The Professional

By Steven Pentecost

For every thing that can be done in life there must be a professional in the activity. There are professional leaders, professional gamblers, and there are even professional eaters. This is a tale of a professional sceneshifter. No, not the guys and gals that move the back drops of different theater productions from one location to another. I mean a professional individual that moves himself around the Opera House like he owns the place. Many of you have probably already guessed whom this person is because of his previous accomplishments in jujitsu catwalk navigations and the smashing of all our lucky charms, including my special gold-painted hammer (given to me by my dear mother when I graduated sceneshifter school.) Yes, the professional of whom I speak is none other than our own resident ghost! Since I was lucky enough to catch a prolonged observation of the wretch, I congratulated myself on the opportunity to learn from a master sneak. Even though he is not a pretty sight, the following is a recount of the many things I learned tonight from His Eminence.

- Moves & Power Moves -

About eleven pm I saw a block move in one of the walls of the third floor cellar. He emerged from a hole (which no doubt led to his abode), and surveyed the entire area. He paused to take many factors into account; carefully choosing which direction would be best. Again, as I was lucky enough to spot the so-called specter, I elected to follow him, moving along behind despite less than perfect concealment. The location of the newly established media room did not escape his notice. He stood for some time outside it, no doubt deciding if this would be a good time to explore its vast collections of recording machines. With extra-terrestrial senses he noticed me and turned to grin with his gruesome nose-less face. I shuttered to think of what minutia of sound or movement had sold me out. I tried to slip between a fake farmhouse and a scene from Rue de Lahore. Both hang directly across from this noisy media room.

The master was on me before I could ask, “Nighttime party in the cemetery at midnight?” Yes, he is truly a convincing ghoul and should consider becoming a car salesman, but I shall address his adventures with carriages parked outside the theater at another time. His breath was putrid (apparently he never brushes his teeth), so I may have made the mistake of suggesting the daily use of mint flavored paste and a toothbrush. With his Punjab lasso rope tightening around my throat, he made me the offer of a new home, one more strategically placed on the very spot where we stood – just across from the media room. Given the exigency of the situation, what could I do? I told him that he’d sold me on the idea, though he carefully neglected to tell me of the downside of the decision.

His next move was nothing short of brilliant. While I, still wet behind the ears in the relocating your residence game, could barely touch my feet to the floor, Monsieur Phantom suggested a wooden stool might aid my brain in remaining oxygenated. Being the punk that I am, I thanked him, and attempted an unsuccessfully search of his vest pockets while his foot kicked the required piece of furniture beneath my boots.

Foolish me, to think I could successfully swipe anything of telltale value from the Opera Ghost. Make a mental note: never try a major power move on an accomplished villain. With my hands swiftly tied behind my back, he networked the cord up onto a rafter and left me dangling on the stool. Ingenious calculation, really. I should feel guilty for putting myself in so awkward a position, but had to admire the guy. He vanished, leaving me with two choices. Kick the door to the infernal media room closed and cause my own death, or stand there ready for the bathroom and listening to the gnawing noise of recorders until someone comes along. Which surely wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning.

So here I stand, left out in the cold with an eyewitness account of what our Opera Ghost really looks like. The professional has made yet another strong play, gained the upper hand by sticking it to me. Savvy dude. I wish I could be more like him. I’ve tried to accept my predicament, settle-in so to speak. Treat this as just a temporary set back. I envisioned calling that theater critic Leroux and chewing his ear off. I hear he’s writing a chronicle about our ghost. But now normal circulation has left my legs; pins and needles have set in. He could at least have turned up thermostat. It’s cold down here in these granite cellars. “Just hit the Heater Button,” I bellow. “Excuse me while I go shut this $%@# media room door! Thanks Mr. Professor!!!” As I, Joseph Buquet, fade from life I know that he is, at this very moment, plundering my apartment. Oh God, don’t let him find my porno mags.

READER COMMENTS

Steven Pentecost has finally solved the problem of the death of Joseph Buquet! It just goes to show you, he irritated our phantom until he had no other recourse, but to do, what he did to Joseph Buquet. Our phantom certainly did not care to and did not make a big scene over this. He just took matters into his own hands, and WHAM !!!! Bye, bye Joseph Buquet. Tell Steven Pentecost he had me laughing again. No need to watch a funny movie to get my spirits up...all I need is something written by Steven Pentecost. Our poor phantom just can not get rid of his stink, can he? Keep them coming Steven, I so do enjoy reading every one of them. Thanks again!!!
J. McMahon

What a hoot and a holler! Congratulations Steven.
Etienne