The Madman at the Torchlight Rally

On an otherwise innocuous summer night in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, residents were astounded by the appearance of a torch-light rally outside the gates of city hall. It was an exaggeration to call this rather bizarre demonstration a rally, because the sole attendee was suffering from severe mania. The amicable citizens of Charlottetown had done all they could to help this man, whom they had affectionately dubbed with the nickname 'the mad professor.' This soft-spoken individual had spent the last decade of his life unsuccessfully attempting to establish himself as a writer.

As a former editor and philosophical dilettante, I grew to know the professor intimately and made weekly visits to his apartment to offer suggestions on his manuscripts. My attempts to render his work publishable proved futile and served as nothing more than a front row seat for the professor's descent into hysteria.

To his chagrin, the professor found that in the present age anyone can pass themselves off as a writer, and yet there is a big difference between those that want to write and those that are driven to. The professor was of the latter category, and his works were all that sustained him in a world awash with absurdity. Writing was a medium where he could express all of his torments and doubts, the only activity that could alleviate his unpredictable bouts of intense melancholy. It was a token that acknowledged his existence, and served as proof that he was not just another forgotten nobody on an inconsequential dot floating through nothingness.

At first the professor had convinced himself that he was creating art, even if there was no audience to receive his work. He wrote voraciously, determined to leave behind a legacy. Over time the illusion faded. The professor grew furious over a society that was infatuated by the latest low-grade fantasy novel, or self-help book. He was increasingly unable to function as would-be artists turned their blogs into best-selling books, and clueless hacks became world-renown 'writers' overnight. All the while the professor's own project gathered dust on a desk overwrought with incomplete stories and hastily written fragments.

It would be years before the public truly understood the professor's genius. In the meantime, without a release to control his incessant thinking, the professor experienced a slow but steady mental decline. What had once been his salvation became a detestable and unshakeable burden. He was unable to write and simply paced back and forth in his study for hours. All the while he muttered and laughed incoherently to himself. I found the professor in this state on numerous occasions upon arrival at his apartment for our weekly discussion. The professor repeatedly dismissed my concerns over his mental well-being and I watched helplessly as this great individual declined further.

If there was no audience to appreciate his art, he no longer saw any point to the activity. Instead, the professor surmised that he might as well not exist, and all meaning was lost. His dream had been to leave behind a project that would be read for generations, but he had arrived at nothing. He had put his heart and soul into writing, and all the while borderline illiterates were selling millions of copies of their recently churned out drivel at record pace.

Tonight something had snapped, and the professor had shown up outside the gates of Charlottetown City Hall dressed entirely in a set of white robes, with the pointed hood draped over his head. In his left hand he held a lit tiki torch, and inexplicably in his right, a cardboard cut-out of Daisy Duke. The people of Charlottetown watched in horror as the professor patrolled the periphery of city hall thrusting his tiki torch and cut-out high into the night sky.

Given my acquaintance with the professor I was notified by those at the scene and arrived in time to experience the full extent of his breakdown. In a slow and steady march, the professor shouted out his diatribe to no one in particular, "They will not replace us. The fools will not replace us!"