and grabbed the shovel and sharply dug it back into the mound of dirt, returning to his job. "Fame really does make stars fall hard, doesn't it?" With another small laugh, he waited for the footsteps trailing away.
They didn't.
Mr. Fernsby remained in place, watching him for a few more moments before looking back out behind him to the church. Then, with a gentle inhale and briefly closing his eyes again as he felt another slight shot of pain across his head, another damned headache, he began forwards, opening his eyes as he got close to the man. The man seemed to either not notice or flatly ignored him. So, as Mr. Fernsby approached and stopped only a couple of feet away, he waited until the man was working on getting another shovel full of dirt before ducking his head down to look the hunched-over man directly in the eyes. He couldn't help but smile softly as the man lurched back at the sudden sight of Irving suddenly being so close.
"Jesus-"
"Mr. Kiemer," Irving began, letting the smile vanish as soon as it had appeared, the other man bumping into the gravestone and nearly toppling into the hole itself. "I understand that you have been upset since the loss of your family, but I am deathly curious as to where you have been this past year. No poems. No writings. Nothing." He explained, stepping closer yet again. "You wrote about some rather heavy topics back in your day, many of your biggest fans and critics of your work assume that you — the real you; not this whole giant but soft-hearted 'gravedigger' facade — are a dead man. I mean, I appreciate the poetic irony behind this new career choice — burying your past like this and all — but you do realize that it would be quite easy for this whole plan to fall flat without me ever touching it, correct?" He said, words sharp and quick. He could almost see the other man flinch. Good.
"What are you rambling on about?"
"What I am saying, Mr. Kiemer, is that somebody is going to think very soon. I've already heard the debates. People are wondering if that new Sunday poem was actually yours or if it is merely a very skilled copycat." He stopped a foot away and stared into the other man's eyes. He could make out his own faint smile through his reflection in Mr. Kiemer's eyes. "Interestingly enough, it seems like nobody cares. After all, a good poem is a good poem. Particularly when it is made by a name such as Anonymous."
There it was. The flicker of recognition, resolution. Quietly, Irving looked back down to the letter, plucking it from the grass below. "Contrary to what others will say, I do have my beliefs." He said softly, folding the letter once, twice, and then handing it out. "I believe in favors."
Kiemer looked down at the letter, then back up at the man. "So what, I help you out, pass this — this," He said, punctuating his word with a sharp finger jabbed at the paper. His lips pulled into a sneer, eyes squinting slightly as if trying to peer through the other man's scheme. "-- and when I finally reveal myself as the author --"
"Then I will publicly endorse your claim before any others have the chance to make it," Irving said.
It felt like the entire moment was in slow motion. The way Kiemer continuously tore his gaze between the letter and the man. Kiemer finally reached forward, pulling the letter from the other man's grasp as Mr. Fernsby's lips twitched up into a slight sneer, a flicker of interest rising in his eyes. "You're not going to like him, the Doc's not your typical doctor," Kiemer said softly under his breath.
"Wonderful," Irving said, ignoring the comment. "Please deliver it promptly." With his final words, he began to turn around, Kiemer's eyes fixed on the letter held firmly in both of his hands. He stopped though, Irving looking back briefly after he had stepped a few feet away. "Oh," He began. "Just to clarify, please refrain from attending. Nearly everyone there has both a name and money; I would hate to make you feel uncomfortable."
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The final preparations for the party went rather smoothly, in all surprise. The servants had polished the place to near perfection, decorated, and had even taken the liberty to seal off the monstrosity of a room that Mr. Fernsby had the pleasure to call his living room. The rest of his house was open, save for the office that branched off from his bedroom. The grand entryway was large enough on its own to host a party of such a large size, taking up about the same amount of space as many single-storied houses in the area. Two spiraled staircases lead up to the second floor which hosted a slightly smaller but still large opening — though notably had a bit more of a 'Fernsbian-flair' to it with various characters from his latest comic series spread across it. A young girl in a raincoat looking down into a puddle was hung up on a canvas on one side of the room, something inky and dark staring back out from the waters. Nearby to this was a dog splashing around in a similarly odd puddle — a small bird fluttering just above it. On the opposite side of the room, a canvas depicted a less familiar character that had emerged only a few years ago in his comic — a woman with a large floppy hat that covered the top half of her face, a smile on the lower half, and sitting on the outside edge of the puddle with a stick dipped into the inky black puddle. While countless smaller paintings were hung around the upstairs gallery-like ballroom, depicting various things like hot-air-balloons, less familiar characters, and even a few paintings of what appeared to be various drawing and painting tests; the most intricate one, by far, was that of the Rabbit.
As Mr. Fernsby began to pass it while performing a final run-through of the house before the guests would arrive, he couldn't keep himself from stopping in his tracks at the painting. Similar to the portrait of the family downstairs, there were a few notable facts to this image. For one, there was no canvas to it; but rather the wall itself was the canvas. With the wallpaper peeled back and torn at the edges, it almost looked like a portal to some sort of otherworldly space. In the torn wallpaper frame, it depicted a single hallway painted with extreme care and attention to detail — even the lighting among the room matched that of what would show if the hallway were to exist. The only off thing about the entire image is the familiar creature right at the end of the hallway, standing in a portion of the hallway way at the back that was filled with puddled and muddied black water. Despite the dimness at the end of the unlit hallway, anyone with half a mind could instantly recognize the character of the popular comic. The Lucky Rabbit.
It was Mr. Fernsby's crowning achievement. The source of his wealth, glory, and perhaps even his sole reason for existence. Without the mischievous fictional character, perhaps Mr. Fernsby would have found the heart to snuff himself out years ago? After all, despite his intelligence, he was hardly a scholar; a dropout even. Not to mention the creature would have undoubtedly died along some old and penniless artist were they to not even have half the wits as Irving. Perhaps that was why he and the fictional creature had worked so well together? It worked well — no — it worked best this way. Without him, the creature would never have come to the universal recognition and praise that it had reached so far. Without the creature, Mr. Fernsby was merely another artist off the block.
Of course, it was also this creature that had pulled him into the depths of despair on more than a few occasions. With the exploding and constant publicity of the creature, as well as the adoration for it, he was constantly treading on a hair's width to maintain his legacy. If he were to slow down his creation or to drop his quality even partially, there would be harsh consequences. The media would lash out. Other artists would throw their playground insults. Critics would laugh. It was all a matter of maintaining his comic's reputation.
Recently, he had not been maintaining it.
It had been nearly two months since he had dedicated his heart to create a new addition to the growing comic, as well as nearly three to four weeks since his last strip in full. He could not quite explain the reasoning behind it. The thoughts no longer flew so smoothly. His hand no longer felt the desire to move the moment he placed it on paper. His head could no longer find itself pouring over the ideas. It was poetic in a sense. Burnout. The one thing he had publicly criticized so many other authors and artists for.
He folded his hands behind his back, eyes still tracing over the painting, falling particularly on the centered creature. It is amusing. Both the term star and burnout. He was — by all means — a celebrity and a star. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, this was a steady explosion of his stardom. He was not condemned to burnout — nobody ever was. He was not losing his fame due to old age, sickness, or some controversial statement — God knows he has made so many already. No, this was a burnout. Like a real star. On the brink of explosion, just about ready to collapse on itself. Perhaps he would use the rifle on his mantle above the fireplace in his office should the situation ever arise where he finds himself stepping over the brink? Should the comic ever fail, perhaps that would be the best course of action.
For now; however, there was time to pull himself back around and continue to shine. Sure, his comic had begun to dim in the last couple of months, as well as during the isolation, but there was no such need for that action as of now. Only if there are no other paths to take.
That was the reasoning behind this latest situation, correct? While he believed that he would eventually come to enjoy the party tonight, he had never intended to appreciate it or look forward to it. It was only a means to reach an end. By hosting the party, he could both reassure the media that he had no intention to drop his work anytime soon, bring a little publicity back to him and most importantly; to fix whatever issue had plagued him to plunge him into this dull 'burnout'.
The doctor, or 'Doc', as he had heard, had a reputation that preceded him. He had heard of the man on a few occasions, though mostly in rumors. One singer had claimed that she no longer suffered from panic attacks due to him. A comedian had hinted at the doctor curing their dark thoughts about strangling their wife. It was only after hearing the rumors of Mr. Kiemer being treated by the unknown man that Irving had finally resolved to seek his assistance -- what with the countless past attempts at doctors that had already failed him? Irving hated to think of it as such, but it seemed that this world was very quickly beginning to close in. If this doctor did not fix whatever was wrong with him, then perhaps the easiest out would be to deprive the world of his creative existence and his own presence -- though he believed they would mourn the loss of the prior much more than that of the latter.
However, for every excellent comment and recommendation, there was also a fault. Clingy and somewhat eccentric, Irving did not have high expectations for the man.
Quietly, he shifted on his feet, bouncing from the flatness of it to forwards and then briefly backward as he cast his glance back towards the nearest stairwell. With a blank expression, he let his gaze fall back on the painting, still tracing over the edge of the dim creature at the end of the painted hallway. Then, with a pause of hesitation, a gentle sigh, and a spin on his heels; he began towards the staircase with only the gentle tapping of his shoes to interrupt the silence of the mansion.
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He had purposefully changed the time of attendance in each letter. For most of the attendees, he was familiar with and was able to take a calculated guess that they would either be faintly early or a tad bit late. So, after reasoning about the approximate time that would organize everyone to arrive at nearly the same time, he had taken the care to change them more.
Those that did not matter, and were only invited to add to the count of people attending the event, were invited first. Those with a bit more importance, some of the higher celebrities and artists as well as some of the more reasonable and genuine souls of the party, were given a time a bit after the first group. He refused to come directly greet anyone until the second group had already mostly arrived, finally smiling and making merry with the guests of importance while brushing off the less significant ones. As the final group, they were arranged more carefully. High-level actors and actresses, writers, and poets were invited in that precise order. Following that section of the third group, it narrowed more. The ones who were given the latest times were the journalists, photographers, and the friends of critics were invited at a time that was later than all others. He made sure to acknowledge the existence of all within this group, whether it was through directly shaking their hand or merely flashing them a smile from across the room. Finally, the fourth group consisted of only a single invitation; that of which was given to Mr. Kiemer.
He was not familiar with whoever this doctor that Mr. Kiemer mentioned, meaning that it would be a bit difficult to figure out the exact time to invite the man In the end, he had resolved to invite him about thirty minutes after the last time for the members of the third group. Whether they were early or late, it would be much more simple to detect the doctor. If the time they arrived did not give it away, Irving figured that arriving in a full-fledged party would be enough to slightly daze anyone, meaning that he would only need to watch for any social cues that signified someone unfamiliar with events of this scale.
Sadly, while Irving was trying to keep half a mind on the idea of watching out for the doctor, he could not help but find himself slowly becoming vainly lost in the event. Drinks were being passed on everywhere with both of his servants bustling about and keeping a watchful eye on the event staff hired specifically for this night. A band played from upstairs, having been previously playing some upbeat jazz music before transitioning to relying solely on the excited crowd gathered around them. Miss Gabler had also shown up unplanned and decided to appoint herself to bounce between the groups of people and keep the crowd lively.
All was well, even a small crowd of journalists seemed to have long forgotten their notebooks and pens, two of them now trying to best each other in a game of drinking. Irving could not call the party anything less than exhilarating. At least for the time being, that is.
In the beginning, much of the party had moved outside to escape the dreadful smell of the books and the flowery candles that were spread across the entirety of the mansion to try and drown out the stench; leaving behind only a rotting flowery smell. Still, few people remarked on it and he was able to simply excuse it as 'his latest work'. This seemed to not hinder the feel of the party as it continued to rage on and eventually numb people so far into their own drunken adrenaline that they completely forgot about the smell; splitting the party half inside and half out. Both inside and out, people were laughing, telling stories, and sharing their latest success with others. If not for the black clothes that a few of the party-members had chosen to wear, perhaps nobody would remember that this was a funeral reception?
Who was he kidding? Come the morning, nobody would remember the name of his former rival who now lay six feet under.
He had long forgotten keeping an eye on the crowd and entryway after developing a nice layer of fluff in his head with some drinks. For a bit, he had remained inside, chatting with various social elites about nothing in particular. As the hours had passed and the final members of the third group had shown up, he had settled in with a small group of giggly singers who he had entertained with various stories about the inspiration behind various characters from his comic. This had, of course, lead him to eventually make a white lie of a promise to include them in his next series, sending the girls into a bubbly fit of excitement.
Eventually, he had slowly found himself bored by the girls and had excused himself and began to make his way through the crowd once more, looking for any unfamiliar faces or dazed expressions. Everyone was enjoying themselves as they basked in their element. He just needed to find the one person who was not.
One should not find themselves bogged down in the details of the meeting, as neither of the two men could recall the exchange anyways. To state it as simply as possible; they met, they left, they re-met, they butted heads, Mr. Fernsby won, and two years later a maid would be sitting on the floor of a hotel room scrubbing away at a red stain on the ground as her manager fussed over being forced to order new paint to coat the splattered and forsaken wall. If one were to care all that much, the death itself could be summarized by three words as well; messy, resigned, and if you were to ask Mr. Fernsby, expected.
Of course, there were many factors that lead to the suicide. The man's encounter with Mr. Fernsby was not his sole undoing. Mr. Fernsby had only been the initial spark. From the divorce in his family troubles to the parasitic 'students' he had mentored causing his financial troubles, all that Mr. Fernsby had done was insult his work and push him to social troubles. After all, it can be quite difficult to function when nobody cares for their work and is only capable of seeing the flaws. Considering that fact, this was all hardly Mr. Fernsby's fault at all. He was merely an artist helping another artist, pointing out a few awkwardly canted fingers in his comics, to the tediously annoying way that the man wrote his a's. It wasn't his fault that everyone else paid so much mind to these little mistakes. Perhaps the man should have not made so many of them?
Nonetheless, this man was dead, and Mr. Fernsby was alive. That — above all — was the most amusing joke that Mr. Fernsby had ever heard. Two artists walk into a bar, ten years later, one of them kills themselves in a hotel room above one. Isn't that funny?
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Paint is quite a disgusting thing to work with. Firstly, the smell is atrocious. Some of them tend to be a little bit more bearable than the last, but it's still like looking at a fresh and steaming pile of dog dung and saying at least it's not from a horse! The last brand that he had used had made the entire mansion reek of ammonia for weeks. Opening the windows sometimes solved this issue, and it was a good paint with lovely streaks and consistency, but as the wintertime began to roll in, it was clear that opening windows would no longer be an option. It was still better than a few brands prior that Miss Gabler had decided to spark with some of her perfume after a night of both drinking and him complaining about the stench, leaving the house to smell flowery for approximately a whole hour before the old stench of rotten eggs rolled back in. The paint that he had currently, while not his favorite — the makers of that one had long been abandoned back in Germany — was better than the last few tries. It had a lovely consistency, and allowed him to create some lovely and smooth strokes, but had the awful issue in the area of its smell.
Rotting books. That was the best way he could describe it as he laid on his back, nose hardly a foot away from the wretched thing. Unlike the descriptions provided by those damned starry-eyed and cotton-brained poets, the smell of rotting books was not a lovely one. A mixture of mold, mildew, tossed in with the smallest relief of a hint of nature. Of course, when one has been around such a disgraceful smell for so long, it becomes difficult to smell any of the pleasant earthiness and becomes only a noseful of rot.
After one can get past the smell, which Mr. Fernsby was still full-heartedly working on, the next issue would be keeping the paint where it is placed — primarily an issue when one is painting neither in front of or under themselves, but rather above. Fact one for painters, paint drips. That was one of the primary reasons that Mr. Fernsby had chosen a pen as his preferred tool. For this circumstance, however, that was not an option.
So, he kept his back as straight as possible while resting on the makeshift scaffolding, hands occasionally shaking softly from strain as he held them up to the ceiling. He had gotten skilled at noticing a droplet just before it would fall, leading him to use his right hand to sweep it off before wiping it away on a towel sitting draped over the edge of the scaffolding. While his eyes constantly darted between various sections of the large canvas, he would keep his left hand up, sometimes steadying it with the right, and would paint the thin details. He sparsely ever changed his brush, only selecting a new one or cleaning it after these spurs of mindless activity, every little and large detail being stroked with a brush hardly bigger than half of a pinky finger.
The scaffolding looked like the remains of some great beast that had long perished and rotted on the floor, only leaving behind its skeletal remains of jarring metal and wood jutting out from various parts of the beast. The bottom supports were its rib cage, broken and unsteady in various areas. The stairs were the spine, starting somewhere near the bottom at a steep slope — almost like a ladder — before curving up into a nearly smooth place at the top.
It had never been intended to be permanent, merely tossed together by an acquaintance who owed Mr. Fernsby a favor many years ago as a means to reach the giant ceiling. While it had been at least somewhat decent in its first year, it had quickly fallen into disrepair before eventually just becoming an eyesore among the living room. While the scaffolding looked hideous and took up nearly a fourth of the entire room as it spiraled up towards the ceiling, that was surprisingly not his most hated feature that he was attempting to block off; rather, it was the canvas that it reached up towards.
Hideous. Ugly. Atrocious. Misshaped. Unattractive. Awful. Grotesque. Unseemly. Appalling. Beastly. Deformed. Loathsome. Uncomely. Foul. Repulsive. Repugnant. Vile. Disgusting. All around, his least favorite piece yet.
To a typical eye, craned up to look at the giant and expansive ceiling above, it actually looked half decent. Ten people all dressed in mostly muted colors and similar features. Some were sitting, some were standing. Two were in white; a woman and a young boy. Nothing exemplar about the painting until a trained eye could pick up all the strangeness hidden inside it. For one, it seemed that physics did not apply in this painting. An older woman dressed in black at the back of the painting had an odd texture to her fabric, it seeming to be just a little too weightless than it looked like it should be. Another detail was how a young boy, also in black, had an odd sort of conflict in how the lighting was drawn, appearing to come from somewhere above and to the left in the painting, while his chair reflected that the light was coming from the back right. Countless details slowly made it look more and more distorted. As soon as you spotted one, there would be three more.
However; perhaps the most noticeable fact about the painting was not the misshapen and odd details, but rather, where it lacked these details.
Three people from the painting had no such mistakes; both of the two in white as well as a familiar man standing at the top left of the painting in black. For the woman in white, everything was perfectly painted. Her dress folded elegantly, and the light was very clearly centered in front of her. For the boy in white, his doll was painted with the same care as the woman and he appeared as if he could step right out from the painting and nothing would indicate he was not a true human being.
For the man at the corner? Well, it was none other than the man on the scaffolding himself. Similar to the other two, there seemed to be nothing wrong with the physics or lighting of his picture, it only turning to distortion at the bottom where his hand dipped down to rest on the shoulder of a slightly younger man — whose clothes did not fold right under Irving's grip.
There was no food resting on the balcony with him, only a single glass of water, muddied with various shades of dull blacks, greys, whites, and sometimes a green, violet, or blue. Black was for the jacket around the largest man in the painting. Dark grey was for the vests of the few boys of various ages. White was for the women's dresses. Green was for some of the eyes of all the people depicted. Two of the people, an older looking girl, and a younger-looking boy had white in their eyes as well, giving them an odd fish-like sort of tinge to muddy their eyes just as much as the water. Violet was for the oldest woman's necklace. Blue was mixed with the black for a deeper black. Throughout the entirety of the painting of the ten people, not a single dab of red was used. Not in the lips of the girls, or the cheeks of the children. No red. Nowhere.
As he worked, two servants began to gather just outside the living room, both timidly watching him paint in silence before exchanging looks. One of them, the boy opened his mouth to speak, but quickly fell short. In his place, the girl quietly spoke. "How long has he been up there?" She asked in a hushed whisper. Even if she raised her voice, it seemed unlikely the man perched by the ceiling would notice.
"It's been a few hours now. I've been checking in occasionally. He hasn't even shifted," The male said, looking back up to the painting before scrunching his nose slightly. "How much time does it take to paint a stupid dress hem?"
The two both fell silent, watching the man work for a few more seconds. Sure enough, just as the male had noticed back earlier this morning, Mr. Fernsby had not moved from his spot just under the picture of woman, currently trying solely to perfecting the lace around the hem of the young woman's dress. It was detailed, all of it was, but it surely did not warrant the amount of time and dedication he was giving to it? "Should we bring him something to eat? Maybe some water too?" The girl finally asked.
The male shook his head before cracking a small smile. "He's probably surviving off drinking his paint water up there. I bet he's actually dead. Don't people's muscles tighten up when they kick it?"
The girl punched him in the shoulder, causing the male to give a small whispered cry of surprise before wearily watching her. The two then shared a quiet pause before they looked up to the man again. "Well, he's been off. I just don't want anything to happen to him." She said.
"He'll be fine."
"He's our paycheck, you remember this, right?" She asked, barely missing a beat the moment he spoke.
The two exchanged another look, both between themselves and then to the man on the scaffolding. This was not the first time the two had seen this strange behavior from the man and it surely would not be the last. For nearly every day for the last few weeks, he had climbed up those rickety steps every morning and worked all day, only for him to still be working by the time the two quietly returned to the basement and slipped out through the backdoor. They had been warned of this behavior by his last servants, he was known for getting a bit lost in his head and taking it out on the painting so far above the living room. It had caused the entire room itself to be practically ruined. Droplets of paint that had escaped his hand lay splattered across the entire floor and even some of the furniture, the smell was the worst in this room, and the scaffolding gave off the appearance of a constant construction effort that had been nearly ten years in the making. Some of the staff a few years prior had tried to persuade him to get a professional painter to finish the painting while he was distracted with his work.
To this day, the two remaining members of his staff had never heard him shout louder.
Now, things were much quieter. They tended to always be quiet during these times. They would seldom see him anywhere else than at his little perch, occasionally leading them to worry over the man and bring small things like snacks or drinks for him. The snacks were always ignored. The drinks, when they were anything but water or tea, were given a little bit more attention.
Of course, where these episodes of silence occurred, it was nonetheless difficult for the two staff members. They were naturally skilled, quick at their jobs, rarely ever requiring more than a couple of hours to complete their work for the day. Usually, when he was either out in meetings or working on his other art, it was surprisingly easier for them to finish their work and then slip down to the basement to wait until the afternoon when he would sometimes leave his office. Now? It was a bit more difficult. If he were to come down from the scaffolding and discover that one of the jobs was either not completed or that one of the two were slacking off, they would never hear the end of it and would likely require a new place to work — a task that was easier said than done.
"Fine, I'll get him something. I think we shouldn't bother him too much. I'd rather avoid setting him off." The male eventually said, giving when the girl gave no slack. She smiled back at him, watching him proceed down one of the many halls before turning her gaze back to the man at the perch and frowning slightly. As a few seconds passed, she would watch a small droplet of paint fall, slipping between the cracks of the scaffolding, and hit the ground. With a resolute sigh, she reached to her waist and pulled a small towel from her belt and approached it, cleaning the blemish off from the ground.
As she began to rise, she heard a gentle creak from above her, causing her to jolt, cursing as her head hit one of the many bars strewn haphazardly together to support the entire structure. Backing out from the rib cage of the beast, she looked up to notice a figure steadily beginning to make its way down the creaking stairs, all while keeping a tight grip on the only remaining rail. Quickly, she straightened her back and tucked the rag back under her belt, then folding her hands in front of her and giving a small bow as Mr. Fernsby reached the bottom step — the woman trying to ignore the pain blossoming in the back of her head from where she had struck it. "Good morning, sir."
Mr. Fernsby looked briefly across the room to the doorway she had entered from, searching the room for a brief second before he noticed her as he began sliding his glasses off, a small smear of dark blue paint across one lens. "Miss Ferro," He acknowledged with little mind, already flicking his gaze elsewhere as he held his lenses in one hand while running the other paint smeared hand across his forehead, not seeming to notice the flecks catching in his hair.
"Sir, your hand!" She cried out, trying to stop him in time from smearing it across his face.
He hesitated briefly, lowering it with little regard, glancing at it before reaching it out to her.
There was a pause before he eventually let his eyes settle back on her, noticing the confused daze in her look. The edge of his lips twitched into a slight frown before he waved his hand sharply. Finally, she seemed to take the hint, quickly fumbling with the rag at her waist before pulling it out and handing it to him. He wiped the stray smears of paint off both his hand and glasses before calmly speaking again as he began to tuck the glasses in his pocket. "What time is it?"
"It is currently ten thirty, sir."
He did not look back at her immediately, seeming to fumble with the rag slightly as he continued wiping at some paint crusted onto the side of his hand. Instead, his eyes trailed up to his work. They flickered across the features of the painting. The different people depicted. The flowers that one man held. The small child clutched in a woman's arms. They eventually fell away as he looked around again, eyes not seeming to land on anything in particular. Briefly, he looked to part of the wall before he quite literally shook it off. "When?" He asked again, looking back up to the maid.
It is then that he noticed the crease between her eyebrows. She hesitated before delivering her next words. "Ten thirty, sir. Morning." She clarified.
Mr. Fernsby did not let his gaze linger on her, eyes still flitting across the room before he eventually looked to his hands, settling with their newfound cleanliness, and returned the rag, nearly dropping it as he passed it back to the woman and began to quickly turn to exit the room. "Clean up the paint on the balcony." He demanded, already turning his back on the woman as he proceeded towards the couch and took his vest from the side — luckily having been working nowhere close to it this time and not spilling any paint onto it. Buttoning it swiftly, he heard the woman beginning to stutter an argument before she quickly gave in. Finishing the final button, he could hear soft feet steadily proceeding up the rickety skeleton.
He did not look back as he found his coat from the closet, noticing a figure beginning to return with a glass of water and a fruit of some kind in the reflection of the front door's window. Regardless of the type, as well as their intentions, he tugged the coat over his slightly paint-stained shirt and vest, then began towards the door. "Light some candles, it smells dreadful in here." He said as he left, closing the door behind him and only briefly catching a glimpse of his two servants. The young woman was steadily working her way up the supports, concern written across her face as she tried desperately to not stumble on the steps; and the young man was standing only a few feet away from the entryway, apple in hand and a raised eyebrow. Contrary to his former belief, it was not water, but rather a very light looking wine. Or perhaps a glass of champagne? As appealing as day-drinking sounded, he believed it would be best to hold off until later. "Drink it or throw it out, I don't care. Make sure to tidy up and finish the preparations for this evening."
With those final words, he closed the door behind himself, already feeling the cold begin to nip at him as he began on his way towards the deeper city region.
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If not for the fact that the body lay only a few feet away, dipped deep into the Earth with only a few shovel-fulls of dirt covering it so far, perhaps nobody would be able to tell that this was; in fact, a funeral. Just a couple of short nights prior, a man had decided to take his life — from who, nobody could tell, it was not exactly missed — and everything was the same as when he had left. The sun was still shining, a soft birdsong could be heard from a distance, the morning dew still left the grass somewhat soggy, and the Earth still spun with almost no recognition of the life that had been lost. If not for the crowd tamely gathered, perhaps the world would have not recognized it at all.
The man was unimportant, a penniless and heavily depressed gentleman who had once been the face of a popular Saturday-morning comic. His golden age had passed years ago, leading to a steady decline and, eventually, his passing. The details of the matter, just like the man, also happened to be unimportant. A gun and a bit to drink from the building below his hotel room, as one would find if they were to get caught in the minutiae of it. Of course, there was little more than that. Not even a note remained to urge the healing process for any loved ones. Perhaps that was because there were no loved ones? No, not even the ones watching the Earth slowly take him back in.
The crowd was insignificant at best, although each individual were collectively some of the most creative minds in their given fields. One woman, a lady with a distasteful choice to wear a bright red dress for the funeral, was the lead actress and a scriptwriter for the dramatic show, Whoopsie Macy. Another gentleman, quickly rushing to catch his blown off hat from the winds, was the quiet mastermind lyric writer behind a few prominent musicians from the London area. However, it was neither of these two individuals that were of particular interest — not even one of the many geniuses — but rather a larger gentleman with scraggly hair and a dirtied aviator's jacket that stood alone with his shoulders slightly hunched and his eyes on the stone grave. Even as the others kept to their own small clutters a short distance away from him and eventually began to disperse back towards the church, he said nothing.
A woman and her husband would briefly pass the towering gentleman, his eyes briefly following the woman before quickly returning to the smooth stone structure as he noticed the other man's eyes greet his.
The man remained in place, slowly finding himself deserted by the others of the group that had neglected his presence. Eventually, with a final gentle sigh, he would look out to the lake before bringing his gaze back down to the grave. "Well," He hummed, eyes skimming over the name but not quite taking it in. "Have a good rest, my man." He mumbled, raising the shovel slightly as he began to return towards the grave. With little grace, he gave a sharp push of the shovel into the mound of dirt and began about his job.
"I see that you are still not used to it." A voice cut through the air, sharp and articulate, familiar but distant enough to make the man guess again whether he had truly heard it. Bringing his head up sharply while mid-way to pulling another shovel-full of dirt back to its place, he was greeted by the sight of the other man. The clean jacket and slacks, expensive shoes, and face with the features just as sharp as his voice.
The man gave a small snort of laughter and pulled his gaze back to his job, pushing the dirt back onto the grave with little regard. "Yeah?" He asked. "Used to what?"
"How little they speak." The other man responded. "Didn't you talk for nearly almost an hour when your father died?"
He jabbed his shovel back into the earth, giving a slight huff as he scooped up a particularly large amount. "Just looking to fill the silence. Gets too unnerving when you bastards just stand around there like damn sheep, clearly just waiting for one to break out before you can deem it fair to leave and resume your damned lives."
"It seems you have learned of our secret?" The edge of Mr. Fernsby's lip twitched up into a smirk as he spoke, his hands politely tucked in his pockets as he continued to watch the man working on filling the hole back up. For a moment, he let his eyes turn to the headstone. After a second or two, the smirk was gone and his eyes returned to the other man. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, Mr. Kiemer, I am not just here to gloat."
"What? You waiting for when nobody is here to spit on you when you do?" The man asked, starting to break a slight sweat. "Look, I ain't stopping you. Say whatever you want. Doesn't make me the sentimental one."
Mr. Fernsby raised an eyebrow at the comment. He had never considered himself to be sentimental. This was just a body and a slab of stone, just like the hundreds of others here. It did not matter that he had once known the soul that inhabited it. However, that was not the only thing to strike him odd. The giant of a man before him — the very same one that had threatened him with quite vivid descriptions of violence at every meeting almost a year ago — had been castrated. Everything that had made the man who was seemed to have been ripped out. It was, above all, pathetic.
"I came here to see you, not to be sentimental," he said, biting out the final word harshly. "Where have you been for the last year?"
His words caught a glance from the larger man, but not much more. Despite the irritation bubbling up underneath Mr. Fernsby's skin, he did not comment on the matter, instead taking a couple of seconds to compose himself before he walked a few paces closer and kept a firm eye on the other man. After another pause at the odd way the man continued to neglect him, he looked away as he began to retrieve a small and faintly crumpled letter from his pocket. As he brought his gaze back to the man, he noticed him to be watching his movements, the larger man looking back to his work quickly and feigning indifference. "Fuck is that?" He eventually grunted out while still shoveling dirt.
"Perhaps you should take it and find out?" He responded without wavering.
Finally, he caught the man's attention. Slowly, the man pushed another filling of dirt into the grave before returning his gaze to the letter, his lips tugging into a slight frown as he pushed the shovel sharply into the ground and stared. His eyes flickered back up to meet Irving's and for just a second, Mr. Fernsby had to restrain himself from smiling. It was a losing battle, though, and the edge of his mouth would sharply curve up the moment that the larger man snatched the letter from his grip.
He folded his hands, remaining in place as the man took his time to open it and skim over the contents. Eventually, the larger man gave a small snort of laughter and looked back up. "A 'celebration of his life'? Are you kidding me? Everyone knows you don't give a damn. Why try to fake it?" Mr. Kiemer grunted. "Besides, why would you invite me? I'm just here to bury the poor bastard. Ain't really my place to just show up."
Irving closed his eyes briefly, feeling a small pain begin to rise in his head as the other raised his voice. Briefly running his hand through his hair, he gave a soft sigh. "You're not invited." He calmly stated. He kept a close eye on the other man, even as he glanced back down to the letter and read over it a second time, watching closely. He watched the brown eyes flicker over the paper, taking in the delicately written cursive words all while he took in the quiet expression of the larger man. The way his eyebrows furrowed again just faintly. The way one of his hands held the paper slightly tighter than the other. The way his shoulders remained hunched over but unnaturally stiff.
Just a year ago, as Irving could recall, this man had been so close. Close to fame, wealth, and prosperity. Every word that the man wrote had been gold written on paper, a poet who had quietly chosen to linger in anonymity. He has been so skilled, so artistic, so passionate. Then it had faded. So quickly after simply losing someone. A talent unused and abused. Wasted. Honestly. Perhaps that was why Irving despised the man. Maybe it was not hatred, but respect? These days, such concepts seemed to blend so harshly like paint on a canvas. But that was not the only reason he both hated the man and was fascinated by him...
"I saw your poem in the newspaper last Sunday."
The two stood in silence, a cold wind blowing the lake behind them gently onto the bank while the grass wavered alongside Mr. Fernsby's jacket. They looked tiny in comparison to the rest of the vast graves among them. Mr. Kiemer's head eventually looked up after a pause from hearing the line, a distant church bell from just up the hill softly sounding as their eyes connected. As the bell sounded and eventually fell back into silence, it was Mr. Kiemer to break it.
He sighed, tired and reluctant, before raising a hand to the back of his neck and rubbing at it, giant shoulders still hunched. "You're not going to-"
"No, I would rather avoid being the first one to disrespect that honor among artists." Mr. Fernsby said as he briefly closed his eyes and shook his head.
There was another timid silence. "Look," The giant began, looking back down to the letter for a second as he hesitated, sighing again. "I was in a bad place. I got help, that's all it is. Why don't you just go somewhere else and get-"
"I've tried." Mr. Fernsby said flatly, his sentence punctuated with a few drops of spite and a frown tugging at the edge of his lips.
Mr. Kiemer hesitated again, raising an eyebrow at the man. Eventually, he turned his look away, back towards the lake. Watching it for a few moments, he eventually cracked a small smile. "You sent them all out the door, didn't you?" He asked, turning his gaze back to the stern man. "Let me guess, they were all too personal. Too pushy. Or maybe just a bunch of fucked up fanboys who'd pop a hard-on for some random children's comic. Am I getting close here?"
There was only silence on the other end.
Kiemer couldn't help but give another breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly, "The great Cray Marroon, asking a gravedigger for a favor. Seems like I dodged a bullet," He said as he flicked the letter to the ground and grabbed the shovel and sharply dug it back into the mound of dirt, returning to his job. "Fame really does make stars fall hard, doesn't it?" With another small laugh, he waited for the footsteps trailing away.
They didn't.
Mr. Fernsby remained in place, watching him for a few more moments before looking back out behind him to the church. Then, with a gentle inhale and briefly closing his eyes again as he felt another slight shot of pain across his head, another damned headache, he began forwards, opening his eyes as he got close to the man. The man seemed to either not notice or flatly ignored him. So, as Mr. Fernsby approached and stopped only a couple of feet away, he waited until the man was working on getting another shovel full of dirt before ducking his head down to look the hunched-over man directly in the eyes. He couldn't help but smile softly as the man lurched back at the sudden sight of Irving suddenly being so close.
"Jesus-"
"Mr. Kiemer," Irving began, letting the smile vanish as soon as it had appeared, the other man bumping into the gravestone and nearly toppling into the hole itself. "I understand that you have been upset since the loss of your family, but I am deathly curious as to where you have been this past year. No poems. No writings. Nothing." He explained, stepping closer yet again. "You wrote about some rather heavy topics back in your day, many of your biggest fans and critics of your work assume that you — the real you; not this whole giant but soft-hearted 'gravedigger' facade — are a dead man. I mean, I appreciate the poetic irony behind this new career choice — burying your past like this and all — but you do realize that it would be quite easy for this whole plan to fall flat without me ever touching it, correct?" He said, words sharp and quick. He could almost see the other man flinch. Good.
"What are you rambling on about?"
"What I am saying, Mr. Kiemer, is that somebody is going to think very soon. I've already heard the debates. People are wondering if that new Sunday poem was actually yours or if it is merely a very skilled copycat." He stopped a foot away and stared into the other man's eyes. He could make out his own faint smile through his reflection in Mr. Kiemer's eyes. "Interestingly enough, it seems like nobody cares. After all, a good poem is a good poem. Particularly when it is made by a name such as Anonymous."
There it was. The flicker of recognition, resolution. Quietly, Irving looked back down to the letter, plucking it from the grass below. "Contrary to what others will say, I do have my beliefs." He said softly, folding the letter once, twice, and then handing it out. "I believe in favors."
Kiemer looked down at the letter, then back up at the man. "So what, I help you out, pass this — this," He said, punctuating his word with a sharp finger jabbed at the paper. His lips pulled into a sneer, eyes squinting slightly as if trying to peer through the other man's scheme. "-- and when I finally reveal myself as the author --"
"Then I will publicly endorse your claim before any others have the chance to make it," Irving said.
It felt like the entire moment was in slow motion. The way Kiemer continuously tore his gaze between the letter and the man. Kiemer finally reached forward, pulling the letter from the other man's grasp as Mr. Fernsby's lips twitched up into a slight sneer, a flicker of interest rising in his eyes. "You're not going to like him, the Doc's not your typical doctor," Kiemer said softly under his breath.
"Wonderful," Irving said, ignoring the comment. "Please deliver it promptly." With his final words, he began to turn around, Kiemer's eyes fixed on the letter held firmly in both of his hands. He stopped though, Irving looking back briefly after he had stepped a few feet away. "Oh," He began. "Just to clarify, please refrain from attending. Nearly everyone there has both a name and money; I would hate to make you feel uncomfortable."
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The final preparations for the party went rather smoothly, in all surprise. The servants had polished the place to near perfection, decorated, and had even taken the liberty to seal off the monstrosity of a room that Mr. Fernsby had the pleasure to call his living room. The rest of his house was open, save for the office that branched off from his bedroom. The grand entryway was large enough on its own to host a party of such a large size, taking up about the same amount of space as many single-storied houses in the area. Two spiraled staircases lead up to the second floor which hosted a slightly smaller but still large opening — though notably had a bit more of a 'Fernsbian-flair' to it with various characters from his latest comic series spread across it. A young girl in a raincoat looking down into a puddle was hung up on a canvas on one side of the room, something inky and dark staring back out from the waters. Nearby to this was a dog splashing around in a similarly odd puddle — a small bird fluttering just above it. On the opposite side of the room, a canvas depicted a less familiar character that had emerged only a few years ago in his comic — a woman with a large floppy hat that covered the top half of her face, a smile on the lower half, and sitting on the outside edge of the puddle with a stick dipped into the inky black puddle. While countless smaller paintings were hung around the upstairs gallery-like ballroom, depicting various things like hot-air-balloons, less familiar characters, and even a few paintings of what appeared to be various drawing and painting tests; the most intricate one, by far, was that of the Rabbit.
As Mr. Fernsby began to pass it while performing a final run-through of the house before the guests would arrive, he couldn't keep himself from stopping in his tracks at the painting. Similar to the portrait of the family downstairs, there were a few notable facts to this image. For one, there was no canvas to it; but rather the wall itself was the canvas. With the wallpaper peeled back and torn at the edges, it almost looked like a portal to some sort of otherworldly space. In the torn wallpaper frame, it depicted a single hallway painted with extreme care and attention to detail — even the lighting among the room matched that of what would show if the hallway were to exist. The only off thing about the entire image is the familiar creature right at the end of the hallway, standing in a portion of the hallway way at the back that was filled with puddled and muddied black water. Despite the dimness at the end of the unlit hallway, anyone with half a mind could instantly recognize the character of the popular comic. The Lucky Rabbit.
It was Mr. Fernsby's crowning achievement. The source of his wealth, glory, and perhaps even his sole reason for existence. Without the mischievous fictional character, perhaps Mr. Fernsby would have found the heart to snuff himself out years ago? After all, despite his intelligence, he was hardly a scholar; a dropout even. Not to mention the creature would have undoubtedly died along some old and penniless artist were they to not even have half the wits as Irving. Perhaps that was why he and the fictional creature had worked so well together? It worked well — no — it worked best this way. Without him, the creature would never have come to the universal recognition and praise that it had reached so far. Without the creature, Mr. Fernsby was merely another artist off the block.
Of course, it was also this creature that had pulled him into the depths of despair on more than a few occasions. With the exploding and constant publicity of the creature, as well as the adoration for it, he was constantly treading on a hair's width to maintain his legacy. If he were to slow down his creation or to drop his quality even partially, there would be harsh consequences. The media would lash out. Other artists would throw their playground insults. Critics would laugh. It was all a matter of maintaining his comic's reputation.
Recently, he had not been maintaining it.
It had been nearly two months since he had dedicated his heart to create a new addition to the growing comic, as well as nearly three to four weeks since his last strip in full. He could not quite explain the reasoning behind it. The thoughts no longer flew so smoothly. His hand no longer felt the desire to move the moment he placed it on paper. His head could no longer find itself pouring over the ideas. It was poetic in a sense. Burnout. The one thing he had publicly criticized so many other authors and artists for.
He folded his hands behind his back, eyes still tracing over the painting, falling particularly on the centered creature. It is amusing. Both the term star and burnout. He was — by all means — a celebrity and a star. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, this was a steady explosion of his stardom. He was not condemned to burnout — nobody ever was. He was not losing his fame due to old age, sickness, or some controversial statement — God knows he has made so many already. No, this was a burnout. Like a real star. On the brink of explosion, just about ready to collapse on itself. Perhaps he would use the rifle on his mantle above the fireplace in his office should the situation ever arise where he finds himself stepping over the brink? Should the comic ever fail, perhaps that would be the best course of action.
For now; however, there was time to pull himself back around and continue to shine. Sure, his comic had begun to dim in the last couple of months, as well as during the isolation, but there was no such need for that action as of now. Only if there are no other paths to take.
That was the reasoning behind this latest situation, correct? While he believed that he would eventually come to enjoy the party tonight, he had never intended to appreciate it or look forward to it. It was only a means to reach an end. By hosting the party, he could both reassure the media that he had no intention to drop his work anytime soon, bring a little publicity back to him and most importantly; to fix whatever issue had plagued him to plunge him into this dull 'burnout'.
The doctor, or 'Doc', as he had heard, had a reputation that preceded him. He had heard of the man on a few occasions, though mostly in rumors. One singer had claimed that she no longer suffered from panic attacks due to him. A comedian had hinted at the doctor curing their dark thoughts about strangling their wife. It was only after hearing the rumors of Mr. Kiemer being treated by the unknown man that Irving had finally resolved to seek his assistance -- what with the countless past attempts at doctors that had already failed him? Irving hated to think of it as such, but it seemed that this world was very quickly beginning to close in. If this doctor did not fix whatever was wrong with him, then perhaps the easiest out would be to deprive the world of his creative existence and his own presence -- though he believed they would mourn the loss of the prior much more than that of the latter.
However, for every excellent comment and recommendation, there was also a fault. Clingy and somewhat eccentric, Irving did not have high expectations for the man.
Quietly, he shifted on his feet, bouncing from the flatness of it to forwards and then briefly backward as he cast his glance back towards the nearest stairwell. With a blank expression, he let his gaze fall back on the painting, still tracing over the edge of the dim creature at the end of the painted hallway. Then, with a pause of hesitation, a gentle sigh, and a spin on his heels; he began towards the staircase with only the gentle tapping of his shoes to interrupt the silence of the mansion.
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He had purposefully changed the time of attendance in each letter. For most of the attendees, he was familiar with and was able to take a calculated guess that they would either be faintly early or a tad bit late. So, after reasoning about the approximate time that would organize everyone to arrive at nearly the same time, he had taken the care to change them more.
Those that did not matter, and were only invited to add to the count of people attending the event, were invited first. Those with a bit more importance, some of the higher celebrities and artists as well as some of the more reasonable and genuine souls of the party, were given a time a bit after the first group. He refused to come directly greet anyone until the second group had already mostly arrived, finally smiling and making merry with the guests of importance while brushing off the less significant ones. As the final group, they were arranged more carefully. High-level actors and actresses, writers, and poets were invited in that precise order. Following that section of the third group, it narrowed more. The ones who were given the latest times were the journalists, photographers, and the friends of critics were invited at a time that was later than all others. He made sure to acknowledge the existence of all within this group, whether it was through directly shaking their hand or merely flashing them a smile from across the room. Finally, the fourth group consisted of only a single invitation; that of which was given to Mr. Kiemer.
He was not familiar with whoever this doctor that Mr. Kiemer mentioned, meaning that it would be a bit difficult to figure out the exact time to invite the man In the end, he had resolved to invite him about thirty minutes after the last time for the members of the third group. Whether they were early or late, it would be much more simple to detect the doctor. If the time they arrived did not give it away, Irving figured that arriving in a full-fledged party would be enough to slightly daze anyone, meaning that he would only need to watch for any social cues that signified someone unfamiliar with events of this scale.
Sadly, while Irving was trying to keep half a mind on the idea of watching out for the doctor, he could not help but find himself slowly becoming vainly lost in the event. Drinks were being passed on everywhere with both of his servants bustling about and keeping a watchful eye on the event staff hired specifically for this night. A band played from upstairs, having been previously playing some upbeat jazz music before transitioning to relying solely on the excited crowd gathered around them. Miss Gabler had also shown up unplanned and decided to appoint herself to bounce between the groups of people and keep the crowd lively.
All was well, even a small crowd of journalists seemed to have long forgotten their notebooks and pens, two of them now trying to best each other in a game of drinking. Irving could not call the party anything less than exhilarating. At least for the time being, that is.
In the beginning, much of the party had moved outside to escape the dreadful smell of the books and the flowery candles that were spread across the entirety of the mansion to try and drown out the stench; leaving behind only a rotting flowery smell. Still, few people remarked on it and he was able to simply excuse it as 'his latest work'. This seemed to not hinder the feel of the party as it continued to rage on and eventually numb people so far into their own drunken adrenaline that they completely forgot about the smell; splitting the party half inside and half out. Both inside and out, people were laughing, telling stories, and sharing their latest success with others. If not for the black clothes that a few of the party-members had chosen to wear, perhaps nobody would remember that this was a funeral reception?
Who was he kidding? Come the morning, nobody would remember the name of his former rival who now lay six feet under.
He had long forgotten keeping an eye on the crowd and entryway after developing a nice layer of fluff in his head with some drinks. For a bit, he had remained inside, chatting with various social elites about nothing in particular. As the hours had passed and the final members of the third group had shown up, he had settled in with a small group of giggly singers who he had entertained with various stories about the inspiration behind various characters from his comic. This had, of course, lead him to eventually make a white lie of a promise to include them in his next series, sending the girls into a bubbly fit of excitement.
Eventually, he had slowly found himself bored by the girls and had excused himself and began to make his way through the crowd once more, looking for any unfamiliar faces or dazed expressions. Everyone was enjoying themselves as they basked in their element. He just needed to find the one person who was not.
━ ••●•• ━
