I turn to the audience and brag with an evil leer, “Heroes are a dime a dozen, but a juicy villain is a joy forever!”
I take my bow as the curtain falls and the crowd erupts with applause.
“You’ve ruined my noble play!” Raphael is furious.
I had ad-libbed and upstaged my way through the last act, becoming progressively more absurd.
In the final seconds, I broke the fourth wall and, hopefully, Raphael’s career.
Next day, to my chagrin, reviews blared out a blazing success.
“Brilliant writing! Raphael Monteo is the new Beckett!”
“Good guys always win,” he gloats.