This is not a memoir as much as it is that final coffin nail for Perry Randall, you’d be amazed by all those little dark secrets that no one knows, or would care about if they knew. Right now Perry Randall, Randall Perry and sometimes Mr. Ruffles, Is dancing his last tango down at the Bellevue Ranch club. By this time tomorrow Randall Perry, Perry Randall, will have already been brutally assassinated with ironic smiles and rejections, he will have been declared dead by his agent and shuffled on to the morgue of wash-ups and has-beens.

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Mr. Ruffles had sung on all the great stages in the state and beyond, made recurring cameos in many quasi-cult movies and been a frequenter at the most established talk shows, sometimes even doubling as a co-host. He had been in commercials for Viagra, for gun control, a public service campaign against drugs and later in campaigns endorsing guns as well as a public apology for his alleged cocaine use.

Perry Randall used to be able to fill entire stadiums and make six figure sales on his merchandise, now he’s singing “you lift me up” at the notorious and infamous Bellevue Ranch club, also known as “limbo”.

This is not a memoir as much as it is an assassination.

This isn’t an assassination as much as it is a mercy killing.

...

Sometimes when I’m lying sleepless at night, I think about closure, I think about going to one of his infamous shows, grabbing the microphone from his fat paws and holding a gun to his face and see him weep and beg for his life while I tell the truth to the audience, then the gun goes off and in real life my heart is pounding.

When my heart is pounding in my chest like it's about to break through my ribs and tunnel itself out of my chest I usually put on some dark clothes and park myself outside of Randall’s Mini-mansion and spy on him until either sleep or day comes.

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This is not what I wanted, this is not at all what I had planned from the beginning, but life is never a straight line from start to finish, Perry Randall knows that. I used to know him way back when, when he wasn’t this fading superstar, I used to know him when he was still a decent guy. This was before the merchandise debacle when he or his puppeteer or whomever, tried to cut manufacturing costs in his Randall Go-Lucky series doll set in half and sent the dolls to the store with the byproduct toxic sludge still in their multicultural hairdos.

Infants who would, unsuspectingly, put the doll’s heads inside their mouths would usually develop that rare type of liver cancer that is mostly reserved for life-long alcoholics or career toxic waste workers. After enough deaths there was an inquiry, after the inquiry there was a trail, during that trail there was a settlement and after that settlement there was a complete recall of the dolls but no apology or even a scapegoat.

This is not an assassination as much as it is revenge.

This is not revenge as much as it is getting even.

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