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(Written in relation to The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe)

I love carnival. The music, the food, the wine, but especially the masks. But I dislike the word. The mask becomes my face. Just the thought of hiding my identity gets me excited. An unknowing stranger looking right at me, unaware of the monster’s eyes staring back. I particularly like my face this evening: a beautiful white and gold porcelain facade with a long, curved beak or nose. More beautiful and real than any actual face people tell me I possess. I stand alone in the corner, observing the crowd of lonely faces dancing together, pretending to have what they interoperate as fun. In disgust, I sip my wine. Oloroso. Beautifully dry, my mouth lusts for more.
From the corner of my eye I notice a familiar face, one I almost feel hate for, Fortunato. He stumbles in my direction, fat and drunk, dressed in a jester’s motley. It suits him. Wait, who is this. Montresor! I think I like that particular nobleman, perhaps even consider him a friend. For whatever reason I have always felt more relaxed in his presence, like the face almost slips away. He approaches the fat jester.
Did he say Amontillado!? Now I am very intrigued. Wine has always fascinated me. It is my first guilty pleasure. While nothing can make me feel happiness, wine somehow makes me emulate it much easier. That and- Wait! I hear mention of my name. Fortunato!? How can he be so naive to imagine he can tell Amontillado from Sherry better than I!? Shame on Montresor for trusting this imbecile, I expected more intellect from this man. I must head to his palazzo at once and taste the Amontillado for myself before it is tainted by the jester.
What’s this? Guards or simple attendants? I must reach the vaults before that buffoon arrives and ruins a rare and beautiful opportunity. It is very unwise to be unarmed whilst in the presence of a monster. Thankfully I have my face. With it, I can do anything. Usually I would take my time when indulging in my second guilty pleasure. I almost love the crimson rivers; like pure, flowing wine, innocent. But I digress, time is short. The only flowing river tonight shall be the Amontillado I am so eager to taste. I must deal with these guards quickly.
No! They seem to have gotten here quicker than expected. I must hide. The lord of the manner proudly enters. Perched on his arm is the stumbling, fat clown. Oh, how I almost feel angry towards him! Montresor leads on through the grand hall. I’m almost amused as he passes the dreadfully hidden bodies of his own attendants completely distracted. Dreadfully hidden by my standards, anyway. Plucking two flambeaux from the wall, the irritating duo enter the next room. I follow, silently. I am the shadows.
We reach an archway, opening to a long, winding staircase. I wish for the fat one to tumble down and break his neck. The orchestra of ridiculous jester’s bells building to a crescendo until a final echoing thud shakes the catacombs would certainly be satisfying, but I quickly remind myself that wishing is delusional.
They stop near the bottom of the stairs. I am not so far away. With mention of nitre on the walls of the vaults, the clown begins to cough uncontrollably but declines to leave. Why is he so obsessed with the Amontillado? Is he trying to embarrass me? It will not work. If he takes even one sip of it nitre will be the least of his worries. I still am unable to comprehend the nerve of this creature, claiming to be a connoisseur with skills to challenge my own. The fool is too drunk to stand, let alone distinguish a fine sherry. Montresor hands him a wine to aid his cough. I bet he cannot even recognise that.
As I continue to stalk what now feels like prey, I listen in on their conversation. Montresor’s family motto impresses me: No one attacks me with impurity. Perhaps this is why I feel at ease with this nobleman; if he truly lives by the motto, that is. A flagon of De Grâve is passed to the drunken jester. I am almost humoured, almost laugh out loud at the incredible idiocy of this man, as he gulps down the fine wine with no respect. Talk of masonry arises. I despise this ‘secret’ band of hypocrites. Montresor jests with a trowel. Why does he have such a tool?
We pass through a crypt. I cannot help but stop and observe the beautiful piles of bones. They remind me of my face, like white porcelain, perfectly smooth but brittle. I like to imagine they enjoyed their deaths. A scream! It seems I was infatuated for longer than I could comprehend. Peeking around the corner, I see Montresor builds a wall with my nemesis nowhere in sight. Could Montresor be a monster just like me? I sit, surrounded by the remains of humans past, blissfully taking in the cries of my fallen enemy. It is delightful.