Out of the Machinery

I am I have found a subproducer in hell: behind schedule, lost in the purses, scrambling for cast and crew, plagued by gargoyles.

A new season of plays has landed and we are sorting through it desperate to match character to cast, cast to crew, to grab space while we still can, before the ice rises and we seal our eyes shut with frozen tears yet again.

“Loner,” mutters the head from Antenora, “I could do something with the Loner.”

“Poetical Greedwagon?” This from one of the Simoniacs grumbling. “That’s got to be me. I’m getting typecast.”

No time no time no time no time

“Excuse me,” says the diffident new one, a soft-edged soul from Upper Hell, what it’s doing down here is a mystery, some dispensation or punishment or both, who can say. “Could I have the Romantic Snark? I think that might—I mean, it’s in my wheelhouse—if you want—“

Great, good, fantastic, sprint to your places, past Italians and Romans and Trojans, past judges and gargoyles and titans, the curtain is already rising, we are always in the middle, nor beginnings nor

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