Killian Jones was an extension of the nickname “Killy” his father had given him at the age of 5, upon the slaughtering of a small chicken during which Jack (as he was known pre-fame to many relatives, but it has also been speculated that the names Ingrid, Michael and Birch had preceded Kelly’s now-worldwide infamy) proved his tiny arms quite capable, his father in an interview many years later noted a look of wild, transgressive pride flash across his son’s face as he saw the chicken’s corpse to its last quiver.
Killian had achieved a lot for himself-at the age of 25, during which many of his critics would argue Killian went through his most productive stage although it was more than two decades later that he won an Oscar, for his accidental undertaking as director and the main star of “A Fair Sickness”-originally meant as a bisexual romance set in the Middle East, Killian liberally altered its script to feature three complex but interlinked subplots, the most confounding of which had eight-limbed robots and humans fucking to produce a special multi-purpose liquid, which his protagonist, a dubious politician played expertly by Michael J. Fox, declared “would supersede demand for earth’s alternative energy sources and guarantee United States a strong position in global and inter-planetary negotiations come the year 2045”.
At 25, he was a bestselling author of children’s novels and an on-screen favorite-although his addiction to sniffing generic-brand butter and sexual proclivities involving numerous kitchenware and home electronics in ways even the Japanese would find stupendous-was uncovered by an overzealous journalist a year later, during which he lost the faith of his most loyal supporters- had his wealth and value as a performer dwindle to zilch-and he underwent a desperate period marked most significantly by having to sell sperm for money, five-fingered favors for lunch, but worst of all-physically mixing with the lowest underclass of society, he would discover much later diseases that would inevitably thrust him back into the spotlight, gaining the sympathy of new and old audiences who now saw a man forcibly cleansed of his old self: his name glowed on the front covers of dailies, glossy tabloids, all kinds of publications-all who sought this new image of him-skin pale as a corpse, a man built more on bones than flesh, skin riddled with scabs over which flies were normally seen trying to grab a bite. Killian’s reflection disillusioned him of a bright future, but to the public-in inexplicably and in large bold letters, spelt HOPE.
From the chaos of the crowd emerged one Santa Ballsy, a then middle-aged woman who had left her lawyering job in favor inventing what the New York Times editorial team would later deem the most memorable thing to have come out that year-by then she had hoisted Killian to his full potential, and for herself: burned all her plain, colorless flats and village-mother image in favor of towering, sharp stilettos that perked her newly-packed ass and heavily-corrected face to a stage of rabid popularity the President of Uruguay declared “preposterous!” in a press conference, Santa often pictured wheeling the now incapacitated Killian all over town and once in a while throwing tiny gold sacks of pennies into the face of stumbling beggars.
(part 2 soon)