Naaah. Chill. I wouldn’t pull any soft-cock shit like that.
Over-acceptance, hyper-interest, uber-coddling, mega-warmth…it all points to something duplicitous, a hidden agenda. I guess the fear of seduction is as old as man, and how many of us have our own boxed-up stories of regret that paint a picture of the gluttonous fool who thought they’d pipped the fates to the pot o’ gold? There has to be at least one time in everyone’s life where they were stroked well enough to assume that they’d beaten the system, “arrived”. I’m of the constant belief that we must work for every moment of pleasure and cosmic forgiveness. I don’t think I deserve anything for free. I hope that doesn’t come off melodramatic, because in truth I like it that way. My heart lies all over this globe, swollen and sweating in one place in particular, but in my DNA I’m American and Americans like shit to be fair. Straight up. I’ll take something for nothing, sure, more easily something as innocent as a pat on the back. But if I haven’t earned it, here’s hoping that pat served a purpose outside of propping up my ego. Hopefully a mosquito fat with the zombie virus is quite flat.
I’ve dreamt up a new and creepy-ass story that I think I fucks with the concept of undeserved reward in a clever way. Maybe it’s because I’m a performer, but I love to fuck with the audience. I’ll draw my own blood if it means that an audience will get something that takes the air out of their lungs and sends a chill down their spines. There it is again: I need shit to be fair. Maybe even loaded on the opposite side. Cause that’s like credit, and if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s good, fucking credit.
Anyway, the story sucks you into the plight of a man who may not deserve anyone’s understanding or support, but finds it in a magical town that affords mad souls a second chance. My idea is to force the audience to struggle to get behind him, and maybe get a little angry. And then, I aim to slow-drip satisfaction into their veins while they tussle with their own private moments of undeserved reward. Conflict. I love it. Not in my personal life so much but on a grand scale dressed in a clever cape and like one of those teeth-rotting, tart candies you can find in the lobby of your local cinema, I want to pull you in several directions at once. If you don’t leave feeling a little disturbingly rewired, but ultimately kick-ass satisfied, I’ve failed. And I can’t fail if I’ve invited you in. I’ve got nothing but my story to pay you back and to skip town with precious minutes of your life is just not my style.
I can’t wait to fuck with you. That’s my driving force for this story. I’m going to stick it to you, you sorry motherfuckers. And if I’ve done it right, you’ll love me for it.
But not too much. Please?