A Mystery Story

Simon Flaccid was at the end of his rope. He wasn't particularly hung, but he was considering it. As he sat there within the dank confines of his room where no light was ever shed, a number of troubling thoughts were passing through his little head. (He was susceptible to migraines the poor fellow, and he was convinced they were caused by the fact that the blood only flowed through his brain once every seven seconds.)

But Simon had a problem you see. He thought he was bipolar. Every once in a while, he thought, while he lay in a lugubrious haze, he would transform into something monstrous. Something insensitive, massive and vicious. Sometimes, Simon read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and frowned contemplatively. He had visions you see. Or maybe they were flashbacks. He could never tell. They came carving cones in the black like two bright lights on a dark night and seared his one retina. Maybe he was a beast...All he knew was that he got incredibly angry for no apparent reason sometimes. "Getting a rise out of Simon Flaccid," his friends mocked, but he knew they were just nuts.

Today he had memories of being forcibly dragged from the V.I.P. room where he liked to stay. He remembered vaguely being beaten, thrust, and then rammed into walls. It must've been raining out because everything had a film of moistness on it that was inexplicable. It smelled rather fishy to him. It must really have happened, he decided, as he did feel rather sore. His altogether shaggy appearance could be attributed to the fact that he was repeatedly yanked by the hair and flung about as if possessed by a mad demon. He felt limp. He threw up eventually. It came in waves, one upon the other till he could stand no more. He blacked out. He had the feeling the covers were pulled over his eye. And as he awakened now, still drooling slightly, he looked about the room searchingly. Some clue, some clue as to why this was happening, he must find out!

And there it struck him. It came back to him...in bits and pieces. Like a dream you start to forget as soon as you wake up. A name...The name. The letters swirled and danced and were an image in red and vengeance as they sank dolefully into their rightful places in his mind. And now the name stung him like a bee that had stung him earlier but he could not place. Who was this William Turgid? And why did he loom like a shadow in the ubiquitous shadow of his existence? Simon would find out. He had to...