3 MONTHS AGO
Pagliacci stands at the end of a pier in West Egg watching a distant light.
At the other end of that distant light, socialites Daisy and her husband (a reanimated corpse) talk about tennis and budget for fabulous parties.
Behind Pagliacci, from the floorboards of his mansion comes a dull thrum, a beating of a hideous heart.
"Oh Daisy," he mutters to himself. "To think at one time there was only me, and the guy I was told not to worry about."
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