On the several monitors scattered all over the production room, the picture changed from the lady newsreader of Red Indian origin to a young guy, who was the journalist in charge of the weekly feature entitled “Weird world”. He, after smiling, announced in a vivacious tone of voice: «Quite so, Sioux Sue! A puzzle enthusiast, specializing in anagrams and plays on words, has recently discovered and philologically reconstructed a queer unpublished page by the obscure writer William Shakepears. Within a few seconds, our skilful actor Hector will declaim it with his customary cleverness».
A bizarre background tune was gloomily murmuring among knobs, buttons, engineers and technicians, when the image of a standing man with a grotesque expression on his face, appeared on the screens. «My eccentric, odd God (or, to be more precise, my “Godd”!), listen to me» –he bombastically wheezed, reciting a literary text which was being reproduced also as subtitles running in stripes– «As soon as I started filling up a lot of copybooks with crazy sentences, which seemed extremely barmy and clumsy to everybody, I spoilt for good my successful career as a novelist on the point of becoming a “Nobelist”. From then on my works (the latest, I mean) were rejected by editorial boards of every kind and were never printed or put on sale. As a result I grew poor, while –as a writer– I practically died, quickly decaying to the condition typical of an unknown author, or rather an anonymous John “Poe”. I do still remember the unhappy day when my entire family (including my indifferent teenaged “chilldren” with their icy souls) deserted me. So what more can I say or tell, now? My faith was my fate to such an extent that I’m currently developing a peculiar style, which I named “heArt” after both my lonely mad art and my broken heart. Infarct (pardon, in fact) by dint of trying to exactly understand the real meaning of your strange conduct, continously characterised by criminal acts (bloodstained with infernal “hellp” for man’s cruelty) and by your heart’s universal, intrepid hug crossing with streams of holy, loving blood, revealing itself to be purifying “bloove” for humans, I fell prey to my irrevocable insanity: «Billy has turned silly! Take a look at his frightful new fit-for-the-idiot idiom!», my agent and all of the publishers with whom I was in contact exclaimed sardonically, without giving me enough time to explain that actually my lunacy was nothing “dreadfool”, but just a sort of moved and therefore self-controlled exasperation, also called poetry».
At the end of a brief dissolve, which made the actor’s figure fade away, the guy’s close-up reappeared. It was right then that plenty of grateful compliments resounded: «You’re a great actor, Hector! Notwithstanding I would have preferred to host a transmission about the future’s features, your terrific talent unfailingly manages to mitigate my disappointment. In other words, thank you very much indeed for your astonishing interpretation! You’ve definitely succeeded in conveying the whimsical atmosphere saturating this short prose poem by a forgotten author who, after having a manuscript refused by even his village’s parish paper, was compelled to sell his house and to rent a serviced apartment. Then he looked for a job, any old job. No luck. Nobody employed him, owing to his reputation of being half-witted. In consequence, when his own money finished, he became a tramp and wandered for months through the countryside, until one night he died of cold while sleeping at the foot of a crucifix standing in a ruined and abandoned church. Brrr, what a story! It gives me freezing shivers. I must admit that I’m… perished! Ahahah! Better perished than dead, anyway! Ahahah!
Well, after my habitual closing puns, I don’t think there is anything else to add, my dear Sioux Sue. So, at last, the moment has arrived to declare that I’m Stu Pid and have just reported from Strait Ford On Sale for all our splendid audience!».