Arlo Gust

(Read: ~9 minutes)

My future became entangled with the legacy of La Bohème when she invited me to Charlottesville to become her messenger and why she appeared to me after her murder in Wildberry’s bathroom. Of course, plenty of people say I’m a compulsive liar and claim everything I’ve said and written is an elaborate scam concocted and perpetrated to gain influence over Bohemia. Like I noted in the beginning, you must decide what’s true at the end of all this.

In the weeks following my night in Bohemia, my efforts to believe acid caused the vision of her ghost failed, and eventually the truth set in. Emotions still get the better of me so I hope you’ll indulge a reading from the preface of my book.

The fact La Bohème visited me hours after her murder finally hit home when the coroner confirmed her time of death. I asked myself how her appearance was possible, an unanswerable question because her existence ultimately baffles me. This book represents my best attempt to answer my own questions while telling the story of La Bohème.

After her murder, the cops took all of us downtown for questioning. I told them my reason for coming to Bohemia and my memories of activities the night before, including the acid and the sex. My vision of La Bohème in the bathroom didn’t come up for obvious reasons. While waiting for release, I totally convinced myself the acid caused what I saw in the bathroom, and then blocked the event out of my mind. My thoughts centered on how to slink back home without drawing any attention to my involvement in the preceding night’s event. Never writing about La Bohème or Bohemia would be perfectly fine if the cops went away and my wife didn’t find out.

Eventually, a cop said I was free to go and to stop and pick up my personal belongings at the property locker. There, a different cop placed a gallon-sized freezer bag full of my stuff on a counter in front of me.

“Is this all your stuff?” they asked.

Glancing at the contents of the bag, my stomach dropped when I saw the fortune cookie with my phone, wallet and keys. Nodding, I slipped everything into my pockets, then left the police station. My head spun and my hands shook with nerves, standing there on the sidewalk. I couldn’t just dismiss my encounter with La Bohème as an acid-induced delusion. Perhaps she really did give the cookie right before the cops showed. I dared myself to look at the cookie. Pulling the wrapper from my pocket, I noticed the cops crushed the cookie when they threw me to the ground. I could see the paper fortune through the plastic wrapper and bits of smashed cookie. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the seal apart and picked the white slip of paper from the smashed cookie shards.

Here is a fortune.

What the hell? Was this a joke? I flipped the slip of paper over and saw a string of digits labeled Lucky Numbers, presumably for the lottery or bingo night.

I had no idea what to make of any of it.

When finally home, my wife accepted my story about cell coverage issues in Charlottesville and she let the issue drop.

Struggling to accept the ghost of La Bohème visited me after she died, I kept the revelation hidden from everyone and told myself to stop being crazy. Obviously, I picked up the fortune cookie somewhere and made the rest up in my head because of the acid. And even if the message was real, what was the cryptic meaning? Even if I knew, no one would believe a ridiculous claim like the ghost of La Bohème delivered a fortune cookie to me hours after her death.

I explained to my editor why the interview with La Bohème never happened and told them the murder angle didn’t interest me. I wanted nothing more of the sadness surrounding her life. Maybe she didn’t either.

Rosa Bix, known worldwide as La Bohème, was buried next to her mother. Admirers still stand constant vigil over her grave.

Paparazzi surrounded Dr. Gaston Billingsgate outside the cemetery gates the day of her funeral, breaking into tears. The clip reminded me about the promise he made to Rosa, they would someday help people in ways no one else ever imagined. Would he still make the same demand? In a way, there’s parallels between the trajectory of Gaston’s perspective and my own, from doubter to believer, though we both got there in different ways, which neither of us expected.

Connie issued no comment and continued to run Bohemia. As far as anyone knew, La Bohème never signed the documents necessary to launch BohoCoin or identified who should direct her fortune and legacy when she died.

Sunny had found La Bohème dead after checking on her when she didn’t respond to repeated texts. Police ultimately cleared him after his ISP provided records of his time spent in a Bohemia-themed virtual world around the time of her death. Regular members of his questing party in the realm with him vouched for his authentic activity, swearing his voice and behavior were completely normal for his avatar, a handsome, hairy satyr. Immediately following her murder, he made a video, sobbing La Bohème lives on forever in people’s hearts and minds.

After the funeral, Wildberry went west to a Bohemian-inspired commune located high in the Colorado mountains.

Madame Rouge fell ill and closed the reading room. She died a few months after the murder. A moving eulogy was delivered at her memorial by a reformed John the Drunk. He spoke of the snow day and how he visited her in the reading room the next day and often since. He credited her with helping him spend less time on what already happened and focusing on what’s possible. He credited her guidance with helping him turn around his life. He found a job, and now, people depended on him to contribute, thanks to Madame Rouge.

As for me, I still struggled with what to think of the fortune cookie weeks after the murder and her ghost. Desperation overtook my emotions, powered by the realization La Bohème hid meaning in the fortune. Stress took a toll on my sleep and I stopped eating; my wife suggested seeing a doctor.

Totally at a loss for what to do next, I prayed for the first time since childhood, kneeling down, holding my hands in front of my face, looking towards heaven, asking for help. The only idea that came to mind was to ask a computer for the answer. After getting off my knees, I created an account with an intelligent computer personality, with an existence spread across server farms, who knows where, to help figure out what the fortune cookie meant. In only a second, the intelligent neural network indicated the Lucky Numbers could be an IP address identifying another computer somewhere else that might be accessible. Following its instructions led straight into a virtual machine in an anonymous server farm.

There I found a treasure trove of information, stored in a comprehensive archive compiled by La Bohème before her death. Scrolling through the contents revealed thousands of previously unknown pages of prophecies and personal philosophy. To my amazement, in a folder labeled DOPS, she somehow compiled hundreds of copies of original documents related to her time at DOPS with Dr. Gaston. I’ll point out, and maybe this is a coincidence, John the Drunk found gainful employment as a janitor at the medical school, often working nights in the same building where DOPS operated for years. Those notes were supplemented by her own accounts and thoughts about her time there.

The most jaw-dropping revelation was that La Bohème signed and certified the documents necessary to launch BohoCoin, creating an estate with wealth rivaling the wealthiest people in the country.

“How convenient,” my critics say about the database revelation, arguing the archive contains only clever forgeries and frauds, especially the documents authorizing the launch of BohoCoin, given the hesitation before her death. Some have even gone so far as to accuse yours truly of conspiring in her murder in order to benefit.

What those folks fail to realize is how cynical La Bohème had become over time. Maybe because of the people she loved dying, or perhaps staring down her own demise. There’s no doubt in my mind she understood the total monetization of her existence was inevitable once she was gone. By signing the documents, she ensured her legacy would be built using a decentralized model no one person can dominate. Launching BohoCoin was pragmatic, funding the operation of her legacy and causes in perpetuity. Yes, of course Connie’s influence played a huge role opening up the mystic to the possibilities of blockchain. But, at a personal level, the technology appealed to her like an arrow in time, one block following another, in response to the chaos of feeling timeless.

Another shocker was naming Sunny Wang the Executor and Trustee of her estate, empowering him to oversee her massive fortune and Bohemia alongside Connie Nelson.

I became overwhelmed realizing no one else was aware of any of this mind-blowing information. The truth would need to come out, the acid, the sex and the ghost of La Bohème. Then, a sense of calm came over me, realizing La Bohème chose me to tell this fantastical story. She set all of this up, confident in my commitment to the story, no matter how ridiculous I appear, exposed in the light of truth.

In the end, Connie and Wildberry never questioned the validity of the database. Their legal challenge rested on the premise that I somehow stole access while visiting the apartment building and made the rest of the story up, including the appearance of La Bohème after her death. Both women wound up in an awkward position of profiting handsomely from a miracle their lawyers deny. The issue of provenance is addressed in my book.

Now, for those who doubt the validity of the information I’ve provided, or the veracity of my claims, the authenticity of the archive ultimately stood up in court, despite extreme legal skepticism about my explanation of how I gained access. In fact, the judge accused me of lying and put me in jail for over a week on contempt charges, testing my resolve. Since my first testimony was truthful, nothing else could be said. Finally, the judge acquiesced after deciding my lying had no material bearing on the case. Their decision ultimately cited independent verification of the documents, plus the fact no one else could prove prior ownership.

See, I’m just the messenger, despite the onslaught of lawsuits filed by Connie and Wildberry and regardless of their attacks upon my character. They’re pissed La Bohème anointed Sunny to sit beside them atop the giant mountain of BohoCoin. Like it or not, La Bohème ensured Sunny had equal footing in her legacy and how Bohemia operates. Certainly, when making money, people can seem to put aside a lot of differences, or want to kill. And programs in our biocomputers related to money and worth seem to operate deeper than most, right alongside those regulating faith and belief, apparently. Maybe I’ll write about that down the road, once we see the outcome. Without La Bohème here to tell us, who knows?

I plan to keep doing the work La Bohème envisioned, informing the Bohemian community and the rest of the world about her legacy without apology, the way Clem would want. Love him or hate him, he still has a part in this story.

And you have your part. If you haven’t already, buy the book like La Bohème wanted.

Right, buddy?

Yes, sir, I’m calling you out again. We’re waiting for you so we can go home. Did you buy the book?

He’s giving a thumbs up. Either he bought the book, or he’s ready to go home.

Fortunately, I’ll be signing copies of the book in the lobby. Come get a personalized copy for yourself, a friend or loved one.

BohoCoin accepted.