His name was always linked to the term elusive and he was universally acknowledged as a brilliant writer and an enchanted poet. And the day came when his little apartment reeked of rotting flesh and the authorities had to break his door down.
There was no family to inform but the whole country was now his family and there would be no problem regarding the burial. Oh, he would go with a ceremony that was bound to become national event. But luckily for the authorities the media didn’t smell the rotting yet. The four cleaners who sealed the apartment and entered to perform the expertise called themselves big and biggest fans of the great, late writer.
“Can you believe this?” one of them said. “We’re alone here with, dare I say it, unpublished manuscripts of The Great One. Oooh, I’m tingling just thinking about it.”
“God, look at this room. There’s more paper here than wood, than wall, than fabric, everything. And all of this old fashionably typed… right there, at that typewriter.”
“Yeah, he was that way, our Great One.”
“They say he wrote more often than not. He had trained himself to do so. Did it to the point where it became more natural even than breathing.”
“Sure, the media always portrayed him like this. Based on something he said in one of the very few interviews he gave. Said he takes a notepad and pen even as he sits on the toilet.”
“Ah yes, remember ‘Waking in Sleep’? His sixth novel. They say he wrote no less than 121 drafts of it before publishing.”
“Yes, that’s the kind of man he was.”
“But he only published nine novels in his life and eleven poetry collections and… oh, there’s the two short story collections. And I believe that’s all, right?”
“Well, but what about all this? Look, I counted four and in some places five stacks of written papers lining the walls all the way, making the room seem so much narrower than it really is. Here, photograph this. I mean, you’d think someone who wrote this much would have more to show up for it. While his longest novel is just a bit over two hundred thousand words and the shortest is forty-nine thousand, barely qualifying as a novel.”
“Hah, like that matters. What matters is that all of them are bestsellers and… two? Three of them are international bestsellers. He has influenced pretty much everyone who calls themselves a writer or a poet today.”
“Well, I believe all of this is going to be published postmortem now, right?”
“Hehe, some university out there and many publishing houses will be very excited once the media smells this.”
“True. True. But before them it is us who hold access to the great one’s legacy here. So, my brothers, shall we take a sneak peek? Bring that camera here, haha.”
The media caught a whiff of the reek by the morrow and it wasn’t the reek of rotten flesh but of scorched, burned, and melted flesh. There’s been a violent fire in the Great One’s small apartment and the interviewed fireman told the reporters that some kind of cultists burned the place down. No manuscript could be recovered and the Great One had no postmortem legacy to bless the world with.
“Why did they set the fire?” shouted a stranger among the crowd gathered to take photographs outside the building. “Fucking cultist pieces of shit, blank minded invertebrates, spineless nuts!”
Then a neighbor of the Great One said, “Enough man.”
“Enough, my ass! If I were in charge of shit I’d fuckin’ bring back medieval torture on the sick fucks. I don’t think I actually, really hated someone in my life before… Shit!”
“You hate ‘em, huh? Good. That’s good. I too prefer to hate the cultists who set the fire than to hate the Great One for having his little room packed full of child pornography materials…”
“Nothing. Just think, all right? Sit back and think and by God, please try to be more objective from now on.”