Geoffrey's Return
He didn't want to do this. No one in their right or their wrong mind even would want to do this. This was...
This was...
This was pure Oliver. Mildly disgusting, utterly improper, horribly cliched and unquestionably bizarre. But he had promised and so here he was, feeling like the most foolish of fools.
"Of course we know you, Mr. Tennant," one of them says. The thin one. The one who looks like he was made of clothes hanger and fake eyelashes strapped together.
"We saw your Marc Anthony."
"And your Prince Hal."
I hate this.
"Well, that was a long time ago," he reminds, as gently as possible. He's trying to be gentle, if only because that might make this go faster.
"We missed your Hamlet."
Always the fucking Hamlet.
"Now that was very short," he says.
Then there's a pause, one of the more awkward pauses.
"How can we help you?" Closehangerlash asks.
"Ah. Well, I wonder if you could do me the favor of removing Oliver's head from his body and setting it aside, prior to cremation. Saving the head." He can swear he can hear crickets. He wishes he could then. That might actually make it less-- "Okay, let me explain I'm not crazy."
I can't believe I actually said that.
And he is called on his bluff. "With all due respect," the puffy one says, his face shining as though slicked with Vaseline. Smiling. Smiling in that polite, head-nodding sort of way that he'd seen too often not to have it make his teeth ache. "We have heard otherwise."
Dammit.
"That was a temporary condition, and I assure you, I don't want to do anything weird with the head. As a matter of fact, it was Oliver himself who requested that his flesh be removed, and that his skull be used in all future productions of Hamlet. So, you see, it's not weird, and in fact it is notarized." And it almost feels as if he's handing over a certificate of sanity (forged) instead of Oliver's notarized letter.
There are no silences more awkward. Then again, most people don't discuss removing heads from dead bodies. It's almost unfair, in that regard, just how awkward it is.
"We've never removed a head before," the little one says.
"We've sewn them back on," the big one says.
"Well, I imagine it's the same thing, but in reverse." Though he doesn't want to imagine anything concerning Oliver. He'd rather that he were imagining all this, that it wasn't really happening, that he wasn't here in New Burbage dealing with all of this. He'd rather be arrested, quite frankly.
"And there are legal implications," the scarecrow points out.
"Ah!" An opening. An appeal. An argument he can use! "You see, I would have thought that the ethical implications of not respecting a man's last wish would outweigh the legal implications. Furthermore, I believe that the state has no place in the nation's bedrooms and, by extension, their graves."
Another pause. This one just after 'graves' so it's almost as bad.
"We can remove the head," the scarecrow says, "but we can't do the rendering."
"We're not equipped," the tinman mentions almost apologetically.
"I see," Geoffrey says. "And where do you suppose a fellow would go for such a service?"
Which way on the yellow brick road?
"A taxidermist?"
A pause. "I would begin with the less reputable firms."
"Thank you."
This was...
This was pure Oliver. Mildly disgusting, utterly improper, horribly cliched and unquestionably bizarre. But he had promised and so here he was, feeling like the most foolish of fools.
"Of course we know you, Mr. Tennant," one of them says. The thin one. The one who looks like he was made of clothes hanger and fake eyelashes strapped together.
"We saw your Marc Anthony."
"And your Prince Hal."
I hate this.
"Well, that was a long time ago," he reminds, as gently as possible. He's trying to be gentle, if only because that might make this go faster.
"We missed your Hamlet."
Always the fucking Hamlet.
"Now that was very short," he says.
Then there's a pause, one of the more awkward pauses.
"How can we help you?" Closehangerlash asks.
"Ah. Well, I wonder if you could do me the favor of removing Oliver's head from his body and setting it aside, prior to cremation. Saving the head." He can swear he can hear crickets. He wishes he could then. That might actually make it less-- "Okay, let me explain I'm not crazy."
I can't believe I actually said that.
And he is called on his bluff. "With all due respect," the puffy one says, his face shining as though slicked with Vaseline. Smiling. Smiling in that polite, head-nodding sort of way that he'd seen too often not to have it make his teeth ache. "We have heard otherwise."
Dammit.
"That was a temporary condition, and I assure you, I don't want to do anything weird with the head. As a matter of fact, it was Oliver himself who requested that his flesh be removed, and that his skull be used in all future productions of Hamlet. So, you see, it's not weird, and in fact it is notarized." And it almost feels as if he's handing over a certificate of sanity (forged) instead of Oliver's notarized letter.
There are no silences more awkward. Then again, most people don't discuss removing heads from dead bodies. It's almost unfair, in that regard, just how awkward it is.
"We've never removed a head before," the little one says.
"We've sewn them back on," the big one says.
"Well, I imagine it's the same thing, but in reverse." Though he doesn't want to imagine anything concerning Oliver. He'd rather that he were imagining all this, that it wasn't really happening, that he wasn't here in New Burbage dealing with all of this. He'd rather be arrested, quite frankly.
"And there are legal implications," the scarecrow points out.
"Ah!" An opening. An appeal. An argument he can use! "You see, I would have thought that the ethical implications of not respecting a man's last wish would outweigh the legal implications. Furthermore, I believe that the state has no place in the nation's bedrooms and, by extension, their graves."
Another pause. This one just after 'graves' so it's almost as bad.
"We can remove the head," the scarecrow says, "but we can't do the rendering."
"We're not equipped," the tinman mentions almost apologetically.
"I see," Geoffrey says. "And where do you suppose a fellow would go for such a service?"
Which way on the yellow brick road?
"A taxidermist?"
A pause. "I would begin with the less reputable firms."
"Thank you."