The most imaginative writer you could ever dream up could not create any more of an enigmatic, oxymoronic figure than the real life “Froggy”.
God bless him and I sincerely hope he now has all the answers to his questions…I just had to relate his story.
The F stood for Fergus. That was how neighbors in his working-class neighborhood in deep Brooklyn knew him: a bearish pariah holed up in a fetid apartment stuffed with a lifetime of newspapers, books, belongings and all sorts of trash, who worked nights as a printer in Manhattan and ranted about his horrid childhood.
The F also stood for Froggy. That’s what fans in the rabid science-fiction world on the Internet called him: a witty and eloquent man prone to using obscure words and coining new ones, who published numerous books, articles and short stories to great acclaim and spun fantastic tales about his travels.
Both were vaporized June 25. In a dramatic farewell that could have come from Froggy’s pen, Mr. MacIntyre, according to fire officials, methodically set ablaze the contents of the apartment in Bensonhurst where he had lived for a quarter-century. First the flames consumed a lifetime of possessions; then they feasted on his weary flesh, ending his painful 59-year earthly existence. Born in Scotland, raised in Australia — or so he said, in his impeccable British regional accent — he now lies unclaimed in a Brooklyn morgue.
“We have to conclude that this was Froggy’s last story,” said Darrell Schweitzer, a writer who was an editor and agent for Mr. MacIntyre. “Froggy lived a life of suffering, and he was an enigma. He was an insoluble mystery, and it’s possible he’ll be remembered for that mystery.”
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