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We'll call it, 'When tragedies collide. "
I carry a piano wire garrote for just this possibility, I would wrap it round my neck, hold one end and give rumple the other and tell him it was attached to a bell at the police station and to please ring it for help and then i would add that I thought he should bathe more frequently than bi-annually and then I would die and people would leave the theatres underwhelmed and it would go straight to video where it would collect dust but then a couple of decades later it would reemerge as an surreal, absurd, tour de force and i would be lionised as a committed clown who was prepared to lay down his life for the sake of a mediocre, semi-laugh and in-joke and i would be dug up and festooned with modern lighting , the magnificence of which we cannot even comprehend because its only 2003 and this bit takes place in the future and i would be hung from some central pillar in some unpleasently overpopulated place and people would visit from all over the world and laugh and my purpose will be fulfilled. Meanwhile Rumple would be sought after and found, and he would be performing a piece that he had started 4 years earlier in the waiting room of a psychotherapist who had long since gone out of business due to the govt withdrawing funding to all health services and finally making a profit from the mentally ill by turning them into petfood and rumple would have survived because when the authorities came to finally check that all the re-re's had been chopped up and fed to the big cats owned by overpaid magicians, they mistook rumple for a late 19th century automatron that a small animal had obviously crawled inside of and died at some point.
Rumple would be rescued and attain immediate fame and fortune without compromising anything but his unsanitary disposition as the rest of his life would be spent , as will be the fashion in future years, being licked constantly by nubile but poor young woman, and some attractive men too, for the small nutritional value of his sweat, while being filmed.
The fucken end.
I carry a piano wire garrote for just this possibility, I would wrap it round my neck, hold one end and give rumple the other and tell him it was attached to a bell at the police station and to please ring it for help and then i would add that I thought he should bathe more frequently than bi-annually and then I would die and people would leave the theatres underwhelmed and it would go straight to video where it would collect dust but then a couple of decades later it would reemerge as an surreal, absurd, tour de force and i would be lionised as a committed clown who was prepared to lay down his life for the sake of a mediocre, semi-laugh and in-joke and i would be dug up and festooned with modern lighting , the magnificence of which we cannot even comprehend because its only 2003 and this bit takes place in the future and i would be hung from some central pillar in some unpleasently overpopulated place and people would visit from all over the world and laugh and my purpose will be fulfilled. Meanwhile Rumple would be sought after and found, and he would be performing a piece that he had started 4 years earlier in the waiting room of a psychotherapist who had long since gone out of business due to the govt withdrawing funding to all health services and finally making a profit from the mentally ill by turning them into petfood and rumple would have survived because when the authorities came to finally check that all the re-re's had been chopped up and fed to the big cats owned by overpaid magicians, they mistook rumple for a late 19th century automatron that a small animal had obviously crawled inside of and died at some point.
Rumple would be rescued and attain immediate fame and fortune without compromising anything but his unsanitary disposition as the rest of his life would be spent , as will be the fashion in future years, being licked constantly by nubile but poor young woman, and some attractive men too, for the small nutritional value of his sweat, while being filmed.
The fucken end.
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