We Has A Ghost

by L V C A $ (aka Stevan Chavez and Mike Gallucci)

If you don’t believe in ghosts you should stop reading right now because you’re probably going to roll your eyes and think we’re crazier than you already do.

But shortly after moving into 220 Sansome, we started noticing…things. Our fancy-shmancy, new motion sensor lights turning on and off for no reason; calls to the office from untraceable numbers (i.e. the netherworld); doors opening; pokes on shoulders and bra straps being snapped.

We started digging around and uncovered some stuff the landlord definitely didn’t tell us when we signed the lease.

We has a ghost.

His name is Horatio Moro and he slit his own throat with a “keen-edged razor” on January 12, 1889.

(For those of you wondering, this is a keen-edged razor)

keen-edged razor

Was he a MUH-TAY-ZIK | HOF-FER staffer we pushed too far, a disgruntled applicant from ad school vying for our attention with a senseless act of self-described performance art?

No. Horatio was, by all accounts, a “rather good looking young Englishman” that came to SF to escape some horrible act he committed against a woman in England. According the report, Moro was in the middle of writing his brother to ask him to deliver a letter to the woman he had wronged. Except instead of finishing the letter to his brother, Moro picked up a straight blade and gave himself a Columbian Necktie.

What does this have to do with MUH-TAY-ZIK | HOF-FER?

Moro’s effects — including the letter that would absolve his soul — were taken to the law offices of Leo L. Alexander…AT 220 SANSOME STREET!

The way we see it, Mr. Moro haunts our hallowed halls searching for the very artifact that caused him to take his own life — The Letter. We looked around but couldn’t find it so now we just have a ghost that lives over by the copy machine.

So what else does Horatio do when he’s not looking for his Letter? Maybe he eats asbestos. Maybe he secretly whispers inspiring creative nothings into our ears. We don’t really care because we don’t pay him. But, thinking about it, it’s nice to have some company when we work late.

(We just wrote that last line because you basically have to be nice to anyone crazy enough to slit his own throat.)