Thoughts from a deranged mind

[winterdrake.livejournal.com]

For your edification (or maybe not :)


“Sing for me.”
“Why?”
“Just sing.”
“But why?”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you ‘music is the food of love’?”
“But…”
“Just do it.”
“OK, OK, whatever. Singing coming up. Any minute now. Anything particular you’d like, or is it general noise you’re after?”
“As you please, but sing, damn you.”
“Right. Ahem. OK. Here we go…did you know that this is tantamount to prostitution? And slavery? I’m being forced to sell my art for your benefit here. There are laws against this.”
“For God’s sake. You’re a singer. It’s what you do. It can’t be that much of a hardship.”
“No-one performs at their best under duress, you know. And you haven’t even given me any backing. No music, no group – not even percussion.”
“You’re a soloist, featherhead. You’re not supposed to need accompaniment.”
“The moral support would be nice.”
“This is not a rest cure, this is a bloody job. Now are you going to sing, or not?”
“All right, all right, keep your hair on…
‘When that I was and a little tiny boy
With hey-ho…’”
“Not that.”
“But…”
“I said, not that.”
“You said I could choose.”
“Not that.”
“Why?”
“You’re here to sing, not ask questions.”
“But…”
“Get on with it!”
“Right. Well if that’s out, how about ‘O mistress mine! Where are you roaming?
O…’”
“No.”
“Oh. I really like that one.”
“No.”
“Ah. Er…how about ‘Come away death’?”
“I don’t think so.”
“‘Not a flower’?”
“That’s the second verse!”
“Oh. Yes. Well. You know your songs, don’t you?”
“Some of them. Now get singing, and don’t do anything by that damn fool.”
“Oh. Oooh.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry. Nothing. Sorry.”
“I said, ‘what do you mean’?”
“Ahm…well…you’re him, aren’t you? You are, you know, I’m sure you are. You’re him.”
“Who? I’m who? Spit it out, damn you.”
“You’re, er, you’re the other one…”
“You’d better explain that…”
“Well. You’re…you’re…”
“Explain quickly…”
“OK, OK, back off will you? You’re the one that didn’t get the job. The one that wrote all those letters saying how much better you were than him. The other one.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Er…I, um, I…well, I kind of recognise you…”
“You what?”
“I, er, recognise you.”
“How? Answer fast, my friend, fast and well…”
“Right. Well. You remember the auditions?”
“Yes, I remember the auditions. Of course I remember the damned auditions. I said fast…”
“OK good. OK. Well, I was there.”
“You were there?”
“Er, yeah.”
“Where?”
“Ah. Ahm. Fez trained me.”
“You. You’re his apprentice? You’re the one who got him the gig? This is your fault?”
“Yes. No. No, absolutely not.”
“You’re not his apprentice?”
“No, I am, but it’s not my fault!”
“Yeah, right. I’ve waited ten years for this…”
“No! Don’t! Please, don’t, there’s more, there’s more, you don’t know all of it…Wait!”
“This had better be worth hearing. Ten years’ worth of worth hearing.”
“Look, OK, all right, but can I just ask something first? Please?”
“What?”
“Well, you are going to let me go, aren’t you? I mean I’ve got a life out there, I need to get moving tonight, I’ve got kids and everything, you can’t keep me here…”
“Too bad. You walked in here. Now it’s my turn. I’ve got ten years of no work, no fame, no inspiration and no bloody money to work off. You think I’m letting you get away? Dream on.”
“But…”
“Not a prayer, pal. Now keep talking.”
“Oh. Why should I, if I’m going to be stuck here anyway? Ah…OK. Right, yes, that’s a good reason…Please put that down! I’ll talk, I promise, I’ll talk!”
“Get going then.”
“OK. Right. Well, you know Fez?”
“Yes, I know Feste. Now get on with it.”
“Yes. Good. OK. Well, he, ahm, he…”
“Quickly.”
“He didn’t write any of his own stuff for that audition he never has written anything of his own he cribbed it all from me it’s why he let me be his apprentice in the first place without paying him or anything I swear he’s hopeless couldn’t write for toffee please put me down…”
“Say that again. Slowly.”
“Fez can’t write. Never could. Sure, there’s the odd bit of youthful stuff around, but nothing major, and nothing since way before that audition. He picked me up playing for coins on the street, singing my own stuff, and we struck a deal.”
“What deal?”
“I’d write ‘em, and he’d sing ‘em and get the credit. I didn’t have much room for bargaining. Did get bed and board though. Even if it was more like board and board…”
“Shut up.”
“Yes. Right.”
“He can’t write. He can’t write. All this time, he’s been getting all the credit, and all the praise, and all the jobs and all the women…and he can’t write! The papers are going to love this.”
“No! You can’t!”
“Really. Why ever not?”
“Because….well. Because he’s known. He’s famous. People rely on him.”
“Precisely. They’re relying on a fraud. His public should be told. They deserve the truth.”
“Please don’t smile like that…and please let me go?”
“Nope. I’ve got a use for you.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, yes indeed. Fame and fortune here I come…”
“Er…might I be permitted to inquire…?”
“What?”
“Well, what ‘use’, exactly?”
“Don’t worry. You shouldn’t find it too onerous. You’ve been doing it for years.”
“Oh, no, please…”
“Oh, yes.”
“No, but really, no, this is not a good idea. I’ve just got started…”
“Tough.”
“I won’t!”
“You will.”
“Make me.”
“Delighted.”
“Ah, er, on second thoughts maybe it is a good idea…”
“There. I was sure you’d see it my way.”
“Yes, well. Sharp objects help to focus the attention.”
“Here’s the deal. You write; I sing and take the credit.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the score.”
“Excellent. Well then, apprentice, there’s an audition tomorrow. What am I singing?”