by Mayee C
My dearest reader,
Allow me to give you regards on your success in finding my letter. You must have endured a long journey after using your bare hands to unearth my grave and discover this letter in lieu of anything else in your life. So congratulations again, you have succeeded in being no better than gravedigger number two in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
Of course, you may be wondering what secrets one takes to a grave and, perhaps, therefore, what mine are. Did I cheat? Was I involved in a sex cult with Eisenhower? Was I responsible for the death of a salesman? Was my life plagued by bouts of vicious diarrhea? It is never easy for a man to admit such sins, but I am no man. I lie here, very proudly dead, to say yes, I did all those things and many more over the watching eyes of the Gargoyle.
While I cannot provide adequate explanations to many of these questions in a short letter, the death of a salesman is perhaps the only one I can explain posthumously with a foggy memory.
Upon returning from a wicked night at the White House on October 13th, I noticed a man standing in front of my door. Dressed in a floppy hat with a suitcase in hand, he asked me if I was interested in purchasing his wares. I shooed him away, but he told me that he needed to sell something or he wouldn’t budge. With a massive headache and a soiled pair of pants from said wicked night, I was too angry to deal with the man and the great Gargoyle consumed my soul. I proceeded to kick him with great power, with him barely resisting and tumbling into a garden hose faucet. With one final blow, he was killed instantly. In a drunken stupor, I simply moved the body to my backyard and went inside without much thought.
It wasn't too surprising to me the next morning to see that pile of bodies in my personal graveyard growing larger and larger by night, although it was getting a bit too messy for my liking. I had to have some type of cover story if the Feds ever caught on. On my way to oversee my production of All My Sons, I realized, I was a playwright, a successful one nevertheless. Within that day, Death of a Salesman was born, my own testament to that faithful night. While the almighty Gargoyle knows the truth of my actions, the Feds would never know.
After all, the almighty Gargoyle watches over us all, consumes our soul, and allows for the darkest part of us to be expressed. Besides, death closes all anyway.
And well, isn’t that just a remarkable thing?
All hail the Gargoyle,
Arthur Miller