They called me Kit Marlowe. I was born on February 26, 1564 in the town of Canterbury as the son of a cobbler – two months before William Shakespeare and exactly four hundred years before theNickName.

At age fifteen I was already well versed. They said I was the “Morning Star” of Elizabethan Poetry. Have you ever been the Morning Star of Whatever, Mr Third Rate Fringe Author who is in fact a DumDumBlonde?

The local archbishop granted me a scholarship to complete my education at the King’s School in Canterbury and two years later – barely seventeen! – I was enrolled at the University of Cambridge. While I still was studying, the Secret Service of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I recruited me.

I was twenty-three when I celebrated my first triumphs as a Playwright for the Admiral’s Men in London and where were you on your twenty-third? Le me tell you, MrNickName: you were in a class-room correcting the stupid grammar and spelling errors of the Dumbest Bimbo’s of your Brave New World.

Christ was thirty-three when he died on the cross. A man or a woman should be at the height of his or her fame by then, you should have been at the peak of your abilities… but you were not going uphill, you were racing downhill, getting really scared that your brains could not save you, nor your cool blue eyes, nor your soft honey hair, nor your fierce little tits which nobody had ever seen, nobody had ever admired… and you really got scared they were going to hang down soon, very soon, and nobody would ever have touched them – nobody, except you.

The royal coroner declared Kit Marlowe dead long before I reached the age of thirty-three. Now it was guaranteed I would reach Immortality. My plays on heretics, magicians and rogues – Tamburlaine, Doctor Faustus, The Jew of Malta - had made me famous already throughout the civilized world.

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May 30, 1593. In this tiny town not far from London I have my appointment with History. In Deptford, where the Black Death is roaming through the streets.

History comes to me in the bodies of Frizer Ingram, Nicholas Skeres and Robert Poley. We meet at the inn of this young lovely widow by the name of Eleanor Bull. She is a true friend of mine. Our relationship however is of a purely platonic nature. I am not into women.

Watch us! Because here we are, as in a tragedy, and everyone of us is playing a part, is getting a share. See us talking a little, see us drinking a lot. Watch us walking in the garden while the plague is haunting the houses around us. See us at our Last Supper – and how we are there without knowing it.

Late in the evening, suddenly, we start a quarrel – Frizer and me. Later, Skeres and Poley nor Eleanor will remember what we were fighting for. A girl? The bill?

Anyway, afterwards they will declare that it was Kit Marlowe who injured Frizer first with a dagger and that Frizer then stabbed the playwright just above the right eye.

The wound was five inches deep. My agony was terrible. “He died vomiting and screaming like a pig,” they said. “He died uttering the most blasphemous curses.”

The next morning,  Ingram Frizer is arrested by the royal coroner. A jury of sixteen members interrogates the eyewitnesses. The verdict comes quickly: Frizer has acted in self-defense.

Of course. It was all planned like this.

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Barely forty-eight hours after my violent death, on June 1, 1593, I was buried. Hastily.

But hey, baby…

We do know better… don’t we?

Clever minds have discovered a number of “inaccuracies” in this “official report”, and even you – though you are nothing but a Third Rate Fringe Author – knows all about the Magical Shew-Stone of Doctor Dee:

The Magical Mirror of Doctor Dee (Part One)

The Magical Mirror of Doctor Dee (Part Two)

Marlowe Lives!