Copyright 1995(c)

                      TAKE THIS JOB AND...
                         By Ethan Moran

     He was so very bored with it all. Nothing ever changed. It was
always, always the same routine. He knew the moves in his sleep and
loved some of them. Stretching his muscles always felt good and the
sense of freedom. That was all it was, though, just a sense. Who
among us is ever free? Who would choose to make his living as a
performer, and why, he wondered, knowing it was and had always been
the only avenue open to him, with his heritage of Performing
Cassendas, which had begun with his great-grandfather.
     Still, he was a sleek and dashing presence on stage. The
golden hair was longer than customary, with a natural wave and the
large, liquid eyes were brown with yellow glints -- like those of
an alley cat. He felt good and knew he looked good when he was in
the spotlight, but there didn't seem to be any challenges left he
wanted to tackle. 
     As a youngster, like all youngsters, play had been enough to
satisfy him. He longed for no more than he had because he knew no
more than that. It was only with the maturity of advancing years
that he saw things he wanted and had never had. It was only with
age that he missed freedoms he only suspected to exist. Normal, by
which he supposed must be meant average, daily lives of others did
not involve glittery adornment and center stages. He longed for he
knew not what because his heritage did not expose him, but he
longed all the same.  
     When had earning working become his sole activity? When did
his youthful rebellion turn to complacency? He didn't know. He knew
only frustration and dissatisfaction. It made him more and more
short-tempered and he found himself snapping at everyone around
him. He wanted something more, dammit. He tried to figure out how
to get it.
     Everytime he thought he might have it figured, life intruded
on his musings, and he returned to the ring of performance,
business, business, business crowding into his musing, disturbing
his contemplation of life's mysteries. It had to be done if he were
to survive, but he hated every second of it and wondered what life
was worth if one hated what one had to do to continue to live it.
He felt himself becoming desperate in the search for another way...
another answer.
     And the noise and the lights didn't help his concentration.
They began to annoy him in a constant buzz which he could not shake
from his ears. He wanted only to be left alone to think, but was
forever being niggled to do something -- something he did not want
to do. He roared that he was busy and "not in the mood," yes, burst
out with it in answer to the very taskmasters who were his bosses.
     They demanded. They would not leave him alone. They berated
him verbally, and even physically. It hurt, and he lashed out. He
killed the first one and then rushed into their masse, killing all
who got in his way. Not minding it. Even enjoying it.
     That, after all, is what lions do. 
                               END