Reporting the Sad Death of Jim Junior

Well, people, it finally happened. My adventures are over. The ego has landed.

I'm dead.

Or, at least, reports would have you believe. Here is my favourite, translated from the original article in the third-most popular state-run rag, Ministracao de Minas.

"British Diplomat Jim 'Mewang' Junior, AKA, 'Little' Jimmy Wang, AKA locally as Jiminho, is dead. He died in the Brazilian city of Beagast of psychic exhaustion while attempting to drill his way through the doors of a local dentist's domestic residence, where the sons and daughters of local dignitaries were dining, on the 20th August, 2009. Although there have been numerous reports of foul play and even international psychic conspiracy involved in his death (as well as rumours of hints of unconfirmed reports of heightened military security that day around the surrounding area, surrounding the identity of the mystery guest scheduled to address the assembled diners as an after-dinner speaker) the verdict of the local coroner, Mano Wancomonki, was of a natural death, a result of the subject's over-avid imagination leading to complete, irreversible, cerebral meltdown.

Thiago Turbando, the Chief of the Civil Police, confirmed civilly, if not cordially, that the spinal cord had been conveying communications of conspiracy to the cerebral cortex at the centre of the subject's spinning vortex at the exact moment of death. He continued conspiratorially that he couldn't completely dismiss concerns of conspiracy connected to the subject being bound to uncover the coordinates of a retired tyrant but that he was bound to add that addled minds handled binds badly, and that the subject's object of enquiry had been objected to but never prevented by a local coterie of mining interests 'whose interests in laying the case to rest were as deep as mine.'

Reports of a man fitting the exact physical description of the subject except for 'a kind of renewed spark in his eyes' leaving the scene of the death moments later were being dismissed by top-ranking officials as 'the gayest kind of fake-ass analysis this side of Serra Bundagrande' (a reference to the local mountain range, widely-supposed depository for a batch of clinically-rejected anal suppositories, which separate the state of Minas Demais with the neighbouring state of Santa Paula.) "

In truth, reports of my death have not been greatly exaggerated. I am not the person I was.

I will never again think, talk, act or walk like the lowly Junior Minister I was before my rise from the catacombs of all-corrupting power-hunger allowed me to achieve my new-found state of primacy - inheriting some prime reality-estate, if you will! - although I will continue to use the addendum of 'Junior' after my new ID as a mark of my concurrent collaboration with the musical combo of the same name.

Something was lost to the world forever on that fateful late-afternoon, but it more a pop of the cherry than the cork. Not that corks, champagne corks, were not popped, metaphorically, by myself.

Because I had something to celebrate that day.

My awakening; no more, no less, no nonsense.
The death of the inner dunce, the idiots' dance deftly ended. (Take a bow-legged bow!)
The child's cries falling on deaf ears as the earth gave birth to a man.
A newborn soldier, dwarfed but not cowed by the calves of the giants he has just swung off the shoulders of.
Born of the Babaca: sexless, ageless, cross-eyed creator of Chaos and little else of worth.
A man for the moment. Not simply a man, nor a woman, but something more than human.

A Babacaman. Dismissing his creator and shedding his before-skin.

It's just me from now on.

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