Prose: 'The Baron's Bust of JFK's Killer'

But my most-missed artifact, deposed by the reign of evil Olivia, was a bust of John F Kennedy’s Killer (it was a rather unfinished sculpture, not enough to make a positive identification, simply titled ‘anonymous’). It was intimidating when it snuck up on you in the dark hallway, but it made for a good guessing game with new guests.

This reminds me of an amusing story: I once invited the Head of the University Senate, who I thought was very important because of his fancy title (but since have found out that the senate is largely composed of a revolving body of senior (but nevertheless) students, who are a nuisance but a necessary part of the university machine.) The things I said to that stupid kid (who I wasn’t much older than, but I was working on my second run through) when I thought he was a person of significance. I took him under my shoulder (I could afford to do this as I was and remain quite tall) and praised him for,

“I mean, throw caution to the wind, you’re young after all.”

“That’s right,” he smiled politely like the stupid sycophant he was.

“Who cares about the current trends,” I said, looking desparately into his eyes, daring him to disagree. “Shirt out! Who cares about shaving – cause you’re dealing with stupid kids all day. Delinquents with too much money.”

He looked confused – good.

“Smash their faces in – who cares, they’re stupid kids.”

Now he really got awkward – remember, he was still nestled under my arm.

“You agree with that, shorty? You believe all foreigners should be killed?”

“Now hang on a second,” he said, breaking free.

“Ah!” I said, menacingly, raising a finger to him. “Good, you passed the test. I was testing you, Grahame.” That’s a silly name, why did I waste a name on this stupid kid.

“I don’t think you were,” Grahame said.

“No?” I said, pursing my face up sarcastically. “Lucky no-one cares what you think, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid,’ I’m the head of the University Senate!”

“So I keep hearing. Good for you, Grahame. But let me show you something I want you to keep in mind.”

And I again steered him with my giant muscular arm. I led him, as I’ve led many a better man before him, over to the window and nodded out at the moat.

“You see that down there. See those little jumping fish. See them?” I shook him and he answered with a pathetic nod.

“Yeah, well they’re not jumping cause they’re happy friendly little fishes, yeah. This is not a children’s book, Grahame.” Grahame – pah! The number of sods I’ve set fire to without giving a passing thought to what their names might have been, and yet this little twerp’s name somehow escaped the sandpapering of time.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I’ll put it another way.” And I led him out into the front hallway, right near the guests. I had to intimidate through coded messages. “I’ll put it this way: do you know who this is?”

“Its not anyone, it just looks like the artist sold their raw materials to you as a finished piece.”

I let go of him so I could cross one arm across my chest and tap a finger on my lip. This was my thoughtful pose.

“Hmm,” I said, further adding to the impression that I was deep in thought. “Are you an art collector?”

He turned and looked me in the eyes. I pretended I didn’t notice, then darted a glance at him while he wasn’t looking.

“No,” he answered.

“Hmm,” I said. “Are you then an appreciator of the fine arts?”

“Well, not really.”

I was satisfied I could get away with pretending any knowledge of art, so I began, “then how dare you abuse my most prized possession. This is a very important artifact dating from the… Jurassic era of conceptual self-sculpture. It expresses the artist’s longing for identity and ultimate rejection of the ideal of communism. Do you deny this?”

At this, he had the nerve to smirk. “I’m loathe to deny anything about art, since I’d never consider myself an expert, but my sister is an art critic and… well, I’m pretty sure you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I rolled back on my heels and resumed my intrigued posture. I smiled and nodded, then I bowed to him. “You are a worthy opponent, sir. Could you follow me out to the moat? I have something I just need to show you for a second…”

He studied me. “No, actually. I think I might see what’s happening with the appetizers…”

“Quickly, come on.”

“No, I’d rather not…”

“Come on, outside with you.”

“Gee, its getting late,” he said, pantomiming a big yawn. “Maybe I better go home.”

“Alright. I’ll escort you out.” I motioned for Mortimer to make sure no-one followed me out.
It was a frost-bitey night outside. The crickets were roaring in a chorus, seeming to toll the end for glorified extra Grahame.

We stood at the edge of the moat. I smoked my pipe and looked contemplatively at the jumping piranhas.

“You know I could have been an important person in your story – I’ve got a proper name and a title – you like people with titles.”

“I like sirs and dukes and corporals.”

“If you let me live I’ll call you Baron.”

At this moment, miraculously, the sun came up. I looked at my watch. It was ten p.m at night.

“That is strange,” I said, “but I refuse to be impressed.”

This ‘Grahame,’ against my best wishes and machinations had touched on a nerve. I had always wanted someone to call me Baron. I could pretend I was a Baron to my heart’s content, but having someone who was prepared to call me it regularly was quite tempting.

I drummed my lip (this time I was actually thinking). “Okay, boy. I’ll keep you on my staff as a part-time sycophant, but you’ll have to forfeit your position at the university.”

“What a tempting offer," he said. "I'll take it."

"Great," I said, smirking. I was watching his eyes - a long moment passed - I knew what he was going to do. He was going to run off to his university the second my back turned.

I clasped my hands together, held them high, and bumped him with my hip, sending him down into the moat.

Don't get me wrong, I have fond memories of him, but I have fonder memories of taking over his position at the university...