1) "I have a competition in me… I want no one else to succeed."
- Paul Stachniak (from The Rewind: Episode 7)
Paul Stachniak is a man of many trades. Although he began his career as a silver miner, he quickly became one of the foremost oil prospectors in the country. But, with success came a heavy toll; for, while his burning ambition was the source of his rise to wealth and power, it quickly became his undoing. In the later years of his life, Paul became more and more withdrawn from his peers, turning to drinking to mask the growing emptiness of a life lived purely for competition. My relationship with Paul is very complicated and we’ve certainly had our ups and downs (At one point, he threatened to eat me!). Currently, Paul lives alone in a secluded mansion, all ties long severed with his son and former business partner. He is 81 years old.
-Daniel Warth
2) Because, unlike most Offline members, I hadn’t attended Sheridan film school, I unfortunately never had a chance to meet Paul until well after his decline. Nevertheless, I remember our introduction fondly: a letter had been sent to me earlier that day requesting my presence at Stachniak manor. Naturally, I accepted. Greeting me in his parlour was a bent shadow of a man, stooped as if a great weight were pressing down upon him. As I shook his liver-spotted hand, he let out a toothless cackle that had the force of a backfiring car behind it.
“So, you want to write funny movies for the internet?” he wheezed.
“Yes sir, Mr. Stachniak, sir.”
“Well, boy,” he gazed at me through the milky haze of his rheumatism. “The internet isn’t all just facebook and neopets. There’s a darker side to the internet. One that can do horrible things to a man.” As he said this, he let go of my hand and walked slowly towards an open window. “Horrible things.”
“I realize tha-“ I began. Paul wheeled around with a speed that belied his age.
“What? Who’s there?”
“Just me, sir.”
“Ah, I was hoping you’d show up,” he smiled. He was not looking in my direction. He slowly lumbered over to a large chair and lowered himself into it. “Finally, after all these years. We have unfinished business, old friend.”
“Um, I’ve written a sketch in which a dog impregnates a man’s leg. Perhaps you could…” The words died on my lips. Paul had reached into his breast pocket and produced a small pistol. “Mr. Stachniak?”
“Elizabeth…” he said in a whisper that sounded more like a moist exhalation. Slowly, slowly, he placed the pistol against his head and closed his eyes.
“I could… uh… make a few revisions if you’d like.” I was answered with a sharp click of an empty chamber. I winced, though Paul remained impassive.
“Some other time, then,” he sighed. He had a disappointed look on his face, and with one trembling hand returned his pistol into his breast pocket.
“I’ll… maybe I should come back later.” I waited a moment for him to acknowledge my suggestion, but this proved to be fruitless. Slowly, never taking my eyes off him, I backed out of the parlour. The last sound to greet my ears as I closed the door behind me was Paul singing the opening bars of Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Die Kunst der Fugue” in a hauntingly beautiful voice.
-Aaron Feldman
Happy Birthday Paul, you demented old coot!
