I do not write to you today to merely apply for the position of ‘Master of the Gong’. I will not even indulge in such nonsense. I am writing to you today to sell you a dream.
I must admit to you today, my dear GC, I have been living a lie. You have come to know me as Joel Paterson. But this has been a façade to cover my true intentions in coming to Ormond College. I am a mole, sent here from a secret society based in an underground cavern underneath the mountainous terrain of Nepal. I have infiltrated your College and Students’ Club for one reason only: to put to use my finely tuned skills in gonging.
My birth-name is Al-Dor. I do not know my parents as they were slain when I was young in a freak cymbal accident. To this day I loathe cymbals and have dedicated my life to mastering the gong and vanquishing the entire cymbal race.
I traveled to Nepal to discover an ancient society, the Order of the Gong. Once there, I met a small child who claimed to sense some deep power, some deep possession and passion for the Art of Gonging and he took me to meet the Order.
Once within the depths of the cavern that has housed the ancient Order, I met Klar-Sum, a man who spoke to me about the history of the establishment.
They have existed for thousands of years, predating even Jesus himself. They have existed purely to facilitate smooth running announcements and herald speeches. Their members have been present at the sentencing of Galileo, the travels of Jesus and Mohammad, the declaration of World Wars One and Two and, finally, the announcement of the birth of North West.
Klar-Sum confided in me that within the depths of the cavern lay a massive Gong, the size of a small building, which was impossible to gong. It had only been rumored to be gonged by the founder of the Order Sal-Ma, a gonger with fabled finesse and percussion-ship. Klar-Sum said he sensed a power within me that told him that I was able to ring that gong again and awaken the new age of the Gonger. He asked if I was willing to undertake the trials of initiation to prove myself worthy of such an honour. With no family, no honour and nothing to live for, I agreed. Even in the face of death I would try to ring that big mother-fucking Gong.
I undertook the challenges and despite clashes with hideous foes, brushes with death and a badly stubbed toe, I triumphed. It was finally my opportunity to ring the gong in the deep hidden chamber.
I entered the chamber to the entire order sitting cross-legged, dressed in white robes, facing the gong and in complete silence. I walked through the aisle in silence, taking in the sight of the massive metal plate that I was to ring. I passed the small monk child who had initially taken me to the Order and, breaking all tradition and senses of decorum the child grabbed the bottom of my robe, tugged it and in a desperate whisper said:
“Ring the gong.”
All the elders were astounded at the boldness of the child, but all agreed and slowly but loudly a chant begun:
“Ring the gong, ring the gong, ring the gong, ring the gong.”
Spurred by the support, I walked purposefully towards the altar, picked up the giant hammer and swung. I struck the gong, shattering it into a million pieces and finally fulfilling the prophesy of the return of Sal-Ma.
I would later discover that the sound and vibrations of the shattered gong caused tectonic plates in the Pacific to rub and cause a tremor and tsunami that was responsible for the accident at Fukushima and the devastation of a large area in Japan.
And so, I present myself here. I lay myself before you. I am no Master of the Gong. The Gong is my master and I am its servant, there only to let it be heard and herald announcements at Formal Hall. Will I lose the gong? God no, the gong is as much a part of me as my heart is. Could I lose my heart? Don’t be silly.
So I leave it to you, dear GC. I am here to serve you.
(Known to you as Joel Paterson)