Me? Take Antoinette to the Cotillion?

How could I even exist in such a predicament? I am but a lowly farmhand, cursed to squeeze beets into a fermented paste for the peasants. To think that I, lowly Gregory, could have a chance at escorting the gentle hand of the gentle lady, Antoinette, through the gates of the Duke’s vineyard! Preposterous.

It is true that her betrothed Sir Archemond Renoidoux, that treacherous ne’er-do-well, is away galavanting around Monte Carlo leaving her grace, that most gentle lady, alone in fever of worry. How could one so noble, so honor bound leave the hand and bed of one so careful, and loving?

No, this will not stand! Though I am low in stature, honor, and nobility, I have been called upon by the good lady to provide a service, nay, to have the privilege to escort her grace into the Duke’s annual cotillion!

Though it has cost me a great deal, I have procured dress and attire so that m’lady shant be disgraced by my ghastly and impoverished visage. I have trimmed my face crop to be that more fitting of high society, Oh how i hope the lady will be pleased!

The Cotillion is more beautiful than I could have ever imagined! Vineyards for miles, casks as big as livestock, and the sweet wine! like I’ve never had before. Her grace smile brings me a warmth I have never known before. My own wife having perished from famine, along with my kids, crop, pets, livestock, and close friends, has left a void that has only been filled by my strange sexual fetishes and the company of wizards. But now? Her smile makes me feel like a nobleman!

Whats this? The local sherif has recognized me! oh how good, a man of law and duty that can attest to my good character-whats this? A brace of pistols? He…He wants to duel me! Oh my, my kind is object to violence, but if it is for the honor of my lady then I must rise to the challenge!

What’s this? I am not to be facing the Sheriff, but this masked stranger! Oh heavens, what a mess Ive gotten myself into. They are talking to each other in hushed tones, but M’lady seems confident in me, and gives me her blessing. It is with her strength that I will-

I HAVE BEEN SHOT! Oh how my life blood leaves me now. M’lady has run to the embrace of the masked man, her new champion. Oh! How could I have failed so spectacularly! What’s this? She is removing the victors mask!

Treachery! It’s the rascal himself, Archemond Renoidoux! How his perfection in masculinity makes my defeat all the more crushing! All of them scoff at me, it was a ruse! I have been labelled and anarchist, of trying to murder the good lady and to make explode the noble-peoples cotillion!

Of all of my life’s defeats, seeing the not-so-gentle lady embrace her lover (and several other people for that matter, an orgy commenced immediately upon my defeat and Sir Renoidoux’s unmasking) has truly been the greatest low of such a soggy, unremarkable life. Should I survive I shall surely bury myself with my fermented beet paste, and to live the rest of my days in piss drunk darkness.

To die, to sleep, to drink fermented beets. Aye, there is the rub.


This is an excerpt from my great great grandfather’s journal. He was an alcoholic clergyman who was arrested for tax evasion and was executed for trying to drown a lake. He was on my dads side of the family.

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