Is it possible The Ferret is going insane?
The Ferret sits at computer writing concerned email to Welsh Losser:
Dear Welsh Losser,
I think the Kyiv Unedited site, which did illegal libel stories about us, went under. They said they’d be back by mid-September, but now that’s neither here nor there. Maybe the market proved too tough for them, or maybe they got scared because of all the potential lawsuits they could have faced from the people they made fun of. Or maybe it was me launching a retaliation site called Kyiv Edited that sent them running for the hills. If that’s the case, it was easy.
Unfortunately, though, I ran up costs that weren’t covered by any revenues, like paying for office space in a Kyiv slum.
Ferret, suddenly to himself:
I’m going to join a group of subversive underground intellectuals.
Ferret, back to the Welsh Losser email:
And there’s also the problem of paying Zippy Zamazda, whom I made chief editor of KE, but he never really did anything, and whenever he tried, proved himself incompetent. Now that there’s no need for the website, I’m going to fire him without severance. That means he worked for free, but didn’t do anything. I have no problem telling him that when I let him go because it’s so obviously true. What’s he going to do, sue me?
Ferret, to himself:
Poetry readings at The Ferret Literary Society – no, no, help, what’s happening?!
Ferret, back to email:
And then there’s the question of your attacker, Andrew Plumb. It’s far from clear whether he worked for me at all. I remember seeing him in the office a couple of times, and maybe I hired and fired him about as many, but I can’t really say either way. The problem is, he has even less of a claim to any sort of pay than Zamazda, but I’m kind of scared of facing him if he tries to hit me up for compensation, even if he’s totally wrong. What do I say to him, what do I do? Help me, Welsh Losser, help me.
To himself:
Poetry readings. Heh, heh. Go up against Steve Kowalski. Bookstore – literary salon… help me, some…bo…dy… help… heh-heh-heh, heh-heh… OOOHH…
Back to email:
Welsh Losser, I’m really glad you survived the hanging by Plumb and that you’re still alive. I miss you and I want to see you if you’re allowed visitors.
To himself:
Dactylic hexameter. James Joyce, Man Ray, H.L. Mencken. Heh, heh, what’s happening to me, what… is… this… CHANGE!!! A rat reciting poetry. Is that what I’m going to be? A slimy, disease-carrying sewer rat obsessed with verse? Heh. But I don’t want to be a rat. And I hate poetry. Heh, heh, heh… AAAAAHHH… AAAAAHHH…
Huh, huh, huh, huh…
Back to email:
The things you’re doing for me even from your hospital bed, like sending me all of those Ukrainian handcrafted Klainodeum watches, especially the one with the cupid shooting an arrow through two hearts, has really got to stop, even though I’m truly touched by the gestures. But you don’t have to do anything like that to ensure my devotion to you and my loyalty. Buy me a watch like yours and then I’ll be impressed. Ha, ha, I’m just joking. That watch is one of those things that adds to your magnetic persona and makes you really special. I never thought I’d be taken in by something as seemingly superficial, but it turns out I was. Oh, Welsh Losser.
To himself:
I’m having a nightmare vision that I’m crawling through shit, waste and sewers with my essentially still developing rat torso going straight into my head with no neck, my little veined batwings atrophying and becoming vestigial, gruesome and awkwardly cumbersome appendages on my back that don’t work anymore, the line of fur going down my back covering all my turtle shell, my turtle shell becoming a deformed, irregularly shaped armor of grotesque sharp saw-toothed ridges, added as extra humiliation, useless in defense and almost too heavy to carry – eeekhhh, eeekhhh, eeekhhh – hey, what was that? Help me – I don’t know what I’m talking about! What did Josh Davies do to me? I thought the changes had stopped, but they were only dormant. Now what’s going to happen? What will I turn into next?
Back to email:
Welsh Losser. I had a pretty bad fever dream that I was making endless cups of coffee for Josh Davies and got burnt. It was pretty bad.
Well, I have to go now. No time. Things to do. Write soon, tell me when I can visit.
Bye. The Ferret.
Struggling up against his pillows in his hospital bed with his now twisted humped back and crooked asymmetrical shoulders (thanks to his hanging by Andrew Plumb and Lard’s ego on cable TV), Welsh Losser, in pain, but desperate, replies on his laptop back to The Ferret:
Dear The Ferret,
Do you have any loyalty left to Davies? I mean, just because he made you. I surely hope not. I don’t think much of that character. I don’t know why, but there’s something creepy about him, and I’ll have to admit, I don’t like how he doesn’t think much of me. So I strongly advise you to just forget about that wrinkly old man – get him out of your mind – and sleep well at night, dreaming sweet dreams – the ones you deserve.
I’m still in some pain, so I have to keep this short, but please, please, come by as soon as you can. I miss you very much and want you near me again. Just seeing your sweet visage will be enough to bring me out of this dolor and help get me out of here so that we can pursue our media dreams of Kyiv together. When I first arrived in this town, I said to myself, ‘This is going to be mine, and no one is going to make fun of me or take anything I lay claim to away from me ever again, like they did my entire life back in Oregon – ever since I was a kid, making fun of my eyes, etc.’ And now with you in my life, and the two of us helping each other, we can make both our dreams come true and they’re whole much greater than the sum of our separate parts.
Confirming my greatest devotion,
Welsh Losser
To be continued in Part 2 – of course…
Filed by Jack Step, October 1, 2013