“Holy crap. Nicolas Cage is dead.”

My wide eyes trailed over the smooth stone of the actor’s tomb, so hot you could burn a pizza on it. It was 2017 in the dead of August, and I was about to watch what the media was calling the “Great American Eclipse” from the center of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. The band of the solar eclipse would span the entire contiguous United States, which was a big deal, apparently.

Anyway, I knew the New Orleans cemetery was famous for housing the dead bodies of Voodoo Queen Maria Laveau, human rights activist Homer Plessy and New Orleans first mayor, Étienne de Boré. But Nicky baby—I thought he had so much life left to live.

“As you can see, Nicolas Cage’s grave is popular with the ladies,” said Linda, our short, stocky tour guide, who wore a towel around her neck to catch sweat. “And the drag queens.”

I listened while rubbing a pair of flimsy, cardboard eclipse-viewing glasses between my fingers. Linda passed free pairs of them out to our small group of tourists to keep our retinas from scorching during the eclipse, an event I cared about enough to casually look up, but not enough to purchase protective lenses of my own.

Linda gestured toward pink and red kiss marks flecked around the über-white tomb’s inscription, a kind of vandalism that on first glance reminded me of little muddy footprints across Grandma’s perfect carpet.

“Omnia Ab Uno,” the inscription read. It’s a Latin maxim, Linda explained, which means “Everything From One”—a phrase used in the 2004 adventure film National Treasure that made $347.5 million at the box office. Nick was the star.

The tomb was a nine foot tall, hefty pyramid, a symbol also featured prominently in the 2004 blockbuster. I shook my head and made a sound like “pfft.” It seemed Cage’s tomb had been created by National Treasure fanatics, people who didn’t know him as a person—like he had no choice regarding his final resting place. I didn’t particularly like or dislike the guy, but poor Nick. In death, reduced to a movie nobody thinks about anymore. If only he were alive to see this.

“Nicolas Cage is alive,” the tour guide said, causing me to blink abruptly like a film roll glitch. “He had the tomb installed in 2010. It sits here awaiting his death.”

Shit. Not only had Nick personally selected the National Treasure-themed tomb, but he had discharged an exorbitant amount of capital for it, according to Linda, the exact amount of which remains unknown. However, it is known that he bought the allegedly cursed LaLaurie Mansion and Our Lady of Perpetual Help Chapel in New Orleans too, both of which were foreclosed on in 2009 and were worth a total of $6.8 million. So I’d venture a guess that Nicolas Cage’s tomb cost more than a year of San Francisco rent. Or a lifetime supply of Wonder Bread. Or eight BMWs.

The locals were pissed that Mr. Hollywood was able to buy his way into the historic landmark which opened in 1789, while longtime New Orleans families were told there wasn’t enough room for them to be buried near their ancestors, Linda said. In the spirit of dissent and rage, rumors surfaced that centuries-old burials had to be removed to make room for the triangular hunk of stone, which, next to the classic architecture of the stained historical mausoleums, looked as out of place as a fresh lip-piercing on an old, saggy face.

According to some rumors, Nick purchased the last two burial plots left open; other reports claim he bought four. Some say that “Omnia ab Uno” directly translates to “I’m a jackass.” Who really knows anything anymore?

I put my glasses up to my sweaty mug, staring at the pale blue sky through the shiny plastic lenses. We were still a few minutes from showtime.

Did you know a solar eclipse occurs when a portion of the Earth passes within the Moon’s shadow? When this happens, the Sun, Earth and Moon are in total alignment. For centuries, different cultures have seen the solar eclipse as an omen of destruction, where mythical creatures eat or steal the Sun, and angry gods prepare to smite us all.

“Is this the day I die?” I wondered. Fortunately Nick’s tomb has room.

While some locals may wish Cage would go to an early grave (somewhere else), others have turned their attention to further cementing him into New Orleans history—spinning webs of original Nick Cage lore.

After purchasing the cursed LaLaurie Mansion and Our Lady of Perpetual Help Chapel, some say Cage also became cursed. He was plagued with unbearable nightmares, Linda explained, and his career took a downturn. Desperate, he went to a psychic medium for guidance, who told him he must acquire a grave as close to Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau as possible, presumably to seek her protection.

Some luck it’s brought. Nick’s tomb, not even the tallest in the cemetery, got struck by lightning not long after its erection. But hey, maybe he’s sleeping better.

Marie Laveau, in case you’re wondering, is the most famous voodoo practitioner, healer and herbalist in New Orleans history, and is revered for her power to this day. Tourists have scribbled a bunch of X marks on her tomb because there’s a rumor she might grant the wishes of people who do so. As a response to constant vandalism, public access to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 was denied in 2013, so people can only enter under the supervision of a tour guide. This is why we can’t have nice tombs.

I lifted and tilted the steel bottle I brought with me and poured lukewarm water over my roasting head. I winced as sunscreen ran into my eyes, which had just grown wider as I heard Linda recount another Nick Cage death theory.

To some, Cage is a part of the Illuminati, a possibly fictitious secret society said to have been formed with the aim of controlling world affairs, which—barring my National Treasure-themed explanation—would justify the pyramid motif. According to this lore, as a part of the Illuminati, Cage is an immortal, and has selected St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 as the sacred place where he’ll regenerate himself. The theory of Cage’s immortality, Linda said, came from found historical images of men who look similar to him, indicating that he may be an Illuminati member, time traveler, vampire, or all of the above.

The tomb is purportedly large enough to house three full-sized caskets. To lore spinners, this obviously means that one casket will hold Nick’s cold, dead body, while the others will encase his stacks of cold, hard cash. He’ll need the money to spend immediately upon his rebirth—an idea that perplexes me, as I assume he would be reborn as an infant. How would the baby even manage to open a closed casket inside a baking hot tomb, let alone open up a new bank account? I guess vampire Illuminati babies live by different rules.

At this point on the hour long tour, we’d been wandering the cemetery for about 20 minutes. I could feel a wet, warm trickle from the base of my hairline down to the top of my butt crack. My spandex shorts were glued to my legs like papier-mâché. A little green fan hung around my neck and blew humid air up into my face, making me hotter than if I didn’t have it at all. I called it my menopause fan, because my mom always wore one for her hot flashes.

“It’s time!” Linda said, pointing towards the sky.

I tried to put the glasses on but the cardboard wouldn’t stay behind my ears. I pressed the flaps into the side of my wet head and peered through. Inspired by the mystic lore of the solar eclipse, I looked at Nick’s grave first. No animals or demons emerged. No centuries-old Cage clones tried to claw their way out. Unlike Nick’s tomb, I wasn’t struck down by Zeus’s lightning bolt. Nick and I lived to die another day.

I turned to the eclipse in all of its glowing glory. It was what one might expect: light around the edges, dark in the middle. Cool, I guess. The others on the tour said things like “huh” or “well, there it is,” and we all nodded at each other before slipping our glasses back into our pockets. That was it.

Linda gestured towards the next mausoleum, where the New Orleans sun has baked humans into ash for centuries. Visions of Nick’s tomb soon became a mere memory, one that has, for inexplicable reasons, been burned into my psyche. Maybe it’s because of the mystery. Maybe it’s a side effect of sun stroke.

Whatever the case may be, today, Nicolas Cage turns 56—taking one step closer to his ridiculously-priced grave. Surely it’ll be years before this version of Nick expires. However, I hope that in the quest to prevent more vandalism, security cameras were installed in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1—so we can all see Illuminati Nick as he emerges anew from his stone cocoon, larger than life.

Even National Treasure can’t top that debut.

P.S. While you’re finding Christ in your toast… here’s me discovering Nicolas Cage’s divine image in a pillow.

The end is nigh.

P.S.S. I’m so glad this band exists.