After an over-extended hiatus, Georgee frantically returns with a very special guest bearing an emotional message that mirrors his own state of heart.
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[Transcript of Guest Segment]
“Where should one begin who has cursed, not only a dear old friend, and fellow comrade-in-arms on the often misunderstood and lonely warring front of creative endeavor? One who has not only maligned the individual, yet her entire company, her efforts and the collective’s very mode of combating a dull and ever-increasing existence of banality, a foul sort of fellow, a Judas Iscariot, who, having taken leave of his good senses, has betrayed the cause altogether and become nothing more than a cold sniper hiding far afield across the trenches, the spirals and coils of endless razor-sharp concertina, mounds of corpses and those soon to be, the mud, the blood, the ghostly wall of fog; all from the safety and relative comfort of the sniper’s hollow?
I must begin, my dearest Hillary, you who were first shone to me as a celestial sunbeam angel in darkness, a single golden pale flower bourne from some glade unseen - I commence this latent attempt with my absolute admission of guilt as this noted villain at hand. This drunken marksman, so weak and deep into his cups, that has pierced you, not with the rifle’s round, but from the cruel and hateful venom of the serpent’s teeth. Much as bullets fired can never be returned to the barrel, these destructive words reported have found and bloodied their intended target and may never be retrieved. The destruction, the injury, the shock, the treachery, cannot be, and should not be forgiven or forgotten.
Though I seek no atonement and certainly deserve no redemption in this unwarranted act of tyranny, it is my small glimmer of(though I never allow any such illusion of hope to grant me solace) that you may, with your most grandness of generosity, offer one tiny and fleeting flicker of consideration for the formula of my regretful misdeed and utter mistake.
First, there are the spirits of the damned, both those encased in glass bottle and the dark ones they often release from deep inside the fragile shell of human life, a mere vessel of skin and bone, blood, desire and endless pain. So deeply over these last years, I have succumbed to the fatalism of my fathers, a queer despondency and a bottomless well of what the psycho-analysts of our time have labeled “resentment”. Always, I have worn the door salesman’s grin that conceals a seething hatred and explosive inner rage.
But this internal malevolence, this shuttering, tear-swallowing despair and tumult has fueled my starlight shine upon the stage, before the clicking shutter, in recorded and observed word and deed met with great acclaim and glory sought since the days of short pants and mother’s bosom. I hungered not for heaven, for my rewards were laid out before me as a rich man’s son in St. Nicholas drag. But no earthly treasure could ever so much as provide an escape from the reflection in the mirror that would forever be undeserving of the love thirsted for as Dracula, his blood.
So, much like this creep of the void, a thirst for the life-force grew and the fangs sharpened. The shadow that once followed him, now led him. It led me, that is, to become cruel and repellent to those such as yourself, carved from sunlight, with an infinite and golden reservoir of pure talent, intelligence, humor, innocence and beauty - to lay them to waste in a bitter and stupid vengeance. Not being satisfied with one victim, but to attempt to destroy all of their dearest comrades and all of their brilliant ambition and creation.
And if this wake of terror was not enough to forever carve my name into the corridors of Hell itself, I found the desperate need to inculpate and condemn the only human to grant me compassion, solace and true love in past episodes such as this, when no greater depths could be plunged within. To construct from a mild comment of wonder, a phantasmagoria of class warfare, pretension, arrogance and disdain for an audience - a “theatre of cruelty”, as it were. These were not her swollen critiques, her societal resentments, her misgivings or her fears, but my own sad regard and hatred for my very self, deranged and swirled about in a violent sea-storm of alcohol and emotional imbalance that allowed that shadowy serpent to rise up from dark waters and strike again with such a foul violence, all that this sadness-soaked and drunken excuse for a captain holds so dear.
My dearest Hillary, my words have been weapons. These wounds may never heal. I am the perpetrator and sole transgressor. I, who emerged from the deepest of mines, to strike with a golden hammer the fault lines that reveal the gorgeous, black shining ribbons of glory, to stand and bathe in the sun’s warmth. I have now sunk back to the lowest of depths, where no canary bird has breath to sing. And in my transgression, possession and derangement, sought only to drag you down as I fell, with vile accusations and vomitous turns of phrase.
How dare I and let me be damned. I now walk again before my shadow, humble my eyes and declare my shame in the grace of your light and bless your path ahead. Please be well, sweet and sound Hillary. My heart knows you still.
With love and regret,
Richard (Once preferred, but now nothing more than a dick)”
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