The Last Words of a Genius

One – The Diagnosis

The crowd gathered around the dying man’s bed, waiting for his last words.

He was a genius. The most prolific writer and philosopher to ever live. He wiped his ass with the words of Shakespeare. The thoughts of Plato, Socrates, Descartes, and Nietzsche were used to clean up his dog’s shit. Jesus wouldn’t have been fit to loosen the straps of his sandals.

They waited. Throngs of them, visiting his bed in shifts. They weren’t disgusted by his festering sores, nor were they overwhelmed by the foul stench of his stagnant bowel movements.

They waited for years, someone always watching over his bed, usually dozens of people, sometimes hundreds. They recorded every word he spoke.

Get outta my damn face. Go to hell. I need water. My head hurts.
They didn’t get out of his face. They didn’t go to hell. They didn’t get him water. They didn’t soothe his aching head.

Whatever he said, they wrote and tried to interpret. They studied it in classes at the universities. What did The Genius mean by Get outta my damn face? Essays were written. One man received his PhD based on his research concerning I need water.

Two – The Waiting

They continued to watch and wait. They were eager to learn what brilliance he would bestow on them before his breath had finally been sucked away.

Where are my shoes? It’s too bright. Please clean the shit off of me.

They didn’t look for his shoes. They didn’t dim the lights. They left the shit on him.

More classes, more dissertations. Countless biographies were penned.
Millions of books featuring the Deathbed Words were sold. The Dali Lama gave a lecture on Where are my shoes.

Three – The Transformation

The crowds grew exponentially. The longer they waited the more of them there were. They began to place bets on what the final words would be. Millions of dollars were wagered. Everyone was listening. Tickets were sold for a thousand dollars per minute for admission into the room just for a slim chance to hear the brilliant words.

There’s an elephant in the corner. Licking toes causes fungus. I’d eat cake if my teeth weren’t green.

They began to look for elephants. They licked toes to try to create fungus. They dyed their teeth green and tried to eat cake.
More lectures. More books. They were translated into thirty-five languages and sold all over the globe.

Still they waited. Still he spoke.

The bed branded boorish bricklings. My hair ran away. Pens are exploding in my eyes.

They tried to make their own bricklings. They searched for his hair. They made pens explode in their own eyes. None of them lost faith.

Missionaries shared his words with starving people in third-world countries. Religious texts were rewritten to incorporate his ideas. People who had never heard the words Jesus or Buddha or Mohammad were shouting The Genius’s name in the streets.

Four – Immortality

After five years, he finally spoke his last words. Eighty-three men and women were lucky enough to witness the words firsthand. Hundreds of millions watched on television. There were dozens of tape recorders and video cameras to ensure accuracy. They all heard the same words, but they would all interpret them differently for centuries to come.

It was all drivel, he croaked.

Some wept. Some applauded. Some burned all of The Genius’s words. Some killed themselves.

Left alone, the genius said nothing.
___________________________________________________________

Ugly

She’s so fuckin ugly I just have to have her.
–buy you a drink
–i don’t drink
She’s at a bar of course she drinks.

–go home with me
–i don’t sleep with strangers
She’s dressed like a slut of course she goes home with strangers.

Her face is hideous like a picture they’d show you in math class as a demonstration of what asymmetrical means. If she won’t sleep with you who will? I stare at her aesthetically displeasing face. It’s not just her face that repulses me her whole body disgusts me so much that my sober loins burn.

She can’t possibly reject me: I’m wearing a fine Italian suit, my haircut cost eighty-five dollars, my skin is perfectly tanned from forehead to toes although she cannot see the latter. I could model men’s underwear. Expensive brands.

–how can you say no to me
–maybe you’re too forward maybe you’re not my type maybe i’m a lesbian maybe i’m playing hard to get who the hell are you to be so confident
–let’s go look in a mirror I think that will give us the answer we’re looking for
–there’s no mirrors here
–i have one at my house
–then i guess we better go

I walk out behind her pretending that I’m not with her. When we get into the cab I make it clear to the driver that I’m just a gentleman doing her a favor.
–what’s your name
–derrick
Silence, other than the noisy city life permeating into the windows.
–don’t you want to know mine
–sure
–you know i don’t have to go home with you if you’re gonna act like this
–yes you do this is the best thing that’s ever happened to you
–go to hell

I look at her disfigured face and imagine what games god was playing when he created her.
–i’m already there

More silence.

The cab stops at a red light. My loins quiver. I want to rip off her clothes now and see what terrible malformities exist underneath. The cab moves again. She looks over and can see the bulge in my pants. She smiles, and for a moment, in the flickering lights of the bustling city, there is the slightest hint of beauty in her face. My desires briefly subside. The cab stops.

–we’re here
–nice place
–you’re damn right

We go inside. I nod at the doorman who furrows his eyebrows and recoils his head just slightly when he sees my guest. But he’s just a doorman.

We ride the elevator to the twenty-third floor and enter my room and she looks out the window at thousands of twinkling artificial lights.
–great view
I stare at her ass wondering what it will look like naked. I approach her and place my hands on her lumpy hips.
–hold on
I ignore her request and proceed caressing her body.
–wait
Again I ignore her my hands finding their way under her skirt.
–don’t make me warn you again

I laugh, wondering what she thinks she could possibly do to stop me wondering why she would ever want to stop me.

In one swift motion she reaches into her purse removes a knife turns around and slashes my face from cheek to cheek.

Me writhing on the floor she steps over my body. I’d be able to see up her skirt except my eyes are fogged with blood.
–what the hell
–i warned you
–but you couldn’t possibly turn me down
–you’re far uglier than i’ll ever be

As she leaves I hope the scars will heal nicely, so she is wrong.

 

 

Nathaniel Tower writes fiction and teaches English. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Cantaraville, Mud Luscious, Bottom of the World, Inscribed, Skive and many others. He is also the founding editor of the online literary magazine Bartleby Snopes (www.bartlebysnopes.com). He currently lives in St. Louis, MO with his wife.