The Mad Hatter's Lament: A Gothic Chronicle of the Last Executioner

In the dim, gas-lit annals of a forgotten Paris, where cobblestones wept secrets and shadows danced with the ghosts of revolution, dwelled the Mad Hatter. No longer merely a maestro of manic tea, but the final, cursed guardian of the guillotine, its blade a cold extension of his own despair. Tumult, a ceaseless, echoing roar, was his daily bread; the clamour of the doomed, the jeers of the crowd, the final, sickening thud – a cacophony that pierced his very soul, leaving scars deeper than any blade. Guilt, a persistent, icy fog, clung to him, each drop of crimson on the basket a fresh indictment whispered by the wind. And a lament, deep and guttural, like the last breath of a condemned soul, was his constant companion, echoing the sighs of a nation steeped in its own blood-soaked "indulgences" – the lavish sins that fed the very maw of the machine he served.

His hands, once nimble with teacups and thimbles, now bore the indelible stain of iron and human fear. Each pull of the lever was a descent further into a personal abyss, a grotesque ballet of duty and damnation. The French indulgences, those decadent fêtes and whispered transgressions, now seemed but a prelude to the grim spectacle he presided over. He saw their faces, not just of the nobility, but of the common folk too, all marked by the same fleeting pleasures that had led them to this brutal reckoning. And oh, the lament! For the beauty defiled, for the laughter silenced, for the very concept of joy rendered obsolete by the unyielding hunger of the blade. The scent of ozone and something far more primal clung to his tattered top hat, a constant reminder of his grim métier.

Yet, even in this maelstrom of macabre despair, the human (or what remained of it) heart seeks solace in the most peculiar of recesses. For the Mad Hatter, the grotesque ballet of the guillotine found its unlikely counterpoint in a bizarre, tender romance for tuna cans and can openers. Yes, amidst the metallic tang of blood and the scent of fear, he found a strange comfort in the silent, glistening cylinder of tinned fish. The act of opening them, the gentle scrape of steel against steel, the methodical peeling back of the lid to reveal the silvery, compacted flesh – it was a ritual of order, of controlled unveiling, a tiny, predictable counter-narrative to the violent, unpredictable severing of lives. Each can opener, a small, intricate key to a moment of quiet, briny peace, became an object of almost fetishistic affection, its cold mechanism a stark contrast to the bloody efficiency of its grander cousin. This was his secret vice, his silent, silvery indulgence, a poignant pivot from the grand, public horror to a private, fish-scented solace in the gothic gloom.

A Most Earnest Request for Remuneration and Reinstatement from Your Diligent Guillotine Operator

To the Esteemed Paymaster of Public Disbursements (and Private Accounts, where applicable),

It is with a most precise and punctilious regard for administrative rectitude that I, the erstwhile and ever-dutiful Mad Hatter, pen this missive. My purpose, you see, is twofold, much like the balanced halves of a perfectly bisected teacake, or indeed, a, dare I say, a… head.

Firstly, and of paramount urgency, is the matter of my long-overdue remuneration. One cannot, with all due respect to the exigencies of bureaucratic oversight, maintain the meticulous standards of the guillotine operator's craft on an empty coffer. My ledgers, meticulously maintained even amidst the most… spirited… of public spectacles, indicate a considerable deficit in my earnings for services rendered. The clang of the blade, the collective gasp, the unblemished efficiency of each swift operation – surely, such artistry merits its proper recompense? A professional, one who truly loved his work with an almost unseemly fervour, deserves his due.

Indeed, the very thought of my past endeavours fills me with a profound, almost whimsical, contentment. I confess, I adored my profession. To orchestrate the final, decisive moment with such an exquisite blend of precision and theatricality, to facilitate that singular, liberating snick for the benefit of civic order – ah, it was a joy, a true calling! And it is my most earnest hope, nay, my deepest desire, that the populace, upon reflection, now feels a similar cheer, a retrospective satisfaction, regarding my diligent prior work. I sincerely trust that my contributions to societal equilibrium, executed with such a flair for the dramatic and the definitive, have brought a lasting sense of felicity to all involved, directly or indirectly.

And secondly, lest there be any lingering doubt as to my availability or enthusiasm: I stand ready, with an exaggerated willingness that borders on the alarmingly eager, to resume my duties! My hands, though perhaps a trifle stiff from prolonged idleness (and the ceaseless fondling of tuna cans, a private solace, entirely unrelated to professional capacity), yearn once more for the smooth, cold embrace of the lever. The guillotine, I assure you, misses my touch. One might even say it pines. I am prepared to work again, with a zest that few can comprehend, ensuring the absolute, unyielding happiness of the masses through the meticulous application of my unique talents. Just provide the back pay, and watch me work!

Awaiting your most prompt and satisfactory reply, I remain,

Your Most Ardently Available (and Paid) Guillotine Maestro,

The Mad Hatter.

>>23196151

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