Don’t be alarmed, Anders Inkling is not dead. That is to say there have been no recent reliable reports of his death. In point of fact Mr. Inkling dies with some frequency. Declarations of his untimely undoing surface with clock-like regularity in the tabloids, the financial press, and the odd police blotter. Yet to date, the genial Mr. Inkling has shown a remarkable tendency to show up. Inkling sightings occur at all the right parties, all the important fashion events, and he seldom misses an opening bell at any of the major exchanges. All this regardless of the most studied declarations put forth by an increasingly longish line of nonplussed medical examiners. To say that the man is resilient is akin to saying that Manute Bol’s stature is a smidge above average.
The truly odd thing is the fact that a man of such singular appearance and peripatetic vitality is so often mistaken for a corpse. Although in defense of coroners across the globe, the majority of the suspected ex-Inklings tend to turn up with a dearth of distinguishing marks (some with a dearth of attached limbs), yet these carcasses (one can hardly call them anything else) are always accompanied by an overwhelmingly persuasive array of evidence confirming the identity of the victim. Or so it would seem, until the next film premiere where Anders will certainly appear, squiring a small cadre of supermodels.
Of course the grim reaper is not the only spectre that Mr. Inkling has demonstrated a flair for avoiding; he is also highly accomplished in the art of paparazzi dodging. Apart from a global army of customs agents, there are none known to have seen an unclouded photo of the man. The visage of the scion of Wall Street, the scourge of the Tokyo Stock Exchange, is immediately recognizable, yet inexplicably undocumented.