Sunday, August 09, 2009
Lay me down in my gingerbread coffin
Looking around my padded cell and the yard of my asylum, I can see artifacts of what was a party. A skeleton in clown makeup, scattered bits of dwarves amidst a melange of candy, dessicated maggot confetti, hollow kegs of phenol fluid, an arsenic cake half eaten by rats. What's the meaning of this? My birthday? But I just blinked, or maybe it was just a really long nap.
Did I ring the bell yet? I can't remember. I'm not sure if the rule is that if I don't ring the bell the amount of times corresponding to my age on my birthday each year results in age paralysis, or if it's that doing it twice will result in me aging at twice my normal rate, or vice versa amongst those somewhere. Maybe my dodgy memory is a sign of aging. Maybe my dodgy memory is a sign of aging. Maybe my...
Alright, I can pull myself together. What's the usual ritual? Normally there are reporters who disrupt my solitude. Ah, there they are, hanging in my closet like fresh suits, in the process of becoming skeletons. One of them has a tape recorder. Let me get it out of his hand and hear what transpired...
Rebecca Plutchard: So Mr. Gallows, another birthday. Do you ever get sick of these?Todd S. Gallows: I was born sick of these, Ms. Plutchard.
RP: Please, call me Rebecca.
TSG: Please, call me Mr. Gallows. *Laughter*
RP: *Nervous laughter*
*Silence*
RP: Is there anything major planned for this year? Anything you want to do?
TSG: Well there is a lot I would like to do. There is a lot I would love to do. But many of those things I won't share with you because they would be incriminating. The rest of the things are too personal. And as you know, I'm so bottled up that I keep secrets from myself. Though it's probably a mistake for me to even admit that. Isn't the first rule of being secretive that you shouldn't even let people know that you have any secrets being kept?
RP: Hmm... Well I would think...
TSG: Who asked you to think?! The question was rhetorical.
*Silence*
TSG: So aren't you going to ask me another question?
*Silence*
TSG: Well?
RP: Am I allowed to?
TSG: Of course you are! Why do you think I let you in here?
RP: Okay... Well is there anything that you would like to do that you would care to share with the general public?
TSG: Sure. Well I am dying to get published the way a teenager is dying to get laid. And like a teenager, I want to not just for my own satisfaction, but also for the social status. I want to get [The Obscure Opus] out there. But unlike a teenager's deflowering, I want the experience to be special. I want a reputable publisher or publishers, and when the news gets out, I want it to be filled with pride and accomplishment, not regret and embarrassment.
I also think I can crank out a couple smaller works some time soon. I've got many sitting around, pining for publication, but their desires go unrequited. I will do whatever I can and have to to get them out there, even a few of the things that I wish to do but won't share with you as not to incriminate myself.
I also think I may find a new asylum, I've been tired of living in the Gallows Family Asylum, it's time to move in to a new environment. Maybe a place with a view of the beach. Wouldn't that be something? *Laughs*
RP: Well, that is very interesting, To-- I mean, Mr. Gallows.
TSG: Thank you, Rebecca.
RP: So what do you think about, you know, your giant clock going up another year?
TSG: What's that supposed to mean?
RP: Well I have heard rumours that you ordered a gingerbread coffin to be buried in.
TSG: This interview is over.
RP: Is it true Mr. Gallows? Is it true that you want to --
*Incomprehensible noises*
Hmm... How peculiar. Someone's at the door. The Cauldhame Bros. delivery service. I sign the papers and drag in the enormous crate. Inside is a gingerbread coffin.
See everyone in hell!
