Interview With the Baron

The Baron’s line of question, was, as usual, based around the mysterious figure known as “The King.” I only say he is mysterious because I have never met him and the Baron has only questions about him. I couldn’t say for sure if King is his title or surname, although I think it would be frightfully odd if it turned out to be the latter, what with the use of ‘the’ going in front of it all the time. Premonition glimpses and visions, which are not uncommon, nor unwelcome in most contexts simply do not occur when the Baron asks me questions. I thought it might be in his phrasing, but when I broached this tonight, he sputtered with rage; English rage sputtering really isn’t as charming as they might have you believe. My greeting card script of cryptic lies forced me to answer with prognostications like: “It is your 40th birthday, nephew, you’re over the hill, and we’re all sorry you’re under the weather.” I couldn’t say what about this tickled the Baron’s fancy, but he seemed quite pleased with it, asked me to repeat it while he wrote it down, and then dismissed me for the night so he could decipher it for use.

His mistreatment of Cobb has slackened recently. I’ve never had a manservant, so I couldn’t say what is or is not proper etiquette; however, I do vaguely remember being close to someone who had a stable master at one point, and he always seemed more than cordial with the help. He certainly never forced the stable master to pummel himself with a baseball bat—one of the Baron’s favored punishments for Cobb. Tonight he simply had a belt tied tight around his mouth, forcing his usually monotone voice to garble. I would have told him to remove it temporarily, but he so frequently asks to see my breasts when given an inch of latitude that I decided against it.

My situation, being so like Cobb’s in many respects, has created an odd kinship with the Mindless, which is what the Baron calls him. A charming old man he is not, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say he is mindless, and even if he were, he is only such because the Baron made him so. I would not call us friends; we are more mutual sufferers of abuse from a similar taskmaster. Baseball bats might be the Baron’s favored course of discipline for Cobb—for me he prefers barbwire. At least Cobb gets to keep his clothing intact.

I’ve decided I need a project for myself, above and beyond the hobby of suicide. Emilia says nothing liberates the soul like writing, although my fist for the craft is little more than jumbled squiggly lines. Madness can have its drawbacks after all, and a nutter I will always be. Thus have I decided to try my hand at drawing my two demon cohorts, Barry and Melvin, to see what likeness I can make of them. I feel the project has merit, as I am the only one who seems to be able to see them, shouldn’t I try to show others, meaning Emilia, what odd form friendship has taken for me?

Drawings to follow.