Something Rotten

From: horatio@elsinore.dk

Sent: Thursday, May 25, 1154 2:45am

To: The Wittenberg Crew

Subject: In Case You Haven’t Heard . . .

I finally got your email(s) last night—our systems have been down since the invasion—so please excuse my late response. I’m not sure how much of what’s happened around has gotten back to Wittenberg, but let me just say, calling the events “tragic” would be a massive fucking understatement. “Catastrophic” would be more like it.

I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in over a month. Last night, Fortinbras told me I looked like shit, and told me it was high time for me to get the hell over it and get on with my life. I think this was his way of getting me out of the house. Which is fair? I mean, I don’t live here, and Ham’s been dead for three weeks, and there’s nothing left for me to do. I think the length and severity of my grieving process is starting to remind them of Ham after his dad died. And that freaks people out.

Though this is not the first time my spring break has had a body count (that would have been sophomore year, when I went to Norway with my suitemates, and Gustavus was accidentally impaled on an antlered Viking helmet, while playing touch football with some local chicks), eight people have died (not included Ham’s dad) since I left Wittenberg after midterms.

Who’s to blame for the high death count?

Well, that’s sort of up in the air, depending on who you ask. The Elsinore party line has it that Ham’s uncle, Claudius, was the mastermind, having killed Ham Sr, married his wife, and made a foiled attempt to execute Ham the younger. That’s the version Fortinbras prefers. We’ll call that one “Version A,” and it’s the one you’ll probably read about in the papers. It’s (arguably) true, except for the part where Fortinbras slays Claudius in order to save my life (which is utter and complete bullshit—Claudius was dead before the arrival of the Norwegians, and my life wasn’t valued highly enough to be in danger).

Version B, favored by the gung-ho “Go Claudius types,” finds Hamlet in the role over mass murdering psychopath, who drove his girlfriend crazy, raped his mother, had his best friends executed, and drove Denmark to the brink of oblivion, thus allowing for Fortinbras’s invasion. You guys know I love Ham—always have, always will—but, though less technically true than version A, this also contains a grain of truth. Let me put it this way: remember how we were a little nervous when Ham climbed the Wittenberg bell tower after the Homecoming Weekend panty raid? We should have been terrified.

So, now without further ado, the true version, henceforth to be known as “Version C,” goes a little like this:

You all know how stoked I was to spend Spring Break in Elsinore. I’ve always loved Ham’s family (R.I.P.). The Elsinore clan treated me like I was one of their own—a prince in my own right—not like I was the son of an ignorant, alcoholic, grand master of the Copenhagen shellfish guild, and his sexually frustrated, malcontented, fishwife. Ham was a great friend, an outstanding roommate, and, though it may sound shitty to mention it, super generous with his allowance money and political favors.

To be honest, I’d never set foot in a castle until meeting Ham (unless you include the Karl’s Kastle franchise, which I don’t), and Elsinore lived up to my every expectation. Drafty passages, shabby tapestries, unique little enclosed chutes for emptying your bowels, excellent food, and lots of hot, female courtiers (sidenote: that’s different from a “courtesan,” Jan, but thanks for asking).

Anyway. I knew things would be different this spring break. I mean, Ham Sr had recently passed away, Ham had left school, and we all knew from his live journal, just how hard he was taking it. But no amount of theatrical blogging could have prepared me for the changes wrought by Ham Sr’s death.

Sometime between his father’s death and mother’s remarriage, Ham had gone from morbid college guy to angel of death. I’m not exaggerating. He wore all black, moped around the corridors at all hours, and, worst of all, started speaking in verse. He entertained thoughts of suicide and, I believe, sexual reassignment surgery. (The latter I intuited one day after hearing him babble on endlessly about how he was waiting for “Sally’s flesh” to melt while pointing at his own arm. When I asked him about it, he copped attitude and said something about weeding his garden. Now, there are landscapers at Elsinore and there’s nary a dandelion in the lawn. How would you read that?)

I was worried about him. REALLY worried. I tried drugs. I tried alcohol. I tried pornographic minstrel shows. I tried whores (female and, on one occasion, male). I tried talking to his girlfriend (crazy bitch, but that’s a whole other story). I even tried talking him through the seven stages of grief. All to no avail.

So I tried thinking outside the box. I figured he needed a laugh. A good old-fashioned prank to get his mind all the rotten mess in Denmark. So I paid this bum five Kroners on April Fools to dress up like Ham’s Dad and tell him to get on with his life. We worked out a little speech that would implicate Ham’s uncle in his father’s death, describe the afterlife in a humorous way, and then at the end, we’d finish off with “You know they took the word “gullible” out of the dictionary” or something like that. Then, we’d go get a beer.

(It would be sort of like that time Ham and Rosencrantz rigged up “the voice of god” to insult Professor Jorgensen whenever he mentioned Beowulf in Lit Lectures. Still classic. Jorgensen’s face at “I’m God. Who the hell are you, buttfucker?” lives on as one of my most treasured memories. I nearly pissed myself.)

Suffice to say, the prank didn’t work. Mostly because the bum passed out before we got to the punchline. And Ham, poor bastard, goes rushing off to plan his stepfather’s murder. And I, ass that I am, figured Ham’s historic penchant for procrastination (remember how he turned in his Alchemy midterm eight months late?) would probably derail any real tragedy.

I was wrong. In fact, it’s hard to conceive of me being any more wrong.

Which brings us back to the death count.

So I guess you could say this whole mess is sort of my fault. But I did, for the record, try to tell Hamlet that SEVERAL times before he started killing people.

That said:

If anyone is looking for a summer sublet on a nice, inexpensive house in Wittenberg, I have it on good authority that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s place will be available immediately.

Fortinbras and I decided to keep the funerals quiet. Instead of sending flowers or cards (there’s—uh—no one left to send them to), we’d request that you make a contribution to the Yoric Foundation, a brand new non-profit I’ve started committed to counseling emotionally troubled young people against killing their families. The Healing starts at Home. Even if that home happens to be Elsinore. Visit our website at www.alaspooryoric.com

I’m going to try and get back to Wittenberg sometime next month. I took incompletes in most of my classes, so, no worries there. I can’t wait to see you guys. I’m definitely going to need a drink.

Ray