it was those abominable creatures the critics who inflicted the charlatan upon us, them and the snobs.
crowds would que up to see this straining overweight mute. people would sit there. often leaning forward in their seats, trying to detect anything, a warble, the slightest pitched burp. but nothing. the big mute shamoo would just mime up on stage, gesticulating for all he was worth, his mouth flapping open and shut. newcomers would spend the first ten minutes looking about them in their seats. you could see them questioning it all in their heads, questioning themselves, trying to dislodge earwax and straining to hear, then they would surrender, and go along with the prepostourous democracy. "if this many people think hes good, who am i to argue?". 3 hrs later people would leave. gushing about how wonderful it all was. the tragedy of it all. how he 'touched' me. how they swear they heard something, something silent but definately something. "did you hear it?"
no one can blame him of course, the talentless failure, who instead of offing himself becomes a celebrated misfit. as the money rolled in he got fatter and quieter. "this is his best work", they would say as they purchased the blank cds in the lobby. this continued until 'the malta affair'. and this is something we should all respect that little archipeligo for. halfway through another world tour he appeared on an open air stage at valletta harbour, malta. not a people to tolerate bullshit, they stormed the stage and beat the mute singer to a bloody pulp with sticks and bats. he did not help himself by screaming like a pig throughout it all which only made them hit him harder. "see!", they would shout, pointing at the bloated fraud, "he can sing alright!".
the body was flown home in a broken chest freezer, as the maltese were unwilling to provide a coffin. back home a nation mourned. as a farewell gesture and out of respect, all radio stations broadcast two minutes of silence. well, i think it was silence. i couldn't fucking hear anything.