Here we go again.
I’ve had it up to here with this business. When I signed the contract, I assumed that I would just fade away into thin air. Something like the eponymous Time Traveler, Henry. Instead, I have been subjected to the most gruesome deaths – a zillion, so far.
I was beheaded, and my head thrown into the Lord of the Rings castle. Mine was the only real one… the others were lifelike props. If you run the clip on slow, you can see which one is me, because I am smiling, rather than grimacing. And… mine is he only head that did the Saint Paul hop, skip, and jump thing. The other heads were… life-less.
Then there was the time I was murdered on the Orient Express. I was also killed and drowned in the Mystic River, and in the Nile. At least the latter death was not gory.
Sometimes, I get to be glamorous – and sort of handsome. Actually, I was supposed to be some kind of whodunit expert, with the powers to arrest killers before they strike – but the computer flagged me up as a potential murderer… so I went AWOL. A rouge bullet got me in the forearm, though, and I bled to death.
Then there was the time I got paranoid because I thought someone was giving me the side-eye too often. As it turned out, I was right… the honourable doctor sawed my skull in two and added my brains and some garlic and parsley to eggs… he downed the omelette with a bottle of Chablis and had chocolate chip and pistachio ice cream for dessert.
The water is turning cold. I never knew that a charging cell phone thrown into a bath could be so… well, so lethal. There’s no blood this time… small mercies. I can’t get myself out of the bath… I hope the maid comes to do her screaming-and-holding-her-face bit as soon as possible.
What really gets me is that I am not always a man – and not always a woman. It’s tough being a lady-boy, I tell you. People use you and abuse you – when they are not mocking you or expecting you to be invisible.
I was an extra – extra being the operative word – or is it extraneous? – in many, too many, television series. I know full well what the term type-cast means. Cannon, Matlock, Columbo, Serpico, Cagney and Lacey, Kojak, Ellery Queen… you name it, I was in it.
Once, as I recall, I was the victim of a very beautiful Monster who looked suspiciously like Charlize Theron, and in another, my murderer looked exactly like Tony Curtis.
And my deaths were not always solved…. Because nobody could hear me when I shouted the name of the person who would have done me in. And when I wrote the name in blood on the windowpanes or bathroom tiles, the Sam Spade wannabes always thought someone was trying to frame someone else.
It’s boring. It’s exhausting. And, alas, it is also, sexist, racist, ageist and sizeist. As I said, I only get to know my brief nanoseconds before I am thrown into the part.
Sometimes, my murders were tinged with déjà-vu. This, I know for a fact, because I was all the murder victims in The Evictors. Same old, same old – buy a house, get scared shitless, and get murdered.
The chambermaid never even noticed that water was seeping out into the corridor from under the door of Room (6)66. She had been sniffing the air, having detected a sort of metallic smell… and then stepped into the puddle, and got the shock of her life… almost literally.
I can hear her summon the other chambermaids and the hotel manager. She knows she is not supposed to open a door if the Do Not Disturb notice hangs on the doorknob, and I can understand that she’d better be safe than sorry – and have witnesses.
This reincarnation business sucks.