Congratulations on Becoming Center Square!

Ever since your career collapsed like a pulsar and drew you into the smoking abyss called syndicated television you’ve been working your ass off with one goal and only one goal.

You’ve murdered dozens, destroyed marriages, friendships and great loves. You’ve hurt children, parents, grandparents, all for the sake of this one thing. You’ve even murdered four people (six if your joke about “the fall killing them” isn’t taken literally).

But this weekend it’ll all come to fruition. After a lengthy seduction you’ll find yourself in bed with Whoopie Goldberg, your bodies glistening from your passionate exertions. It’s a pity no one saw your performance; it was perhaps the greatest of your career.

You’ll give her exhausted, splayed form one final kiss before clutching an ether soaked rag over her mouth. Whoopie will thrash, briefly and weakly, before she calms down and collapses in your arms, her head heavy and wrong against your chest.

You’ll drag more than carry her to her car. Then you’ll leave her sitting upright, careful to plant all the right prints so that when CSI shit goes down they’ll see that she turned the key and sat there, inert as carbon monoxide filled the garage.

Your hands won’t stop shaking until long after you’ve exited her compound and you’ll feel a slight tinge of sadness, but you know this is just that last bit of human weakness leaving your body before you take your rightful place upon that holiest of altars.

You’ll light a cigarette to calm the shaking, never stopping to think that if you’d put this kind of effort into your acting things never would’ve had to go this far.

Congratulations on becoming center square, Mister Diamond.