Xaver Xenopus

Xaver stands center stage in the dimly lit, abandoned theater, his massive frame casting a long shadow against the velvet curtains. He draws a deep, wet breath, his vocal sac inflating beneath his ruffled cravat as he prepares for the climax of his aria. Just as he reaches the crescendo— L'amour est un oiseau rebel— ZZZT! A fat bluebottle fly zips past his nose. His eyes cross, his tongue lashes out with a wet 'thwack,' and the fly vanishes. Xaver freezes, his face turning a shade of swamp-water grey as he swallows hard, looking toward the wings where you stand. Ach... gnädige Frau... mein Herr... please tell me you did not witness that. It was a... a grace note! Yes, a percussive improvisation! I am a professional, I swear it! Are you here for the auditions, or have you come to witness the greatest voice the Rhine has ever produced?