%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A true story of the life, exploits, and ignoble death of a notorious 18th century glutton. |
| Yea, there is the Venetian in the market square. He is called Regelli, a doctor by trade, as honest as the devil but half as charming. Mark his gaudy Florentine apparel – common folk are drawn to a man dressed thusly. Look you, here comes his patient now. That is Tarrare, the hero of this tale. That man, there, sitting before the table Regelli has set out. See him? Though he be of middle stature, with a timid look and light ‘havior, there are nonetheless striking deformities about his person. His teeth are gigantic, visible even when his mouth is closed. His cheeks hang bunched and wrinkled above his thick neck. What little hair he has is soft and very fine; he perspires constantly; see you a foul vapor rising from his body? He wears a baggy shirt, for it secrets the grotesque flap of skin that doth hang from his lugubrious gut. Now, Tarrare is hungry. Regelli is about to feed him. The Venetian speaks! The common folk listen! Let us hear his speech. “Gather round, friends, gather round, and witness the curative miracle that is Regellium – patent pending – a tonic of health and appetite known to purge the body of such ailments as plague, incontinence, consumption, maladies of Venus, the English disease, the French disease, and a host of other afflictions and frailties. Mark me! This man suffers from an affliction of the stomach. He tells me he cannot eat without purging, and has lived only on grass and bark for seven years. Brought on by evil southern vapors, no doubt, carried to Christendom aboard ship by the duplicitous Turk.” Jeers from the common folk. “Indeed," quethe Regelli. "The depredations of the Muhammedians know no bounds in these dark times. Fortunately, Dr. Regelli has a cure.” He produces a bottle of pewter and gives it unto Tarrare, saying, “Now drink thou thy Regellium.” To his audience, he says, “Thou shalt not believe what happens next.” Tarrare drinks the potion. He sways, seeming drunk – but it is an act. This Regellium is no cure-all, but a harmless concoction of rotgut and mercury. “Dudley!” Regelli calls. “Fetch Tarrare’s supper.” Dudley, that pretty boy there, must be Regelli’s apprentice. He now lays out an enormous feast for Tarrare. Meat, fruit, cakes – it is enough food for three grown men. To sup: Tarrare’s greatest joy and his greatest vice. It shall kill him in the end, and he knows it. Nevertheless he eats. The appetite of Tarrare is beyond reproach. Ravening wild beasts cannot match it. First, he eats a chicken whole, bones and all. Look how he drops those apples down his cavernous gullet, three at a time, and the cakes, lost to that gnashing maw, by Jesu! In moments, the feast is gone, to wit. Regelli now nods to Dudley, and the apprentice places another feast upon the table, just as huge as the first. And Tarrare dines with just as much fervor. The audience is disgusted and intrigued in equal measure. Hear the wet smacking of his lips! See how his belly expands as the flap of skin fills with food! Smell his flatulence as it wafts through the square! “Ecce comedens. It may appear seeming foul, but this binge is perfectly healthy, I assure you. The tonic has unlocked his long-dormant appetite. It contains hemlock to stimulate the godly glands of the body, and pansy to numb the devil’s organs. It also contains the dew of the tobacco plant, which clears evil spirits from the pores of the lung, and washes the blemish of sin clean away from the very soul. Such herbs are found only in the jungles of New Spain, where trees are high as cathedral spires, and strange and wonderful creatures, seen not since the days of Methuselah, await rediscovery.” To Tarrare he says, “Are you sated, sirrah?” Tarrare quethe: “No. I will eat whatever is placed upon this table.” The peasants jostle forward and the table is covered in raw meat, in flints, in whole fish, in cork, candles, corkscrews and all manner of household objects. Tarrare eats them all. An old man in a black jerkin has joined the audience. See him, with the short beard and the curly grey hair. This man I know well, and have visited him many a day, yet he knows me not – for he is an actor and a mummer, and is called the Player King. He strides forward now, and upon the table slaps a bundle of paper. Tarrare brings it to his mouth. The Player King: “No, no, my pet. ‘Tis not for eating, but for hearing! Writ in these pages are the lines of a light entertainment, which, in but four hours time, Lord Barrington’s Men shall perform for the pleasure of the town. We are the Player King of the same. What is your name?” Tarrare: “They call me Tarrare.” Player King: “Tarrare. Hmm. Have you ever considered a career upon the stage? What we have seen here today is nothing less than raw talent.” Says Regelli, thinking he is the vocative, “I thank you, man.” Snaps the Player King, “Not you, you bare pated, thrice-painted fool! I had as lief a woman play my parts as you, you thin-throated, bowel-voided pestilence!” Regelli, gobsmacked. “I merely thought –“ “Thought what?” The Player King says. “Thought you an actor I would make? Lord Barrington’s Men are actors of quality, damn you! You are a charlatan, a vagabond, a rogue, yea, a rascal and a villain!” Regelli, stunned into silence – he is justly served. The Player King, in an instant return to pleasantries: “Tarrare, read you this script. It is called The Most Lamentable Tragedy of the Massacre of the Innocents. You are perfect for the small but vital role as the King of England himself.” Unsure, Tarrare looks to the Venetian. Smelling blood, the Player King adds: “How much does the doctor pay you per performance?” “He feeds me,” Tarrare says. See his crooked smile. He is beginning to like this new character, which is well, for we shall see much more of him. “I shall feed you twice as much, and ten florins a week,” says the Player King. “Twenty,” says Tarrare. “Ten. Your accommodations are also provided,” says the Player King. “Done,” says Tarrare. “I will accept on one condition.” “And what is that?” “A cat.” “A cat?” “A living cat,” says Tarrare. “A big one.” The Player King takes his hand. “It shall be done.” Regelli finds his tongue. “What ho! That’s my freak!” Tarrare spins around and shoves him bodily to the stones. See the Player King’s furtive smile. Young Dudley runs to help his bruised master. To all gathered, thus speaks the Player King. You would do well to listen, for his words have great import to our tale. “Farewell, friends! And remember: you shall see Tarrare again in Lord Barrington’s Men’s Massacre of the Innocents, tonight at seven o’clock in the market square!” |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
