Tin Speaker

Readers 1 & 2 are deceased, but I happened upon some others who have gallantly taken their place. A dialogue, then.

Reader One: I don’t know about these links Hornblower keeps posting. I just want to read Tin Speaker on Tin Speaker. Is that so much too ask?

Reader Two: This is like the time my father told me that when we used to have steak for dinner, it was really just old boots. Old boots and Béarnaise sauce.

Reader One: I don’t see how that situation could be in any way like this one.

Reader Two: You wouldn’t understand, Reader One. Your heart is cold with the ice of hatred and mistrust.

Hornblower: I invented ice.

Readers One & Two: Hornblower!

Hornblower: Neither of you would understand. Only I am privy to such knowledge.

Reader One: What’s with all the links, Hornblower? First you kill Readers 1 and 2, now you don’t even host your writing on your own site anymore. What’s next? Are you going to kill Friedrich Nietzsche, the famous German philosopher?

Hornblower: I have already done this. I have also killed God.

Reader Two: What about my father? Why haven’t you killed him?

Hornblower: Surprise, Reader Two — I did. Your father was God. He was going to reward you with many treats and splendors. The only thing he required was that you not complain once he told you about the whole steak-that’s-really-boots thing. Too bad you complained, like a little sissy baby. Plus it’s too bad I killed him, because you could have said you were sorry and you appreciated the boots, or at least the Béarnaise sauce. He was really more of a New Testament God, so you probably would have quite easily gained his forgiveness.

Reader One: Ha, ha, ha.

Reader Two: I need to go get my hat blocked.

Hornblower: Yeah you do. Man.

Reader Two: Did you hear about the rabbit comedian?

Reader One: No.

Hornblower: I have also not heard about the rabbit comedian.

Reader Two: He was a funny bunny.

Hornblower: Your time on this Earth draws near its end. Let’s go to the Yankees game, Klaus Kinski. I am hungry for a ballpark frank, and the only place to get one is the ballpark.

Klaus Kinski: All right, let’s go.

Reader Two:
And so we few must onward march! Until
but none remain, where once were mighty numbers.
A sow, an ox — needless lots drawn ragged
in dark, windswept corners. Breathed hellos fall
in faint and ill-turned phrases. Count not words:
nor trust you syllables for wholesome mettle.
For hope may rise and none shall hope deny
but those who in hope see not light nor wonder.
And dreamt goodbyes will find no solace still,
with light a man could follow to an end
less solid than his lonely cuff links, weight
upon a wrist less dreamt about than dreaming.

With dreams like these, we paupers might yet fly –
until, like whispers lost to time, we die.

…

Reader One: Hornblower has murdered yet again. Reader Two has joined his father in the afterlife. Enjoy your time together, brave friends.