Idly rummaging through the second-rate contents of a local junk store, an astonishing assortment of dusty ephemera stacked on crooked bookshelves and top-heavy antique tables, I came across a plaster cast death mask of some long forgotten Edwardian personality. Could it be Augustus Plumb? Or possibly Sunderland F. Twaddleforth? Hard to tell in the poorly-lit conditions at the back of the shop. Who is this? I enquired of the gnomic, pince-nezzed proprietor.
It's my great uncle Fortinbras, he replied. Fortinbras died of complications of the spleen, a painful conclusion to life as can clearly be seen from the final configuration of his mouth and eyes. That record of his passing is yours for only twenty-five dollars. I won't accept less or may I suffer the same end as he. I've reduced the price before and the guilt occasioned by that devaluation has haunted me ever since. Death masks exhibiting facial features racked by complications of the spleen are very rare. A collector's item, in fact.
Really? It looks like he's winking.
Yes. According to family lore, at the moment of expiration, Fortinbras was informing a second cousin of the existence of a second will, hidden midway inside a narrow and very dirty chimney, detailing the second cousin's sole claim to his vast fortune. This information proved to be his idea of a joke. When the second cousin climbed up the chimney in question, at great discomfort to himself, there was nothing to be found except a small parchment scroll with the phrase "Ha Ha" written on the surface in purple ink.
So who did inherit Fortinbras' fortune?
Nobody. There was no fortune left to claim. That was part of the joke, apparently. Fortinbras had spent it all on cheap baubles and other worthless fripperies, all of which can be found within this store, unwanted and unsold over the countless decades that have followed their original purchase. And I have to say, Fortinbras' shaggy dog story sense of humor and wastefully rampant consumerism are not remembered with any great affection, especially by your present interlocutor who is forced to make living by trying to flog the rotten fruits of such an eccentric lifestyle.
Hmm. Twenty-five bucks for the mask, you say? Let me think about it and maybe I'll be back later.
Of course, I never did return. In fact, that month's junk budget was spent on a 45rpm vinyl recording of My Favorite Things performed by The Pack Rats, an artifact that no longer brings me joy and which I recently advertised for sale in the classified pages of 'Novelty Song' magazine. Eight dollars including shipping is a bargain for such a slab musical of musical history, even if the sound quality is poor. No takers so far but it's only been in there for a single issue. Someone will want it, I'm sure.
