I could be the next David Copperfield! Minus the rape charges...
Six months ago, I died. Nothing fancy, really. Meth lab explosion, one of the fastest rising fatality rates in the United States. However, I came back, and not to rub my own cock, but that's pretty fuckin' fancy. That puts me in a very elite group of people including Jesus Christ and Cher. Unlike Jesus and Cher, though, I didn't go around bragging about it the minute I came back to life. Took me about six months to make it out of the States and find a nice European computer café that didn't turn me away because I smelled like something died in my coat, or that I looked like walking beef jerky. Well, to be accurate, it took me about six months to get to Europe and a couple hours to find an Internet café that didn't mind the smell of funk and burning. Yes, I'm in France right now. Have been for about a week.
See, something odd happens when you die nowadays. You don't just die, everything about you dies. They certify it! I have a death certificate in some county hall in the States. They make it official, so official that it's nearly impossible to come back from it. So, kids, my grand magic act? Jack Zodiac has disappeared completely. I don't exist. How's that for a metatextual mind-fuck? I know I'm still reeling from it. My home (read: rathole), my friends (read: dealers), my identity (read: plastic shit that proves I'm not just a well-done hobo). My computer. Still workin' on that one. See, before I was shuffled out of the cosmic deck and then reshuffled back in, some cocksucking firebugs in fancy suits tore my place apart, stole my laptop, and torched my home. I'm thinking spooks. The reason it took me so long to get back to you fine folks was because of the peculiarity of my situation.
I have no I.D., no money, and I look like I've been barbecued, but without the sweet hickory scent. Without most of my usual resources, I had to do some incredibly grueling things to make my way to Europe. That big motherfucker of an ocean didn't help a bit, and I had to make a few stops between Central America, South America, Cuba, Haiti, West Africa, North Africa, and then finally France. Let's say it took some conniving, deceitful, and sometimes violent stuff for me to get where I was goin' and leave it at that. I probably wouldn't have made it here at all without this sweet little mask, though.
After I made my screaming peace with existence, I trudged through non-existence for an eternity, before the good baron of the graveyard delivered me to Aunt Nancy. The King of Stories told me I had a tale that was topping his hypothetical sales charts, which caught me the fuck by surprise, what with being dead and unpublished, so I told him it was probably on my computer and I just couldn't remember it. Yeah, I duped the trickster god- at least, I'm pretty sure I did. Tough call. Either way, the old spider gave me another crack at life and a couple of gifts to help me find my untold story: a heart full of venom (like I didn't have enough), and a mask.
Now, I felt pretty gypped when I woke up in a morgue with skin like a convenience store hot dog, and I figured the old lyin' fuck juiced me like some asshole fly in his web; but I soon realized that this wasn't your typical magical genie gift fuck-over, I was really given a mask by a god. When I need it, I can turn this tire track of a face into an ivory mask. And not just a plain old mask, either. It's like a living theater mask. Comedy, tragedy, the full gauntlet of emotion. Now, some of you might be wondering, "Uncle Jack," and I think it's absolutely goddamn cute you kids still call me that, "What good is a mask when the rest of your body looks like Phyllis Diller with a tan?" Y'see, when the mask is on, I'm a completely different person. That's not just some recklessly thrown about metaphor, either, I literally become a completely different person. I even feel kind of different, which is why I avoid using it when I can; but it came in pretty damn handy making my way here, and it'll help even more to look like whoever the hell I want while I'm in Europe, too.
Right now, there's a man I have to see. He was in Paris the other day, but he had some... complications... that forced him to cut his visit short and head for Germany. If anybody would know if the douchebags who stole my computer were spooks, it'd be him, and he owes me for a couple of favors I did for him back in the Eighties. Oh, those crazy Eighties. I'll be in touch, children. While I'm gone, remember, don't trust anybody!