here liesย fletcher 'fletchโ knox,ย a wonderfullyย paranoidย person that was known around misery as THE CONSPIRACY THEORIST.ย taken from us too soon, at onlyย 53ย years old, the town might never find anotherย radio hostย as talented ever again, or be able to walk byย marinerโs tavern without being reminded of his heavily caffeinated ramblings.
๐ฝ๐ฐ๐ผ๐ด: fletcher knox. ๐ฝ๐ธ๐ฒ๐บ๐ฝ๐ฐ๐ผ๐ด๐: fletch. ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ด: fifties. ๐ถ๐ด๐ฝ๐ณ๐ด๐: cismale, he/him. ๐๐ด๐๐ธ๐ณ๐ด๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ด: one bedroom apartment unit at breakwater lofts. ๐พ๐ฒ๐ฒ๐๐ฟ๐ฐ๐๐ธ๐พ๐ฝ: radio host. ๐ฐ๐ฟ๐ฟ๐ด๐๐ฐ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ด: 6โ3โ. lean and wiry. salt and pepper brown hair thatโs often in need of a haircut. grey blue eyes featuring prominent dark circles. ๐๐ฒ๐ด๐ฝ๐: black coffee, cigarette smoke, peppermint gum.
๐ต๐ธ๐ป๐ด ๐ฝ๐พ๐๐ด๐ย ย .ย ย .ย ย .ย ย people whisper in small towns like misery. they whisper between one another, about one another, then turn and look away with soft, pitiful smiles.
fletch has never been a stranger to those whispers, to the sympathetic glances. to the pity.
at some point, people stop paying attention to the old, paranoid conspiracy theorist who sits hunched over a battered notebook stuffed with newspaper clippings, determined to prove something not even he can fully explain. they go from offering sympathetic smiles alongside a refill of coffee, or a whiskey when heโs especially anxious and needs to stave off the shakes, to looking straight through him as though he isnโt there.
eventually, they stop whispering as if heโs still there. instead, they speak openly, mockingly, scoffing at the ramblings of a madman until heโs backed himself into a corner, cementing his reputation as nothing more than the town fruitcake.
but fletch never lets it deter him. he wears a thick skin that keeps him warm, letting every mocking word and every harsh stare bounce harmlessly away, because one day heโll prove them all wrong. one day, theyโll have to admit that he was right all along.