In one exchange with hissy fit Hannah, she of the perfectly poised potty mouth, I was blundering my way through the Madness of King George and my off kilter timing was causing her to explode once again. Her script had been thrown to the ground and the papers lay scattered.
She was ramrod stiff and her tiny feet seemed nailed to the floor as they did not move. Instead, she seemed to move only from the ankle, the rest of her body in perfect alignment as she jolted from side to side. Her caustic tongue went into over time and I stood with a false perplexed look on my face conveying that I was mystified as to what was causing her such concern.
“You do this on purpose don’t you?” she accused. Those small round brown eyes glinted with the fury that coursed through her. I must admit, other than my own rage, I do not think that anybody who I have ever met has come anywhere near to the seething outrage that Hannah used to feel.
Were it not for her magnanimous nature and her ability to take an interest in people you might have thought that she was one of my kind. She was very good at making people feel wanted. Notwithstanding her degree of fame, she made time for people and welcomed listening to them and asking about them. She actually preferred for people to talk about themselves rather her having to speak about herself. She took pride in the calibre of her performance, enjoyed the decent money she commanded as well but ultimately it was all about the performance. Something I could identify with.
“It is not difficult to do HG, it really is not,” she ranted “You used to be so damn good at doing this, much like everything else in our relationship. I don’t know what has happened to you, but you seem to have lost your sense of purpose. I admired you because you tackle everything head on and you are usually brilliant at everything you turn your hand to, but I am beginning to wonder if your power has peaked. Are you losing it? This is shambolic, you are useless, absolutely useless.”
She then descended into combining a thesaurus with profanity as she found every synonym she could for incompetence and interspersed these descriptions with a heavy serving of swear words. Her breath was coming in staccato bursts as she built herself into a frenzy, her cheeks reddening as her voice rose and rose.
“I really do have to ask, for what purpose God put you on this earth?”
Finally she stopped and she held my gaze. I could feel the fire ignite inside me as for once she had created the spark. The flames leapt into life, the heat surging upwards through me. She had questioned my purpose. She was challenging my existence. Who did she think she was? My eyes narrowed as I savoured the vitriol that now pumped through my body, the rising malice giving me power and reminding me that I am the supreme authority and she is but dust on the wind. Already the schemes of manipulation flickered through my racing my mind like a thousand screens showing trailers for the malevolence that would be unleashed on this thespian for her audacity in questioning my purpose.
I felt the words form in my throat and the anger came soaring with them as I strode up to her. She remained defiant, still in that strange stiff pose and she did not shirk despite the clear intent signalled by my rapid walk towards her. I thrust my face into hers, eyeball to eyeball and with incandescent rage burning through me I yelled into her face,
“I was invented by God to test your belief in him.”
She blinked once and then again. The edifice immediately cracked and came crashing down as she let out a howl of upset and her eyes filled with tears.
Nobody does rage like me.
Nobody delivers the final line like me.
Nobody questions my purpose.