I keep my books on my nightstand: The complete works of François Rabelais. dog-eared and stained with wine, and a leather-bound notebook where I recorded my own gargantuan tales, written not in ink, but in the unraveled bowels my festering jokes. I Adored Panurge – That drunken, cowardly, cunning rogue from Gargantua and Pantagruel – Not as character but as method. I often whisper to myself “Life is a farce” chuckling as I sharpen my knifes with theatrical flourish. “I am his most devoted Jester”.

I Recall my first act (some called it murder). But I couldn’t stop thinking about Panurge’s revenge on Dindenault, the merchant. I saw this pompous Wallstreet Broker which had been swindling retirees. I Dressed as a shepherd and greeted the man at a deserted garage (corny, in know) and carried on: “Tell me, monsieur,” he grinned, “if you were a sheep, would you prefer to be sold… or drowned?” Before the man could answer, I rammed him into a trough of freezing water, holding him under while singing a 16th-century drinking song. As the man thrashed, I leaned in: “Panurge drowned a man for pride. I drown you for tedium.” I left the corpse dressed in a sodden wool suit, a price tag stapled to its forehead: “Sold for 30 pieces of silver (plus tax).”

I’ve always wondered about ethics, especially on murder cases I was not connected to. Morality is so relative, so vague. There was this teacher lecturing on “Ethics of Desire” which caught my attention, so I invited him to dinner so I could lecture him, with rancid meat and sour wine. “Let us Debate” I declared, carving into his abdomen. His Screams were the sound of morality being translated into Pain. “Professor, you argue about morality, but it is so relative, is this wrong? I mean, your suffering?”. I had this Hannibal impetus, so fed him his liver roasted with thyme. It was horrible (for him). Panurge consulted oracles for answers, I mused wiping the teacher’s mouth. You? You’ll digest yours. I stopped in contemplation observing the body sitting by the table with a quill jammed into his trachea, scribbling nonsense in blood on parchment. Poetic, it was.

Panurge’s Mask as my last joke. I never enjoyed the misogynistic jests from Rabelais, but I understand it was because of the time they lived in. Although, I’ve been fantasizing about a silent wife. Propping her against a mirror so she could read the verses written on her skin. Her Lips shut with catgut strings, dangling from wires like a marionette. Finally flayed by the blade of irony and hung with the rope of inevitability. “Rire est le propre de l’homme.”

Finally, they will call a Monster. How Droll. Monsters are bound by myth, by morality, by the crude chains of meaning. But I? I danced in the pure, unfettered delirium of the absurd. I have worn human skin as Panurge wore his motley – Not as disguise, but as parody. And yes, how gloriously the world played its part! Do you hear it now? The Laughter? Not Mine – Yours! It festers in your marrow, in the quiet hours when you wonder if my crimes were not crimes at all, but a truth too vicious to speak aloud. That’s my final gift to you: The delicious, unscratchable itch of doubt.