Come… Take a seat in my chair, mio amigo, and allow Figaro to tell you una storia sulla follia.
A story about madness.
The world is full of people who falsely wear the mark like a maschera to hide away their true intentions, capire? They strut around, claiming to be touched by it at large, when in fact they are nothing but ciarlatanos.
Mere charlatans.
These types often mock what true madness is. The kind that eats away at you like a ravenous bestia, tearing apart all that you hold dear until one day there’s nothing left but the hollow shell of a once contented man.
It’s like an inferno, mio amigo; a fuoco that burns deep within, consuming everything in its path until there is nothing but ashes left upon the ground.
And I should know… Figaro has felt its flamme licking away at his anima for years.
It all started when they took her from me. Mio bella was stolen away in the dead of night by a hand as cold and cruento as death itself.
Time passed. Niente was done.
And then, mio amigo, the unthinkable happened when those bastardos threw accusations at me without a shred of evidenza to support their claims. It was as though they made Figaro out to be some kind of mostro.
La polizia? They thought they had it all figured out… But they were wrong.
So, so wrong.
For ten long years, I rotted in that hellish prigione they call Deathrow whilst the real killer walked free – my mind slowly waning with each passing giorno.
They tried to break me; to crush my spirit beneath their treacherous feet, but Figaro endured their punizione.
Their punishment.
And why… Vendetta, mio amigo. Sweet, glorious vengeance.
You know what they say, capire? That revenge is a dish best served cold.
Well believe me, amigo, when I say mine shall be colder than the curoe of a bleak midwinter’s night.
Now I am free, I will not rest until I have hunted down the people who took everything from me; who ripped my vita apart and left me to rot in a cell like some kind of animal.
Non, non, non.
Anyone who dare stands between Figaro and the scum who did this will pay dearly for their sins – beginning with the one who cries mad falsos, capire?
This man knows nothing of follia with his exaggerated gestures and wide-eyed stares. He has never known the true depths of despair as I have, or the agonia of watching everything you love slip through your fingers like piccolo grains of sand.
He will try to silenzio and bury me beneath his lies and deceit, just as those before him, but look where it got them, amigo.
Luogo inesistente.
Nowhere.
I am still here – still standing – and you can garanzia I shall not rest until justice for my amore is served.
E perchè?
Because the barber’s blade is not the only thing around here that thirsts for blood.
Figaro will get his filll.
He always gets his fill.
And he will savour that fucking fill, capire? Just like Nonna used to make.
Buon appeito.