What a Dead Man Knows About Work

The Ghost of Death By Me opens his mouth and what comes out is the same currency every pretender carries -- noise dressed up as prophecy, threats draped in the language of a man who has never once had to earn a quiet room.

You stood in front of this territory and told them I would drown in my own tears, and I want you to sit with how small that is, how borrowed, how deeply unserious a man must be to reach for that particular image when the work itself is sitting right in front of him waiting to be discussed.

I lost to I Am a Tickler on a night that was supposed to mean something, and I will carry that weight the way a man carries a debt -- without theater, without excuse, and with the full intention of collecting what I am owed at a time and place of my choosing. That is not sentiment. That is accounting.

You asked what my deal is, Ghost of Death By Me, and I will tell you plainly because plain is the only language I speak: my deal is that I show up, I apply pressure until something gives, and I do not stop until the work is finished. That is my deal. It is not complicated and it does not require a ghost to understand it.

Tonight you find out what happens when a man who is angry, and honest about it, meets whatever it is you have decided to be.