I’ve known Mr. Jones for the largest part of my life. Actually ever since I moved here. Now that he is dead, I can’t help but think about him. I don’t know why, sure, I liked the guy, but that’s it. yet I constantly feel the urge to write the story of his life, as I know it.

You have to know that Mr. Jones was a workaholic. He worked hard. Really hard. Of course there is nothing wrong with workaholics, or at least I don’t think there’s anything wrong with anybody, save some psychopaths, but, you know, workaholics work really hard. That sucks.

Before I proceed, though, I need to tell you something important about Mr. Jones. Physically he was a workaholic, but not in his head. Well, I suppose this isn’t strictly true. He was schizophrenic. And the Mr. Joneses didn’t know about the other themselves.

Mr. Jones ran his own company. He was specialized in advertising, or so everyone thought. I’ve never seen an ad by him, not even for his own firm. And, as with all companies which don’t seem to have any business, and yet stick around, gossip eventually, and then continually, spread about Mr. Jones Advertising.

One day it would be a maffia front, the other day it was CIA. What was there to spy upon in such a calm rural village nobody knew, though. From time to time teenage boys would break in, in an attempt to impress their girlfriends, though nothing interesting was ever found. This, of course, amounted to the gossip.

The really interesting thing about the company I discovered only months after Mr. Jones had died. The firm had paid taxes for three employees: Mr. Jones, director; Mr. Jones, secretary and Mr. Jones, creative mind. I also managed to track down a client of the company.

This client told me a curious story about Mr. Jones Advertising. He had once hired the firm. While there, on his first visit, he saw the secretary first, bitching about not being able to find the director. Then he would leave the room, only to return five minutes later, complaining the secretary couldn’t be found and excusing for the delay. He then welcomed Mr. Client and introduced himself as Mr. Jones, owner.

The client, completely dumbfounded, asked if Mr. Jones had any twin brothers. “No,” Mr. Jones answered, “my twin brothers are long dead!”. Of course this only confused the client even more. He told me he thought Mr. Jones was crazy, and he pitied him. In an attempt to help Mr. Jones he repeatedly hired him to do some ads, but he never published them. Occasionally he would check back on Mr. Jones. He was the good samaritan in Mr. Jones’ life.

After hearing of his death, the client decided to attend his funeral. I never saw the client there, but I did see two people with a strong resemblance to Mr. Jones. Or perhaps I did not, when I looked again to take a better look, they had vanished.