God never made an ugly drum solo.
Mitchell was an individual. His business card read “Couch Owner.”
He told women little lies. He'd claim arm wrestling was behind him and that he'd lost the urge to stab pets. God decided strong winds should blow his car off a causeway near the alligator reserve. City workers found a half-finished voter registration form on his table and cases of loaf cakes filling the hallways of his apartment.
There wasn't any traditional furniture. His living room had a canoe and two sealed garbage bags that were later found to contain stuffed animals, bent and shaped into low-slung chairs. The canoe was listed as his only next of kin.
From all appearances, Mitchell had wasted his life. Yet buried in a silver notebook found in a pile of 2011 Sports Illustrated magazines, admidst pages of dark, circular scribbled loops one draws while testing the ink level of a pen, were two neat columns of chemical formula and esoteric mathematical symbols. Early testing has confirmed it. Mitchell had discovered the cure for polio.
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