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Alternate ending for Cask of the Amontillado

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Inventor of the Blues

Joined: 20 Apr 2006
Posts: 9677
Location: hard corvallis, oregon

PostPosted: Thu Apr 29, 2010 5:44 am    Post subject: Alternate ending for Cask of the Amontillado Reply with quote

for those who haven't read it/don't remember, Montressor walls in his enemy, Fortunado. Anyhoo, for my english class, i had to rewrite the ending, and this is what i came up with:

There was left enough room to pass through a bottle of wine, and so I did. Being bound only about the waist, Fortunado reached out for the bottle with both hands.
“I can’t reach the pipe,” he said.
I passed the bottle further into the darkened niche. I could feel the absence of its weight as he grasped it from my hand. I heard him swallow the low-grade wine with a sort of gurgling sound. Then I heard him sip again, but heard no gurgling swallow. Suddenly, my face dripped with burgundy red, as he’d spat the wine through the unfinished wall.
“Amontillado!” he cried. “That is not Amontillado!
“No, it is not,” I said. “However, there’s still much time to try the Amontillado. Plenty of time.”
And I left him there, exiting the damp catacombs toward the warmth of my home, to the comfort of my bed, and I slept well.

The next day, I found myself in the company of Luchesi, at a street-side café. The sun was bright in the sky and warmed our cheeks pale pink. The streets were being cleared of debris from the festivities of the night prior. Luchesi filled me in on the details of his celebrations, and despite his enthusiasm, I quickly grew bored and interrupted him.
“Did you run into Fortunado last night?”
Fortunado…” he smirked, “That boastful fool probably got himself locked up in jail somewhere. “
I could not help but smile.
“Yes, indeed. Probably locked up somewhere.”

That night it rained. I entered the catacomb carrying under my arm a loaf of bread, and in one pocket, a wrapped sausage. In my breast pocket was a small vial of brown liquid. With my free hand, I grabbed a bottle of wine. The rain had come down in violent torrents, and the catacombs became even more damp, as the wetness found it’s way down. As I stepped among the bones piled outside of Fortunado’s dwelling hole, I heard him call out.
“Montressor! How long has it been? Has it been a day? I am hungry. Surely the joke is done. Let us try your Amontillado.”
“Yes, let’s,” I said. I emptied some of the wine from its bottle onto the bone pile. From my breast pocket, I pulled out the vial of liquid opium and poured its contents into the wine. I passed the food and bottle through the hole in the new wall. I set a small candle on the ledge so he could see. He ate loudly, tearing off a large piece of brad between his teeth. In the candlelight, his teeth looked like orange clay. He then drank wine from the bottle.
“Is this what you’ve been told is Amontillado?” he asked.
“Yes. Is it not true?”
“You have been robbed! It is not bad wine, but it is not Amontillado.”
“I hope you are wrong…”
“I am not wrong,“ he said indignantly, “I am never wrong when it comes to wine.”
As he continued to eat, he continued to drink, and as he continued to drink, his mood improved considerably. As the effects of the opium-laced wine gripped his soul, he reaffirmed, ”No. Not Amontillado, but not bad. Indeed, I quite like it. But I must admit it is new to me, which would be a rare occurrence. You have more of this?”
“Yes, a large cask full minus what you’ve just taken in.”
“Hmm…” and he fell into slumber.

And so I spent many nights with Fortunado. As I discreetly increased the amount of opium in the false Amontillado on each visit, he grew more fond of his situation and increasingly grew fond of me, his jailor. This went on for 91 days—13 weeks. He became a drug-addled dependant, near to worshiping me. I became his God. On the 92nd day, I again brought food, but no wine and no opium.
“No Amontillado?”, he said quietly, as I passed him his meal. He’d taken to calling it Amontillado despite knowing better.
“No. You drank it all,” I lied.
He ate in silence. Again, with more desperation, he asked, “None at all? You are sure it is gone? I only ask for a taste.”
“There’s none to taste, Fortunado.”

The next night he became more desperate.
“You need to procure more Amontillado. Price is no concern. I have a safe with a substantial savings in it. I can give you the combination…”
“No need to do that.”
I had collected rain-water from a puddle in the street earlier in the day, and gave him a jar of that instead with his bread and meat.

The following night, he began his fast, refusing to eat or drink.
“I have no reason to live, if I can not ever have even one more taste of the Amontillado!”
I didn’t respond, but left the food and puddle water with him.

The next 6 days, he went mad with withdrawal. He begged. He pleaded. He sought to worship me.
“My God! Montressor! My treasure…”
He continued to refuse food and drink. I did not care.
On the 7th day of his fast, I dutifully brought him his bread and sausage, yet there was no sound to be heard when I approached his dwelling hole.
“Are you awake, Fortunado?”
There was no reply.
“Are you resting?”
Again, there was no reply.
“Yes, you are resting then.”
I left the food and water in his space, and on that 7th day of his fast, the 100th day of his penance:
he died,
and I was satisfied,
he’d meet our maker,
without sin of pride.
Drunk and disorderly conduct is the cradle of democracy.
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Cunning Linguist

Joined: 14 Jul 2008
Posts: 17644
Location: Edinburgh, Scotland

PostPosted: Thu Apr 29, 2010 8:02 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

needs more CGI. good apart from that glaring omission.
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Misty Peppers!

Joined: 20 Apr 2006
Posts: 15100
Location: out yo mind

PostPosted: Thu Apr 29, 2010 4:03 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

i feel like i need to read the story and insert this ending. i haven't read it for YEARS.
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Chicago Mike

Joined: 10 Oct 2008
Posts: 1081
Location: Oklahoma, USA

PostPosted: Fri May 28, 2010 3:33 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

I too do not remember it very well, but I really dug what you did with it.
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