A Letter, as Dictated, from “L.L.” to “Y” (Delivered "In Care Of" Commodore NVA Mayweather)
Message:(*Found wrapped around the letter, partially caught in the seal*
Mme La Troupe,
From mad writings to madman. These days, I find it more and more difficult to INGEST the tasks I am provided. Still, I shall take the good with the bad. In this case, as Commodore Mayweather never visits his sanitariums as he does his hotels and other interests, I can, at least, take the opportunity to re-grow my hair.
On one thing this shell of sadness I have been assigned to, he and I agree. Rum is good to help one forget.
Michel l’Meunier
P.S. As all INGESTed writings are now passed through the office of Cmdre. Mayweather, please do remove and burn this note. Some things are merely said colleague to colleague, N'est-ce pas?)
(Scribe’s Note: I have attempted, to the best of my abilities, to transcribe the incohate rantings of the wasted cripple before me. I cannot vouch for complete accuracy in transcription. Still, as contracted, I read, I listen, and I transcribe the dictated response, no matter what it might be.)
*Incomprehensible*
Please, please, no more. No more. I was hung before, hang now, but hang wrong. Not by the neck, not into black, just pain unceasing. For God’s sake, a drop of rum! Rum to soothe chapped lips, to quench parched tongue, to erase today and ease the journey back to the happy past. Nectar of the gods. Ah, my dear, my dear! I miss your lips, I miss your smile - your real smile, not the ghastly grin the dark fiend added! Not the gaping maw which spat and bubbled the crimson that once painted your cheek to wet the fallow ground! Not the ragged grin which wheezed and pleaded while the madman responded with his own silent, twitching, upturned lips.
*weeping*
Alas, alas, I live, I live, and you lay cold! You, whose legs did, these last few years, walk for mine during the day, and wrap me, warmly, in the night. You, whose soft hands did bathe me, soothe me, fill my tankard with sweet, holy rum, and give me so much joy! Alas, alas, I live, a broken, weeping thing, caught in the spider’s web like a filthy, biting fly, while you, you, my beautiful, beautiful dear one must, by now, be but bleached bones below boiling seas. Would that the warped creature who mistakes cruelty for kindness had ended me, not you, dear boy!
Ah, sweets from the “funny fellow!” Sweets that bring sleep, sleep that brings discord, sleep that brings me from sunset cliff to midnight, new-mooned torture. Funny, that! Funny, peculiar, not funny, hah-hah-ha-hah-he-hehehehehEHEHEHEHEH!
*Incomprehensible*
A horse… A horse? Of course, of course, a horse. Unless, of course…*Incomprehensible*
You, scribe! A knife, you have. To cut your quills, at least, if not to eat. Your knife, I pray! My arms, straight up they might be, pulled from their sockets! Alas, if freed at this moment, I should collapse to the floor, as helpless as a fish pulled from the ocean. But, you, you, you… *Incomprehensible* Oh, my friend, my! Dear! Such a handsome lad… Kind are your eyes. You! You can help! You can save! You can free!
*weeping*
*laughter*
Yes, you can help, help, help, help! Help! HELP! HELP ME!
*Incomprehensible*
Can’t you free me? Your knife can free me. Free me to smile again. One last smile. One great big grin. One last big beam… Beam like a ray of sun, beam like the light of the Angels. One last beam ‘ere I sputter and cough from this eternal hell in which I hang-hang-hang like a carcass on tenterhooks.
Ah, the demon. The demon who smiles and hurts with false friendship, the demon worse than any from the Good Book, the demon worse than The Deceiver! The demon who walks like a man! Does he know? Does the Man in the Hat know what he has unleashed, or is he, too, but a pawn in the demon’s plans?
Only my end can stop the demon. Only my end can protect others. Only my end might awaken the angels within the demon and cause repentance. Only my death. My death. How the Fox would laugh to see me now!
*weeping*
(Scribe’s note: At this point the cripple sank into slumber. The clang of the door behind me, as the orderly let me free did wake the wretch. I heard him call, once more, “Scribe,” but, to my shame, I pretended not to hear.)
Yours,
IronMike
16-Jan-2021