PROLOGUE
The Angel became the Demon.
The Demon became the Angel.
They both made the Mud
so they could dominate the other.
And the Mud made the Worlds.
And the Mud made
them both something better
when the One
has no allegiance to perspectives.
“My brother has always been the distant one,” Solomon said. “Michael always seemed to be some where else when you talk with him. He was always the person you wanted him to be but you still didn’t know him.”
“The cards are saying something strange.” Tina lays down two more cards. The World Card and the Lovers card over the Death card. “Something old has awakened,” Tina replied. Her voice started taking on an otherworldly quality. She wasn’t looking at the cards anymore; as she was looking inside her self.
“What does it mean,” Solomon asked with concern.? Partially it was for his brother, Michael and for his wife, Tina. Lately she had been changing when she did tarot reading. Sometimes he felt a presence overshadow her.
“My guides are telling me to look at the sun and the moon.”
“Tina, you’re voice is changing. Okay, you’re scaring me. I don’t like it when you begin to channel. We talked about this not being a good thing. I’m worried that you might get so far out there you might not come back. How can we be sure of whose is coming through? Remember what happened before.”
She ignored his concerns. “My guides said we must prepare for his arrival.”
“Tina, stay with me. Don’t do this. I think this is going too far.”
Tina took a deep breath. “My guides have not come through like this before. I mean, it is always subtle but I feel like something important is going to happen.”
Solomon got a strange look on his face. “I don’t know why I want to say this but I have this weird feeling, a thought, a saying.”
“What is it,” Tina asked worried. The temperature in the room dropped. Their breath made ice clouds. The lights flickered. They both heard a buzzing sound like thousands of insect wings. Solomon was worried. It was all starting again. “We’ll be okay.” Everything became silent.
“Death will be Michael’s beginning.”
“He was a god but he raped me.”
That was the first line that created time and space.
Zoe knew that after the rape his consciousness fragmented into wounds that took on personalities and he sent them into exile. These wounds manifested on different levels as spinning caves, then as eyes existing in the in-between spaces, and eventually as graves he would called bodies; and some of these ancient wounds manifested as astral parasites attaching themselves to people’s essences to feed off their life force so they could become self aware. These wounds made stories for his soul to live in and these stories were designed to not give him happy endings but feed off his guilt, his pain, and his primordial fears.
These wounds became architects to manifest demons of the mind and human angels with crippled wings; and strangers’ excrements made second skin for his fragmented selves to live in.
So Zoe buried the memory of the first rape and the first death deep into the subconscious of his multi-dimensional bodies that were like his sarcophagus that eventually served as sexual game pieces for the Unseen.
Zoe is sitting at a small wooded table wearing a grayish robe with a hood. There are no other pieces of furniture. The walls are not seen. The only light comes from an oil lamp on the table that made a circle which he and the desk sat in. He never moved from the desk; nor felt like he wanted to; nor had he written himself out of the stories. There were too many stories vying to be written. The pencil never ran out of lead. As he finished a page; a blank page would appear under the pen and the page written would then appear on a stack of papers that were lined on his desk in a neat row. There were six stacks of paper that were piled higher than he could see over. He continued writing. This room was in a place that was between realties. Zoe believed one day he could write himself out of this room.
“How much longer must I be your shadow,” Lazarus asked as he stepped out of the shadows looking at Michael longingly?
Zoe does not want to acknowledge his presence. Even here, he could not escape the shadows. Shadows had starved him for eons. But when they visited him in this place, they call him by the name they knew him in the life they shared. No matter what pieces of himself he had broken off to create another life, another reality to escape his ancient wounds, his architects who were like wardens, found a way of anchoring into that life and slowly began eating away at him until he brought death into existence in that world. There was a part of him that knew death was not supposed to exist but his first death gave it blood to manifest as an entity who rooted in all his shadows to feed off his many lives.
For Lazarus, he was Michael. Zoe shifts into the Michael persona and looks up momentarily from his writings and looks at Lazarus as a tear flows down Michael’s cheek.
“I am not your caged bird,” Lazarus said angrily.
He brushes away the tear and goes back to his writing. Lazarus, with a look of sadness, steps back into the shadows.
He was not my god but he raped me.
Now I stand as a tree
weeping with others hiding
from the Archons
who poured themselves into me
as if I was a jar
holding leftovers, collecting debris
earth, wind, fire, water
from my exiled selves
who no longer hear
the voice of my heart.
All parts of me that have forgotten me
will weep outside this tree.
My sixteen fathers were gods;
and they raped me
and gave me two names
so that I became the sky and the underworld.
Michael lays down his pencil. Lazarus steps once again out of the shadows. He looks at Lazarus with a blank expression. Michael’s skin no longer vibrates with exuberant life; he now exudes the fragrance of a grave; he was becoming a hollow shell of life; his fingers were barely covered with flesh. Each word he wrote was taking a heart beat from him. The air inside him was being emptied. This room existed in the in-between realities and it was slowly fading out of existence. He still had not found a story to strengthen him. This dying space he had sequestered himself into was like a node on a web; a crossroad on a game board.
Lazarus. “I need to be somewhere else in my life. Is that so wrong?”
He glanced at Lazarus; in this imaging, Lazarus had that youthful look, shoulder length brown hair, small nose, soft thin lips, high cheek bones, brown Earth tone eyes, a disarming smile, and the smell of a morning before the sun drank the dew away and his body was average with a hint of baby fat. Michael wanted to be the waters that Lazarus swam in but now he felt contaminated; filled with waste; poisoned with schizophrenic emotions that were like oil spills.
“I still remember your lame valentine card that said you would love me forever.”
“Those were pre-printed words. You heard what you wanted to hear,” Lazarus replied. He didn’t want to look at Michael. He didn’t want to drink in the diminishing appearance that was consuming him. He knew death was embedded into him, into the stories.
“If you got any colder, I’d need an electric blanket,” Michael said continuing his writing.
“We had good times between us. Let’s just leave it at that. Besides, you’re writing is more important to you then me. You needed sex; I needed to have sexual experiences. And it was interesting dating someone black; but I needed more experiences. You need to let go…find a story and write me out of your life.”
“I thought we had forever,” he said in a childlike feminine voice.
“Your love exists only in poetry not in your touch. Sex for you is like a prison sentence. You got noticed because of me; who else was going to look at you. You know the value I brought to you. Everyone thought you had something when they saw you with me. They knew someone like me just wouldn’t be with anyone.”
“Then I guess the caged bird still needs to sing; I don’t like the song I’m hearing.”
“I always knew you had the potential to be a cold heartless manipulating bitch when you don’t get your way. Everything is always supposed to be about you. Well, you’re not that important in everybody’s life. You want to be and that’s your problem. You are so afraid of being no one; you are always looking for a face to masquerade in. There is no spotlight for you; there is no audience; you are stuck in your own illusions and I’m not. I fucked you; I didn’t love you. I thought for a moment there was love but for me, you were about swimming in the mud. I found someone else to fuck that gave me a better train ride. You don’t like being alone; so you settle, I didn’t settle, I took what I could take until there was nothing left to take and then I dismiss. So enjoy your madness; but I’m not giving you power over me; you can keep me here; but I will never want you again, I will never love you again, I will see you in Hell with the rest of your co-horts.”
“Remember when you sang, “I would die for U.”
“You only have a piece of me remember. I’m only a fragment of Lazarus. You were never man enough to have all of him.”
Michael exhales and releases a dark cloud from his mouth that spirals into two Men In Black. Lazarus wants to speak but his voice is silenced. They take him by the arm and lead him out of the room through the walls.
Michael’s conscious is falling.
Solomon who is Michael’s brother is clutching his beer like he is holding back emotions that he didn’t want to name. “Michael always was his own drummer.”
“How am I to rescue him,” Tina asked feel perplexed and overwhelm for her tiny thin frame? She didn’t want to acknowledge her delving into the occult was putting burden on her body.
“Your spirit guides said he was in trouble, you must find away,” Solomon said anxiously. He looked at his wife of five years; Tina was slightly taller than Solomon; thin and had a birdlike quality to her demeanor, from dove to vulture; there marriage was not approved by either family; she was white; he was black; they belong to a paranormal group that would make the hairs on their family’s back stand, crack and jump off. They both had been working with a new tarot deck that Tina had made; and while exploring; an image of Michael in anguish appeared in Tina’s mind. The frightening look on Tina’s face had given Solomon a chill that lasted a week. Solomon was average height but muscular, and most people would him find intimidating if he chose that stature. His voice was strong; his hands rough from working at the bottle factory; and though they both made an odd pair; they felt they were each other’s soul mate.
“My guides tell me we must prepare; he’s coming and there is a great darkness that follows him. Something old, something I cannot name is like a storm riding behind him.”
“He is my brother. We must help him.”
Tina laid another card on the table. “I don’t know why I want to say this but Michael is not your brother.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know he’s your brother but my guides are telling me he is not your brother. The cards are saying; the thing this town is built on is having a restless sleep.”
“We’re not ready. Michael’s not ready.”
Tina pulls another card. She sighs with relief. “It’s not awake yet but it senses Michael.”
Solomon started pacing the floor. “Michael is still human.”
Tina’s face faded away and another face appeared. Solomon dropped his beer bottle.
“Tina, no! I told you this was dangerous.”
“He must gather his wings of darkness to become the Light.”
“Tina, come back!”
Tina’s face shimmered back into place. “What happened?”
“You went out to far again.”
Michael’s consciousness is falling.
In another room, perhaps one would say a memory; Michael rises up from a pool of blood and semen that once was in the hand of an Unseen that breathed life on these human releases.
Michael kneels next to the phone and then leans forward to touch his head to the floor. The phone is ringing. The answering machine picks up.
“This is Michael. You know the routine. So do it after the beep. Beep.”
“Michael, I know you’re there. This is your mother. Michael pick up. I know something is wrong. Michael pick up. Whatever is going on, it doesn’t matter. We want you to come home. I will send you an airline ticket. Come home where you belong.”
She hangs up. A moment later the phone rings again and the answering machine picks up again.
“This is Michael. I’m out of beeps so just start talking when you’re ready.”
“This is your grandmother Michael. I want you to know we love you. Come home. We know something is wrong. No matter what has happened, you can come home. You have to go back to the beginning to stop this Michael.”
The phone hangs up. Michael looks up slowly. His face is completely feline as he sits in a sphinx position.
The phone rings again. “You have reached a person who is no longer connected and therefore, cannot receive the signal.”
“Michael, this is your father. There is no room you can exist in that I cannot find. Your mothers will not protect you. You are mine; and you will always be mine.”
His consciousness was spiraling, it seemed many arms were reaching outward breaking windows and reaching in and drop a part of his conscious into these rooms.
Michael’s consciousness awakened in a room as Horus.
Set’s reptilian tongue made darting gestures of affections toward Horus. He wiped away Set’s ceremonial gestures of affections.
“You seem distracted from my affections nephew,” Set said leaning back on the futon; it squeaked from the boards splitting from the wear and tear. He pushed back the quilt so the coldness of the room swept over him like an evening tide coming in.” He was tall, skin a light golden brown, his long curly black hair seemed to halo his face; his chest was hairless and seemed sculpture by an artist’s eye; strong fingers, but his piercing jet black slanted eyes were like a backdrop for heavenly stars. His human features wavered between human and reptilian; it depended on the tone of his voice which caused his face to shift. Even his hard masculine features which seemed chiseled at times would sometimes take on a androgynous tone; sometimes it was roughly edged with wounds of a gladiator as if from a battle of swords, primal war cries and then again reptilian.
“Many lips have received me but the effects of your lips are different; sometimes possessive, sometimes parasitic; sometimes consuming; sometimes submissive; sometimes dominating. Yet, all mouths want to own my treasures and speak me into their madness.”
Set laughed while tossing back his hair that seemed now to snake around like crackling electricity. “You enjoy being mad. Always on a mad stroll through other people’s life. But it leads back to me.” He reaches out to touch Horus who pulls back. They both smile weakly and Horus decides to get out of the bed. “When you come back to me, you don’t feel so disappointed when one of your life ventures fail and have you dancing in the mud. I have always been your favorite mud dancer; either way the first and last dance will be mine.”
“You always assumed too much with me,” Horus said. “You crossed a line with me uncle.”
“But you didn’t cross back.” Set smiles at him. “And you still don’t want to cross back.”
“We are so into each other now; it’s difficult to separate from each other; but you know we can’t stay together; nothing survives my maddening,” said Horus.
“Has my ways become so foreign, so distasteful that you disdain them easily in your mind walking.”
Horus was naked, walked over and looked out a window that appeared in the wall; and he saw the lives he has had dancing around with Set. The first physical encounter occurred during a battle with his uncle to avenge the abuse he had directed toward his mother and the revenge for killing and dismembering his father into sixteen pieces. Was it the steam rising from muscles taunt with pain from hours of battling; the primal cry of warriors that neither one had extinguished; the sweat that dripped into his mouth; the sweat that dripped into his eyes stinging him? He shuddered and the visions passed and the window faded. He turned and looked at Set who was still lying in bed, skin still moist with sweat on his skin, and his nakedness revealed his manhood still throbbing. “You give yourself too much credit for my displeasure. You are not the architect of my emotions only a passenger in its movements. I just don’t like reminders when you kiss me like that. I feel like it’s one of those small greenish yellow-stripped lizards that I chased as a kid in another life into one of those Popsicle cages we constructed. Images of those lizards running across my face makes me want to swat at them. Then I open my eyes and it’s your tongue.”
“Your gestures of flattery will go unnoticed,” Set said sarcastically.
“I think it’s time to put up a “No Trespassing” sign with these sexual interludes. I am still abandoned in your embrace once your passion has subsided; the hunt has claimed its animal and I am denied sanctuary in my own inner chamber. You have taken what was sacred to me Set.”
“Here I don’t feel like a desert.”
“It’s always a dance for our eyes only. Let’s just say I am making time and space so I can write you out of my life.”
“You know we cannot take each other as first companions. So we have to keep it in the dark.”
“I gave into a lust; but the lust is diluting. It’s time to let go,” said Horus.
“I have and I will take on many forms and personas to have you.”
“I prefer when we war with each other. With you, I always have to live in small rooms. I will not be tamed in your embrace,” Horus said turning away.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“War between us will always exist.”
“You took from me what I want. You dismembered my father.”
“Well, brother, we will be with each other one way or another. There is no form that I will not have pleasure from.” Set laughed. Horus found himself fading out of the room.
Michael’s memories are still falling.
The force of the psi bolt threw Michael against the bed. A trickle of blood wept from the corner of his mouth. Tears mourned in his eyes. He attempted to stand when he was struck again. He felt like his skin was burning.
An observer would think that he was having a spasm. Only those with the sight could see the psychic onslaught coming from the TV.
One of his ancient lovers, Cain was attacking him by riding the frequency of the white noise emanating from the television to invade Michael’s reality. Cain had not been able to manifest a physical body or found one to download because the gatekeepers had been able to stop his manifestation. But Michael not knowing he was a gatekeeper, had opened a portal to a dark dimension when he was experimenting with ancient magic when he opened his mind during a sexual encounter with a nameless stranger who had astral parasites attached to him that was feeding off of misplaced sexual energy and this had given Cain the energy to ride into some one’s consciousness and possess them momentarily to break the seal on the portal that kept him from entering Michael’s reality.
Michael spoke an ancient language not even he consciously remembered to form a shield around him.
He was struck again with another psi bolt.
This time the psi shield with stood the blast and protected him.
Clever he thought that Cain was using the television as a window to the world.
He was barely able to stand up since he was maintaining focus on hold the shield’s strength. The concentration was sending rippling pains through his head; it was worst that a migraine, deeper and it was like a hook was being ripped through his mind. But he held fast. Somehow he had to alter the frequency that Cain’s attack was riding if he was going to survive this attack.
Another psi bolt struck the shield. He felt as if he was collapsing inside.
“I will not let you come into this world,” he said in a loud whisper.
“You were supposed to stay dead inside of me; in me is where you belong; then I know where you are; and we will always be together,” he heard Cain’s voice reply from the static of the television set.
“I am not your source and neither are you mine.”
Dropping his mystical shield, Michael struck the television with a barrage of psi bolts. It was the effect of being overloaded with electric force. The air about him crackled with electricity.
I don’t have enough power in this form he thought. I have to shift this to another reality. With a sound he uttered though pain racked his body the room shimmered and he shifted the attack to another reality.
Michael was standing in a desert. Cain was several feet in front of him. He was how he remembered him before Earth was formed and they took on Earth names. His long dark tresses snaked about him, his skin was copper color, his eyes were like a black flame; he exuded a strong sensual nature that was intoxicating until you felt you were drowning. He was tall, muscular, dressed in ancient attire, loincloth wrapped around his lower body; his six wings seemed as if they were on fire, his hands strong were crackling with electricity. His lips thin, firm brought memories of kisses that seemed to last for eons but Michael would not rest in those memories. And yet, Michael was still in his human form; not the form Cain knew him in.
“Ah, my ancient brother, my lover returns.”
“My brother, you still think we are in a womb.”
“You should have stayed there. You would have been safe.”
“I will not be owned or possessed.”
“I can’t live without you.”
“I can live without you.”
“Then your friends will die if you do not stay with me.”
“No.”
“You loved me before.”
“And your jealous sacrificed me.”
“Your human form is not amusing; shed this persona and let me see you as you truly are; you torment me with this masquerade.”
“I will not live in your past.”
“We both are a prisoner of the times we made; memories have stagnated us both; and we need each other to be free.”
“You still want to live in a moment that barely had legs to stand on.” Michael looked around. There was nothing but sand and one dead tree reaching out like an old person with severe arthritis. He smiled at the symbolism. Their love was dead; not even a memory or tear would bring a flow to this dead tree. Michael no longer felt rooted in this memory or their love. “And you think this desert is a great romantic setting. You were always one for dramatics.
“Without your moisture in my life, all about me is desert.”
“You’re going to make me throw up.”
“You always did like the chase.”
“And you thinking entering my world we can be architects again.”
“You love the power and what it brought you.”
“My death was a beginning of having many classroom existences. If I remember correctly, you orchestrated my death.”
“You were favored above me, remember.”
“Your jealousy has always made you blind and ignorant to truth.”
“Enough. Your precious Lazarus, Byron and Matthew will die if you don’t stay here.”
“You live in a desert.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“There is no reality that you can dream up where we will be lovers again.”
Cain’s attack began. He lashed out with a psi bolt. Michael leaped into the air and a circular flip and landed on his feet.
“You’re still not that conscious of your abilities.”
“And you think I’m really asleep or just toying with a mouse,” Michael replied.
Cain’s eyes began to flash a black light that seemed to reach out as if their tentacles. Cain struck again. Michael jumped to his left. He was scorched on his heel by the tentacle like energy from Cain’s eyes. Cain raised his hand above his head and mumbled words that Michael couldn’t decipher. Cain’s spell caused a rain of psi bolts to strike Michael from all direction from the sky. Michael breathed a short breath on the sand, causing it to swirl about him and rush at Cain like a flood temporarily blinding him. As he attempted to recover from the barrage of psi bolts and Michael dropped to the ground on his knees and placing his hand on the ground to gathered energy from the ground which gave him enough strength to form a telekinetic shield. Cain’s onslaught had weakened him. If only he could hold the shield and gain some focus.
“You never did like to be the fighter when you are in this form. You always were the submissive one.”
“I was quiet but never one to lie under any man and play dead.”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
Michael realized this battle would take place in time. He would not survive this round if he stayed on this plane of existence. He was still thinking too human and did not fully know their whole story together; therefore, he didn’t know what buttons to push.
“You loved me; you always loved me. Why are you playing this game? Haven’t I suffered enough with the space you put between us,” Cain cried out?”
“You are nothing to me. You are just an imagination gone astray; a demon with psychotic dreams.”
“Your little light bubble can’t hold me back forever.”
“But it will suffice for what I need to do.”
Michael looked Cain in the eyes. Cain stopped his attack. The space around them shimmered. Michael was standing in his room again.
A psi bolt struck him.
But he knew at this moment, as the attack increased in intensity that maybe his life was about this moment. Maybe it was about surrendering to someone greater than him. Maybe just maybe this was the moment he would anchor light into the world. And maybe that was all he was supposed to do. No one would know. They would think he had a nervous breakdown and died in insanity. No one will know and perhaps it is just as well. He loved and he would do anything to protect those he loved. He always knew what to die for and now he understood what to live for; and as the tears streamed down his face, he knew what he must do. As he was taught eons ago, on many other worlds and recently by the Voice, he let go. As he felt the psi bolt cracking his shield, he dropped it as he was struck several times with full force. This time he did not cry out in anguish; this time he only smiled, tears were streaming down his face and he let go.
He knew Cain didn’t want to kill him again; only subdue him; weaken him and once again make him a dark lord of the underworld.
But Michael had another design in mind. He died.
He had surrendered. That’s all he knew. The pain was quick. It felt more like a jolt, like being shoved out of a window. He felt himself falling. He had no sense of wanting to grab anything. He was conscious. He was alive; not sure how or why but he was alive. His body felt light; different but he couldn’t explain it or fathom it yet. He was falling.
It was the usual Friday night card game. The Virgin laid down the winning card. Everyone grumbled as she picked up her winnings.
“Heard this great story about a Virgin,” the Virgin stated. “It seems she felt sorry for the humans trapped in Hell because God considered them unfit for harvesting. So the Virgin asked God if she could help those humans that were lost, crippled and crazy. This meant she would no longer be a consort. Therefore, he gave her a condition that she had to remain a Virgin on the human plane. She was not to be touched by a human, but be praised as a divine mediator; yes, but not to know human physical affection. She took the job but after so many eons, she felt progress was not being made. So she stepped off her pedestal and became human to see what all the fuss was about. Last I heard, this particular Virgin is still wandering around to understand the human condition. She has been so many different women and men in human history to know love.”
“Not a bad story. Guess it’s time to get to work,” said the Architect.
Angel. “I have money to win back.”
“I like this time between day and night,” said the Virgin.
The Devil spoke up, “At least, we will be free of human dramas for awhile.”
“They need new scriptwriters,” said the Angel.
“And a better director,” the Architect added.
The Devil to the Angel. “You should stop by sometime for a drink. Been awhile since you and I compared notes and had a good laugh.”
“Drinking ain’t nuthun but the work of the devil who is holding parts of me. Even butter has not been spread out this much,” said the waiter standing there holding a tray of beverages for them.
Excerpt from an unfinished short story, “Death of a Goddess”
Vanessa is lying in bed. She is not asleep and has a worried look on her face. Her husband, Donald is lying next to her snoring. She hears a voice.
“Momma, help me!”
“Michael?”
“Help me momma. I’m afraid. I’m afraid.”
“Michael.”
Donald wakes up. “What’s wrong?”
Michael’s in trouble.
“Are you sure?”
“I have a bad feeling.”
“Oh, its women’s intuition time, huh?
“Just go on back to sleep.”
“Call him if it’ll make you feel better.”
Donald lies back down. Vanessa stares off into space for a moment; her eyes glow as her features become feline. “I’m not ready to give up my human life.”
Falling.
He feels dizzy like he was dropped into a box. He finds himself standing on stage on a pedestal wearing a tattered wedding gown and holding a torch.
“I walk among you and you do not see me. Eh…line..okay…wait…I remember…Give me the tired, the hungry, the wanderers…oh fuck it. My fire is out. I’m not in my zone. I feel like a revolving door. The dead have been coming to me for light.” He yells out as he drops the torch to the floor, “I am not a battery. I am only human. I tried to master crossing into the realm of the dead; then back to the land of the living, but I’m afraid. And yet, somehow in ways I don’t understand, the dead can enter my body and something inside of me carries them to a place of safety, a place of light.”
”Cut,” yells the Director. “Yadda yadda, let me wipe away a fucking tear of sympathy.”
Backstage moments later. Michael still wearing a ripped, soiled wedding gown is getting notes from the Director.
Director. “Correct me if I’m wrong. I don’t feel I have your commitment to this production. Your expressions are like broken vessels.”
“Maybe you need to impress upon me I have steering capabilities in this quagmire I’m traveling through,” Michael replied in a disinterested tone.
“Dark mood swings don’t appeal to me, but your face does. It harbors dark sexual interest which I want to exploit in your performance. But with this, what you call a performance, I thought you were having gas pains, makes your face evasive, diluted and fractured,” said the Director.
“I suppose you’re the glue stick that can put it all together.”
“I have a vision on how to interpret your work.”
“And your holding my umbilical cord,” said Michael.
“I don’t know a thing about birthing babies but I do know piss poor acting.”
“My life is an epic not a scale down, low budget production. This bare bone production is meager in its attempt to convey the depths of my life.”
“You give me crumbs not a loaf of bread. Just do the role as written. So nice to have these heart to heart chats,” said the Director.
“But I’m the writer asshole, I can change things. Am I not also the star of the production? So if I’m inspired, or even have a hair up my ass, I will change the script. You hear me, I still have some voice. I’m not finished.”
The Director stops and turns and looks at him slyly. Hissing the words, “Oh but you are.”
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