Paul Freud

I don’t completely understand my strange predicament, and I am utterly confused by the encounter that caused it. However, I find in me a strange impulse to recount the facts of that pivotal night, even though it might contradict a decade of my public chatter.

It all began when I received a call from my dear friend Antony. “We cannot confirm,” he said with an audible grin “but there are at least two sightings: Fraud is wandering with nothing on but his underwear; and–”, he paused, “real doped, apparently”. Freud was his name. Yes, the famous actor, philanthropist, activist, Paul Freud. Once my dear friend, but for despicable reasons I don’t want to get into right now, Freud had earned my unwavering hatred, and also his fitting nickname. Our hatred was mutual and public. Nonetheless, I had expressed it more frequently and far more extensively, especially in recent years. This is because on the one hand I ran a (popular) podcast from my studio, which had lately overtaken my primary occupation; while on the other, Fraud’s favorite con in the past few years had been his performative economy of speech in light of his performative acceptance of God.

But long before his dramatic conversion, Fraud’s claim to fame was his well-known obsession with drug abuse (and I leave this statement intentionally ambiguous). Ten years back he was an irrelevant celebrity well past his prime. At that time, the infamous Rockwell School raid and killings were trending for weeks. Fraud, amply supplied by his cunning and greed, jumped on that train and began his insincere anti-drug campaign. The public ate it. Among laymen he was soon raised up to some kind of rabbinate, although I suspected (and believed) that he was abusing a range of junk himself. I had every piece of information from his past to obliterate his con-castle, being short of only some concrete evidence. Paul covered his tracks. A meticulous man he had been; at least until that night.

My podcast was somewhat popular. I called him out every now and then, basically calling a Fraud a fraud. But it was popular only among a certain demographic – people (I am not boasting) with an appetite for critical thought. I was generously provided for, as such people not only happen to be affluent, but are also keen to support quality thinkers. But the support wasn’t as loud and boisterous as Fraud’s mass following. The average cowboy was a Fraud fan, and as if his superficial drug-doomer persona wasn’t enough to appease the conservatives, now he was also a Christian. The extent of Fraud’s desperation for relevance and stardom was the extent of my dislike of him. So, needless to say, after Antony’s call I was wide awake with a sense of purpose that I had only felt in my youth.

It was an open secret that Fraud was also dying. I dreaded this impending event, not out of pity for him, for death is aptly due to such a charlatan, but because our rivalry was almost surely going to be settled in his favor. We all know what death makes of a popular man – a saint.

Though I am no gangster, I had my version of what you could call “muscle”. We, Antony and I, knew that Fraud had to be found by someone from our side before his men found him. Even recorded evidence could not cement the allegations for obvious reasons. He had to be produced criminally red-handed, in the flesh. While we were busy making arrangements and following our leads, I received another call from Antony. “They found the bastard, and took him”. After my silent disappointment he continued, “a bunch of people saw him though”, like a mother consoling a child with sub-par substitutes. I was indignant and remained silent. “I will drop by at the studio”, Antony informed me before hanging up.

My darling studio was lit next to darkness. I sat at my desk with my beer. I drink very rarely. If anyone was a righteous abstainer, it was I; I always have been. The bell rang, and I reluctantly answered it expecting my mate. I was instantly sobered at the sight. Behind the shocking visitor stood four large men in dark attire, and almost as large as them was the visitor Paul Freud himself, clad in a nightgown. His entire body drooped like a defeated soldier.

It took me no time to realize that Paul’s condition was such that he couldn’t be addressed. So I addressed his men instead, “why is he here?” strenuously hiding my excitement for I was staring at the desire of my heart. My voice echoed my confidence. “He won’t say nothing but only insist on being brought here”. I had no idea why his men paid heed to such an insistence from their compromised master, but I was glad that they did. And if they had come this far, I knew they wouldn’t retreat. So, demanding a minute, I shut the door. I restored the brightest lights, and turned on the discreet recorders, before instructing them to come in.

They hung Paul at the center seat, and scattered themselves about the studio. I must admit that I suddenly experienced a strange detachment from my passion, and the occasion gave me no organic satisfaction. The prey had walked right into the den of its predator, and was hunted without struggle. In fact, my excitement soured into an uncanny anxiety.

I was actively reasoning to myself the case for the moment’s gravity. The silence had settled. I longed for Antony’s company to propel us into action. My plan was to go live, but it couldn’t be so explicit as to arouse alarm in the guards. I must buy time until my buddy arrives, I thought. I was so occupied with my schemes, that I forgot the central mystery – why would a drugged Paul insist on being brought to the studio of his strongest critic? Once this resurfaced, my whole body jolted with a pang of curiosity. I could not resist settling the riddle.

“If you were in your senses, you would certainly know how this looks”. My words went unreceived for Paul was still drooping like a withering flower; nor did this help my growing restlessness. An impulse rose and before I knew it I was vigorously shaking him by the shoulders. His men observed sharply but made no move. “It’s over, Paul Fraud” was repeating on my lips.

“What put him to this state?” I asked the friendliest guard. “He did them drugs”, he responded, pronouncing “drugs” with sheer disgust like Paul usually would, “and then he fled naked. The hero of our nation has fallen”. “He is no hero, he is a liar”, I blurted in reflex. “His shame must be tormenting him. But why this sudden circus of giving himself away? And why under my roof?” Those words came out louder than I intended. At this, Paul showed some movement. The mild commotion was immediately contained, as if Paul were a sleeping beast. We were all muted in anticipation. Like a creaking machine, he slowly gathered his strength and lifted his head from his chair. Our eyes met, and my sinister smirk melted before his face of a contrite child. What followed was perhaps the most vivid moment of my life.

Paul fell to his knees and folded his hands. And then he uttered in his drugged and yet clear voice, word after word, as if carefully rehearsed. “My friend, forgive the sins I have committed against you. I have acquired much earthly reward, which I must relinquish. I surrender myself, and only you have the power to destroy me.”

When Antony arrived we ran the story, and this is where it gets blurry, it felt like I did it in a trance, as if I were drugged myself. Months later Paul died a fallen giant. However, those words of his, which thanks to me were now public, had won the approval of some religious radicals. On platforms with a modest following, I would occasionally hear Paul being remembered as a “holy fool”.

In the days following the take-down, I experienced terrible fatigue and a lack of purpose. More importantly, the anxiety that plagued me that night had still not left me, although it was somewhat tempered. His funeral, a thing of ridicule, was nevertheless a public event. Since I was bored, I attended it. A young and nervous priest went up to read his eulogy. In so many words he declared that in his last days Paul had found the saintly impulse to shed his weight in order to fit through the “eye of a needle”. He continued by quoting from the Gospel of Matthew verses that I hadn’t known. Apparently they were words of Christ Himself, and it was only then, months after that bizarre night, was I invited into Paul’s mind.

“When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”