This all started soon after 'The Flight of the Monarch' was published. A mean little tell-all-book filled with nothing but lies and pictures of also lies.
(flashback to The Monarch's floating cocoon)
WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!
A book?
No, but you would think it was right? You can read it like a book, here I'll show you: (reading) '...riffling through his pockets for change, the Monarch accidentally launches a sodium-pentathol tipped dart deep into his own thigh. Upon hearing a girlish symphony of shrill wails, a waitress comes to his aid...'
Told you!
You told me he wouldn't find out.
You're such a dick! You put his face on the cover!
(still reading) 'there she was subjected to a lecture concerning her weight problem and the evils of over... plucking her eyebrows.' Oh, it's almost exactly like a book. There's even some pictures, here's one of me at Danceteria making out with Stiv Bators and Lydia Lunch. (closes book) But this is not a book, this is a suicide note. Good news! The euthanasia will be carried out by me. The author has twenty minutes to seek my aid before I just KILL all of you. You'll find me in my room... crying!
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