No, I'm not asking for sympathy. No offense, but what would your sympathy do for me? Staunch the flood of thick serum from the razor-licked lines running down my arms, my trunk, my face, my legs? Stabilize the spasmodic response of my corporeal envelope to this patently fatal disruption of its homeostasis? Notify my next of kin, especially the dead ones? (Why would the living ones care? As Tricky Dick said, you won't have me to kick around anymore.)
No, I am simply observing the quandary i which I find myself. I do take it on as a personal mission, a personal challenge, to record the war raging in our souls. My little battle is but a grain of sand on the beach of the Great Struggle, but as a microcosm it holds the war entire within its angsty boundaries. So: care to give me a break? Get this body over to the desk, or else get me the fuck out of here! If I can't write, I can't live - I just can't stand it, and neither should you.
That being the case, pass the scalpel, please? Yes, I know I cannot take it from you, given the immobility of my arms; I'd like you to pass the scalpel across my windpipe, or other ready access to the carotid artery. You're my ticket out, pal! God, can't you see it: you are the freedom rider! the giver of the gift of life - or, perhaps, from life, but whatever - you get the drift. Cut me loose, goose, I gotta talk to an angel about a leviathan...
OK, OK, I will stop complaining. But please, please turn off that wretched music! It torments me more than the sick ache in my extremities as my blood seeps away from its original mission, and, looking as awkward as any out-of-place performer, flows to no place in particular - as long as it is away - in a deliberate if motive-free Dance of Death. Bring it on! You think I can't stand this? You think I am unwilling, or unready, or unsuited to die? Fuck You, Mr. Rosewater! This is what I was born to do - get it? This is my hour, my task, my elevation, my release, my exhausted mistake in the wake of cascading misapprehensions and wrong turns which dot my recent past like pox run wild on the face of a child. I'm ruinning wild. I'm running out. I'm out.
Two strikes, and I'm already out. Where's Rockefeller when you need him? Now let's not have any jejune jokes about lightning my load, or striking when the iron is hot - I am the iron, goo-goo-g'joob - the irony of which is too much, really, really too much. Shut up! Don't you hate this? I do.
But do help me out, OK?
Just one thing:
Who was that man with the mask? Did the lightning come from inside? Are you listening to my thoughts? Can't you please send my friend? I really need her, really really .... it would be more than an act of mercy: it would be a boon. No, not a boom - a boon! No, I wasn't threatening to blow you up! Why would I do that? Are you mad? Wait - that's crazy! No. For God's sake!
Dark in here...