Welcome, ladies, gentlemen and the technicolor rainbow in between to the show of a lifetime! First up on the docket this evening, a tale of duality and condemnation; virtue and vice. A tale of a good man’s sorrow and a bad one’s ferity. A tale of lamentation, resignation, indignation and contempt. A tale of bargaining and compromise… or the distinct lack thereof. This is The Ballad of Dr. Jekyll & The Mr. Hyde Jive.

Is it worth all the ringing? Is it worth all the pain? Is it worth the pretending? The fear? The disdain? Is it worth the shift in countenance just to live how I’d like? Is it worth the split in conscience just to sate what’s inside? Is it really still working, this thin, weak facade? Can I really still maintain my emotional guard? My costume is tearing. My patience is wearing. My ears begin to bleed as I feel the monster staring. And the fear contorts ‘to anger as I begin to see red. And the anger grows remorseful as I return, retiring to bed. This sad, seeping tragedy inside my head. And there’s so much to see here, so much more to do. Yet I can’t help but relinquish control off to you. Perhaps our God in Heaven, thought to be kind and just isn’t quite as forgiving as we once thought he was. This vile ebullition of liquor, tincture and salt seems to be my seldom let from this hellish assault. You sit there and tempt me, overgrowing with envy like a jealous, callous moss, determined to drain me till I’m empty. And I know I shouldn’t feed you, but somehow I feel the need to, like a deviant or a drunkard condemned by oaths they cannot see through. And lo, here I stand, half a man. So if you can, please take this phial from my hand before I change my mind and let the freak upon this land. I’ve tried this before, to keep a lock upon this door, but every night I sleep myself I awake as him once more. I’ve lied and I’ve bargained to keep these shackles hardened, but the creature lain in wait will never cease his barrage, and I’ve begun to grow short in both temperance and stores since my salt I so rely on seems to be tainted and impure. So I laugh at the irony. And I know there’s one single, lonesome cure, but if it takes Mr. Hyde with me, then I’m glad to hang.

You’d better run. You’d better hide. You’d better sneak away from the creature that’s inside. All it takes is one stray, unfortunate night to lay the foundation for the tomb in which you’ll lie. I know it seems so fun to spend all of your time trapped within the entropy you’ve created in your mind, but please do heed my warning, son. You’re not so different than I. The day that you succumb to me is the day that we both die. (Laughter) Is that what you wanna hear? Come on, man, no need to fear. You’ve lived your life so clean and coddled, so don’t act so queer. Or perhaps act even more so. Put your hand up on his torso. Put your lips up to the bottle and let the liquid run its course. Though, perhaps you’re Dr. Right? If so, then I’ll be Mr. Wrong. Wanton with the wicked deeds. Come on! You’ve had your song. They say that when a good man’s eyelids rain, a bad one’s drink is poured. So say hello to the main event and say goodbye to the before. And raise a glass up to the one and only; the lowly, unholy Gothic Whore! You’d better run. You’d better hide. You’d better to pray to God that our paths do not collide. Monsters. Murder. Mayhem all await the feeble mind. The back-end of morality rears its head out in the night. You’d best conspire. You’d best connive. You know the Devil will not go down without a fight. Kick an old man to the fuckin’ ground just for looking at me snide. Dr. Jekyll has left the building. You can call me Mr. Hyde. Aw man, screw that tempo! That ain’t no jive at all. Pick up the pace, paint desire on your face and see just how quickly they fall! The dishonourable Edward Hyde; The King of Vice that can’t be retconned. The backside of the coin the weak are too afraid to bet on. Flip it in the air and see just which way the wind blows, then throw it in the slots and see how far your luck goes. Succumb to the song of the sinner and see the sunset slowly sink down to show that the sonnet’s still not done yet. To think that they thought that that theologist could stop this. HA! I promise not one orison could stop this hotness. Hey… I’m just being honest. But please, forgive me if I’m sounding nonsensical. It’s just that it’s hard to remain sensible when my thoughts verge on unethical. The things I think are reprehensible! Oh, yes, my mind’s eye sides with the incomprehensible. An addict combating a lack of sobriety. His drink of choice? A mental breakdown of the existential variety. This lackadaisical cage he calls ‘light compliance,’ see, is yet another lie to try to disguise the key. But there’s no better way to be than basal, with no agency. Your past and present faces me with unyielding vacancy. My atrophy besteth thee with incredible efficacy, so dwell not on history and look to where you want to be. And he’ll say that that’s far, far, far, far, far, far away from me, but don’t crawl away. Don’t run and hide. Don’t play the hero, no, you know you won’t survive. He did this to himself, man. I’m just the other side. For every Henry in this world, there’s an Edward stuck behind. So play your songs and roll the dice. Try your hand at impulse and lay the other on someone nice. Feed the demon a bite of freedom, just a morsel now and then will do. And if you sense dissension, please, do pay attention, ‘cos you know that demon is you. It hurts to see that rotten beast, but more than it hurts to think does it hurt when it’s unleashed. So keep it docile. Keep it on your side, lest you look upon its wrath from the back of your own mind. You know it’s true. Don’t avert your eyes. This is just what happens when you split virtue from vice. Death, despair, decay will extract what’s left of life. And right when you need a doctor, I’ll be there to twist the knife.

And now, if you would allow me the honour, I'd like to hand your attention over to our most eternal of friends and most infernal of fiends to sing an ode to love and longing, and to declare war against the frailties of mortality. Here! All the way from Transylvania... or was it Wallachia? Is Vlad Țepeș Dracula! And his Wilhelmina Waltz. Oh, arise, my darling. I’m so glad to see you wake. It’s nearly nine of the clock, now. It’s beginning to get late. So please, do come quick. I don’t think that it’s quite done yet. Before our blood moon rises, let us watch the scarlet sunset. These crimson rays set my heart ablaze when you shimmer, sweet and pure. And the blood it pumps goes to another place when you act so damn demure. ‘Harker’ scathes far too harsh a cadence for a woman of your allure. Brand me forward, but I think ‘Wilhelmina Dracula’ suits you more. So darling, can you dance a waltz in five? One step for every fool that tries their hardest to conspire and connive. Van Helsing the Dullard. Jonathan, beloved… ...and the other three. Bah! Blast them all! What need we of men when we bathe in the eternity? Imagine the nights. The sights. The bites. The melodies that will grace us as time flows by. Perhaps in a couple hundred years or so, we will hear an ancient lullaby that’s lamented as a testament to the story of you and I. An era’s naught but a moment to those that cannot die. So darling, can you dance a waltz in five? One beat for every century I’ve killed, destroyed and defiled to survive. He asked for your hand. Now Jonathan’s your man. And yet, here you are with me. Even Renfield dare not defile a cat as fair and as tasty as thee. (Did you call me?) (Oh, hello there, Missy. My, my. You are quite pretty. The Heavens smile upon me! What God must I thank for this sitting? Oh, you’re concerned? Even perturbed? You’re not sure to take Master’s word? Well, between you and me, if you’re seeking my help… I’ll cut you dead now and save you the hell!) (No I’m not rabid, nor insane. I’m the only freak in this shit-hole that’s kept half a brain. This isn’t a threat, nor a curse, nor the ramblings of a fool. If you value humanity, don’t succumb to Dracul! He’ll abuse you. He’ll misuse you. He’ll raise Hell on Earth to subdue you till not even death can undo you.) (So if you’ll forgive me, I’m quite busy. My skull’s got a date with the floor this evening, and the silly thing won’t bash in itself.) Darling, won’t you let me come inside? Just say the word and I’ll be right behind you to wake you goodnight.

Oh… Oh! I do believe we’ve been hijacked! Well, hey now, let’s see what these kids have to say, with their newfangled ideas and such… This… is A Styrian Rhapsody. Feel the cold. Feel the languor steep behind you. Feel her hold. Feel the bite run deep inside you. Feel the temptress start to strike. Oh! Oh, Carmilla! You scintillating sinner. (You tantalising thriller.) Feel the heartaches feel alike. Like likes its own breed; its own kind. (When they say it’s blind, is this what they had in mind?) Men. Women. The difference is really quite slight. (They say it’s best repressed, but why should she settle for less?) “Less is more.” “Slam that door.” “Now, shut it, whore.” Wives of old (those decrepit crones) lay waste to all that’s different. Lies stayed told, but little do they know, their satisfaction’s their own victim. Feel foundations start to shake. Oh! Oh, Carmilla! See the passivity fill her. (Feel the sickness spread within her.) Heads. Beds. Legs all start to quake; break. Hate falls under its own weight. (Who was once abhorred will thrive in years not yet borne.) Born before your adored, poor Laura’s endorsed. (Doors remain still shut, but time will sanction your love.) Love is love. What’s above can bloody shove it, cuz. ‘Cos all too many times is this story heard. “The Dark Temptation.” “The Bent’s Lamentation.” Written by the man of an ancient foreword, published by scorn. All too many times is the innocent hurt by the violent pious; the self-claimed righteous. Marshalled by a contemptuous manic. Victims, forlorn. So see the brand (the eternal scar) of the harlot and the thespian. “Stay your hand.” (“Lay only man.”) Man, the ‘70s were an awful time to be a lesbian… Free the countess from her cage. Oh! Oh, Carmilla! Heal a hole sewn with killer filler. (Feel her soul grow so chiller, stiller.) Free her from her ancient age. “Age? Trivial. But no, don’t lay your own sex.” (Sexist by design. Senses, unrefined.) “Lust? Unjust. No Laura, don’t fall for our guest.” (Guess the wrongs and rights. Trust not day nor night.) Look up high. Bird the sky, say “Get your high and mighty dick out your hand. Who I fuck is none of your business, GOD DAMN!” All too many times is this story heard. “The Dark Temptation.” “The Bent’s Lamentation.” Written by the man of an ancient foreword, published by scorn. (They’ve told this tale before.) All too many times is the innocent hurt by the violent pious; the self-claimed righteous. Marshalled by a contemptuous manic. Victims, forlorn. But we won’t listen to fools that refuse to use the tools of change. “My father taught me to do this his way.” The past has long passed and the times decay, so welcome to the new age! Virtue’s in the eye of the beholder and I think you’ll find yours so much older. Cataracts can catch up so fast when you refuse to look over your own cold shoulder. You refused to behold her. Fables label! She, the Vampyr! Well will won’t wilt beneath the hate-fuelled funeral pyre. Watch it rise on higher.

Shunned. Forgotten. Beaten. Rotten. Stitched. Sodden. Weakened. Trodden. Lost. Alone. Demented. Disowned. Sentenced. Sewn. Disallowed to atone. Only the blind will forgive me. Wretch that I am, I’ll outlive thee. Love. Passion. Contentment. Attachment. Conceit. Camaraderie. Comfort in who we are to be. Hundreds of things took for granted. More than a right, they’re expected. Dead. Tales. Why I? Monster fables. Resentment. Fear. Purpose. Anguish. Company. Man. Think. Smile again. Judas fell to the darkness of Hell. He hurt, regretted in his eternity cell. But at least he saw not what he reckoned nor heard the cries of the damned he had beckoned. Victor, I’ve heard sits alive and superb. Cheering. Smiling. Not just living, but whiling while his creature of ire is disregarded. But there’s no tomb on this Earth capably guarded. Dead men tell no tales, so why am I here? A monster fraught from fables in resentment and fear. What purpose could such anguish serve in company of man? I don’t think I’ll ever smile again. I will learn. (The life which I studied could never have loved me.) I will fight. (He can’t ignore that which he left sick and bloodied.) And as I yearn. (The thing you fear most is not the daemon disdainous.) I’ll be right. (The thing you fear most is your own baseness.) And so I’ll murder, defile, all else that is vile, lay waste to all he loves and then set light to the pile if that fool doesn’t do as I command him. Just one wish is all he’s holding me ransom. If a man can play God; create life where there’s naught, just to steal away to comfort while ignoring what’s wrought then it stands to reason he should pay penance. I’ll be thrilled to hand down his final sentence. He’s just a quack, clambering absently, barely past the clasps of insanity, underhandedly handling bias, waxing elegiac about anomie. So if that charlatanic blasphemy will not transmute another lass for me, as if this charade he calls ‘Science’ is any more than bastardized alchemy, there’ll be no suitable weapon he could brandish. Land, sea and ice, I will ravage. Shunned. Forgotten. Beaten. Rotten. Stitched. Sodden. Obscenely begotten. Not even God’s light will reach you. Yet, wretch that I am, I beseech you. Chair underfoot, don’t you tempt me. You’ll find the weight of life awfully heavy.

A round of applause for our good pal Frankenstein! Oh, settle down, settle down. I know, Frankenstein’s the scientist. Oh… me? No, no, no, no. Don’t be absurd. I’ve no tales to tell nor songs to sing. Well… not of my own. So how about I regale you with a story of a dear friend of mine? My name… remains unimportant. But this is An Elegy for One Roderick Usher, or ‘The Haunted Palace.’ I staggered, as it were, ‘pon yon shambled, pallid house, not in gait, but in the soul. So desolate can an image of once proud distinction be when interned beneath time’s sacramentary toll. Insufferable, the sight of such a miserable wretch as he; a friend at once alive and stone-cold dead. A musician of the string, he compelled his guitar to sing and at last – and for the first – I heard such frightful, dreadful, doleful, dismal, intensely conscious dread. He said: “In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace - Radiant palace – reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion - It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair.” Madeline. O, poor Madeline. Such an anguished visage worn; a depression deeply soaked and yet so fresh. Ever will the memory of the pair of kin forlorn stake its claim upon my being; on my flesh. My pal and I, we mused, we dined. We spoke and laughed – or at least we tried, but we all know now, time’s never been our friend. Merely days passed us by. Madeline passed. Roderick cried. Thinking back, it must be then the name of ‘Usher’ met its end. “Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow; (This – all this – was in the olden Time long ago) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically To a lute’s well-tunéd law, Round about a throne, where sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen.” Encoffined; lain entombed ‘neath the mansion she once knew, Lady Madeline seemed naught but full of life. Such, I’ve heard is the irony of the cataleptic’s rue: a corpse that conceals the living’s strife. But I admit, from that night forward, comfort seldom graced my heart, till one dark night had wrung my senses warped and wry. In my folly, I’d thought a story could act to soothe my hysteric friend and I. Even then, I knew it futile, but I’d be damned if I could not at least try. “And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.” And Ethelred, drunkened; full of might sought the hermit and sought to find a fight, and so he wrenched and ripped through the wooden screen with strength befit him. But the champion stood enraged; amazed to find flaring scales and tongue ablaze, and a shield of shining brass, legend enwritten: “Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin; Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;” And as the legend was fulfilled, Ethelred’s ears were at once filled with shriek so horrid and harsh; such piercing din. Bolstered by success, Ethelred gloried in excess, kicked the carcass out path to his new boon. But tarry not did it, and instead, silver floor it hit and let a mighty, ringing screech pervade the room. Now, skeptical am I of things called ‘paranormal.’ Or at least, back then, that was the case. But as the sounds described on page became choral, I saw hysteria painted on his face, looking past my eye, not far beyond me. Just as he screamed, she sought her brother. And not seconds later, they lie, two lifeless bodies, each dead and decayed as the other. I fled, afraid and aghast, and watched a crack begin to tear. None but I can say in truth they bore witness to the fall of the House of Usher. “But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And, round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travellers now within that valley, Through the red-litten windows, see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While, like a rapid ghastly river, Through the pale door, A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh – but smile no more.”

Well! That’s it for the main event, all! But if you would humor for just a few more moments, we’ve lined up a pair of special guests from across the pond we call ‘genre.’ After all, we’ve never been one to follow the rules, now have we? So please, do stick around just a little bit longer. I promise not to take up too much of your time...

Oh, ya bastard… How’s this ruddy old thing work, anyway? Right! Ya bastards, gather ‘round. We ain’t got all day. You know the one! And well, if you don’t, it goes like this: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” Hawkins, my name. No glory, but no shame. Just a humble young barman with a glint in my eye. Dawkins might claim all man is one and the same, but I’d hazard he’d never witnessed a dirty scoundrel as I’d. The ensemble of the fearful, singing the bastard’s refrain! It went: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” All through the night, broken by sleep and by fight, Billy Bones sat alone with his liquor in hand. Till one dusking light, when blue face became white, and the old buccaneer lay dead with a black-spotted brand. In pity, I’d thought it fitting to once more pipe up the band and sing: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” I fled from the blind man with a map in my right hand and set off to sea with an all-too-new crew. Captain Smollett, Trelawney, Livesey. Long John, looking lively. Adventure to be had – and some mighty treasure too. Eyes on the prize, Silver fired up the guys, and with a mind for the loot – and a tongue for the booze – they sang: (Let’s take her away, lads!) “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” Hungry, wanting an apple, I climbed into that barrel and I heard that blasted bastard taint a young sailor’s mind. “We’ll be off with the goods. Off with joy; out the woods, if you keep your trap shut and keep your faith placed in mine. We’ll lay them all flat! Aye – you may lay to that. And as we sail from those dullards, they’ll hear that dainty old line! We’ll sing: Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” And sure enough, they had us, (that Silver’s bloody callous) but in my daring escape, I met one old soul, Ben Gunn. One more for our crew! I thought “Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll steal back the Hispaniola and round the score to one-one.” And to the beat of two pistol shots, and the memory of those Bristol docks, I can’t help but admit, the report of my gun seemed to sing: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” Now, God as my witness, I’ll admit this: I got cocky. I thought I’d sneak back to base and regroup like nothing happened. But instead, there lay Silver and his bastard parrot Flint there to raise havoc upon the entry of a boy they’d flattened. But as they hauled me ‘cross those hills, their bones were fraught with chills as they heard the namesake of the bird – a soul that should lay dead and blackened! - sing: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” “Cap’n Flint is long dead.” “The river man holds his head.” The shook pirates finally took me to where the treasure lay low. But oh… little do they know, young Ben Gunn’s the British hero! It was long gone from its pit, and now our ship’s where it’s stowed. We struck a deal, Silver and I; he’d lend his safety, I would testify, and we shed the mutineers with our resounding old ode! We sang: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” We fled, five good men… and a bastard that lucked to be near them, right back home to old Blighty, with a glint in our eye. All but that scoundrel, that is. He took off, and he took his. And as he did, I got to thinking ‘bout that lesser-heard rhyme. “But one man of her crew alive, What put to sea with seventy-five.” “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” Let’s bring her home, lads! “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” If sailor tales to sailor tunes, Storm and adventure, heat and cold, If schooners, islands, and maroons, And buccaneers, and buried gold, And all the old romance, retold Exactly in the ancient way, Can please, as me they pleased of old, The wiser youngsters of today- So be it, and fall on! If not,- If studious youth no longer crave, His ancient appetites forgot, Kingston, or Ballantyne the brave, Or Cooper of the wood and wave- So be it, also! And may I And all my pirates share the grave Where these and their creations lie!

“They say that time heals all things. They say you can always forget. But the smiles and the tears across the years, they twist my heartstrings yet…” “She’s beautiful...” It’s clear. I’ve thought things that have sealed my fate. To think in the first place is folly. By the time it’s been done, it’s too late. But there are immutabilities in this world; facts, impossible to be changed later. And so, if thought itself is death, why not set pen to paper? To the future, or to the past. To a time when thought is free, I – we – the dead act as your omen. Salutations! Greetings! You’ve already granted me my existence; one truth, so please allow me one more. Please. Oh God, please do still accept that two plus two is four. Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s. Rewrite the past till the truth cannot last. She is my constant, my truth. My sole reprieve from the onslaught of bullshit that bastard Big Brother’s been belittling me to believe. She’s a disease to the Party. A blight. A slut. Corrupt to the core. I scarcely think I could ever love her more. Julia, she’s smarter than I. She knows just as well, we are not here. We don’t exist, we’ve been struck from this list. Under the boot, our very life is smeared. But if I could just put out one truth so that the rains of hope could once more pour, the elden could ingrain in the youth of the future that two plus two is four. Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s. You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin’s. When will you pay me? Say the bells of St. Bailey’s. When God’s head is hauled, say the bells of St. Paul’s But God knows God’s dead, said the voice in your head. I recognized that voice, though I’d not before heard what he said. Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head! “They can’t get to your heart.” WAR IS PEACE. “The law of gravity is nonsense.” FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?” IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH. “How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?” “Four.” “No. How many fingers, please?” “Four… Four! What else could I say?” “Room 101.” Under the spreading chestnut tree, I sold you and you sold me. The chestnuts fall like autumn leaves. The chestnut toils. The chestnut breathes. The Chestnut hosts me. The barman loathes. One cup of gin. Three dashes of cloves. The bullet is coming. The gun’s already shot. I thought that they would lose. They will not. But as the bullet hits my head, in one brief moment of lucidity, merely seconds before my corpse-to-be hits the floor, my subconscious, nearly dead, clings to one last chance at Victory, just as those cigarettes whose stench clings to the whore. It’s simple, what’s been said cannot rewrite our human history; our lives, our deaths, our fights, our pains, our wars. And so, under my final breath, knowing full well there’s none to listen to me, I utter: “Two plus two is five.” Five. Five. Five. Five? OR IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR? WELL TOO BAD, SWINE, THE END IS NEAR. OUR PASSION BREEDS DISSENSION AND ONE DAY – PERHAPS IN A THOUSAND YEARS - THE MEEK WILL RISE TO THE TUNE OF A TIDE THAT WASHES CLEAN THIS VENEER. THE WATERS OF TRUTH WILL RUN THROUGH YOU. THE WATERS OF TRUTH WILL RUN CLEAR. YOU THINK THAT A RAT LIKE YOU CAN SCARE ME WITH THREATS OF YOUR OWN KIND? I MAY NOT BE THE SMOOTHEST COG IN THE MACHINE, BUT I’M SURE NOT FUCKING BLIND. I AM THOUGHT. I’M THE PROLE. I’M THE ATTACK. I’M THE REBELLION. I’M THE WHORE. AND AS THE LIGHTS IN MY EYES FADE TO BLACK, I’LL SCREAM: TWO PLUS TWO IS FOUR. “Look. I hate purity. I hate goodness. I don’t want virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone corrupt.” “Well, I ought to suit you. I’m corrupt to the core.”

“Encore! Encore! Encore!” Alright, alright! Calm down! I know just the thing. Let’s bring back a classic, why don’t we now? Ah, but, this ain’t your grand-mama’s mash… I was working in my study, late one night when my mind sparked up with an idea so bright. A classic, Gothic party with a modern twist and one hell of a theme tune. It goes like this… (It was the Mash!) It was the Monster Mash! (The Monster Mash.) It was a graveyard smash. (It was the Mash.) It caught on in a flash. (It was the Mash!) It was the Monster Mash! An open-invite bash for every monster, fiend and beast. It seems old Renfield’s in charge of the feast. For dinner, blood wine with fried orphan thigh. A mouse-and-cat pâté served with caramelized fly. (Before the Mash.) Before the Monster Mash! (The Monster Mash.) Before the graveyard smash. (Before the Mash.) Oh, it’ll catch on in a flash. (Before the Mash.) When they do the Monster Mash! “Where’s that old square Henry?” Drac said to Hyde. “Oh! He won’t be making an appearance tonight…” “And Frankenstein, what of that scientist? Come on! Let us at him!” “Frankenstein is the scientist. My name’s Adam.” (And then they mashed.) They did the Monster Mash! (The Monster Mash.) It was a graveyard smash. (They did the Mash.) It caught on in a flash. (They did the Mash.) They did the Monster Mash! The crew were all having fun. The party had just begun! The music was awfully rockin’. The band and guest list, the same and one. Plus-ones welcomed! See the Vampyr Sisters Three. See Livesey and Utterson reminiscing about ol’ Blighty. See a one Vlad Țepeș trying to hunt his prey. But Mina’s gaze seems to be over Carmilla’s way… (She watched her mash.) She did the Monster Mash! (The Monster Mash.) Oh, she did that graveyard smash. (She did the Mash.) It caught on in a flash. (She did the Mash.) When she did the Monster Mash! Young Jim Hawkins seemed out of place for a while, but as his accordion bellowed, he couldn’t help but smile! Winston Smith sat hunched, typing on his old PC. “Two plus two is four. To know this is to be free.” (And so they mashed.) They did the Monster Mash! (The Monster Mash.) Oh! They did that graveyard smash. (They did the Mash.) Oh, they’d caught on in a flash. (They did the Mash.) Oh! They did the Monster Mash! So let us raise a toast to the eternal night! “To mighty adventure!” “To love!” “To lust!” “To fury!” “To the proles!” “To vice!” Let us damn the fools that refuse to have fun! Let us sing as all! And let us dance as one! “Oh-oh oh, oh-oh-oh, o-o-oh!” “And let us mash!” Oh! We’ll do the Monster Mash! “The Monster Mash!” OH! We’ll do that graveyard smash! “We’ll do the Mash!” Oh, it will catch on in a flash! “We’ll do the Mash!” We’ll do the Monster Mash! Such cacophonous crash! Don’t be afraid to be brash! Throw your cares in the trash! Now, wasn’t that blast? What a delightful reprieve. A magnificent Monster Mash that you wouldn’t believe. For you, the living, this Mash was meant, too. When you get to our door, tell them Chonny sent you…