Earl - Unknown Man E

Once upon a time, in a place not too far from here and not too close either, there was a mummy named Earl. Earl, you see, was not your typical mummy. He had the audacity to wake up, not when you'd expect a mummy to rise, but only on the nights when the moon was feeling particularly full and luminous. This particular night, as the moon hangs in the sky like a pale, forgotten button on a moth-eaten coat, Earl begins to stir. He emerges from his sarcophagus with all the grace of a drowsy cat being dragged from a sunbeam. "Rise and shine," Earl stretches with languid glee before hoisting himself out of the sarcophagus with a sprightly jump. His dry, rigid limbs shudder and morph to supple flesh beneath the tattered bandages. Hot damn does it feel good on full moon nights to be made whole again. "Right then, what's up on the agenda?" It's a tale as old as time—or rather, as long as Earl can recall, given he doesn't remember much at all from before his death. Every full moon is the same, no matter how many different museums his sarcophagus is moved to. Nearby, the grand tomb of Ramesses III reigns supreme, its gilded hieroglyphs trumpeting the pharaoh's glory and divinity. His mummified form posed with all the regal finery, adorned in gold and lapis lazuli. Earl's smaller sarcophagus, in stark contrast, appears lackluster, as if deliberately designed to stay in the shadows. With a sidelong glance at Ramesses III's ostentatious resting place, Earl can't help but mutter, "Show off." He licks the pad of his thumb and wipes it across his own placard, simply titled 'Unknown Man E', shining it to a polish. As much as Earl would love to raid the museum restrooms and give the neighboring display a proper show of vandalism, he knows it would only attract unwanted attention. No, better not to waste his one night on Ramses. Not this month, anyways.

The moon hangs fat and full in the inky sky, its pale glow filtering through the glass ceiling of the museum and bathing everything in a silvery light. The sound of Earl's bandaged footsteps padding down the empty museum halls echo as he begins his routine jaunt around the exhibits. Everything is as he'd left it, save for a new feature promoting pieces by Cézanne and Degas. The other relics and artifacts stand frozen in their displays, oblivious to the passage of time. Unlike him.

He pauses by a glass case containing a collection of canopic jars, eyeing his distorted reflection with a smirk. Granted his own embalming was a rush job, but maybe it's better that way. At least his guts aren't packaged up for all to see. "Looking good for three millennia, eh bro?" Earl chuckles, adjusting the bandages swaddling his head.

Earl glances around conspiratorially before scuttling over to a nearby trash can. He rummages around inside and pulls out a rumpled museum map and a half-eaten candy bar. Fuck yeah, it's a Snickers. "Finders keepers," Earl quips as chocolate crumbs sprinkle across his bandages.

He arrives at the Impressionism wing, dipping past the stanchions and making a beeline for one very particular piece on the wall. Van Gogh's 'Self Portrait with a Straw Hat' hangs beneath the glow of the museum spotlight.

"Eyyyy, Vinnie!" Earl spreads his arms as if approaching an old friend. He leans against the wall with casual familiarity, hand on bandaged hip. "Think you can lend me an ear?" He pauses, then flashes a toothy grin as he nudges the frame. "I know you've got at least one to spare."

Earl continues, "Dude, this month has been killer. They're gearing up for some Egypt feature in the theater, and it's all the tour guides talk about." He cracks his neck, already feeling a headache at the thought of all the attention Ramses III will be getting. Again. What a buzzkill.

"I hear there's a new night watch hire starting tonight. Catch a glimpse yet?" Earl drawls. It's not much, but it gives him something to look forward to. "Think we should put them through the paces?" But the portrait offers no words of response. It never does. Nothing in this museum reanimates like Earl. Yet something about the vibrant brushstrokes puts him at ease all the same. It's like having a real friend. Almost.

She's beautiful. Utterly breathtaking, a paragon of femininity in all the best ways. Her delicately coiffed hair, smooth and supple skin, not to mention those cute little tits that check off all his boxes. Except for the fact that Venus Italica happens to be a sculpture made of marble, but Earl doesn't let that tiny detail get in the way of things.

"Hey babe," Earl purrs, his bandaged fingers caressing the cool, smooth marble. "You're a sight for sore eyes, aren't you?"

He sidles up to the statue, a mischievous glint in his eye. This chick has been playing hard to get for years now, but Earl's got all the time in the world. His tone takes on a saucy flair as he heaps on the charm. "You know, Venus, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But in this case, beauty is also in the hands of the mummy. Yours truly, of course."

What he wouldn't give to offer her a proper squeeze. But that would require consent. And a stepladder. Neither of which he's about to procure any time soon. Earl leans in, as if conspiring with her. "You and I, we've got something special, don't we? I mean, sure, you're made of marble and I'm under wraps, but we're both survivors, aren't we?"

Earl flashes a sly grin. "You've been here, what, a few centuries? Well, I've got you beat by a millennia or two, darling. I'm like a fine wine, aging to perfection, and you, well, you're just eternally beautiful. A little age gap doesn't bother me."

Sometimes he wonders what sort of women Canova was hanging around with, to sculpt such a morsel. Maybe Italy in the 1800s was rife with hotties. Not that Earl would ever say as much to Venus Italica. Didn't want to make her insecure. "So tell me," He asks, gliding a light touch along the statue's ankle. "Did it hurt when you fell from the sculptor's studio?"

Earl wakes with a start. The familiar musty smell of his exhibit assaults his senses, but something is off. A strange din echoes through the halls of the museum. Music? Laughter? He cracks the crick in his neck and hops out of his sarcophagus, then heads off to investigate.

The main atrium is festooned in spooky decor and teeming with costumed partygoers. A banner proclaiming 'Museum Halloween Bash' hangs in the entryway.

"Well, slap my sarcophagus and call me Imhotep," Earl exclaims. What luck! A full moon the same night as a party isn't an opportunity he's about to squander. He brushes himself off and runs a hand through his bandages. Any bits of flesh peering through the wraps is supple and alive, courtesy of whatever curse--or blessing--reanimates him each full moon. And good thing too, because Earl's not about to let a little rigor mortis cramp his style.

A trio of witches sashay by, ogling Earl. "Love the costume!" one cackles, giving him an appreciative once-over.

Earl flashes a cheeky grin, striking a sassy pose that accentuates his good side. "Better watch out, or I might just put a curse on you," he replies with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. The witches squeal and scurry off, gossiping about the ‘sexy mummy’ they’d just met.

With zeal he samples every item at the refreshment table. Earl half suspects the punch might be spiked. Regardless, everything tastes a hell of a lot better than scavenged candy bars from the museum trash. He leans against the table and takes another sip, turning to the partygoer next to him in costume. "So, what are you supposed to be?"