Best Served Cold

“Two million is a large claim. You do realize the insurance company will be investigating?” 

“Friggin Censors. No way they would allow my collection to debut. It was nearly fully edited into a montage composed to lay bare their conspiracy. Secrets long lost would have resurfaced. The Censors could not allow that. I suppose I closed my eyes to my darkest fear.”

“So you expect arson?”

“KABOOM. Yes, I should have seen it coming. I cringe as I remember black-and-white ghosts dancing in those white-yellow-orange flames. The celluloid fumes of the studio fire sickened me as I watched the Institute disintegrate. My treasure trove of lost film footage was obliterated with my dream. It was a crime. A crime against humanity.”

“You put a lot into this project?”

“I had searched all over Europe, in the oldest cinemas of rural towns, for silent movies that had been abandoned by Hollywood. I had spent over seven years on the project, relying on research and word of mouth. Footage of Chaplin being sworn into a cult in a candle-lit dungeon. Valentino in a stag film. All priceless examples of early Twentieth Century underground culture. The verboten. The blasphemous. Hoover in drag on the Riviera. I had meant to have the opening exposition in Berlin. No more. And now, what’s left? What can be salvaged? The films were at the Institute for restoration. An attack on the Institute is an attack on society.”

“Do you have any way of certifying their value?”

“Certainly. Meticulous records have been kept, including receipts and providence. But together, they were priceless. Worth well over the amount paid for them. I wish I had insured them for more. As for my personal loss, I’m not sure how my sadness and rage can be filmed. Perhaps it could be portrayed as a figure in cloak and hood, brandishing a scythe. Perhaps my soul would play death. You must find those responsible. Retrace my steps through Europe, and back to Hollywood. Somewhere, someone somehow will tip their hand."

I turn my back on the burning cinders. I start my journey now. I will walk through the ocean if I have to. I will unlock the secrets of the sects my films uncovered. I will dig and probe and poke at the embers until a pattern emerges. 

###

Three years later. The insurance claim was denied.

Stella cuts a clean line into the surface surrounding her intended specimen. The donor is paralyzed. A hapless victim whose scream, if possible, would merely drown in the nearby traffic. Stella only works at night, to avoid the notice for her activities. Activities, which if the general public were to be aware, would be considered blasphemous.

Stella is a good girl. She is a favorite tool in my arsenal. I found her at an estate sale, among the contents of a surgeon’s home. Going from an x-acto knife to a scalpel seemed like a step forward in my craftsmanship. A scalpel has more flourish and elan. And to think I bought her for only fifty cents.

I named her Stella because that is Spanish for star. But as much as I love her, she is not the star of my collection. My true stars are the specimens plucked from the anonymity of late urban evenings that pull at my insides like midnight toward dawn. 

I gather the specimen into a ziplock plastic sandwich bag. Tuck it into my shoulder pouch. Now it is mine! I can not wait to get it home for mounting. It will nearly complete the set I’ve been assembling. I had been in search of something distinctive and pure. Something which would add clarity and poetry to the overall presentation. So when the moment comes to take it, I have a metaphysical orgasm. 

Such evenings! Sometimes I hunt after a night of garish drinking, stumbling home without a single care when I might spy the perfect addition. At such times, the temptation is as useless to resist as a tornado. I’ll take a victim in the middle of a sidewalk with such a speed no one sees. 

Other nights, I may awaken in the wee early hours to walk alone in the empty city streets. The thrill of the hunt heightens the senses. Red lights more vivid than technicolor, distant motor sounds more distinct than Dolby. 

I become one of the neighborhood shadows, a dark spirit creeping past dumpsters and graffiti in search of one unaware of their fate. I know at this time I will find them sleeping and vulnerable, plastered inside alley doorways or storefronts. Easy pickings if you’ve scouted early. 

In a frozen moment of time caught in the pale moonlight, I wield Stella to take my unflinching prize. I use gloves to drop my specimen into the waiting baggy.

Once comfortably at home, I sit at the counter of my studio apartment elated with the evening’s haul. The apartment is what one might expect, more like a dorm room with its loft bed. But at times like this, it is my rocket pad.

Once the world sees my completed composition, they will truly understand its enormity. Why it is serious art and must be taken as such.

I remove my specimen bags from my pouch. Laying before me I admire them. I love them. I thank them for joining me, and for informing me. I look upon each as a gift and treasure that one day I will bestow upon the world.

I look at the words I’ve cut from posters on street poles: 

Mascara

Jungle

Sphere

In this city, posters layer up on street poles like palm fronds in Jeruselum. I open the latest photo album in a series housing my collection of harvested words. Words that I place in the same grammatical order as the text of the Bible. 

It’s been a long slog and a labor of love. It took me three weeks to create my first ransom-style note, which was a rewrite of the first two verses of Genesis using found words.

In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

Became:

On our Radio, Elvis played some Rhythm and BLUES.

But a Night has no ears, yet hears; why entertainment plays into a DJ for our Zombies.

For a bunch with Booze dancing thru our Monkeys in your Saturday.

This creative process is arduous at best. But in my heart of hearts, I know the end result will be magnificent. Hollywood will note its Avant Guarde genius.

But now I’m more careful. I photograph my specimens and post them to the cloud. This time, I tell nobody. I think I’m handling my setbacks quite well.