GRAVEYARD TALK
EPISODE 3: SOCRATES
He emerges from the fog, this time wearing a flowy black long-sleeved shirt, laced at the chest. Knotted around his throat is a black cape that hangs nearly to the floor; its high collar arcs around the nape of his neck. His pants are black, his boots knee-high.
MORTIMER:
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to drink poison? A bitter hemlock cocktail that slowly makes its way through your bloodstream, paralyzing you a muscle at a time. Eventually, your sentences begin to falter, each word becoming harder to form with your dying lips until breath is vacant. Yes…I have as well.
He turns, glitter-caked eye shadow shimmering above a ghoulish stare, and walks amongst the smog.
MORTIMER:
Now imagine that you are given a choice. You yourself are a polarizing philosophical wanderer, known for questioning everything. Society. Authority. Even the gods themselves—the highest blasphemy. The state does not appreciate such clarity, such freedom of expression, especially when it begins to affect the minds of its precious youth. So, to silence you, they sentence you…to death. However, there is a second option: the choice to flee, to save your life. Disappear into obscurity, as it were, and live out the rest of your days in peace. But in doing so, you go against your integrity, your creed, the one thing you swore never to loosen your grip on. So, what do you do? Escape…or die?
He slows, stopping in front of a stone angel. Its wingspan is wide, its granite eyes lowered, as if observing him from above.
MORTIMER:
My guest tonight can speak more on such a mindset. And perhaps we can achieve a better understanding of why he chose what he chose. So, if you are ready, join me…on Graveyard Talk.
The synth beat begins, laying a foundation for the eerie melody that follows. A mélange of scenes displays on the screen—our host chanting, violent winds blowing, spirits arriving.
When we return, Mortimer is sitting in his burgundy wingback chair. Next to him, the now-familiar ash globe sits atop an end table. Further left is a vacant velvet-green sofa.
MORTIMER:
Good evening, and welcome…to Graveyard Talk. I am your host, Mortimer Black. Last week, we were visited by the spirit of Marie Antoinette, which, I must remind you—the viewers at home—that when a spirit answers my call, they often—perhaps always—arrive in the way they went out. For those who saw the former queen might have noticed that she was not entirely…intact. Seeing that, some of you may have wondered, Is she in pain? As far as I could tell, observing Madam Antoinette as closely as I did, I could see no remnants of physical discomfort. Emotionally, on the other hand, it is a different story, as she seemed to be still affected by the tragic events that took place during her life. Though I am an expert in preternatural studies, I do not mean to proclaim to have all the answers. The importance of what I do, I truly believe, is for us to learn together so that we may better understand what awaits us in the next realm.
He lifts the ash globe and displays it for the viewers.
MORTIMER:
Our guest tonight may give us another clue into just what awaits us on the other side. As I have reminded you before, please do not attempt this practice at home.
He fumbles with the knobs of the ash globe, creating static, of which he hums over. He inverts the globe, then raises it upright. Silence.
MORTIMER (CHANTING):
Soul of the dead, hear my living call.
Rise o’ rise from thy spectral stall
Come forth and speak of life once known.
Then return to inhabit thy deathly throne.
Wind suddenly emerges from the stillness, jumbling the television signal. Eventually, the picture rights itself, showing our host raising his arms into the air, the sclerae the only thing visible in his eyes. Then it happens—a figure flickers into view. His beard is thick and bushy, the same as the hair around the back of his head, though the top is balding, wispy. In his hand, he holds a golden goblet. Wrapped around one shoulder is a ragged himation, leaving his pudgy torso exposed on the other side. His feet are bare, and his eyes are bulging, bug-like, as he stares seemingly shocked at Mortimer’s presence before ultimately splatting to the floor.
When Mortimer opens his eyes, he is appalled by his guest’s collapse.
MORTIMER:
Ladies and gentlemen, please forgive me; it seems our guest, the philosopher Socrates, has fainted.
He kneels beside the old man, who stares up at him, bewildered.
MORTIMER:
Socrates, can you hear me? My name is Mortimer Black.
SOCRATES:
Oh, this dreadful hemlock has done it again! The paralysis always begins in my feet. Please, if you may, good sir, delight me with a seat of some kind so that I may look at you properly.
MORTIMER:
Ladies and gentlemen, as you heard, the great philosopher Socrates requires some assistance. Let it be noted, regarding last week, I helped Queen Antoinette with her decapitated head, but never have I, or any human for that matter, helped one up from the floor. Now if I could just…
He reaches under Socrates’ armpits and begins to drag, albeit strenuously, for the old man’s body is hefty, his weight mainly centered on his protruding belly.
As he’s pulled, Socrates takes a sip of his drink.
SOCRATES:
That’s it! Just drag me along like a bag of old rocks, dear boy.
Mortimer lifts Socrates onto the sofa.
SOCRATES:
My legs, too, dear boy.
MORTIMER (STRAINING):
Ladies and gentlemen, let it be noted again that apparitional tissue is…quite cold!
Once he places Socrates’ legs on the couch, he breathes heavily into his hands, warming them, then shuffles to his chair and plops down, exhausted.
MORTIMER (OUT OF BREATH):
I think…that what is…happening…is not only are apparitional temperatures…below the living…it stresses us internally…as if being…possessed.
SOCRATES (SIPPING):
As if being possessed, you say? And just what do you mean by that?
MORTIMER:
Possession? If something is…inside me. Affecting me internally.
SOCRATES:
Inside you? Then is it separate from you?
MORTIMER:
I…well, yes.
SOCRATES:
And yet, it causes your body to strain as if it were you?
MORTIMER:
It can, yes.
SOCRATES:
Then how do you distinguish between what is you…and what is possessing you?
He sips.
MORTIMER:
I am, uh…not sure that I am in the headspace for such questions at the moment, Socrates. My job is to simply ask you questions, and…well, actually…now that I think about it, why do you continue to drink your poisoned cocktail? You do know that you are…dead, yes?
SOCRATES:
Ah. Then let us begin there: what is death?
He sips.
MORTIMER:
Um…when you are no longer living.
SOCRATES:
I see. And what is living?
MORTIMER:
How did I know you were going to ask that? Let me expand the question. Why does the hemlock continue to paralyze you if you are, um…if your apparitional form is no longer affected by physical contaminants?
SOCRATES:
First, we must ask the question: what is apparitional compared to what is physical?
Mortimer looks at the camera.
MORTIMER:
I can see this is going to be an…interesting interview. Why don’t we start from the beginning?
SOCRATES:
Ah. And just where do such beginnings begin?
MORTIMER:
In this case, let’s start with your birth. It says you were born in Athens to Sophroniscus, a stonemason sculptor, and Phaenarete, a midwife. Now, you yourself dabbled in stone—
SOCRATES:
My dear boy, when you say, “it says,” whatever do you mean? Who says it?
Mortimer sighs.
MORTIMER:
Historians. Those who have written about your life, your philosophies.
SOCRATES:
And those who wrote about me—how did they know what I said if I did, in fact, not write it? Perhaps they…preserved my thoughts?
Mortimer shifts in his seat.
MORTIMER:
Jumping ahead, but that’s alright. Why did you never write anything down?
SOCRATES:
And if I had written it down, would you be speaking to me now? Or to my writing?
Mortimer stares.
MORTIMER:
Has that hemlock taken effect yet?
SOCRATES:
I, uh…
He glances into his cup, sips.
MORTIMER:
Moving on. You were married twice. One was to a woman by the name of Xanthippe, whom you had three—
SOCRATES:
First, we must start with the question of just what—
MORTIMER (FRUSTRATED):
Is marriage, yes, yes. Marriage is often recognized as a legal, social, and or religious union, normally between two people. But in your case, you actually married a second—
SOCRATES:
Ah, but when you say union…just what is unified?
MORTIMER:
Well, for starters, the people involved, hopefully.
SOCRATES:
But if it takes two people to create one union normally…then do those people become one individual?
MORTIMER:
I can see now why you were sentenced to death.
Socrates sips.
SOCRATES:
Ah, back to death. You say I am dead.
MORTIMER:
Yes! For the love of Christ’s cock, yes! What are you not understanding?
Mortimer’s rapid breathing begins to slow as he realizes that he’s just lost his temper.
MORTIMER:
Forgive me. I don’t know…where that came from.
SOCRATES:
I know nothing of this Christ you speak of. Or his cock.
MORTIMER:
Yes…that’s because you died centuries before his arrival.
SOCRATES:
There you go with death again, of which you say I am, correct? Dead?
Mortimer pinches the bridge of his nose.
MORTIMER:
Yes…
SOCRATES:
And yet here I sit, speaking with you.
MORTIMER:
As an apparition, yes! But that is because I summoned you here. With this.
He shows Socrates his ash globe.
SOCRATES:
Summoned me? Then tell me this: what distinguishes your certainty from mine?
Mortimer sighs.
MORTIMER:
Because I am alive.
SOCRATES:
Ah, but what defines your state as living?
MORTIMER:
This is pointless.
He looks off-screen.
MORTIMER:
Ricky, I can’t do this. Dilylah, cut it off!
RICKY:
Whoa, Mort, we still got, like, a few minutes left, man.
MORTIMER:
I don’t care! I can’t work like this!
Socrates sips.
SOCRATES:
You say you cannot work like this…yet is this not your work?
Mortimer shoots up from his chair and begins shaking a finger at Socrates.
MORTIMER:
Oh, shut up, you old bugger! Just. Shut. Up! Oh, fuck it, give me that hemlock!
He reaches down and snatches the goblet from Socrates.
DILYLAH:
Mort, don’t! You can’t!
MORTIMER:
Oh, can’t I? Watch me! Ladies and gentlemen, Graveyard Talk is canceled!
He begins chugging.
Screams from Dilylah and Ricky.
DILYLAH:
Ricky, what do I do?!
RICKY:
Just keep filming!
Mortimer falls to his knees, staring up at the heavens.
MORTIMER:
Goodbye, you bastardly world! You wretched, sick, twisted place!
He falls face-first to the floor.
Silence lingers.
Socrates sips, gazing down at Mortimer.
RICKY:
Mort? Hey, Mort…are you dead?
MORTIMER (GRUMBLING AGAINST THE FLOOR):
Nooo.
RICKY:
Do you think, maybe because it’s, like, apparitional poison?
Mortimer raises back up onto his knees, eye shadow streaked across his forehead.
MORTIMER (SNIFFLING):
Perhaps.
SOCRATES:
Which brings us back to the question: what is apparitional as opposed to physical?
Mortimer nods.
MORTIMER:
Yes. I suppose it is a fair question, is it not?
Taking a moment, he slicks back his hair and adjusts the collar on his cape before standing. He looks into the camera.
MORTIMER:
Well… there you have it, ladies and gentlemen… once again, we are left with more questions than answers. The point, I suppose, is never to stop asking, regardless of how…maddened you become. Until next time on…Graveyard Talk.
The synth music replays as the credits roll. A familiar voice reminds its viewers that:
“Graveyard Talk is brought to you by Mortimer Black and the Department of Preternatural Studies. Mr. Black accepts no responsibility for possession, hauntings, or unexplained phenomena.”