The store's front door creaked open and in walked Lemtata, in her usual intensely-absent trance. She was as usual engaged in intense dialogue with someone who, to mundane eyes at least, was simply not there.
(Jose interrupted his weeping, turned his head to the narrator, and snided, "Yeah. Like her," before returning to his unusual bout of sincere emotion.)
"and George, I told him Slarp! Ghaaaa! Mothafuckah! - Oh hi Mark." Lemtata turned her head a bit to face her new, and in the view of all around her equally imaginary, partner in conversation. "I did not hit her. I did not. hit. her!"
"Damn right you didn't, babe. But you woulda," said Mama Brain, referring to that incident with the black magic marker and the roll of floss five chapters from now. She handed Lemtata a space-age-plastic bag of hardy, white marshmallows off the shelf, and they both nodded knowingly.
Meanwhile, Pennywise had much to mend, and little hope of mending it.
"I - I'm a monster. But - I'm not a monster!" he thought. "Joe?" he said.
"Gurgleblasting. No - waste of life. I'm nothing," Joe babbled.
"Joe. Forget what that said, in this... body? That wasn't me. This isn't me. I don't even know who I am anymore."
"One. Two three. This synthesizer will explode. Waste of life. You... what are you?"
"That's what I'm tryi - Look. I'm not this."
"You... what are you?"
"Why are you rep - oh... sorry.... of course," Pennywisebags said, staring down at Joe with deep concern in his monstrous face. "I suppose you've played the synthesizer too?"
Joe had a new glimmer in his face, like Ronald Reagan being visited by his granddaughter. "Chocolate... so strange... all so strange... how many hours?" His words were as slow as his mind now seemed. "Half-track. My wife missing man talk. Birdmen! Waste of life."
Meanwhile Lemtata was gesticulating like a why-do-Italians and raging in outrage, continuing an ongoing argument with George. "No, it was not empowering to dance in that cage, mister! How dare you!"
She then tapped her foot for a minute, evidently growing ever more consternated at his reply, until she couldn't take it anymore. "WhatdoyouMEANI'maveritableAndrewDworkinlookbusterthat'snotevenaninsultandevenifitwasLOOKbusterI'mnotbelinglikeHER!" I mean, can you imagine youself in that cage? I have no idea how girls put up with that shit! And besides, doing that shit, you're up in the air! And - noooo, I am not interested in your opinion either Mark, you wait your turn - and up in the air outdoors like I was, it's cold! If I catch a chill, it's your, damn, fault, George, and I am not going to be happy!"
Everyone turned and stared. This was the most engaged they'd ever seen Lemtata. No-one was even bothered that it was part of a conversation with an... imaginary... friend?
"Missing man talk maybe good?"
"Maybe good, Joe," answered Pennywisebags, brightening.
"Missing man... maybe... not all missing?"
"It seems your intelligence is returning. I can only hope my body returns."
Entranced, they all overlooked Jose getting up - he'd now overcome the seepage from Joe's tangible hallucination - shuffling over to the old video game, and inserting a pure-energy quarter from Shock City.
The opening jingle played, with a pixelated animation of Mama Brain and Her Electro-Harmonix Work Band playing "I'm Not a Synthesizer" as the opening cutscene. They faded out in 4 shades of gray to be replaced by the action of "Time Pilot Redux," stage 1 - the stage with the World War IV triplane dogfight.
(As curiously similar as Earth's seemingly-carbon-copy second history was to its first history, there were a tiny few, equally curious quirks about it as well.)
"I'm... not... synthesizer. Mama... Brain," Joe moaned.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Friday, January 23, 2015
Vignette # 342: Tubby goes to HawryRoood!
Tubby: Frankie went to Hollywood. (blinking tears away)
Signore Pizzicato: Relax! Don't do it.
Tubby: B-but m-maybe if I go there, I can get in pictures.
Signore Pizzicato: You oughta be in pictures.
Tubby: Do me a favor, d-dump some more of that condensed onion juice into my bell?
Signore Pizzicato: You oughta be a star! (dumping entire gallon of onion juice in)
Tubby: B-but I can't even cry on command. (gargly noises) What kind of film star would I make.
Signore Pizzicato: But Tubby, you are already a film star. (motioning towards the film crew and stop motion animation crew) See?
(The conductor holds up his wand and looks around the stage at all the instruments. All the instruments stand to attention, take a deep breath, and begin. As soon as Tubby joins in, a geyser of onion juice {mixed with that godawful stuff that gathers in the innermost tubes and resevoirs of Tubby's innards} spewed over the three front rows of the audience, and quite drenches Signore Pizzicato. The orchestra stops and everyone glares at Tubby).
Tubby: (sniff) S-s-sorry, everybody.
Director: CUT!!!!!!! What the fuck was that?!
Signore Pizzicato: Relax! Don't do it.
Tubby: B-but m-maybe if I go there, I can get in pictures.
Signore Pizzicato: You oughta be in pictures.
Tubby: Do me a favor, d-dump some more of that condensed onion juice into my bell?
Signore Pizzicato: You oughta be a star! (dumping entire gallon of onion juice in)
Tubby: B-but I can't even cry on command. (gargly noises) What kind of film star would I make.
Signore Pizzicato: But Tubby, you are already a film star. (motioning towards the film crew and stop motion animation crew) See?
(The conductor holds up his wand and looks around the stage at all the instruments. All the instruments stand to attention, take a deep breath, and begin. As soon as Tubby joins in, a geyser of onion juice {mixed with that godawful stuff that gathers in the innermost tubes and resevoirs of Tubby's innards} spewed over the three front rows of the audience, and quite drenches Signore Pizzicato. The orchestra stops and everyone glares at Tubby).
Tubby: (sniff) S-s-sorry, everybody.
Director: CUT!!!!!!! What the fuck was that?!
Turned-tables Boredom (Why Pee? Why?)
“The worst thing about immortality,” Khamisi mulled as the smell of his stew grew savory, “is that everything gets boring eventually.” He felt qualified to think this, as he had tried most of the pleasures and tortures available to humankind so far. Oh, everything felt new for the first few decades he tried it, and sometimes he was surprised by just how refreshing even, say, slavery could be. But nothing lasted forever, except forever. And boredom, it seemed.
He was sure it all went back to that terrible day thirty-three suns after his birth, with that strange animal so far south from its habitat, when he had been so far north of his home—in the years since he had learned its name was “wolf.” But he didn’t consciously think about this now; his mind merely touched it like a chapped lip.
“The best thing about immortality,” his thoughts continued, “is the parlor tricks.” Those were always amusing for at least a brief moment, although like tobacco they always eventually created more trouble than they were worth, even for the unkillable. (“That’s true for the tobacco too. Now there’s an enslavement!”) But no, really, he shouldn’t be so hard on parlor tricks—they were what opened the door to his many years as king. And those years as a king opened the doors to so many pleasures. If nothing else, thanks to them he now knew they could not end his boredom. Women... Bantu women, Arab women, even women from even farther east... he had had his pick in those days. Gold and riches in every combination, though no silver.
(He said he couldn’t touch the damn stuff, and it was literally true. Every time he tried, his hand pulled away—he couldn’t force it with all his will. He never really explored this strange aspect of himself, unlike his constant broodings on immortality.)
Yes... all manner of playthings and curiosities had passed by his eyes. He had managed a lot in his few short decades as god-king, but in the end, he was only happy that it had to end. And it did have to end, because by the end, there was too much explaining, too much hatred, too little acceptance of a god-king that was truly immortal, rather than pretending so. They couldn’t kill him, but he found himself wishing he were dead more often than usual by the end of those years.
So his dearest and most trusted advisor Bakari was true to his name when he concocted the plan with that delightful ignoble defeat and overthrow. Khamisi reaped years of amusement and happiness for his friend’s lovely life when the “traitor” Bakari “found Khamisi’s weakness” and sent him into slavery at the fringe of the empire. Bakari, understanding his subject’s mortal agonies better than his Khamisi had, had been a wise ruler and beneficial, and Khamisi made sure to stay informed on news of his land even as a slave so that he could enjoy it. He found the pain and hard labor refreshing for those years, and perhaps the hardest thing was pretending to truly suffer “losing the short years of the only life he had” to it... and finding a way to be enslaved in a new place several times to avoid, yet again, those inevitable nagging questions about his rock-stable, unaging face.
“It’s so hard to still need when I really should need nothing, he grumbled,” as he ladled the stew into a bowl. And he really did need nothing. He’d never needed to eat, though he still enjoyed food. Nor to drink, nor sleep... nor even to piss. But he still enjoyed all of it. It was just like that goddamned tobacco that these new “Europeans” had showed him oh-so-short ago... decades at the most. Why pee? Why? When it doesn’t do anything that he needs? Because he loved it, more than sex, even.
“Oh, yeah. I’m gonna pee right now.” He journeyed to a not-recently-used spot in his shaman’s abode (even the visceral, lively pain of slavery eventually got boring) in the Amboni Caves, and let out a delicious stream. He felt great. And entertained. For ten tortuously infinitessimal seconds. Why pee, why? Because it was another tobacco.
What was it that trader from “India” had once said of the philosophy of that “Buddha” fellow? “All is Maya—illusion.”
Yeah. That.
Damn, that was a good piss, though!
He was sure it all went back to that terrible day thirty-three suns after his birth, with that strange animal so far south from its habitat, when he had been so far north of his home—in the years since he had learned its name was “wolf.” But he didn’t consciously think about this now; his mind merely touched it like a chapped lip.
“The best thing about immortality,” his thoughts continued, “is the parlor tricks.” Those were always amusing for at least a brief moment, although like tobacco they always eventually created more trouble than they were worth, even for the unkillable. (“That’s true for the tobacco too. Now there’s an enslavement!”) But no, really, he shouldn’t be so hard on parlor tricks—they were what opened the door to his many years as king. And those years as a king opened the doors to so many pleasures. If nothing else, thanks to them he now knew they could not end his boredom. Women... Bantu women, Arab women, even women from even farther east... he had had his pick in those days. Gold and riches in every combination, though no silver.
(He said he couldn’t touch the damn stuff, and it was literally true. Every time he tried, his hand pulled away—he couldn’t force it with all his will. He never really explored this strange aspect of himself, unlike his constant broodings on immortality.)
Yes... all manner of playthings and curiosities had passed by his eyes. He had managed a lot in his few short decades as god-king, but in the end, he was only happy that it had to end. And it did have to end, because by the end, there was too much explaining, too much hatred, too little acceptance of a god-king that was truly immortal, rather than pretending so. They couldn’t kill him, but he found himself wishing he were dead more often than usual by the end of those years.
So his dearest and most trusted advisor Bakari was true to his name when he concocted the plan with that delightful ignoble defeat and overthrow. Khamisi reaped years of amusement and happiness for his friend’s lovely life when the “traitor” Bakari “found Khamisi’s weakness” and sent him into slavery at the fringe of the empire. Bakari, understanding his subject’s mortal agonies better than his Khamisi had, had been a wise ruler and beneficial, and Khamisi made sure to stay informed on news of his land even as a slave so that he could enjoy it. He found the pain and hard labor refreshing for those years, and perhaps the hardest thing was pretending to truly suffer “losing the short years of the only life he had” to it... and finding a way to be enslaved in a new place several times to avoid, yet again, those inevitable nagging questions about his rock-stable, unaging face.
“It’s so hard to still need when I really should need nothing, he grumbled,” as he ladled the stew into a bowl. And he really did need nothing. He’d never needed to eat, though he still enjoyed food. Nor to drink, nor sleep... nor even to piss. But he still enjoyed all of it. It was just like that goddamned tobacco that these new “Europeans” had showed him oh-so-short ago... decades at the most. Why pee? Why? When it doesn’t do anything that he needs? Because he loved it, more than sex, even.
“Oh, yeah. I’m gonna pee right now.” He journeyed to a not-recently-used spot in his shaman’s abode (even the visceral, lively pain of slavery eventually got boring) in the Amboni Caves, and let out a delicious stream. He felt great. And entertained. For ten tortuously infinitessimal seconds. Why pee, why? Because it was another tobacco.
What was it that trader from “India” had once said of the philosophy of that “Buddha” fellow? “All is Maya—illusion.”
Yeah. That.
Damn, that was a good piss, though!
Friday, January 16, 2015
Don't Worry, Joe Co.
Joe Eawest was alone, tied to a chair in his parents' living room. Don't Worry Kyoko was just getting going.
Fuck it, thought Joe Eawest.
"DOOOOOOON'T WOOOORRRRRRRRYY!!"
I'm already totally busted. I might as well have fun with this. Besides, Raymond doesn't know what I do about this album.
Joe looked around. His mouth full of joints was smoldering. Thanks to the moist dankness of this Maui Wowee, three joints had already gone all the way out, and two others looked on their way out. He shifted his inhaling to the side of his mouth with the lit ones, hoping the other would peter out. After a moment, they did. He let the dead joints fall to his lap, where his waiting hands began to deconstruct them and stuff the joint weed into his mouth and the torn rolling papers into his pocket.
"DON'T WORRY! DON'T WORRY! DON'T WOOOORRRRRRY!"
That leaves two parially smoked joints left to go. No problemo. He puffed them both heartily, coughing and chuckling.
The chair he was tied to was not screwed or secured to the floor at all, so it was quite easy to lift off the floor. He scooted the chair all the way over to the five foot long wooden paneled General Electric FM/AM 3 speed turntable stereo home entertainment system. It was one of those old jobbies, it stood almost two feet off the floor and looked like a long coffeetable with gold speakers. When he was parallel to the left speaker he lifted his leg and flung it into the turntable. He managed to both turn the volume down a bit, then cause the needle to slide the rest of the way to the end of the side with a horrible "SCCCCRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEAAAAATCH!!!!"
Satisfied, he removed his foot and waited. Then he smiled. The record had started over. The first song on that side was of course, Lennon's song Cold Turkey, which Joe loved. It was almost his favorite song on the whole double album. When the song finished, Don't Worry Kyoko began once again. Joe bounced the chair a few times The record skipped a couple times and found his new gouge and then bounced along it and screeched to the end of the side again.
In this way, Joe Eawest finished his two joints happily. He ended up listening to Cold Turkey about five times, and to his new masterpiece, the 'remix' of Don't Worry Kyoko.
After he finished the jays, Joe figured out with stony clarity that he could yank the cord out of the wall with his foot. He did, then managed to untie his right hand. Raymond had been far too enraged to make a decent goddamn knot. Fucking hothead. He'd untied himself from the chair and stood.
And I'm outta here. I gotta talk to Bart.
He decided that he'd ride his Schwinn Fleet. He headed out to the garage.
Fuck it, thought Joe Eawest.
"DOOOOOOON'T WOOOORRRRRRRRYY!!"
I'm already totally busted. I might as well have fun with this. Besides, Raymond doesn't know what I do about this album.
Joe looked around. His mouth full of joints was smoldering. Thanks to the moist dankness of this Maui Wowee, three joints had already gone all the way out, and two others looked on their way out. He shifted his inhaling to the side of his mouth with the lit ones, hoping the other would peter out. After a moment, they did. He let the dead joints fall to his lap, where his waiting hands began to deconstruct them and stuff the joint weed into his mouth and the torn rolling papers into his pocket.
"DON'T WORRY! DON'T WORRY! DON'T WOOOORRRRRRY!"
That leaves two parially smoked joints left to go. No problemo. He puffed them both heartily, coughing and chuckling.
The chair he was tied to was not screwed or secured to the floor at all, so it was quite easy to lift off the floor. He scooted the chair all the way over to the five foot long wooden paneled General Electric FM/AM 3 speed turntable stereo home entertainment system. It was one of those old jobbies, it stood almost two feet off the floor and looked like a long coffeetable with gold speakers. When he was parallel to the left speaker he lifted his leg and flung it into the turntable. He managed to both turn the volume down a bit, then cause the needle to slide the rest of the way to the end of the side with a horrible "SCCCCRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEAAAAATCH!!!!"
Satisfied, he removed his foot and waited. Then he smiled. The record had started over. The first song on that side was of course, Lennon's song Cold Turkey, which Joe loved. It was almost his favorite song on the whole double album. When the song finished, Don't Worry Kyoko began once again. Joe bounced the chair a few times The record skipped a couple times and found his new gouge and then bounced along it and screeched to the end of the side again.
In this way, Joe Eawest finished his two joints happily. He ended up listening to Cold Turkey about five times, and to his new masterpiece, the 'remix' of Don't Worry Kyoko.
After he finished the jays, Joe figured out with stony clarity that he could yank the cord out of the wall with his foot. He did, then managed to untie his right hand. Raymond had been far too enraged to make a decent goddamn knot. Fucking hothead. He'd untied himself from the chair and stood.
And I'm outta here. I gotta talk to Bart.
He decided that he'd ride his Schwinn Fleet. He headed out to the garage.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Smoke 7
"Son."
Joe Eawest's pulse quickened and throat tightened, as they always did on hearing that word.
Raymond Eawest stepped into the room, suit and tie, the model of the perfect 50's father...
His face was red with rage.
"I don't know how... they... led you. But I've always tried to raise you to be a good Christian and a fine young man."
He pulled his furiously shaking hands from behind his back, revealing that they held a silver cigarette case, with a sticker of "one of your childish cartoon characters" on the top. Joe and he both knew where he had found it. He opened it up. It was full of joints.
"Smoke seven."
"Excuse me, Dad?"
"Father."
"Excuse me, Father?"
"Smoke. Seven."
"What -"
"Now."
Raymond's nonexistent patience expired, and he began ripping the fat, amateurishly-rolled cigarettes out of their slots and ramming them into Joe's surprised lips. Joe knew that if he resisted, the next stage would be the belt. He was already secretly learning the skills to physically resist his father, but wasn't ready yet. He knew he should be happy his father pretended to need the belt. He should be happy his father let him live.
Raymond, a pipe smoker, took his matches and lit the seven joints one by one, almost like birthday candles.
"Now."
Joe asked no questions and inhaled.
He grabbed Joe, helpless in a fit of coughing, and maneuvered him into the living room, home to the adults' record player.
"Oh, hello Ray," said Mrs. Eawest as Ray entered. Joe was standing with his back to Mrs. Eawest.
"Hello, honey. May I ask that you stay in the garden for a few hours? Joe and I need to have a very long and very serious discussion about growing up and manhood."
"Oh certainly, Ray! Oh, come to think of it, Sally wanted me to come over for coffee."
"That sounds nice, dear."
"Well, you two have a fine afternoon, sweetie."
"We certainly will."
Mrs. Eawest exited to the foyer and did not return, presenting an excellent front of seeing nothing odd going on and having no reason to stop back in the living room. Mr. Eawest spent the next few minutes tying Joe to the living-room armchair while simultaneously making sure that he smoked his seven in earnest.
"I've heard that you young people love experimental music, and find repetition soothing.... Oh, id you know that this record player can repeat an album indefinitely?" Raymond said as he dropped the needle down on Yoko Ono's "Don't Worry Kyoko." He then turned the speakers up to the highest volume that wouldn't disturb the neighbors. The Eawest lived in nice suburbs with nice large yards. The neighbors weren't too close.
"Humph! I wish your mother would have tended to the garden instead of twittering with that diddy! Well, you know what they say! If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!" Raymond shouted over Yoko's screams. "I hope you have a fine and educational afternoon, son!" Raymond concluded cheerily, as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world. The scream - the screen door slammed.
No, no, no!
Joe Eawest's pulse quickened and throat tightened, as they always did on hearing that word.
Raymond Eawest stepped into the room, suit and tie, the model of the perfect 50's father...
His face was red with rage.
"I don't know how... they... led you. But I've always tried to raise you to be a good Christian and a fine young man."
He pulled his furiously shaking hands from behind his back, revealing that they held a silver cigarette case, with a sticker of "one of your childish cartoon characters" on the top. Joe and he both knew where he had found it. He opened it up. It was full of joints.
"Smoke seven."
"Excuse me, Dad?"
"Father."
"Excuse me, Father?"
"Smoke. Seven."
"What -"
"Now."
Raymond's nonexistent patience expired, and he began ripping the fat, amateurishly-rolled cigarettes out of their slots and ramming them into Joe's surprised lips. Joe knew that if he resisted, the next stage would be the belt. He was already secretly learning the skills to physically resist his father, but wasn't ready yet. He knew he should be happy his father pretended to need the belt. He should be happy his father let him live.
Raymond, a pipe smoker, took his matches and lit the seven joints one by one, almost like birthday candles.
"Now."
Joe asked no questions and inhaled.
He grabbed Joe, helpless in a fit of coughing, and maneuvered him into the living room, home to the adults' record player.
"Oh, hello Ray," said Mrs. Eawest as Ray entered. Joe was standing with his back to Mrs. Eawest.
"Hello, honey. May I ask that you stay in the garden for a few hours? Joe and I need to have a very long and very serious discussion about growing up and manhood."
"Oh certainly, Ray! Oh, come to think of it, Sally wanted me to come over for coffee."
"That sounds nice, dear."
"Well, you two have a fine afternoon, sweetie."
"We certainly will."
Mrs. Eawest exited to the foyer and did not return, presenting an excellent front of seeing nothing odd going on and having no reason to stop back in the living room. Mr. Eawest spent the next few minutes tying Joe to the living-room armchair while simultaneously making sure that he smoked his seven in earnest.
"I've heard that you young people love experimental music, and find repetition soothing.... Oh, id you know that this record player can repeat an album indefinitely?" Raymond said as he dropped the needle down on Yoko Ono's "Don't Worry Kyoko." He then turned the speakers up to the highest volume that wouldn't disturb the neighbors. The Eawest lived in nice suburbs with nice large yards. The neighbors weren't too close.
"Humph! I wish your mother would have tended to the garden instead of twittering with that diddy! Well, you know what they say! If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!" Raymond shouted over Yoko's screams. "I hope you have a fine and educational afternoon, son!" Raymond concluded cheerily, as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world. The scream - the screen door slammed.
No, no, no!
Intermezzo: In the year 2525, part the third
[Punch collapses, red sawdust flowing from his chest. Note: it should be stressed that Punch *is* to be played a live actor.]
[Curtain closes.]
[Curtain remains closed for an uncomfortably long period of time - to be chosen by the cast. They are encouraged to talk among themselves in the meantime, loudly, and to speak out of character and/or ad-lib some “plot” that will receive no follow-up in the rest of the play.]
Curtain: Beeeeeeelch.
[Cast, now covered in slime, is to spewed out in front of the curtain as if vomited there. Punch is still “bleeding” and continues to do so for about the next three minutes. The cast rise, then begin slowly, then quickly and loudly clapping. Punch and Judy then yank the curtain back open, revealing a scene where everything seems to have moved ten feet to the left, including the fireplace - I mentioned the fireplace, right? - above which rests a gilded machete. Above that is gilded lettering, spelling out “C H E K O V.”]
Chipmunk (in a rich, velvety tenor, muffled frequently by bites out of the giant Subway sandwich):
If it is but a donor of sperm that you need,
Why not let your donor see release?
Why not see your kind donor freed?
Let them out to see the woooooooooorld!
Judy (in a chocolatey bass): Why?
Chipmunk: Why not?
Judy: No - I mean - why?
Why?
Why are you not dead, Punch?
What must I do to make you die?
Punch: Nothing!
Nothing!
You need do nothing!
For I am now undead, as sure as unalive!
You verily have killed me, but truly I’ve survived!
Yes I’m a - Zombie!
Urinal: Zombie!
Leaf (falsetto): Zombie!
Judy: You cannot be a zombie!
Chipmunk: Zombie!
Lemmy: PANTRO BACK!!
Punch: Zombie!
Judy: Because there are no zombies!
[Judy’s Ballad begins - note for composers: this will be track one on the soundtrack. Yes, I want a soundtrack.]
I... once lived in a world with the supernatural
Thought that it was only natural
There was a world beyond the world
But then I grew beyond those childish days
Turned an adult, dropped my childish ways
There are babies to feed, dishes to wash,
Duties to perform - [frustrated, sotto voce] there’s no time for this hogwash...
Urinal: Zombie!
Judy: I saw my friends were different and they wanted to believe!
Chipmunk: Vam - pire - Zombie!
Judy: And it wasn’t just themselves, oh no they wanted to deceive, me!
Punch and Lemmy in bromantic unison: Werewolf... Goblin... Zombie!
Judy: But I will not believe!
Oh no I won’t believe!
You can’t make me believe!
And so you’ll never leave!
Because you are not a zombie, you are dead!
Punch: Oh dear - my only heart - I’ll lose my head!
But do not fret I still will win your bread!
For I shall not listen to my friend!
Judy: Your rhymes are very lazy, and I swear I’ll make you dead
So don’t let your liveliness go to your stupid head!
Say...
Remaining cast in unison: Say...
Judy: That gives me an idea...
RCIU: That gives her an idea...
Judy: Surely he can’t survive if...
Punch: I’m right here you know...
Lemmy [staring wild-eyed and disconcertingly into the audience]: PANTRO BACK!!
RCIU: Surely he can’t survive if...
Judy: [Spoken, quickly] I cut his head off!
[At this, Judy walks to the fireplace as slowly as her previous words were quick. She then calmly lifts the machete out of its mount, weighs it a little in her hands, and begins walking towards Punch.]
Punch: I’m still right here, you know...
Judy: I know. That’s the whole point.
Punch: You really have me on edge here...
Judy: Oh. A sharp wit you have.
[Judy rushes at Punch, ready to cut off his head, when suddenly THE GODDESS ISIS materializes.]
ISIS: I won’t let you do that, honey.
[Curtain closes.]
[Curtain closes.]
[Curtain remains closed for an uncomfortably long period of time - to be chosen by the cast. They are encouraged to talk among themselves in the meantime, loudly, and to speak out of character and/or ad-lib some “plot” that will receive no follow-up in the rest of the play.]
Curtain: Beeeeeeelch.
[Cast, now covered in slime, is to spewed out in front of the curtain as if vomited there. Punch is still “bleeding” and continues to do so for about the next three minutes. The cast rise, then begin slowly, then quickly and loudly clapping. Punch and Judy then yank the curtain back open, revealing a scene where everything seems to have moved ten feet to the left, including the fireplace - I mentioned the fireplace, right? - above which rests a gilded machete. Above that is gilded lettering, spelling out “C H E K O V.”]
Chipmunk (in a rich, velvety tenor, muffled frequently by bites out of the giant Subway sandwich):
If it is but a donor of sperm that you need,
Why not let your donor see release?
Why not see your kind donor freed?
Let them out to see the woooooooooorld!
Judy (in a chocolatey bass): Why?
Chipmunk: Why not?
Judy: No - I mean - why?
Why?
Why are you not dead, Punch?
What must I do to make you die?
Punch: Nothing!
Nothing!
You need do nothing!
For I am now undead, as sure as unalive!
You verily have killed me, but truly I’ve survived!
Yes I’m a - Zombie!
Urinal: Zombie!
Leaf (falsetto): Zombie!
Judy: You cannot be a zombie!
Chipmunk: Zombie!
Lemmy: PANTRO BACK!!
Punch: Zombie!
Judy: Because there are no zombies!
[Judy’s Ballad begins - note for composers: this will be track one on the soundtrack. Yes, I want a soundtrack.]
I... once lived in a world with the supernatural
Thought that it was only natural
There was a world beyond the world
But then I grew beyond those childish days
Turned an adult, dropped my childish ways
There are babies to feed, dishes to wash,
Duties to perform - [frustrated, sotto voce] there’s no time for this hogwash...
Urinal: Zombie!
Judy: I saw my friends were different and they wanted to believe!
Chipmunk: Vam - pire - Zombie!
Judy: And it wasn’t just themselves, oh no they wanted to deceive, me!
Punch and Lemmy in bromantic unison: Werewolf... Goblin... Zombie!
Judy: But I will not believe!
Oh no I won’t believe!
You can’t make me believe!
And so you’ll never leave!
Because you are not a zombie, you are dead!
Punch: Oh dear - my only heart - I’ll lose my head!
But do not fret I still will win your bread!
For I shall not listen to my friend!
Judy: Your rhymes are very lazy, and I swear I’ll make you dead
So don’t let your liveliness go to your stupid head!
Say...
Remaining cast in unison: Say...
Judy: That gives me an idea...
RCIU: That gives her an idea...
Judy: Surely he can’t survive if...
Punch: I’m right here you know...
Lemmy [staring wild-eyed and disconcertingly into the audience]: PANTRO BACK!!
RCIU: Surely he can’t survive if...
Judy: [Spoken, quickly] I cut his head off!
[At this, Judy walks to the fireplace as slowly as her previous words were quick. She then calmly lifts the machete out of its mount, weighs it a little in her hands, and begins walking towards Punch.]
Punch: I’m still right here, you know...
Judy: I know. That’s the whole point.
Punch: You really have me on edge here...
Judy: Oh. A sharp wit you have.
[Judy rushes at Punch, ready to cut off his head, when suddenly THE GODDESS ISIS materializes.]
ISIS: I won’t let you do that, honey.
[Curtain closes.]
The ignominious end of Mr. Wolf A. Mozza
June, 1964, Manhattan. 12:30 p.m.
Wolf Alexander Mozza was leaving his Madison Avenue office for lunch when a baby grand piano landed on him, severing most of his arteries in the process and killing him almost instantly. This only occurred because dozens of section pieces of ornate silver lace trim covered virtually the entire piano. Mr. Mozza was basically shredded by a giant silver screen falling from 9 stories up.
If it weren't for the fact that this lace trim was made of silver, Wolf may have been salvaged from his unfortunate predicament. Unfortunately for him, (or would it be fortunately?) werewolves have a horrible reaction when pierced or sliced with silver.
The owner of said baby grand, Wladziu Liberace, had been in the process of moving into what would be his fourth flat in 3 years in New York, this time right in the thick of it on Madison Avenue. He simply couldn't be satisfied with any apartment for very long. The crane that was lifting the piano had just been inspected a week prior, but due to some corner cutting and not a little bribery, this crane was not very thoroughly looked at, and had some serious wear and tear that resulted in the accident at hand. It was a terrible loss for Wladziu, who had just spent 3 million dollars on the piano.
It was all the better for Wolf, however, as he had grown extremely bored and tired of his job as head of jingle writing at Seymour, Woods, and Fowler ad agency. He was the industry's golden child, an amazing wordsmith and melody composer, who had a special knack for inventing three to six second jingles that were so catchy, they'd get stuck in one's head for not just hours but days. He had all he could ever want, his net worth was in the seven digit range, he had a lovely wife and two mistresses, and hung out with all the best people in local society. Yet he had been extremely unhappy for a very long time.
For Mr. Mozza was really none other than, you guessed it, our old friend Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He wouldn't have to endure another miserable day of living this preposterous absurd joke of a life! After all he'd accomplished! To live as a jingle jockey for an advertising agency. As his blood poured out of him all over the sidewalk, all he felt was blessed relief, and mocking spite. The others would have to go on without him, now. Oh, how angry and jealous they'd be when they found out he'd escaped.
Wolf Alexander Mozza was leaving his Madison Avenue office for lunch when a baby grand piano landed on him, severing most of his arteries in the process and killing him almost instantly. This only occurred because dozens of section pieces of ornate silver lace trim covered virtually the entire piano. Mr. Mozza was basically shredded by a giant silver screen falling from 9 stories up.
If it weren't for the fact that this lace trim was made of silver, Wolf may have been salvaged from his unfortunate predicament. Unfortunately for him, (or would it be fortunately?) werewolves have a horrible reaction when pierced or sliced with silver.
The owner of said baby grand, Wladziu Liberace, had been in the process of moving into what would be his fourth flat in 3 years in New York, this time right in the thick of it on Madison Avenue. He simply couldn't be satisfied with any apartment for very long. The crane that was lifting the piano had just been inspected a week prior, but due to some corner cutting and not a little bribery, this crane was not very thoroughly looked at, and had some serious wear and tear that resulted in the accident at hand. It was a terrible loss for Wladziu, who had just spent 3 million dollars on the piano.
It was all the better for Wolf, however, as he had grown extremely bored and tired of his job as head of jingle writing at Seymour, Woods, and Fowler ad agency. He was the industry's golden child, an amazing wordsmith and melody composer, who had a special knack for inventing three to six second jingles that were so catchy, they'd get stuck in one's head for not just hours but days. He had all he could ever want, his net worth was in the seven digit range, he had a lovely wife and two mistresses, and hung out with all the best people in local society. Yet he had been extremely unhappy for a very long time.
For Mr. Mozza was really none other than, you guessed it, our old friend Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He wouldn't have to endure another miserable day of living this preposterous absurd joke of a life! After all he'd accomplished! To live as a jingle jockey for an advertising agency. As his blood poured out of him all over the sidewalk, all he felt was blessed relief, and mocking spite. The others would have to go on without him, now. Oh, how angry and jealous they'd be when they found out he'd escaped.
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