Not Andersen Prunty

Framoni was an ecstatic man. He looked for the beauty in everything and, beyond the beauty, he found laughter. Around the Weeg District it was a common sight to see Framoni bent with laughter. He was a girthy man, bearded and prone to brightly colored suits.

One day, something ruptured.

Framoni, at the advice of others, went to see a doctor. He disliked doctors. They did not represent the joyful, the ecstatic.

“It hurts when I laugh.” Framoni pointed to an area between his ample belly and his heart.

“That’s because you’ve busted a gut.” The doctor looked at a clipboard that Framoni assumed held the results of his tests.

“That can’t be.” Framoni stared emptily at the dead space of the exam room.

“Oh, I’m afraid so. You’ll have to stop laughing, unfortunately.”

The doctor reached into a drawer and pulled out a heavy book. “Here. Read this. It’ll help.”

Framoni left the doctor’s office. He went to the local haberdasher and purchased a black suit, hoping the somber fabric would help his condition. He reached his apartment and flipped through the book the doctor had given him. No title. No author. It seemed to be a series of blueprints and diagrams. Tiring of the book, Framoni went out to his balcony and looked out upon the district street. Beauty. Absurdity. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stay here and not laugh.

Framoni rented a small cottage in the country, ivy-covered and away from people. He wore his black suit, moped around the house, and focused on the sad savagery of nature.

Soon, he received a letter from his cousin, Conley Barnes, all the way from Grapp.

Dear F.

Regrettably, Uncle Werther has passed. It seems he was out for his morning “ball flop” when it happened. He had a testicular condition where they needed to be agitated regularly. He chose to do this by wearing voluminous pants, thus allowing his “balls” to “flop” from thigh to thigh. Unfortunately, this condition resulted in a stretching and loosening of the scrotum. Embarrassingly, the scrotum ruptured while he was “flopping” down the sidewalk adjacent to a busy suburban street. Your presence at the funeral is not mandatory. Donations are always accepted.

Yours,

C.B.

Framoni put the letter back in its envelope and placed it on the table.

Normally, he would do something that would make him laugh in order to relieve the great sadness in his soul. Instead, he took the nameless book into an unused room at the back of the cottage. He sat down in a corner and remained there for days. Shortly thereafter, he received another letter from his cousin Conley.

Dear F.

Regrettably, Aunt Edanine has passed. The eye sac that had plagued her for years finally ruptured while she was out for a drive. Her vision became obscured and she ran into a tree. A funeral will not be held. She has requested her body be left in the Wilds for the imagibeasts to feed upon.

Yours,

C.B.

Framoni put this letter on top of the other one and went back to the room. Back to the book. The sadness of the room pressed down upon him. He had started to lose weight and his black suit hung loosely from his body.

The letters kept coming.

His grandfather Gustav accidentally defenestrated while watering a flowerbox. His cousin Paco, after losing his eyebrows in a grilling mishap, died from an infection sustained during a transplant. His grandmother Gloria disappeared on a cruise, all passengers assumed deceased.

There were more.

Framoni’s melancholy room had changed. He thought it had something to do with the book. Just looking at the strangeness of it seemed to cause the designs to manifest. He wandered dazedly around the room, touching things. Over the weeks, over the deaths, a chair had appeared, made from coffin lining. The windows were blacked out. Like those in a hearse, he thought. The curtains were made of tears. The floor was grimed with grief and he was pretty sure the ceiling was made of regret.

He did not like this room.

He called his doctor and said, “I think I’m ready to laugh again.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I do not like doctors,” Framoni said softly into the phone.

“Yes. And I do not like fools.”

Framoni hung up the phone and retrieved some matches from the kitchen. Cautiously, he entered the melancholy room and felt the exchange of sadness.

He shredded the strange book and piled it up on the floor. Then he struck a match and dropped it to the pile. And he sat in the corner and laughed as the flames consumed everything, crawling over the sadness and crackling it with life.