Greg Fonsworth was one of those stunt magicians who, instead of pulling rabbits out of hats or sawing attractive semi-consensual assistants in half, continually pushed the limits of human physical endurance.
“Like David Blaine?” people would ask, and he would bristle. Yes, like David Blaine, Greg would say, except not like that, because it’s me.
The main difference between David Blaine and Greg Fonsworth was that Greg did not seek out publicity, which in the end was perhaps the more arrogant path.
“I don’t need people to look at me,” Greg Fonsworth would say, as he hung from the skin on his back, suspended by meat hooks in a dark unknown cave, as bats issued a steady mist of guano all over his naked body for 172 hours. “I’m doing this because I love it.”
And yet when he got home he would scan the newspapers to see what David Blaine had been up to, just for the sheer pleasure of exercising his righteous indignation.
“What a transparent, insecure twit,” Greg Fonsworth would say, chewing an expired piece of toast. “Oh now he’s got a book, too. I wonder if he wrote that with his eyes closed,” said Greg to his impassive, elderly cat.
The next day Greg Fonsworth got to work on his book. “Me Too” was the title, and after chapter 18–“Isolated Terror”–he put down his glasses. It was 2 in the morning and he had a realization. He looked at his cat Larry.
“My whole life is about fear,” said Greg. “100% fear.”
Larry stared back at him and opened his mouth, but did not make any cat noises.
And that’s when things changed for Greg. That night he hatched his grand plan to come out of the stunt magician closet, in a big way: The Lambeau Grave Project.
Yes yes, thought Greg. This is it. This is the big one. I don’t need to hide anymore, thought Greg. Now everybody is going to know who I am.
Greg’s plan was to bury himself alive a the 50-yard-line at Lambeau field, days before the big upcoming Packers-Vikings game. Nobody would know he was there. He would have some time to get used to living under the dirt. He would feel comfortable there. Eventually, the game would start and he would hear the crowd, and feel the pounding of the players’ feet. He would feel part of the game, but not….like a referee, but a referee buried in dirt.
Then, at a crucial point in the game, Greg would dig his way up like a corpse rising from the dead.He would be right under Brett Favre when he did this, and he would grab the quarterback’s big calf, who would be so surprised he would shriek like a girl and fall over backwards, at which point Greg would deftly use his magician’s hand to tear the back of Favre’s Vikings man-tights straight up the back with a fish hook so his bare butt was hanging out, and the crowd would all stand up to get a better look (or a photo) and Brett Favre, realizing what just happened, would would crumple to the ground in shame, and seeing Favre humbled like that would be enough to satisfy the Packers, and they would bring him back to the green team where he belonged, and everything would be right in the world again, and Greg would be in all the papers and probably get a reality show deal from the whole thing.
“This is my best idea yet,” thought Greg. “I’ve finally arrived. Look out, David Blaine.”
And he grabbed fifteen dollars from a pair of pants on the floor and went to the Ben Franklin to buy a shovel.