Mobutu, come close. No, sorry, not that close, you smell all yucky. Back up just a tiny bit. There we are. Mobutu, I fear I may be dying.
I have the dreaded Tungaste Fever. I can feel it, deep down in my bones. Also in my ballsack. It’s actually mostly in my ballsack. My nuts feel like goddamn salt licks. No, Mobutu, don’t be silly, it’s not syphilis. I know what syphilis looks like, and this definitely doesn’t look anything like what I got in the Caymans last summer. Look here, you see this testicle? Does this look like syphilis to you? No? You’re goddamn right no. Now quit staring at my balls, you freak.
Fetch a pen, Mobutu. I want you to start writing my obituary for me. I want to be remembered as the world’s greatest adventurer. And also as the world’s greatest lover. Wait, no, put the lover part first. Should we maybe include something about how rich I am too? No, I’ve got it. Let’s have it as “Chit Lebaron: like a handsomer Leonardo DiCaprio.” Ugh, you know what? Let’s circle back around to this later. Just make sure to put “dictated but not read” at the end of it. No way I’m taking credit for your misspellings and terrible handwriting. I mean, look at that. It looks like a toddler with Parkinson’s wrote that, with a pen made of live snakes. Snakes who were purposefully shouting out the wrong way to spell things.
Would you pass me my coffee, Mobutu? I’d like to stay awake for my last moments on this mortal coil. What’s that? Rest? Come on, Mobutu. How in the world could my body be FIGHTING OFF disease if it’s asleep? No war has ever been won from bed, you nincompoop. I should hardly be inclined to take medical advice from the man who thinks that the solution to a fever is to wrap yourself in a blanket. If I’m HOT why would I need to be HOTTER?
You’re a real idiot, Mobutu, but I have a confession to make. You have always been like a brother to me. A terrible, half-witted brother that everyone hates or at least thinks is weird, and maybe you don’t really talk to him so much anymore, and then when he shows up at your dad’s funeral you start to feel closer to him again, but then you notice he’s holding the casket slightly lower than everyone else because he’s so weak, and you’re like, come on, man. But you know, a brother nonetheless.
This is it, Mobutu. This is the end. I can see a faint light in the distance. It looks like headlights, actually. And I hear…sirens. Almost like an ambulance. Yes, like a ghostly ambulance from the afterlife, here to take me to the great beyond. I hear voices now, Mobutu. They’re telling me, “Please stop talking, sir. You’re making it very difficult to take your vitals. Why is he narrating everything?” I can feel them loading me onto a stretcher. An ethereal, heavenly stretcher. It smells very sterile, but in a spectral, celestial kind of way. This is it, Mobutu. Track down my wives and tell them I love them, but not to call me. Goodbye, farewell, au revoire.