There were many interesting stories about my death which floated about at my behest. In one version, I was poisoned by a tainted box of Mozartkugeln, but no one could believe such a dreadful story about an innocent Mozartkugel. Likewise, I tried to put it out that the Masked Messenger was an alien from the moon Io, and had come to take me to his leader. I even wrote a curious little ditty for the occasion: "Io, Io, it's off to Space we go..." There were no takers.
I tried to circulate the story that my Nag threw me into the Danube and drowned me because she'd heard I was planning to trade her in for a motorcycle, but there was a certain credibility problem in that, because it was a shade too anachronistic. Nevertheless, I did some serious looking at Harleys. They could always be ridden in one of those Shriner's parades.
But by far my favorite story by far was the one I tried to sell "incognito" to a local tabloid. The story went something like this:
I was invited to a Lodge Meeting to conduct a specially written cantata for the
dedication of a new temple. I couldn't refuse, because the Lodge
always put on such a great dinner spread, and I hadn't had
a really good meal in weeks. Everything was delicious, of course.
I stuffed myself like a sausage, and proceeded to further
stuff my pockets with leftovers wrapped in napkins
and in small doggie bags for "later".
Thus fortifiied, I proceeded to waddle home.
Before I could reach No.970, I was starting to develop
a major case of indigestion from my overindulgence,
and so I stopped off by Josef Deiner's Diner
for a short sit-down and perhaps an Alka-Seltzer.
"Good evening, Mozart," Deiner beamed, noticing my greenish
complexion, "You look a bit out of sorts tonight."
"I've got a serious belly-ache, Josef," I mumbled. "My stomach
has had to swallow all sorts of unaccustomed things as of late."
"You don't need an Alka-Seltzer," Deiner clucked cheerily, "What you
need is a good, strong glass of something with a kick to it."
I wasn't so sure, but he insisted, "Oh, come on, Mozart--just one
teeny-weeny little drink for the road."
I hesitated, but I accepted.
He promptly poured me a glass of 150 proof Schnapps.
I drank it--I was immediately sorry.
After managing to break wind on both ends at once, I could see that it was
time I got out of Deiner's Diner and headed for home as fast as possible.
I got to my feet and made for the door.
I didn't make it.
I exploded.
Deiner cursed like a sailor for three hours as he mopped up the mess.
Now, I quite liked that story, but not a newspaper in Vienna was interested in what they all considered absolute rubbish, even by tabloid standards. Interestingly enough, an English gentleman named Monty Python stole that story, reworked it, and never gave me one English penny's worth of royalty money--which I found considerably annoying.
In any case, you may find it interesting to hear how I finally did arrange for my "death", because it turned out to be a rather colorful event.
Dr.Closset, who it turns out was actually a medical advisor for the Society of Horus, concocted an outrageous diagnosis of a Military Rash--the kind soldiers get in bivoacs from scratching at fleas, ticks and chiggers. It was a stupid diagnosis, but as he reminded me it was no more stupid than being taken to the moon Io by the Masked messenger.
And so, after much melodrama and raising my hands to unseen angels while I cried, "I see the Light...", I flopped over and pretended to be dead. My wife went to pieces, but only so much--because I had already inducted her to cover up for me and thus prevent the discovery of my tricks. Furthermore, she was having too much trouble keeping a straight face after I fell off the bed.
So they laid me out on the floor, covered me with a black cloth, and lit candles in four corners. At least no one sang "Happy birthday" by mistake, but it was beastly cold and wax was dripping in my hair, and I was extremely unhappy to learn that the Vienna Boy's Choir wre the only important people who came to give their last respects.
Emmanuel Schikaneder came by, unfortunately. He is actually Agent IOU of the SOH, but he was a lousy actor. "I see his face everywhere!" He screamed, running about in circles. This was a safe bet since I was lying in the middle of the floor, and there were plaster castings of my face all over the room.
You see, some clown who couldn't even wait until I was cold on my bier, came to smear plaster all over my face and make these awful little castings. He placed all over the living room to harden. The fellow claimed it was to build either a death mask or a wax museum statue, but I think he was planning to sell all those copies to souvenir hunters. In any case, I had stood about all I could. After the plaster got up my nose one time too many, I popped open my eyes and gave the fellow such a hideous glare that he was unable to speak above a whisper for almost a year afterwards from the sheer terror of it.
Of course the "Masked Messenger" was in on all this, too--which I am sure does not surprise you one whit. I can only now reveal that he was actually Agent 69 in disguise, and it was he who had come to whisk me off on my first journey to Egypt. I was advise to pack light, slip out the door while no one was looking, and be sure to pack a lunch.
"Sorry about the fake lawsuit, old bean," he told me later, "but we had to do something to give you a reason to fall into mental and physical decline."
"Thanks for telling me," I smiled snidely, "Just be glad that the Society has plans for widows and orphans--especially the spurious ones." A widow's benefits for a husband playing dead while on the Field is at least twice what the dividends would be had I been killed on the job by an irate gang of Sphinxoids.
In any event, I confess that I made off with most of the cash in the house, leaving just enough for Agent I-812 to pay a small amount with which to bury the empty coffin.
Well...not exacty empty! That's where I stashed away a bunch of really bad compositions Sussmayr had written, and the last thing I wanted was for him to present them in public and brag about having been my pupil! Ouch!
That same night, on a private, enclosed coach that rattled out of Vienna on silenced wheels, Agents I-812, 69 and IOU gave me my instructions for a hair-raising adventure. It was to be the first of many in my Post-Morteum career.
