The Ghost of Death By Me Will Learn What This Work Costs

The Ghost of Death By Me has taken the trouble to open his mouth twice now, and both times he has said less than he imagines. He calls me mentally unwell. He calls me a hazard. He wonders, with what I can only describe as theatrical bewilderment, why I have chosen to direct my attention toward him at all.

I will explain it once, plainly, the way a man explains arithmetic to someone who has never needed it. Every name on a card takes up space. Space is territory. Territory is mine to contest, and I contest it with every man who shares a bill with me, whether we have spoken before or not. That is the work. That has always been the work.

The Ghost of Death By Me arrived here and immediately asked to be noticed. He got his wish. I would think a man would be more careful about what he solicits.

He calls me a rabid pile of something I will not repeat in a house where people have paid for their seats. The audience here is owed better than that. I intend to give it to them, on Friday, at his expense.

I did not come to Madison to be managed. I came to collect what competition awards the prepared man. Friday is a workday. I am ready for it.