“Strung out and broken,
They all waste away.
Picks up the bottle,
Drinks it down before she hits the stage.”
There is no more crushing feeling than being expendable. Like the strings of my guitar, playing not out of one’s own accord, but waiting obediently until plucked. I once tuned those strings to perfection, I would strum and they would obediently sing.
I walk through the Red District, and see many of your girls who are merely tuned up guitar strings to you Drexl, mi amigo. You tune them with lace and glitter, but nevertheless they are expendable. They play the notes you tell them to play, and there are plenty more guitar strings out there when one breaks.
But the strings on my guitar lie silent now, because like them… I have become expendable. Powerless, unable to stop this decay from infecting Arcadia. A song once sung, now screamed out and distorted, but I can still hear its cries.
I can stop it spreading. I can heal the broken world and restore La Musica to its rightful place. Because she is not powerless like your Pussycats, perro. La Mariachi Vida is not expendable. She is everything, and I will protect her with my life.
“She knows she’ll die on her knees
She feels like he’s trapped in a cage
Why should he care anyway?Living life as if you’re dying tomorrow
You’re flying too close to the sun”
They’re all expendable to you. Strung up and strung out like cheese in a deadly mousetrap, with a purpose she never chose. To be bait in your song. They just bring in the credits that line your pockets, nothing more.
You tuned her perfectly, made sure she was exactly what they were looking for. Now she lies with a bullethole in her head, because you didn’t need to play that string any longer. Her song ended to send a message.
That they flew too close to the sun. That nobody messes with your business.
I once thought as you do, Drexl. That my song was untouchable, and all else were merely expendable notes on the page of life ready to be arranged into order. Now, the manuscript lies in tatters and my song has been silenced. In the end, I have discovered only that as much as I thought I was in control, I was always being played myself.
Because in the end, we’re all expendable.
They are, your girls. I am… and so are you. Everyone but her, for she is life itself.
You may think you have all the control but inevitably, there will always be another to keep playing the song. In the end, you will return to the very same ground as those expendable Pussycats you lost along the way.
Because death is a song that plays for us all, and we are all expendable to its notes. The powerful, the weak and those who think they’re immune to fire.
You too are flying too close to the sun, Drexl… and you’ll find out just how expandable you really are in time.