Johnny Spossen

“For the next minute. We are pirates. Of the two, which are you? Are you the dutiful captain, bound only by imagination? Or are you at the mercy of the merciless waves, bound by permission?”
What a question. Right? Wrong. It’s a whole lot of icing, but not a lot of cake. It’s a slimy question that even slimier people ask. So of course, I asked it. Over and over again. From the moment I stepped onto that auditorium stage. Thirty pounds to my name, a velvet blazer, and the elixir of delusion. To now, stepping on this ledge. The titanium bars harmonise as they sing for me to mount them. The city streets look so inviting. Nothing’s changed. It’s a shit question.

Looking back, it wasn’t a terrible grift. Quite the opposite. It was all thought out to begin with.It had to be, becoming someone worth listening to takes practice. Some nights I’d wrestle with psychology. I’d reconcile with neurology. I’d adore philosophy, then I couldn’t with theology. All culminating into the scenario where the mantle piece of my heart would be filled. Of which success or failure would be placed there would be a testament to my practice. My first late show appearance. Jimmy Hilton’s “Exposé”, if you can call it that. Failed. Miserably. Much more than that leopard skin suit, I made him look a fool. A feat no one has or since done. That shot me to heights only the unmerited reach. But you then realise why the unmerited are the only ones there. You have a few years before complacency steals you. The polish of your vigour rusts. Now the only talking points you want to hear are your own and before long, you’re one step away from a street cleaner’s worst day.

Not convincing? I couldn’t hold it against you if you claimed the pros didn’t outweigh the cons. Riches. Guest seminars at the Ivy Leagues, speeches at a billionaire’s son’s birthday. Sports cars. The touch of a beautiful woman who wants to figure you out. Well, not you, the grift. Jets, jets, jets. Dinner with the royals. The king? I wish. That was still years away. It was more like the twenty-third in line for the throne. Still closer than I’ll ever be. The plunder of professional lying, ladies and gentlemen. Bidding starts at the low, low price of your mother, wife and children loudly protesting your “ethics.” To your “friends” and “relationship” that have a lifespan of a fruit fly. Going once…

Is it strange to feel both regret and pride? Anyways, whilst I’m at it, I should give a better “Exposé” than Jimmy Hilton ever could. My grift was simple. Get the most basic truth you know. No, simpler than that. So simple that it’s virtually impossible to disagree with. Now, people know that shit stinks. So you tell them. You talk about its inevitability. That its determining prowess is a symptom of a deeper, more elusive problem. Anything that resembles intellect. Once you have them in agreement, you sprinkle the secret ingredient. Your narrative. Agenda. Whatever you call it. Now it links with the undeniable. So, your narrative is undeniable. Do that with some charm. Being handsome is optional but preferred. Bish, bash, bosh. You have some gold-covered shit. Your very own scam. You’re welcome. But beware, you’ll sink if you're not that type of pirate.

I imagine it's still vague, you know? As to why I recommend it. This is more than I care to share. But soon it won't matter. To be successful in this game, you need to believe the lies. To many, I did. They called me “Johnny Spokesman” for Christ’s sake. But the adage, “A lie told once remains a lie, but a lie told a thousand times becomes the truth,” for me was an undisputed truth. Each lie I spoke with that in mind. The further I drifted from the truth, the closer it seemed I was getting to that end. Years go by, and I am stagnant. My words hold less weight, the invites stopped, and the rumours sprouted. When would my lies become the truth? I needed to find the Johnny of old and what better place to go than the beginning. So I look for the quote. You know, the mantra I’d been following for fifteen years? It’s in this book. “Big Lie” by Joseph Goebbels. I’ll never forget the taste of peach cobbler, ready to erupt as I read it. Me, propagandised? Me, following the words of a monster who spilled the blood of my forefathers? How could I believe now? How could I stoop so low? All it would’ve taken was for me to believe my lies. It would’ve taken me to the top. It has. Now only the wind is cheering.

After the veil came down, the grift followed. Can you debate what your soul rejects? Can you spawn wit for what you don’t wish to think about? Can you keep the layer of confidence as it becomes porous? If you can, then I understand why I don’t see you up here.

If you become a laughing stock amongst your peers. If your family who revered you now leads the campaign against your imprisonment. You have seen all the good they have fought for and now it is you they fight. This fight also must be good, no?

I’d love to say if you’re reading this letter, I’m gone. But at this point, you know me enough. I’ve weaseled myself out of worse. If you’ve read up to here, it’s clearer to you than to me whether I jump. So I ask you. What kind of pirate was I?