Fuck The Pope But Use A Condom (Pt. 6)
A Sad Farewell.“Daring, devastating, sensational!” “A smart, serious drama for our times.” “Thompson delivers a Kafkaesque blow to the frozen male conscience.” “Thompson speaks the truth.” “Thompson bares his soul.” Thompson bares his soul?! That last one just about killed me.
The reviews, barring the two hit pieces I alluded to in the preface, were tremendous. They also revealed that hardly anyone realized it was the real Daniel who had punched me. They mistook the fracas for part of the act: a kind of meta-theatrical commentary. Rolling with the punches, as it were, the director and I incorporated the scene into future performances. Not until recently did the truth become more widely known, and far from hurting us, it has made a beautiful splash.
As for Daniel, Layla, and Heidi, I haven’t seen any of them since that magnificent evening. I’m convinced that it was Layla who rushed out of the theater at the end of the show, but for what purpose I cannot say. Possibly to catch up with Daniel and make amends? Possibly to perforate his back with a nail file? Or perhaps just to get away from it all? I don’t know. I don’t care. You decide.
And now, sadly, dear readers, I need to bid you adieu. It’s strange to think of it, but this will likely be the last you hear from me. I can picture your face: the distraught expression, the tears welling in your eyes, the trembling lower lip. It pains me, but I can offer you no consolation. This will hurt—like when Dumbledore died.
Farewell, my friends. Farewell.