In the viewfinder of his camera, Agent Tattletale rewinds and watches as Lady Baglady tells her story onstage. Telling and retelling it.

 

 Our puppet. Our plot event.

 

 The Earl of Slander rewinds his tape recorder and we hear Sister Vigilante’s scream, over and over.

 

 Our parrot.

 

 And in the red-and-yellow light from the glass fire, Mr. Whittier says, “So it’s started already . . .”

 

 “Mr. Whittier?” Mrs. Clark says.

 

 Mr. Whittier, our villain, our master, our devil, whom we love and adore for torturing us, he sighs. Watching Lady Baglady’s dead body, one of his shaking, quivering, trembling hands rises to cup his mouth, and he yawns.

 

 Watching the dead body, Director Denial is petting the cat in her arms, tabby-orange cat hair drifting to settle everywhere.

 

 The Baroness Frostbite and Countess Foresight kneel over the body. Not crying, but their eyes so open you can see white all around the iris, the way your eyes would look at a winning lottery ticket.

 

 Watching the body, Saint Gut-Free is spooning cold spaghetti out of a silver bag. Bits of cat hair in every dripping red bite.

 

 This is us against us against us for the next three months.

 

 From the top of the stairs, sitting in his wheelchair, Mr. Whittier watches. Beside him, the Earl of Slander fiddles with his pen and pad, still taking notes.

 

 Pointing a blurred finger, Mr. Whittier says, “You, you’re writing this down?”

 

 Not looking up from his version of the truth, the Earl nods, yes.

 

 “So—tell us a story,” Mr. Whittier says. “Come back to the fire,” he says, and, with a twist of his trembling hand, “Please.”

 

 And the Earl of Slander smiles. He flips to the next clean page in his notepad and caps his pen. Looking up, he says, “Does anybody remember that old TV showDanny-Next-Door?” Making his voice slow and rumbling-deep, he says, “One day . . .” He says, “One day, my dog ate some garbage wrapped in aluminum foil . . .”

 

  

 

 Trade Secrets

 

 A Poem About the Earl of Slander

 

 “Those people in line,” the Earl says, “a week early for the opening of some movie . . .”

 

 Those people are paid to wait in line.

 

 

 The Earl of Slander onstage, he stands with one hand raised, holding a sheet of paper,

 

 the white paper, blocking his face.

 

 The rest of him in a blue suit, a red necktie. Buffed brown shoes.

 

 On the wrist of his raised hand, a gold watch,

 

 engraved with: “Congratulations”

 

 

 Onstage, instead of a spotlight, instead of a face,

 

 projected on the paper is the 72-point headline:

 

 Local Reporter Wins Pulitzer Prize

 

 

 Behind this headline, the Earl says, “Those people live their lives standing in line . . .”

 

 For one summer blockbuster after another.

 

 The movie studios bus those supposed fan-kids from town to town.

 

 From sci-fi film to superhero fantasy.

 

 Each week, a new town, a new motel, a new PG-13 to pretend they adore.

 

 Those cardboard and tinfoil costumes, so obviously homemade,

 

 the Wardrobe Department makes them and ships them ahead.

 

 All this effort to fool the local media into running a real news story, for free publicity.

 

 To build a credible buzz about how much folks will love this film.

 

 All this time and money, it’s called “seeding the audience.”