I tremble with anger, the newspaper screaming into my soul.
I pace with frustration, the printed words gnawing feverishly on my mind.
I grimace with disgust, as I read line, after line, of ignorant drivel.
I rend the pages with bitter, seething rage, as I have finally read all I can stand.
Once again, I have wasted my precious efforts with these slack-jawed buffoons!
I have grown ill of their tempered pedestrian outlook.
Every performance is looked on as “typical,” every actor deemed “average.”
They cannot see the heart of my work, their brains lack the synapses to identify my genius.
The public has grown accustomed to tripe, and are dulled to the flavor of a prime roast!
Each performance is meticulously crafted, no two the same, yet each linked soulfully to the last.
Each actor selected for their unique nature and presence, each one a perfect conduit of emotion.
But! What’s to show for my efforts? Due to audience incompetence, and critical ignorance?
My message remains unheard!
I refuse to break, to sacrifice integrity. There can be no progress in art, unless art is progressive!
One day, they’ll recognize what they’ve missed all these years. They’ll regret their ignorance!
Until then? I will continue. I will pray for a single worthy witness.
I must continue on this path of rigorous efforts, and endless preparations.
The next performance must begin, the leading man has already been chosen.
As I retrieve the props, and review the script, I can hear him practicing his lines.
He has fully grown into the role, a perfect representation of illogical fear of confinement.
He screams with the passion of a prisoner who longs to escape a wrongful captivity.
He struggles against the restraints with the fury of an enslaved gladiator.
As I approach him, he shifts effortlessly into his secondary character.
He pleads with the desperation of a loving father.
He bargains with the guile of a corporate tycoon.
As I raise the blade, still glistening with bygone blood, he returns to the relentless barbarian.
He curses with the vile tongue of a thousand corrupt, twisting serpents.
He threatens with the detail and derangement of a psychotic butcher.
The blade sings with his blood, his flesh becomes a glorious scarlet tapestry.
The taste of copper fills the air. The perfect denouement.
He was glorious, the performance was magnificent, and I have truly outdone myself.
But, I doubt it will be enough. They will not likely appreciate my efforts.
This may still be toted as “a series of unrelated killings,” as “bodies found in a alley.”
The art world may continue to be dreadfully mundane. But, I cannot give up on them.
I must comb the streets for performers. I must oil my straps. I must sharpen my knives.
For fear sings the greatest symphony of all, and scores the body with its notes.
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