a fantastic wreck

a fantassssstic wreeeeeck

PROLOGUE

I want to taste tears
I want to free the beast
From its cage
Mad like my aging soul
I want to make it all
I want to make it all
Worth something
Worth the guillotine
On my head

I'm a fantastic wreck
Wrecking everyone around me
I'm a fantastic wreck
And if I'm a little bit deranged
Would you not
Estrange me
Or change me
And if I can write your name
Can I be
Angry
And nasty
And if nothing else can change me
And I am just this way
Then— would you love me?

I want to tease skin
I want to lace wings from all the faults
In my name
Walking heavy on a crystal life
I want to make myself
I want to make myself
Worth something
Worth the thoughts that run through my head

I'm a fantastic wreck
Wrecking everyone around me
I'm a fantastic wreck
And if I'm a little bit deranged
Would you not
Estrange me
Or change me
And if I can write your name
Can I be
Angry
And nasty
And if nothing else can change me
And I am just this way
Then— would you love me?

Would you love me?
Would you love me?
Would you love me?
Would you love me?

Would you love me?
Would you love me?
Would you love me?
Would you love me?

Would you love me?
Would you love me?
Would you love me?
Would you love me?

Montaigne,

CHAPTER 1

I don't want to be adored
Don't want to be first in line
Or make myself heard

Keane,

•

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through

From Walt Disney's Pinocchio

•

A convoy of black limousines lined the Bayerstrasse, their engines purring along the southern border of the Munich Hauptbahnhof. The night sky was an Atlantic blue, inked darker through the limos' tinted windows. The filtered streetlights could almost be the torches of distant fortresses. The sun had released its last sparks an hour ago. It lay behind the scrim of the horizon, a cold grenade.

A figure sat quietly smoking in the third car, forearm resting on a window, a wisp of smoke curling skyward. The arm was sheathed in a bespoke wool and cashmere suit, suitable for the northern climate but too warm for the Mediterranean air for which it was headed. A crisp, starched white cuff, with gold cufflinks— embossed with the royal insignia— was visible at the wrist. One fingernail, on the ring finger, had been bitten to the quick, the cuticle scarred and bloody. The fingers flicked the cigarette with practiced ease, elegant and swift. They drummed a silent tune against the car door.

The tall, imposing figure of a man exited from the second car and walked back to the third car. Joseph Gates' shoes clicked against the pavement. His hair was thick and grey, slicked neatly to his right side. His face had the granite cut of ancient Roman senators. He stood at attention outside the open window.

"Mr. Gates," a male voice issued from inside the car. The voice rang with a crisp edge.

"Your Royal Highness," Gates replied, bowing slightly.

"Is it time?"

"Nearly, Your Highness," he said. "The carriages have been inspected. Our boys are stationed outside."

The Prince pulled deeply on the last puff of cigarette and sighed. This goodwill trip was a PR jaunt designed to show empathy toward commoners, and to solidify ties with his country's allies.