Good evening denizens of the asylum. Yet again I have managed a barricade, and have comfortably sat myself behind Dr. Agonson’s desk. It’s Friday, we’ve hid our pills under our tongues, and it’s time for By an Idiot. I am your idiot, Mr. Clown.
The night before was the full moon, and I was surprised to discover the extent to which lycanthropy is represented in my audience. I am sure some of you remember how in the deep dark of the evening we and our dreams were cruelly torn asunder by the frantic howling of our fellow inmates. I estimated a good twenty voices, twenty souls within the pack. To all you wolfmen out there, I know how tough it can be. You see, my brother was bitten by a werewolf. It was terrible. Every month or so afterwards, our mother would, with tears and sobs, resort to calling the dog catcher to see if he’d any sight of little Timmy.
You may think it is hard when the demon claws itself out from under your skin to begin his bloody rampage, but have you tried watching it? I have, every month for at least twelve years. It’s disgusting. I had to share a room with Timmy, even when he started shedding. That hair got everywhere. And don’t even get me started on trying to talk with him about it. It was all growls and snarls from him then.
But he did get the girls, that’s the thing. Now, I know being a werewolf has its downsides. The cost of razors is enormous, and pulling up stakes whenever the townspeople get all pitchforky is no mean expense either. However, being cursed with the ravenous spirit of bottomless fury may on occasion be beneficial. Just consider: Would you be here listening to me now if not for that curse? Would the state be footing the bill for the most excellent accommodations of this fine establishment were it not for your curse? In many ways, a bounty of silver linings may be harvested from your condition. Err, silver might be the wrong word.
And uppermost of these, are the girls. I’ve known a few werewolves in my life, and never were they single for very long. Take my brother. If he wasn’t busting down our front door to go disembowel some sheep with his bare claws, he was sneaking out his and my window off to some party. He may have had to bear a terrible curse, but that wasn’t the reason for the perpetual bags under his eyes.
I don’t know what it is—then again, I never understood girls. All he’d have to do is look at one of them, then she’d start following him. He’d say something like, “I’m no good for you,” in a gruff batman type voice, and she’d swoon. He’d tell her, “Don’t you understand? When the full moon comes, I won’t be able to stop myself.” She’d eat it up.
The only problem was, he always had to get a new one next month. Soon, there were no more girls left.
Now, last Friday, I asked for your opinions regarding the venerable Dr. I would categorize your responses in three ways. Some of you take an unfavorable view. You wish to be free from here, something you cannot be without first getting the good doctor’s certificate of release, his stamp approving your sanity. But is this any reason to dislike the man? Why leave here? The food is good, pretty little nurses bind electrodes to our temples, and there’s no want of interesting company. Why should you want to leave? Yet, don’t hate the man for doing his job. We all know you’re cracked; you’re here aren’t you?
Some of you, also wishing your freedom, take the opposite view. Dr. Agonson is the only one who can release you, and of him you can speak only praise. Are you not in the same boat as the first set? What? Should your opinion of him be colored by anything he can do for or against you?
The third response I found among the wiser class of our society, namely myself. He is a little too interested in talking about my mother, and—
It seems that’s all for tonight, this has been Mr. Clown.