Vendetta Quasi una Fantasia (or Hand’s Off): A Dramatic Monolgue

“I told you, motherfucker.”

- Philip H. Anselmo – Pantera, “Good Friends and a Bottle of Pills” from the album Far Beyond Driven (1994)

What does it take to be a man? What defines a man when he’s been wronged by another man? Is it his initial reaction?

Is it his capacity for forgiveness? Patience? Understanding?

Or is it the primal instincts that he goes out of his way to suppress? Territory? Dominion? Vengeance? The will to kill and die to defend and protect that which he believes to be rightfully his?

Is it a well-balanced combination of all of the above?

Are we, as men who’ve been wronged, capable of navigating through polite society while simultaneously harboring a murderous rage within us?

I cannot say for sure. I certainly don’t know if I am.

I have been asking myself these nagging questions for months on end, trying to understand the rage that’s been festering inside me and the best course of action to adequately expel it; channel it.

I feel as if I had given you fair enough of a warning – after finding out what was going on – as to what you could expect if you did not follow my instructions.

‘Keep your hands off my wife. Keep her name out of your fucking mouth. Keep her face out of your mind’s eye. Do all these things,’ I said, ‘and you and I wouldn’t have any problems.’ I was willing to overlook your transgression against me and try to keep things civil out of respect for her. I knew she and I wouldn’t have any chance at reconciliation if I were to have reverted to my baser instincts. But you didn’t listen, did you? You must have mistaken my kindness for weakness; my inaction for passivity. I told you that not confronting you in person was a deliberate and calculated choice, made to protect all involved. Regardless, you refused to heed my warning, so, now, unfortunately, we have a problem. Well… you have a problem. And that problem is that I am a man of my word.

Maybe that’s what makes a man: follow-through.

Now, place your hands on the piano in front of you and establish a C-sharp minor octave position with your left hand and a G-flat triad with your right. Am I speaking your language? I know you’re cuffed, but the length of the chains that I’ve secured to the undercarriage of that piano should offer you more than enough range of motion to maneuver. Do not make me tell you twice. If I have to do that, we’ll just go ahead and fast-forward right to the end. And, while you may not want any of what’s happening to you right now, I can assure you that you definitely don’t want that.

On my mark, I am going to have you play through the three movements of Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata. C-sharp minor for the first and third movements; D-flat major for the second. Sound about right?

I’m sure you can understand why I’ve chosen this particular song. It’s the last thing you were teaching my wife before she mysteriously and abruptly stopped seeing you for piano lessons. I have to be honest. I’m actually embarrassed to admit how long it took me to make the connection and figure out what exactly had been going on behind my back. I knew she was fucking around – her little lover-boy showed up at my home, knock-knocked on my door, left her a little gift to remember him by on my doorstep, then ran off like a cowardly fucking child before I could even wrap my head around what was happening, much less react to it – but, for the life of me, I just could not figure out who the little prick could be. It did seem suspicious that she would just up and quit her lessons like that, but the piano teacher? Yikes. That never even crossed my mind. Until it did, of course. Does that make me just another naïve cuck? Maybe. Maybe I thought that it was just way too fucking cliché to even be a possibility, but I guess clichés are cliché for a reason, right? They happen more often than we care to admit. But you know all of this already. I’m not breaking any news to you, am I?

What you may not know is that Ludwig van Beethoven’s 14th Sonata is my absolute favorite arrangement in all of classical music. Satie’s Gnossiennes being a close second, but that’s beside the point. In all fairness, I’m not one of those diehards who’ve heard everything ever composed, but, nevertheless, I’ve heard enough to know that “Moonlight” is my favorite. I know all three movements by heart. Especially now, since I’ve been studying them, multiple times a day, for several months in preparation for this very moment. I know it so well, in fact, that I’m able to recognize even the tiniest discrepancy or deviation from the source material, down to the most minute ghost note. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, listening to my wife practice the first movement at home with little to no progress being made, I’ve heard my fair share of discrepancies and deviations during her stops and starts. Maybe you just aren’t that good of a teacher after all. Or is it that she was too busy getting dicked down to learn the song properly? Teach her just enough to keep from raising suspicion, is that it?

Anyway, I fucking love that song. At least, I used to. I was beyond encouraging and just over the moon to hear that she was learning it. Every note, so eloquent and deliberately chosen. Hauntingly beautiful, romantic, melancholic, passionate, frenzied, arresting. It’s intense. It’s epic. It evokes some very powerful emotions, as I’m sure you’ve experienced. And now, through no choice of my own, it has become the soundtrack to my wife’s betrayal and your unwelcome introduction into my life. The requiem, so to speak, for my future and, unfortunately for you, yours as well. But I believe it will serve nicely as our collective swan song, don’t you agree?

Do you know the history behind its conception? It’s a relatively fascinating tale, especially when you consider the circumstances in which we currently find ourselves.

Written and published at the turn of the 19th century, Sonata Quasi una Fantasia, as it was originally known – that’s (roughly translated) ‘resembling a fantasy’. It was written during a burdensome time for poor Beethoven. His hearing had begun to deteriorate at an alarming rate, and his marriage proposal to one of his students – 16-year-old Countess, Julie “Giulietta” Guicciardi, with whom he had fallen madly in love – was denied by the young girl’s father, Count Franz Joseph Guicciardi. This rejection from the Count was, allegedly, due to Ludwig’s lack of rank or station within society at the time.

For the sake of the story, we’ll gloss over the girl’s age, but are you noticing a parallel?

Naturally, Beethoven was devastated by this news. In fact, there are some who speculate that, though dedicated to Giulietta at the time of publication, the song itself is not so much a love letter to her as it is a veiled death threat to her father. Isn’t that fascinating?

Now, I can’t help but question if you’re clever enough to have chosen this song deliberately as a symbolic nod to our little situation here. If so, I’m sincerely impressed. I absolutely love symbolism, and the forethought it would have taken to teach your student – a student for whom you have such strong feelings that you would continue to see her despite being explicitly warned not to – to teach that student a song composed in the face of forbidden love? Wow. I mean, Bravo.

I guess in this analogy, you’d be Beethoven, my wife and your student lover is Julie, and I suppose that would make me the disapproving father. Well, let it be known, I do disapprove. But I’m sure you knew that already. And, if you didn’t, you certainly know now, considering your current predicament.

Were you prepared to kill the Count, Beethoven? No, I doubt it. The type of man who will show up on another man’s doorstep, knock knocks, then runs away before he can face the consequences; take his fucking medicine like a big boy. Nah. That type of man doesn’t have the balls to kill the Count.

Did you ever stop to consider what I’d be prepared to do if you ever touched my wife again? You see, that’s the problem with provoking a total stranger: you don’t have a fucking clue what they’re capable of, do you? I’m sure – even in your wildest dreams – you couldn’t have imagined I was capable of this. What, did she tell you I was a sweetheart without a violent bone in my body? Well, unluckily for you, even sweethearts have their breaking point, and this sweet heart is broken. Plus, my imagination is incredibly vivid and has been running wild. In fact, all I’ve been doing for the last nine months is imagining your cock blasting with careless abandon inside any one of my wife’s fuck-holes. Needless to say, it’s done something unnatural and dangerous to my psyche, so here we are.

Allow me to put your mind somewhat at ease. I’m not going to kill you. Death is too easy. In fact, I intend to master it on my first attempt as soon as we’re done here. No, there are no lessons to be learned in death, and make no mistake, I’m the teacher now, and I’m here to teach you a very valuable lesson, Ludwig. One that you will carry with you always. Well, ‘carry’ might be a poor choice of words, but we’ll get to that. The lesson is – as I told you the first time I contacted you, with my very specific terms and conditions regarding you staying the fuck away from my wife – once you’ve taken everything from someone, you leave them with nothing to lose. So, again, here we are.

You will play the song in its entirety. All three movements, without pause or hesitation, unless the piece calls for it. It should take you fifteen minutes to complete, give or take. You’ll notice that I have not provided the sheet music. This will prove to be the ultimate test of your talents, your endurance, and your memory, because, clearly, since you don’t seem to recall what I told you about coming into contact with my wife again, your memory needs some exercise. That’s where I come in. I’m here to help you flex that muscle.

You will be allowed ten mistakes. Why ten? Well, because each time you make a mistake, I’m going to mentally remove one of your fingers. I say, ‘mentally’ because I will be keeping a tally in my head, and, once your performance has ended, I will be removing that number of fingers from one, or both, of your hands. Depending, obviously, on the number of mistakes you’ve made. You’ll just have to take my word for the count, I suppose, but I’m sure you’ll be keeping your own. We’ll compare notes afterward. I considered doing it during the play-through, but I decided not to risk the integrity of the song by potentially having to whittle your hands down to mere nubs. That just wouldn’t be fair. Isn’t that considerate of me? And, because I’m such a sweetheart, I’m even going to let you decide which finger, or fingers, I’ll be taking off. You can even mix and match hands if you’d like. It makes zero difference to me. However, if you refuse to make a decision, then I will be forced to make one for you. But you’re a talented guy – I’m sure – so I expect a flawless performance. I don’t foresee you making any mistakes. In which case, you’ll be free to go; unscathed. But let’s say on the off chance you do, in fact, make ten mistakes, well then, I’m afraid your song will be over, and my song will begin. But don’t worry. My song only consists of two notes – depending on my accuracy, of course – so, hopefully, you won’t have to listen to me butcher the piano for too long. You will still lose all ten fingers, because, as I said, I’m a man of my word, but, by the end of my performance, you likely won’t have much feeling in your hands anyway, so it shouldn’t hurt all that bad when I start snipping away... in theory.

Do you know the sound a piano makes when it’s played by a sledgehammer?

Yeah, neither do I. I imagine it’s akin to the shotgunned piano in Tool’s Disgustipated. You’re a prog-rock guy. I’m sure you get that reference, right? Either way, we might just find out what it sounds like together, and I’m really fucking excited about it.

If you make ten mistakes during the performance, I am going to see to it that you will never be physically capable of, A. playing another musical instrument, B. knocking on another man’s door, and, C. touching another man’s wife again. Do we have an understanding?

Ha! Déjà vu…

You didn’t answer me the last time I asked you that question. Then, you outright defied me, so, clearly, we did not have an understanding. But, judging by the look of pure panic in your eyes right now, I’d be willing to bet that you’re reading me loud and clear this time.

That’s good.

So. Are you ready to begin?

And a-one, and a-two, and a…