“Hi, um, I’m honeygloom. Please excuse the golden aura, I’ve been trying to get rid of it for years.” I smile, I hate public speaking, but then doesn’t everyone? A diaphanous black sundress with a dripping white skull on one side hangs loosely above my knees. I had tried to do my hair, and failed. So it’s in the same messy ponytail it’s always in. And for the occasion I swapped black nail polish for red, seemed fitting. I look down at Eleven, he nods and flashes a brilliant smile. He has these dreamy eyes that, like Johnny Depp in Sweeny Todd, make me almost too weak to stand.

“Boobie was so much more than a sick comedic mind,” my voice waivers. I’m not sure if I can do this. The hum from the Integratron fills my body with a feeling matched only by Boobie’s work. Shamus winks at me from the crowd. I take a deep breath as Nash gives me the universal ‘wrap it up’ signal.

        “I remember one of the most amazing conversations I ever had with Boobie, via his secretary of course, was when he told me that…” I sniffle, my red-rimmed eyes the sign of abject suffering, “Boobie told me that he often wore diapers, because, and I quote, ‘an artist cannot simply stop writing whenever nature happens to call’. There is nothing more beautiful than a man so dedicated to his craft.” I stop, emotions welling up inside. But this story must be told, so with a deep breath I continue.  

       “There is nothing more beautiful than a man so dedicated to his craft that he will deny himself sanitation for the sake of his art. Many of you may not know this but Boobie and I worked on a very special, and unfortunately unfinished project of his. The working title of which is ‘My Melancholy Phone Sex Whore’.” I stop again, why does everyone have to listen so carefully. I’m nervous enough as it is.

          “After some coaxing via email I gave Boobie my phone number. He swore to use the digits only for good and when Mr. Pennington III called to offer me a role in the literary coupe de grace of the great Boobie I was happy beyond expression. Boobie, as you all know, was enamored of things forbidden, things seedy and raunchy. The stuff our mothers are afraid of.” I’m startled as everyone laughs and I think to myself, if only Boobie had been up here, they would have been laughing much harder. 

             “Boobie, or rather Boobie via Mr. Pennington III, asked if I would engage in a series of phone sex calls with him(Boobie) so that he could write a novel of the most daring audacity. A novel about a man, decrepit and bed ridden who falls in love with a girl on one of those phone sex lines. Obviously genius, as all of Boobie’s works were, this idea, I felt, had the potential to rock the world. To let stuffy people everywhere know that love exists in the most unlikely places and that when stripped to our barest emotions we are all equals. Of course I said yes and that very night Boobie, via Mr. Pennington III, guided me to the most exquisite orgasm I’ve ever had.” I’m blushing but I can’t stop here. Everyone must know of Bobert Walker’s genius. I glance briefly down at Eleven and wonder why he looks so angry. Maybe he’s upset he didn’t think of this brilliant idea first. I make a mental note to console him later, his works are very near the genius of Boobie so there’s no reason he should be upset.

“Over the next few weeks Boobie, always through his faithful secretary, called me for phone sex. We took on our characters with pride and conviction. Boobie would email me the transcripts and the progress of the novel. It is breathtaking… or it was. Boobie, shortly before he died ordered all copies destroyed and asked me never to speak of it again. I attributed it, at the time to an artists caprice an fully intended to comply. I am up here today to tell you all that the saddest thing in my life is that I will never again hear Mr. Pennington III say, ‘Ms. Gloom, Mr. Walker would like you to stick your finger up your **** and wiggle it about,’. But you, my friends will read it. I, knowing that Boobie was given to contradictory fits of impulse, did not destroy his work as he asked. No! I saved it and I have photocopied it for you today so that we can all share in the amazing, final work of genius of the great Bobert Walker.” The crowd cheers. Mr. Pennington III looks upset and maybe frantic. No doubt the old fraud thought he could make money off the posthumous publication. Eleven looks less angry than before as he reaches for his copy, he always is a curious creature. As I’m escorted to my tent by the ever faithful Synapto I notice with deep satisfaction that the crowd is silently devouring the latest work of the astounding Boobie Walker.