Easier than Thinking
(a play)
by Garrett Gilchrist
and John Hunsucker
A non-musical version of the first two acts of "Easier Than Thinking" was performed by Patricia White's Creative Writing 7 team at Masuk High School in Monroe, CT. The team ended their run on Tuesday, June 8th, 1999. Act I was performed for the benefit of Penelope Odell's Literary Genres class, and Act II performed for Richard O' Connor's study hall. All three acts are presented here, without music. If you would like information about the music and the playís availability, send mail to ocpmovie (at) lycos.com. The original cast was as follows:
MYRTLE MARTINI: Tricia Brown
REX MARTINI: Todd Toaso
DAUPHIN OF DISCO/THE DOG/FIRST MIDGET: Ray Binkowski
KIT YADDOW/THE PRIEST/UNDERSTUDY FOR FLOYD MARTINI: John Hunsucker
TEAL: Michelle Caruso
FLOYD MARTINI: Michael Prokop
THE TELEVISION SET/BEARDED QUEEN: Susan Milne
DEIRDRE/SECOND MIDGET/UNDERSTUDY FOR TEAL & THE DOG: Corinne Tuozzoli
IAN LEONARD II: Garrett Gilchrist
UNDERSTUDY FOR MYRTLE MARTINI: Megan Bills
UNDERSTUDY FOR KIT YADDOW & REX MARTINI: James Perachio
ADDITIONAL VOICES: Alanna Fleisch
ACT I
REFLECTIONS ON A RABBIT [DECEASED]
[As a strange assortment of atmospheric noises sets in -- the millionfold breakages of tiny pieces of cosmic glass as sound rushes in like water into the previously empty vacuum of the stage -- the curtain opens on twinkling lights and indistinct shapes. The lighting department has turned a simple set into outer space. What the set actually is is a simple suburban living-room, of the sort seen in about 68% of all plays, but we won't let the audience see that just yet. Gradually the blackness of "space" gives way to a glowing blue-green light -- earth -- which swallows the entirety of the set. We see -- shadowed -- three people, all somewhat aged, and sitting on a patch of hay in the very foreground of the set. One is a delicately-dressed 70s-ish entertainer in a big, blue sequined suit with lace cuffs and big hair, microphone permanently in hand. The other two are a husband and wife, about forty-five years of age, unplaceably slavic, dumpy and grey. They seem to be built of plaid, along with a fair amount of dirt and natural roughage. Their names are MYRTLE and REX. There is a fourth player sitting off some ways to the side, a smartly-dressed fellow in shades and tie who is obviously a record producer. He has records with him, contracts, pens and checks, and looks quite anxious. He also has his finger on a large reel-to-reel tape recorder to which the singer's microphone is attached.]
SINGER: Would you rather be happy or smart?
REX: What?
SINGER: Never mind. It's just something someone said, once.
MYRTLE: [hitting fingers together] One, two, one, one, two.
REX: We're going to play a game. Rock-paper-scissors.
SINGER: I can do rock.
REX: [hitting fingers together] Rock, paper. Paper, scissors.
MYRTLE: One, two, one, one, two.
SINGER: Onesies, twosies, don't let your girls be floozies, eh?
[He laughs very hard at his own joke. Rex and Myrtle sit deadly serious. His smile fades into a look of fear. All three are now spotlighted, clearly seen though the set remains in shadow. Helping this effect is the fact that a large false wall has been placed in the middle of the set, blocking much of it from view. What we can see is interesting, though. The decor is heartstopping. Somehow, the room has been filled with the baggage of every performance ever staged for whatever theatre this play is going to be performed in.]
REX: It's your decision. We can do this easy, or we can do it painful, tough.
SINGER: I vote for easy.
MYRTLE: That's not a choice.
SINGER: Right, right.
REX: We'll try it again.
MYRTLE: One, two, one, one, two.
REX: Rock, paper. Paper, scissors. Scissors, rock. Scissors, rock. Paper, paper. Scissors, scissors. Music, violence, right?
SINGER: Do we have to do this? I mean, look at me! I've got quite a few good years left in me! I'm on tour now, I can't give up the tour now! What will my fans think? I've got a career, I don't want that to die! Isn't there some sort of contract you can renew?
MYRTLE: One, two. One, one, two.
REX: It's for your own good. From the top, now.
MYRTLE: One, two. One, one ...
REX: Rock, paper ...
SINGER: Paper, rock. I know, I know. (sighs)
[All three do the 1-2-3 fistshake of rock-paper-scissors.]
REX: [holding out fist] Rock.
MYRTLE: Rock.
SINGER: Rock.
REX: [grumbles, shakes] Scissors.
MYRTLE: Scissors.
SINGER: Scissors.
REX: Screw it. All right, you can sing one last song.
SINGER: [Jumping up] Yes! Yes, oh thankyouverymuch.
PRODUCER: You're still the man.
SINGER: I'm still the man! Yeah! Whoo!
MYRTLE: [rising angrily] One song!
REX: [rising] That's it!
SINGER: I know, I know.
PRODUCER: Right, the artist needs silence.
[Rex and Myrtle sit back down on the hay, obviously annoyed. We see for the first time that there are quite a few axes and other implements of death strewn about within close reach. As the singer pauses, stooped over, his fist pressed tight to his forehead to suggest unconvincingly that he is thinking, the producer lights a cigar and turns the tape recorder on. An immensely appealing tune, as light as a summer snowfall, wafts through the air. It is a comeback special moment.]
SINGER [singing]:
I never knew that I'd been blind
Until you made me see
You've opened up my world so wide
It's redefining me
Your love is a revelation, baby
Nothing else on earth
Can come within a mile of what you're worth
Rabbits in the springtime
They see the knife, they build a life
They're never bothered by the dew
As the flowers grow, endless time will only show
We'll be together, me and you
The castles of creation float through
Fields of crackling flame
Life and love are different but this
Whirling world's the same
Your love is a revelation, please don't
Tell me any lies
Am I to find a future in your eyes?
Rabbits in the springtime will run away another day
Summer leaves will fade and fall
But you'll see time can't touch us, never hurt or crush us
We're gonna make it through it all ...
I never knew that I'd been blind until you made me see
You've opened up my world so wide it's redefining me
Your love is a revelation, honey
Sailing through the sky
You've made me love, oh please don't let love die
Don't let love die
Don't let love ...
dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
[The song ends, and the singer, misty-eyed in the Sinatra tradition, takes a low bow to two hundred overlapping standing ovations in his mind.]
PRODUCER: [turns off tape recorder] Great! It's a hit! We'll sell a million copies.
SINGER: That's it, then, is it?
PRODUCER: Yeah.
[With a startling show of bloody efficiency, the meek-looking Myrtle and Rex arm themselves with axes and hack the singer to death. The producer gets his things and leaves, quite unconcerned. As they drag the body away, the lights fade out. Enter a young female narrator, TEAL. She is slight of build, but that is obscured by a large and quite impressive black suit, with white trim and tails. The appearance is businesslike, but there is also an otherworldliness about her that her dress only serves to accentuate. She is light and wide-eyed, but that too is obscured by a darkness of delivery, and shades. She moves with grace and little emotion, unconcerned with the consequence of her words.]
TEAL: You have just witnessed a murder. It was performed in cold blood, without threat or provocation, and free of remorse, by two very ordinary people, Rex and Myrtle. They did it; you all saw it. There is no question as to the murderers' identities. This is not a mystery. Nor should this act of senseless, cold-hearted murder be taken as anything out of the ordinary. Rex and Myrtle were simply doing their jobs for the community. They are the town murderers. They murder every day. They're paid for it, and they've never felt bad about it. They are not the villains here. This must be made clear from the start. This is a story, set in a very small town somewhere, in some country, and though the local customs may be somewhat different from your own we will ask you to bear with them. Please do not be alarmed by anything you see or hear. Normalcy is relative, and once you've adjusted to that, all, or at the very least some, can be explained.
[TEAL exits. Lights back up on the set, only now the false wall and arty lighting is absent, and the set is seen in all its glory. It is a suburban living room of the sort seen in about 80% of all plays. In fact, it is a complete cliche in every important detail. This is part of the design, and not to be worried about. The living room has doors at the right and left, and is also a kitchen. Covering the right and left of the stage are enormous trash heaps reaching up the sky, which can also double as exits. These, like the rest of the set, are covered with hodgepodge scenery remnants of dozens of other plays, as if the show is being performed in the back scenery loft of the theater rather than on the stage itself. Perhaps Captain Hook's ship is on one side, Macbeth's drawing-table on the other. Painted automobiles and roman pillars, bits of jungle, tires and glittering setpieces. Whatever was usable has been used. There is also the hint of human remains about. In the very back end of the set, dead center, is a small curtained opening which looks like part of the set but which is also an exit for escaping through. REX and MYRTLE ENTER through the door at left, dragging the bloodied corpse of the singer with them. Myrtle wears a bloody apron or smock, and Rex's shirt is soiled.]
MYRTLE: [calling to someone unseen] We're home, dear!
REX: Come on, let me just, uhn ...
MYRTLE: Dear! We're home!
REX: He heard you.
MYRTLE: He should answer, then.
REX: Ah, but then he'd be acting like one of the human race. Can't have that.
FLOYD [teenage voice, calling from offscreen]: I'll be ready in a minute!
REX: Don't look at me, he's your son.
MYRTLE: Where do we put the body?
REX: Garbage chute.
[They swing the body back and forth twice and then toss it into the wasteland. An automatic meat-grinding noise is heard moments after. Myrtle takes off her bloody apron and washes her hands. Rex picks up a newspaper and sits at the couch. The newspaper has no writing on it.]
MYRTLE: 'You want for dinner, dear?
REX: Yes.
[Myrtle makes a show of putting powder and some small bits of dough into a large glass. She sweats over it, but it looks easy. The mixture comes out a bit blue.]
MYRTLE: 'You mind blue things?
REX: [mumbling] The president sleeps with dingos.
[Myrtle gives a look suggesting she's underappreciated. She places the glass into a microwave-like device, waits three seconds for the distinctive "Whrrr - Bing!" of completion, and then pulls out a huge, steaming, beautiful bluish turkey. REX is up immediately, as if drawn by magnetic force. Myrtle sets the table.]
MYRTLE: Dinner's ready, dear!
FLOYD [offscreen]: Oh, right, thanks!
[A loud trip and crash. FLOYD MARTINI, our teenage hero, has come down the stairs. He picks himself up from the floor with the grace of a tenth-year ballet dancer. Floyd is dressed like a traffic light. It suits him. He has a rough, unshaven, twitchy quality to him which makes him fit in with his surroundings, but is likeable, in a floppy red-and green fedora, a navy blue t-shirt, day-glo yellow-and-green-striped overalls, moonboots and burlesque gloves. Or whatever's available to that basic effect.]
FLOYD: Hello Myrtle. Hello Rex.
REX: Ay, ay, none of that! You'll call us by our born names, "Dad" and "Mom!" [he steps hard on Floyd's foot, and Floyd squeaks] No respect! To think you can come in here and "Hello Myrtle" me!
FLOYD: I didn't "Hello Myrtle" you; I "Hello Myrtle"d mom!
REX: Don't try to become smart!
FLOYD: I was just saying ...
MYRTLE: Well, you shouldn't dear, saying's not polite.
REX: You listen to your mother!
FLOYD: I d--
REX: And don't talk back to her! I'll duct-tape your mouth shut one of these days. How'id you feel then, ay? Yeah ... [eases himself into the table]
MYRTLE: We've got some lovely food tonight dear, you're going to love it. You'll look at the food and say "Oh my, what a lovely collection of food. Is that not lovely food? I love this food, it is lovely." We've got orange juice, blue turkey, and brown milk, some bread and head cheese, some more bread, some more head cheese, some bread cheese, and tripe. Oh, and I bought your favorite - macaroni-flavored Jell-o.
FLOYD: You did? Great!
REX: Don't talk to your mother.
[Floyd sits down. Myrtle doesn't, and won't for most of the duration of the play. She busies herself with what she can find.]
MYRTLE: How was your day at school, dear?
FLOYD: Oh, I graduated three years ago, and then was talked out of college by dad.
MYRTLE: That's nice, dear. More milk?
FLOYD: No.
REX: (simultaneously with Floyd) Yes.
MYRTLE: I think that school is a terrific thing.
REX: Prison.
[Out of nowhere, seemingly, FLOYD produces a banjo and begins to strum at it randomly.]
FLOYD: [singing] I once bought a hat from a popular cat, weaving popular songs out of string; she burned quite bright but as it was night, she could never stop to sing. Oh tragedy, oh holocaust, the cat cannot be found; I once bought a cat from a popular hat, and she burned right to the ground.
[There is an awkward pause. FLOYD returns the banjo from whence it came.]
MYRTLE: How was your day at work, dear?
REX: For the media's sake, Myrtle, you know how my day at work was! You were there!
MYRTLE: I know, but I'm asking for the sake of the boy, dear! He should hear about what you do all day. He'll be doing it himself eventually!
REX: Not at this rate.
FLOYD: It's all right, Rex, dad, sir. If I need to know all about murdering I'll just turn on the television for a few seconds.
REX: The television's in the shop.
FLOYD: All the better, then.
MYRTLE: Oh, the television came back yesterday, dear. We just haven't figured out how to plug it in yet. Modern technology, whoosh!
FLOYD: Funny you should say that. Ian Leonard says that we are actually living in a technological and social dark age, where although we remain convinced, as most eras are, that progress has brought us to a greater technological plateau, we have actually regressed to the level where we can no longer communicate with each other as human beings, and are fully dominated by what we're told by our overlord, the mass media.
MYRTLE: Isn't that nice?
REX: Who says that? What kind of right-wing leftist commie propaganda is that?
FLOYD: It's Ian Leonard. He's a comedy writer, for Squash magazine, on the web.
REX: He's a dangerous animal, he is.
MYRTLE: Now, now, don't talk that way dear, you'll frighten the dog.
[At this point a small human DOG makes a spectacular sliding pratfall entrance, and falls down
asleep on the rug. No one pays it much attention.]
FLOYD: To tell the truth, I'm glad we've not plugged the television in. I think it works to homogenize us, make us all the same. Same emotions, same drives and ambitions. It plays to our fears, makes us afraid to leave our homes, afraid to shut the television off. All they play is murder.
REX: Murder! You want to talk about murder! Today, your mother and I had to slaughter the strangest fellow. He was a singer, an awful husk of a man now but apparently rich and famous in his prime, in the disco days. Well, he was past those days, even though he didn't entirely look it. He'd reached his fiftieth birthday, so we set up an appointment and went on over. But here's the strange thing - his producer was there the whole time, trying to get him to finish one last album before he went! We had to postpone the whole killing just so's he could sing one last song! Some awful thing about a big bunny, I think. I don't understand it. What's so important about singing?
MYRTLE: It brings music into the world, dear. You should try it sometime.
FLOYD: What was his name?
REX: Who, the bunny?
FLOYD: No, the singer.
MYRTLE: The bunny's name was Revelation.
REX: He doesn't need to know that!
FLOYD: What, the name of the bunny?
MYRTLE: The name of the ... singer?
REX: He doesn't need to know that either. Meddling little runt.
MYRTLE: Did you hear that, dear? Your first compliment of the day!
REX: It wasn't a compliment.
MYRTLE: Rex!
FLOYD: What was the singer's name?
MYRTLE: Why do you need to go around not complimenting the boy, Rex? You've got to at least pretend to be his father.
REX: The name isn't important.
FLOYD: I just wanted to know, that's all!
MYRTLE: Well, my college roommate used to say that if you haven't got anything nice to say, you should say it to the dog.
[The DOG sits up at this.]
REX: Is that what you learn at college?
FLOYD: You shouldn't abuse animals, even verbally, mom. They're better than us.
MYRTLE: I hear their mouths are cleaner too.
DOG: Woof.
REX: I still don't understand why someone would make his last words some silly song about bunnies.
FLOYD: Music is an industry, Rex. Death can sell just like any other gimmick.
MYRTLE: He didn't die easy.
FLOYD: The singer?
MYRTLE: Yes. We tried to kill him, but it was strange, it didn't quite take. It was as if his spirit wanted to keep on going, no matter what. He was an old man, but you wouldn't have known it from looking at him. Inside, he was still eighteen years old, and going to the school dance. Amazing life force in him. And a spirit like that, well, it's hard to kill.
REX: Naw, it's easy to kill, lad. You just take the axe, hold it firm ...
MYRTLE: It's coming back to me now, I remember. I used to play his records when I was a little girl. He was handsome then. He still was today, even though the pounds had piled on and the dewy eyes dried out over time. He had character.
REX: I got to kill a homeless man today too! Awful smell, but boy, did he have some nice liquor about him. If they were all like that they wouldn't even have to pay me. I'd love it.
MYRTLE: His name was Louis.
FLOYD: What?
MYRTLE: The singer. His name was Louis, Louis Rolocino.
FLOYD: Oh my god! The Dauphin of Disco?
MYRTLE: One and the same.
REX: You mean to say you knew that idiot?
FLOYD: Knew him? Damn, I had to buy the "Xanadu" album nine times! Once on vinyl, once on 78, once on cassette, once on 8-track, once on CD, once on CD-ROM, once on MP3 and twice for the 33 single! No wait, ten times. I lost the CD once. No wait, twice. That's eleven.
MYRTLE: It's a pity. But what're you going to do?
REX: Yes. There's nothing pretty about death.
FLOYD: Louis Rolocino. I just can't believe it.
[a loud whirring and gnashing is heard from the general offstage direction of "upstairs."]
MYRTLE: Oh no, I left the washer on! All the sheets'll be burned!
FLOYD: [smiling] All the sheets must be burned.
[But she has run off. When she's gone, REX grabs Floyd by the collar.]
REX: Now you listen here, boy. I want you to rid yourself of any wrong impressions right away. Your mother and I have got a very important job in this community, and I want you to make sure you respect it, is that clear?
FLOYD: Crystal, really!
REX: Our duty is our duty. I don't care if they're the goddamned Pope. [lets go of Floyd's collar] ...Which reminds me, I've got to pencil the Pope back in for thursday. Flighty old sort.
FLOYD: Uh ...
REX: It's a joke, son. Only the best in the business would get to kill the Pope.
FLOYD: [getting up] Well, I've got to be ...
REX: Sit down! [pulls him down again] Look boy, I'm not going to be here in this house forever. I'm going to pass on someday, in seven years, two months, twenty-eight days and nine minutes, to be exact. That's my fiftieth birthday. And when that day comes, you're going to have to kill me.
FLOYD: No, I couldn't!
REX: You'll have to! I'm going to make sure you carry on my legacy, son. I want to make sure you'll have it as good as I did.
FLOYD: What if I could find something better?
REX: You don't deserve better! What, are you too good to be a murderer like your pop?
FLOYD: No. No, I'm not.
REX: Look Floyd, I'm serious. I don't want to force you into anything. If you ever feel pressured, there's the door. [points to it] We're here for you, and we'll stay here for you. If you ever need to leave, you can leave at any time.
FLOYD: Well thank you, I ...
[FLOYD gets up as if considering it, but REX pulls him back down]
REX: I just wouldn't recommend it, that's all.
FLOYD: Right, right.
REX: Look kid, do you respect your papa?
FLOYD: Yes. Yes, I do.
REX: And if you respect your papa, you want to kill for him, right?
FLOYD: Mm.
REX: You respect me. You want to kill.
FLOYD: Okay, okay.
REX: Then say it. Say "I want to kill."
FLOYD: Uh.
REX: SAY IT! "I WANT TO KILL!"
FLOYD: [mumbling] Iwankil.
REX: Louder!
FLOYD: I wanna kill.
REX: Louder!
FLOYD: I want to kill!
REX: I can't hear you!
FLOYD: I WANT TO KILL!
REX: Okay, that I heard. Again.
FLOYD: I WANT TO KIIIILL!
[MYRTLE falls down the "stairs" at the center ramp of the stage.]
REX: [not getting up] Now see what you've done?
MYRTLE: I'm all right. [Floyd runs to help her, and she gets up.] Do you really want to kill, son?
[Floyd's downcast silence says "no" in a language Rex doesn't try to understand.]
REX: He does! And what's better, he's already made the appointment to kill me himself, in seven years, two months, twenty-eight days and, ah, [checks watch] eight minutes.
MYRTLE: [quietly] It's all right, son. There's nothing wrong with accepting your place in life. In some ways it's even ... noble. Live your life, son. It's easier than thinking.
REX: And more rewarding!
MYRTLE: If you say so, dear. [quieter, to Floyd] See?
[FLOYD stands in stunned silence as MYRTLE collects the dinner things and hands REX his empty newspaper.]
REX: Oh, thank you.
[Lights down. Enter the spotlit TEAL, in front of the curtain as always.]
TEAL: Floyd Martini, the young son of our gentle killers Myrtle and Rex, has his entire life ahead of him. However, the course of that life has now already been chosen for him. He is to follow in the footsteps of his parents and kill for a living, as death in this small and rather closed-off town is performed by appointment upon the event of any citizen's fiftieth birthday, in order to avoid the curse of old age. The murderer's career is not high-paying, but it is respected, and a murderer will be greeted with more pomp and circumstance than, say, a nuclear physicist or real estate agent. It is not a bad job, but Floyd Martini is unhappy with it, and in his unhappiness he retreats to his own room, to write a letter to a third-rate comedy writer he's never met.
[TEAL exits. Lights up on the far right corner of the set, which is done-up with a cage pattern around it and some very small, randomly-placed and unconnected walls with lots of posters on them. It is FLOYD's room, and he sits at a sort of computer, typing. The DOG is also present, watching him.]
FLOYD: [typing] "Dear Ian Leonard," ... no. "To Ian Leonard," ... no, not that either. Um, "Dear Mr. Ian Leonard," no, "Dear sir," no, "From sir," no, "From your biggest fan," hell's no ... [pauses] "Dear Ian Leonard, I am writing in response to your article entitled 'The Human Race: Is It a Bad Idea?' I would like to give you a few critical thoughts on the piece. Point 1: This is the best article I have ever read. Point 2: You are very right about things most people aren't ever right about. Point 3: I think you may be a god, or something." No, too informal. [buries head]
DOG: What the hell are you doing?
FLOYD: I'm writing a letter.
DOG: You know this Leonard guy?
FLOYD: He's a writer. I think he might be my favorite writer, though he usually just writes stuff for science-fiction sitcoms.
DOG: You ever meet him?
FLOYD: No.
DOG: Has he ever heard of you?
FLOYD: No.
DOG: Even if he had, would he have any interest in reading a letter from you?
FLOYD: No.
DOG: And you're writing him anyway?
FLOYD: Yes.
DOG: Humans. I can't even pretend to understand humans.
FLOYD: You and him would get along. [typing] "Dear Ian Leonard ..."
DOG: Could I have some beef jerky?
FLOYD: No.
DOG: Come on, gimme some jerky.
FLOYD: No.
DOG: Do you have any jerky?
FLOYD: No.
DOG: Do you know where to buy some jerky?
FLOYD: Yes.
DOG: Are you going to buy some jerky?
FLOYD: No. [typing] "Dear whom it may concern ..." No. "To the office of Mr. Ian J. Leonard, esquire." Yeah, that sounds good.
DOG: Wish I had some jerky.
[As FLOYD types, the lights cut out on the right side of the stage, and up on the left side, where we see REX and MYRTLE. Rex is sitting on the couch in front of a massive cabinet full of weapons of mass destruction, and cleaning one of the guns. Myrtle is near the center of the room in an oversized recliner knitting something. ]
REX: I love guns.
MYRTLE: Yes you do, dear.
REX: There's nothing quite like a freshly cleaned gun. The feel of steel cold and hard against powder-soaked hands, the smell of gun oil ... it's intoxicating to the mind. Take a gun into your hands enough times and you don't even have to think about what you're doing with it. The smell of potential death wafts softly through the air, and you are transported to another world, one where you are in control. I wish I could clean the world the way I can clean a gun.
MYRTLE: That's very nice, dear.
REX: [waving it about] Really, I don't think there's anything I'd rather do than hold a gun, except fire one of course!
MYRTLE: Now Rex, don't get excited like you did last week. Remember, when you accidentally shot up the television? And remember how upset you were when you didn't get to see your favorite show.
REX: Two Guys with Guns! Now there's a show for you!
MYRTLE: Yes, but you're supposed to watch it, not shoot back.
REX: It's not like the teevee was brand-new or anything. Besides, it's fixed now, isn't it? [checks watch] Would you look at that? Two Guys with Guns is on in less than an hour! Why don't you turn on the TV for me?
MYRTLE: Sorry, can't right now.
REX: What do you mean "can't?" All you gots to do is get up, take two steps forward and push the ON button. How hard could that be?
MYRTLE: I didn't say I couldn't do it dear. I said "can't."
REX: Why not?
MYRTLE: I'm busy.
REX: Busy! What could you possibly be busy with that'd be more important than television?
MYRTLE: Knitting.
REX: Knitting! Don't be sick, Myrtle!
MYRTLE: What's so sick about it?
REX: Knitting, puh! What has knitting ever done for the world? Guns and television have won us countless wars. The world can only be changed through violence, and knitting is not violent, Myrtle.
MYRTLE: Knitting can be violent.
REX: No it can't, Myrtle.
MYRTLE: No, look. Just look at these socks. [holds up the black patterned socks she is knitting at the moment] When you see these socks, what do they make you think of?
REX: Nobody makes me think of anything, 'specially not no filthy socks.
MYRTLE: No, look at them. All black and red, with a pattern like asphalt and little salt-and-pepper pinholes. What do these socks make you want to do?
REX: [concentrates] Why ... they make me want to put them on and shoot something!
MYRTLE: See? Violent socks.
REX: That's my girl, ha! I guess that's all right then. As long as they're violent they can remain in this household. Can you knit anything else? Like a camouflage sweater?
MYRTLE: I was thinking of making some doilies later ...
REX: Can they be gun doilies?
MYRTLE: Yes, I suppose they could.
REX: Why don't I get Floyd in here n'help me clean some guns? He'll have to do it someday, it might as well be now.
MYRTLE: I think he's busy in his room.
REX: Doing what, KNITTING?
MYRTLE: No dear, I think he's talking to the dog. I can hear him mumbling through the walls.
REX: I knew we should never've taken that mutt from the Haskill place.
MYRTLE: I know, but after we killed Mr. and Mrs. Haskill that poor dog had nowhere to go. Besides Rex, Floyd really likes him, and at his age he needs some sort of companionship.
REX: That dog eats more than I do, and is twice as lazy. I should have used him for target practice when we found him.
MYRTLE: Well, you didn't. It's Floyd's dog now and there's nothing you can do about it.
REX: Talking to dogs, feh! Kid's already growing up funny. I want Floyd to come out here and do something with these guns. I don't care what. He could look at 'em, touch 'em, throw 'em, kick 'em, drop 'em, smash 'em to bits, I don't really care. ... But y'think he might want to shoot one?
MYRTLE: Well, wait 'til tomorrow and ask him.
REX: I don't ask, Myrtle, I tell. Kid's got a screwy streak in him. He sits at that computer all day instead of watching the TV like a human being. And with all the guns in this house, he still thinks a DOG's supposed to be his best friend. A DOG! He should be learning the tricks of the trade. I don't have too many more years left, you know.
MYRTLE: You should have thought about that before sending him off to school.
REX: He's not in school anymore.
MYRTLE: I know, Rex. Just give him a little time. That's all he needs.
REX: I've got it! Ha!
MYRTLE: What?
REX: The remote. [produces it, and turns on the television]
TELEVISION VOICE: [perky, female] Tonight on VTN, the violent television network, all Violence all the Time, we've got a spectacular line-up for you ...
[REX laughs and pulls her down on the couch, embracing her.]
TELEVISION VOICE: ... beginning with the all-star 900th episode of Kit Yaddow's "Death By Request," where we'll be meeting a spectacular lineup of celebrity guests and killing every one of them ...
[Lights down. Enter the spotlit TEAL.]
TEAL: An excerpt from the article by Ian Leonard that moved our young friend Floyd so: "It is said in some intelligent circles that life is short. It is said in more intelligent circles that life is not as short as it seems, but simply wasted watching too much television, filling out income tax forms and finding new ways to prepare potatoes. No one, with the exception of a few thousand chemically-unbalanced poets, has ever suggested that life is too long, and the smartest circles of all suggest that this will only happen when the human race learns to budget its time properly. If anyone ever does figure this out, please feel free to tell me how." [she begins to leave, but just before exiting thinks better of it and turns back] Oh, incidentally, the girl in the next scene is me. You'll pardon my appearance. I had no fashion sense then!
[Lights back up on FLOYD and the DOG.]
DOG: How old is this Leonard fellow?
FLOYD: [typing] Dunno. Must be pretty old, though. The first series of "Lucky Xenon and the Black Hole Battlers" came out, might've been about forty years ago.
DOG: Maybe he wrote it when he was eight.
FLOYD: Would have explained the plot problems.
DOG: Was it a good show?
FLOYD: Oh, the best. Except for the first six radio seasons, they were kind of weak, and the tv show did them better, but that was completely awful so just discount it right away, and the books were just ineffective refries of the radio shows, except the third one on, those were good, except the fourth one, but if you put them together ... aaah! Greatest sci-fi comedy of all time.
DOG: You've wasted your life, Floyd.
FLOYD: I know.
DOG: Now go out and get me jerky.
FLOYD: To get you jerky I would have to walk all the way down the street to the corner convenience shop and buy you some.
DOG: So?
FLOYD: That would require leaving this house.
DOG: Yes?
FLOYD: That would require leaving this room.
DOG: Sounds like a plan.
FLOYD: No, all right? The answer is no.
DOG: You're afraid to leave.
FLOYD: No I'm not.
DOG: You are! Oh, my! Ha! If you weren't you'd have left by now. You'd have left years ago, Floyd.
FLOYD: That's not true.
DOG: You're worried about what Rex would do to you.
FLOYD: I'm not listening to this.
DOG: You've trapped yourself here. You can't leave.
FLOYD: All right, now we're into outright lies.
DOG: Tell me this: have you ever left this house?
FLOYD: I can leave whenever I want.
DOG: Well, leave then. Get me jerky.
FLOYD: Ah, but then I'd have to stop writing this letter to Mr. Ian Leonard, and come hell or high water I don't intend to do that.
DOG: Why on earth not?
FLOYD: Because I'm beginning to relate to him.
DOG: All right. You're scaring me.
FLOYD: No, really. Life's so short, y'know? Fifty years. Eighteen thousand, two hundred and fifty days.
DOG: Four hundred and eighty thousand hours.
FLOYD: Give or take.
DOG: No.
FLOYD: What survives after death? Answer me that?
DOG: Smell. For a few weeks anyway.
FLOYD: Ideas! The ideas I'm getting in this dump aren't worth keeping about. But the article that hack sci-fi comedy writer wrote is enough to bring anybody to a better plane of existence. Maybe a person can't make the world a better place in fifty years, but they can sure as hell convince another person not to make this world worse. I know because I've seen it.
DOG: Ideas are overrated, Floyd.
FLOYD: Oh yes? What makes you say that?
DOG: Can you eat them?
FLOYD: ... Do you really want jerky that bad?
DOG: More than anything.
FLOYD: Well, act like a better dog than you are and maybe I'll pick you up some later.
DOG: What should I do until then?
FLOYD: I don't know. Go chase your tail or something.
[FLOYD begins to type, but his concentration is increasingly broken by the DOG's stereotypical begging, which grows louder and louder and louder until ...]
FLOYD: AGGGH! I can't take it anymore! Stop, all right? Just stop!
DOG: Jerky. Now.
FLOYD: All right.
DOG: Good boy. I think this could be a good learning experience for you.
FLOYD: Bite me.
DOG: Nah. Too obvious a tactic.
[FLOYD, hesitating a bit, places his hand on the caged room's doorknob and begins to open it .... Lightning crash. FLOYD is blown back with an enormous gust of wind. The DOG hides. Enter TEAL, falling in awkward, screaming flight with all that wind behind her. But it is a different TEAL we see. She is not wearing her shades and we can see very black, tearstained lines around her eyes. Her face is rough and her hair huge and completely awful-looking. Perhaps it is pink. Her dapper clothing has been replaced with a hideous construct clearly not designed for a human, made up seemingly of burlap or carpet, all teal and shapeless, tied at the waist. We can still see that she is pretty, but she is clearly not having a good day. She speaks in the panicless hiss of hell itself.]
TEAL: [falling to the ground, raging with eyes closed] Disrespectful insects! You will all feel the wrath of the goddess with no name!
FLOYD: ... Hello?
TEAL: Iish! [Sees Floyd, leaps to her feet and into a fighting stance] Another insect! Why do you plague me still? Your name is death to me!
DOG: His name's Floyd!
FLOYD: I'm Floyd!
TEAL: It is of no matter. [drawing enormous sword] Lend me your throat and I will smite you down!
FLOYD: Well, let's not leap to violence.
DOG: Oh yes, please.
TEAL: What manner of devil's realm is this?
FLOYD: It's ... my house.
TEAL: If I have been sent to the house of Floyd, then so be it. What have I to fear here?
DOG: Jerky shortages.
TEAL: You speak in circles. It is a sinister thing that one of your species should speak at all. Never mind it. Your time here is ended. [Brings sword up to thrust into the cowering, flattenened DOG's heart.]
DOG: Yipe!
FLOYD: Hey, that's my dog you're skewering there!
TEAL: You claim to own this animal?
FLOYD: I ... do?
TEAL: An animal is an outgrowth of the earth. You understand this not?
FLOYD: I ... uh?
TEAL: Clearly you are the greater transgressor here. All the better then. [approaching FLOYD to put the sword to his neck] The head of the household will be the first to die.
DOG: Oh, thank you.
TEAL: Quiet! Filthy animal.
FLOYD: Who are you?
TEAL: A man need not know the identity of his murderer.
FLOYD: That's a funny coincidence. My parents are murderers, y'see?
TEAL: What? [lets sword slack a bit]
FLOYD: Yeah, they're the hired killers for this county, and they make sure life ends at fifty. I'm supposed to kill Rex, that's my father, sort of, and take over, but I don't quite want to.
TEAL: Oh, this is indeed a land without morals or remorse. How very disturbing. [thinks] No. It couldn't be. They couldn't have sent me ... here.
FLOYD: Where?
TEAL: [moves in for the kill in one swift motion] Tell me now, insect, and tell me quick before I am forced to quarter thee and stew thee for mine own supper! By what name do you call this land of darkness?
FLOYD: What?
TEAL: It is not the realm of ... America, is it??
FLOYD: Why yes, it is. One and the same.
TEAL: [falling to ground in despair] Then I am truly damned.
FLOYD: Why do you say that?
TEAL: You couldn't understand, for you are a growth of this land, as a demon is a growth of what you call hell. I have studied your customs in fear of this day.
FLOYD: What's wrong with America?
TEAL: America is where the failed gods are sent to die.
FLOYD: I don't understand.
TEAL: I hear there are rivers here, rivers of water.
FLOYD: Oh yes, beautiful rivers. Lakes too, oceans and seas.
TEAL: Accursed fate! Why do you upturn the stream of life to drown me in faceless sorrow?
FLOYD: Look, maybe I can help you. What is your name?
TEAL: I have no name, mortal.
FLOYD: Why not?
TEAL: I was doomed at birth to live my life as the Goddess with No Name. It was a bargain in trade for a shining fame. I would achieve greater feats of strength, courage and intellect than any other being of the clouds, but history would not record them, or worse yet praise them as the works of others.
FLOYD: Well, that kind of sucks for you.
TEAL: Indeed. And yet now my luck is lost, and mighty Zeus has forsaken me.
FLOYD: Zeus? Isn't that, like, one of the Greek gods?
TEAL: The very best of them. Zeus was a good man. He was my father.
FLOYD: Okay, now you've just gone, whoo! Right over this head.
TEAL: I was born two decades ago in a place where time has no meaning. My mother was a United States Senator, and my father was king of the gods. The affair was a brief one, and the passion faded, but my parents tried to build a family despite their many differences. I was given the best education the clouds could provide. By age three I could float through time like a lead-bob propels itself through water. My real education came on the battlefields of Caesar, Napoleon, Churchill, and Alexander the Great. I died two hundred times, and grew to like it. I fought great beasts, redefined analytical geometry, and invented the symbol you know as the comma.
FLOYD: Nice resume.
TEAL: But I was cocky, and headstrong, accomplishing too much for one my age. When I was a child they called me "Beautiful Thunder." Soon they would call me nothing at all. I was a goddess with no name, and I knew I could not fit in amongst the clouds, for the clouds themselves regarded me with only suspicion.
FLOYD: Y'just can't catch a break some days.
TEAL: This is, I suppose, the final step in my long fall from grace. It is horror itself to think I will die a mortal, an American.
FLOYD: It's not so bad.
TEAL: Your words are little comfort, but I thank you for them. I shall wait a further few minutes before beheading you.
FLOYD: You really mean that? Thanks.
DOG: What a wing-nut.
FLOYD: Don't anger the goddess, all right? So, what do I call you? Can I call you ... Thunder?
TEAL: What?
FLOYD: What do people call you, when you're at home?
TEAL: They don't call me anything. The goddess needs no name, and will slit the throat of anyone who dares provide her one.
FLOYD: And I can understand that. That's good. But we do things a bit differently here on this planet. We've got something called "Big Brother," you see. Everyone needs a name and something called a Social Security Number ...
TEAL: THE GODDESS NEEDS NO NAME. Understand?
FLOYD: Yes, yes, okay. I like the dress. Sort of wealthy neo-cavewoman, right?
TEAL: [looks at self] What manner of .... oh shame. The vengeful gods must have draped me in these rags to better fit in with the primitive beings of your planet. I suppose for an American to even gaze upon the garments of the gods would be to be blinded by their beauty.
FLOYD: Yes, yes, I suppose. Well, perhaps we can get you down to the mall later.
DOG: Don't listen to this big spender, lady. He's never left the house.
FLOYD: Bad dog!
TEAL: I'd heard of such things. Oh well. As the daughter of a senator, perhaps I could simply drape myself in the American flag. It makes up for a great many physical flaws, you know.
FLOYD: Yes, I've heard that. But still, the clothes are unique. You could get away with them in Paris. I hear teal is the "in" color this year.
TEAL: What did you say?
FLOYD: You could ... get away with them in Paris?
TEAL: No, before that. After.
FLOYD: Teal is the "in" color this year?
TEAL: What is ... Tee-yul?
FLOYD: Well, you're teal. At the moment, anyway.
TEAL: Tee-yul?
FLOYD: Teal. It's a color, sort of a sea green. Or blue. Or, well, nobody knows what it is but it goes in and out of fashion.
TEAL: What a lovely name. Hmm.
FLOYD: Well, it's not exactly a name, per se ...
TEAL: (drawing sword) Silence, insect. How does one leave this realm?
FLOYD: Well, you got in through the door.
TEAL: Indeed! Perhaps the passage has not yet been closed! Well, farewell, insect. Try in later days to think upon this meeting as little as possible.
[She reaches for the doorknob, but draws back upon hearing a strange voice, or rather a strange voiceover.]
TELEVISION VOICE (offscreen): Tonight, on TWO GUYS WITH GUNS ...
TEAL: What manner of black magic is this? Never mind it. I am stronger than all forms of witchery.
[she draws her sword and turns the knob, but draws back again at the sound of loud knocking. Lights up on the other side of FLOYD's door. REX is there, carrying the television set in a wobbly way. He is also burdened by a rifle and a medium-sized cardboard box.]
REX: Floyd!
FLOYD: Eep! [whispering] That's my father, sort of. [yelling] I'll be there in a minute!
TEAL: Is this insect dangerous?
FLOYD: A bit, yes.
REX: Floyd! [puts television down, wipes brow, gasping and out of breath]
TEAL: Do you want me to slay him?
FLOYD: No! No. You've got to hide.
TEAL: Why?
FLOYD: Well, you being ... you, and me being .... just get behind the desk, okay?
TEAL: I move for no one.
FLOYD: [panics]
REX: FLOYD!
[with an amazingly swift and unflinching motion, REX cocks and fires the rifle, in an upward direction. FLOYD and the DOG jump. With the same motion, he breaks the door down. FLOYD falls to his knees and prays for death.]
REX: Uh, hi Floyd.
FLOYD: Uh, hi. [he looks up. TEAL is nowhere to be found. She has ducked behind the desk. He gives a laugh of crazed relief.]
REX: I just wanted you to, uh ...
FLOYD: Yeah.
REX: Right.
FLOYD: It's all just, yeah.
REX: Don't I know it.
FLOYD: More of the same.
REX: No complaints here.
FLOYD: But no reason not to.
REX: Mm.
FLOYD: Uh.
REX: Yeah.
FLOYD: Right.
REX: Anyway, I just wanted you to, uh ...
FLOYD: Right.
REX: Seeing as you're going to be taking over the family business and all ...
FLOYD: Yeah.
REX: Uh, you know.
FLOYD: Do I ever.
REX: This is just, uh, [pushing the heavy television set in] teevee. Boy'should watch s'more teevee. Dogs makeyer queer.
FLOYD: Mm.
REX: Uh.
FLOYD: No, it's okay.
REX: I ... [picking up cardboard box] this is the entire "Two Guys with Guns" video collection. [takes each one out and reads it] "Bowling with Guns," "Fishing with Guns," "Interior Redecorating with Guns," "Boxing with Guns," you'll like that one, the Two Guys with Guns Christmas Special, "God Bless Us, with Every Gun," and "A Party Political Broadcast on Behalf of the House Conservative Majority Party."
FLOYD: With Guns.
REX: With Guns. Right. Well, just watch these, and, uh, yeah.
FLOYD: Yeah.
[Awkward pause. REX decides at last to just nod and leave. TEAL reappears.]
TEAL: That pile of human refuse is your father?
FLOYD: Sort of. He's okay, so long as you feed him and be sure to point him toward the teevee when he needs it.
TEAL: Is he an intelligent creature?
FLOYD: At some things he's so bright it's scary. But he's a little low on things like basic emotion.
TEAL: I've known some people like that. Try to have an intelligent conversation with Ares sometime and then come and talk to me about your sort-of pa.
FLOYD: You're serious about the whole god thing then.
TEAL: Are you serious about the whole human thing?
FLOYD: Serious when I can be, detachedly amused other times.
TEAL: Then you understand my situation. You, as a human, might not believe in me and the rest of the gods. That's fine. But you must understand when I refuse to believe in things like lions.
FLOYD: You don't believe in lions?
TEAL: Do you believe in centaurs?
FLOYD: I've never seen one.
TEAL: There you go, then.
FLOYD: So, what is earth to you? Is it like a different country, like France?
TEAL: I know little of this ... France. But America to the gods is, well, it's where we're sent if we've been bad in life. I believe some of your religions call this concept "hell."
FLOYD: America is ... hell?
TEAL: Well, the concept is a little different. What we call your land translates roughly to "The Place Where Nothing Happens, Very Many Times Again."
DOG: You've got that much right.
TEAL: My mother used to sing me songs of your great leader, I forget his name, it was ...
FLOYD: George Washington.
DOG: Abraham Lincoln.
FLOYD: Frank Sinatra.
TEAL: Richard Nixon.
FLOYD: Nixon?!
TEAL: Yes, much has been said about him. Not all of it is good.
FLOYD: Well, it couldn't be.
TEAL: Yet all of it is American. We have also heard much of your mythology, of Batman, and the Maytag front-loading washer and dryer. The American mindset is quite unique. It runs completely contrary to the nature of life. Everything in your culture seems dedicated to the prospect of making sure nothing interesting ever happens.
FLOYD: It cuts down on suffering.
TEAL: Without pain there can be no joy.
FLOYD: Nixon! Your mother sang you songs about Nixon?
TEAL: Oh yes, very many times again.
FLOYD: What sort of song could a person write about Nixon?
TEAL: She had one, it sounded like ...
Tripping Nixons, in the yard
Life is good, but good is hard
Fish swim into the streets to greet the day
Things we cannot think, but try to say
Tripping Nixons, go to work
Pay the bills, but Bill's a jerk
Ladderco's gone up a point this week
For profit's sake, the poor must never speak
Tripping Nixons, stumble and fall
Compassion will destroy us all
Sue the company behind closed doors
Sue the bastards who made the slippery floors
Tripping Nixons, losing hope
The President's become the Pope
Finding meaning doesn't win you cash
Another day, another myth to smash
Tripping Nixons, getting wet
They'd sell their bloodstream to forget
Nursery-school angels sell cocaine
God is good, but good can be insane
Tripping Nixons, still we find
Man's greatest hope is in his mind
Television's trained our tribal fear
But don't stop thinking -- never stop to care
Tripping Nixons go to sleep
Counting Democratic sheep
Tomorrow's near to sing a nicer song ...
Nothing's right, but nothing's ...
Really wrong.
... [sitting down, FLOYD sits down with her] She was from America, you see. She was a politician, a senator. She understood things. She understood a lot. She told me I wasn't cut-out for this place. I'm wondering now if she was right. Oh well, it makes no matter. I'm here now. That much truth cannot be avoided.
FLOYD: [a bit emotionally affected] No, that it can't.
TEAL: You're going to help me, human. What did you say your name was?
FLOYD: Floyd. Floyd Martini.
TEAL: And you may call me ... Teal.
DOG: Ha!
TEAL: Just don't make a habit of it.
FLOYD: All right. Can I help you with anything?
TEAL: Yes, you must. I will need supplies. New clothing. Foodstuffs. Construction materials. I'll make a list. Is there a general store nearby?
FLOYD: Yes, there is.
DOG: But to visit it, he'd have to leave the house.
FLOYD: Hush. Bad dog.
TEAL: [standing up] I do think I could make myself happy here. It would mean remaking this planet in my own image, but that does not seem overly difficult. What are you thinking, Floyd the human?
FLOYD: Oh, I was just thinking about how pretty you are.
[TEAL draws her sword and very nearly slits FLOYD's throat.]
FLOYD: Okay, okay.
END OF ACT I
ACT II
GOOD BOOKS [AND OTHER REPRODUCIBLE THINGS]
[The curtain opens on twinkling lights and indistinct shapes. And as a strange assortment of atmospheric noises sets in -- the millionfold breakages of tiny pieces of cosmic glass as sound rushes in like water into the previously empty vacuum of the stage -- we realize that act two is beginning the same way as act one. There are a few significant differences however. For one thing, the growing light that dominates the stage is as red as Mars. For another thing, there is a modest throne at the center of the stage, at which the evil BEARDED QUEEN sits, vaguely Asiatic and masculine, stroking an immensely long black moustache. Enter LUCKY XENON, played by the same fellow who played the PRODUCER in the opening scene, along with his very blonde sidekick, DEIRDRE. Lucky is dressed like all old-time space heroes used to be, and brandishes a zap gun.]
DEIRDRE: Oh Luhkeeeee, what are we gonna to do?
LUCKY: Quiet Deirdre, you'll blow our cover.
QUEEN: Too late.
F/X DRAMATIC CHORDS
DEIRDRE: Aiee!
QUEEN: Well, well, well. Lucky Xenon.
LUCKY: That's the name.
QUEEN: It would seem, then, that your luck has run out.
LUCKY: Oh, come on, that's a bit of a cliche, isn't it?
QUEEN: What do you mean?
LUCKY: Don't play dumb - you're using the simplest dialogue trick in the book. My name's Lucky, so you do lines about me being lucky, or unlucky, or whatever, waddle on Queen, this is kindergarten-grade stuff. Are you trying to suggest to me through the vagueries of character development that you've conquered an entire solar system but yet remain unable to come up with any snappy villainous patter?
QUEEN: Oh, lay off, my speechwriter's on holiday.
LUCKY: It doesn't matter. If you're trying to spread your unique and arty yet still malevolent brand of expanding evil across the galaxy, you're going to need at least a smidge of personal charisma. You've got to get their attention in the boardroom. Now let's analyze your use of metaphor ...
QUEEN: Quiet, you! I'm about to destroy you, and your questionably-talented sidekick, so you'd best listen to me no matter how many cliches I use.
LUCKY: And how do you plan to destroy us? I'm the one with the gun, see?
QUEEN: Yes, but I've got something you don't.
DEIRDRE: Ew.
QUEEN: A DEATH RAY!
[she jumps off her throne and flips it about to become one of the devices aforementioned.]
F/X DRAMATIC CHORD
LUCKY: Oh, one of those. That's very nice.
QUEEN: Isn't it though? I bought it at the Haakon 6 wholesale club.
LUCKY: Oh, I love that place. I've been a member for three years now.
QUEEN: I'm going on two, it's lovely. Just yesterday I stocked up on a twenty-pack of the most wonderful quilted paper towels.
LUCKY: I never buy paper goods there.
QUEEN: Why not?
LUCKY: It just seems unsanitary.
QUEEN: I don't mind. And now, mortals, you will DIE!
[She mans (womans?) the ray and aims it at our heroes. DEIRDRE gives a look of cheesecake shock.]
LUCKY: You're forgetting something, Queenie.
QUEEN: Oh yes? And what is that?
LUCKY: My birthday.
QUEEN: What?
LUCKY: In the six seasons we've been fighting each other, I've had six birthdays, and not once have you ever sent me a present.
DEIRDRE: That's twue, that's very twue.
LUCKY: Frankly it bothers me. I mean, if you don't respect your own nemesis, who can you respect?
QUEEN: Ah yes, but on my planet ...
DEIRDRE: The planet of evil! Aggh!
F/X DRAMATIC CHORDS
QUEEN: Yes, on that planet, the year is half the length of your own. And since we've known each other I have had TWELVE birthdays, and you have only sent me six presents.
LUCKY: I didn't know.
QUEEN: Well, it was very cruel of you. I cried for hours, every other year.
LUCKY: Look, this is beside the point, isn't it?
DEIRDRE: Yes, you were going to kill us! Please do.
QUEEN: I don't know if I want to now.
LUCKY: Come on, kill us. It'll make you feel better.
QUEEN: Nothing's going to make me feel better.
DEIRDRE: Oh, queen ...
LUCKY: Don't be like that. Come on, kill us. It's easy. Take the ray [he holds her limp form and walks her over to the death ray like a rag puppet], that's good, come on, grip the trigger, get the look of death in your eyes, and ZAP! [he lets go. she droops down.] Come on ... [he picks her up again] Zap zap zap zap zap!
QUEEN: [turning away, half-crying] I just want to be alone.
[the QUEEN exits. LUCKY and DEIRDRE stand there, looking a bit lost.]
LUCKY: Well, uh, there she goes then.
DEIRDRE: Yup.
LUCKY: No more threat to the galaxy.
DEIRDRE: Yes, once again, the stars can twinkle in peace, thanks to Lucky Xenon!
LUCKY: Uh, yeah.
DEIRDRE: So, what do you wanna do now?
LUCKY: I dunno.
DEIRDRE: What will Lucky do now? Will he have a light meal and go to sleep early? Or will he hit the clubs with his lovely sidekick Deirdre? Find out on the next exciting episode of "Lucky Xenon and the Black Hole Battlers!"
LUCKY: Stop doing that.
DEIRDRE: 'Kay.
LUCKY: Hey, she left her death ray behind! Neat. I've always wanted one of these.
[Theme music "I'm Lucky Xenon" plays. Lights down as Lucky and Deirdre leave, taking the death ray with them. Enter the spotlit TEAL.]
TEAL: What you have just seen has absolutely nothing to do with our story. You may have already guessed this. However, it is of peripheral importance if we are to understand the mindset of our friend Floyd Martini, because for the past nine days, ever since his father Rex lent him the family TV set in the hopes he would take to the viewing of violence, that television set has refused to show anything but reruns of the program you have just seen, an ancient science-fiction sitcom written by Ian Leonard. This by itself is rather odd, but it is made even odder by the fact that the master tapes of many of these shows were thought to be destroyed, thirty years previous. A great many strange things are occurring on this stage of a world tonight, and a great many stranger things will occur here before this turbulent act is through.
[Exit TEAL. Lights up on Floyd's caged room, now noticeably redecorated to suit a Mt. Olympus taste, obviously Teal's influence. Furniture has been moved about and iron bars put up all around to give the impression of a makeshift military fort. FLOYD and the DOG (wearing a helmet and a camouflage dog sweater) have been camping out in here for over a week. There is a large hand-built tunnel pipe connecting near the door, and the television blares in the background.]
FLOYD: They're not so bad.
DOG: What's not so bad?
FLOYD: Good things.
DOG: I've been in here too long. I'm starting to hear things.
FLOYD: I'm a thing?
DOG: Yes.
[The cracking report of a gunshot zips through the air. The DOG jumps. Two more follow.]
DOG: That was just your parents killing someone, right?
FLOYD: Maybe.
DOG: How long have we been in here, Floyd?
FLOYD: Nine days, ten hours, and [checks watch] thirty-eight minutes. All for the sake of keeping our local goddess a secret.
DOG: How long do you think we can stay in here?
FLOYD: Until Myrtle or Rex notices we're gone.
DOG: They've noticed, they just don't care. Last night I heard Rex congratulating himself about you. He thinks you're in here watching his gun videos, becoming a man.
FLOYD: As opposed to a human being.
DOG: Or a salamander. Do we have any more baked beans?
FLOYD: I told the goddess to pick some up while you were sleeping.
DOG: How anyone can sleep in all this, I don't know. I can't even find the space to turn around once, much less three times. And that TV blaring all the time ...
TV ANNOUNCER: "Lucky Xenon and the Black Hole Battlers was written by Ian Leonard and produced by Pont du Vivre productions and the DBN Gramophone Corporation."
FLOYD: I don't mind it.
DOG: You don't even watch it.
FLOYD: Well, I can only watch that stuff when I'm alone. I'm polite enough not to subject anyone else to it.
DOG: I've been subjected to it for nine days straight now!
FLOYD: That's only because I don't know how to make it stop.
DOG: Why don't you take the television out of the room?
[pause. Both break out into uncontrollable laughter.]
DOG: Okay, I was kidding. I was just kidding.
FLOYD: Take it out of the room! Heh.
[a loud metallic "clunk" is heard. FLOYD and the DOG sit up bolt upright. At the other end of the stage, close to the audience, REX and MYRTLE enter, dragging a body with them.]
FLOYD: What's that?
DOG: Nothing important. Just your parents disposing of another body.
FLOYD: Right, right.
DOG: You know though, it is a good idea.
FLOYD: What is?
DOG: On a TV. When you're trying to sleep. The TV's loud, right? And it's hard to sleep, because of the TV, right?
FLOYD: Right, right.
DOG: So what if someone made a button, that you could just press, and presto, the power on the TV would go out, and you could sleep?
FLOYD: You mean, like an OFF button?
DOG: Yeah.
FLOYD: But what would you watch then?
DOG: ... Other people?
FLOYD: No, it would never work.
[REX and MYRTLE are seen squabbling a bit, dealing with the cumbersome and large body, which is in a doctor's uniform, finally dumping it backstage somewhere. They lean up against Floyd's door a bit.]
REX: Floyd!
MYRTLE: Honey?
FLOYD: [can't see them, but reacts and shouts] Yes?
MYRTLE: I ... we just wanted you to know that we support you, in whatever you're going to do.
REX: Whoo-hoo! Shoot the bastards, boy! Kill 'em all! Ee-hah! [grabs a rifle off a nearby rack and fires it upwards]
MYRTLE: Rex! The ceiling!
REX: Oh. Oh well, we can have it repaired.
MYRTLE: Honestly, Rex, sometimes when you've got your guns you act just like a child.
REX: Well, I had a violent upbringing. Didn't do me any harm.
[A male scream is heard, and the sound of a body dropping off a roof and hitting every branch of six trees on the way down, before a loud THUD. All is still.]
REX: What was that, boy?
FLOYD: Uh ... [looks at the dog, who shrugs. Neither of them have any idea what the sound was] Uh, just ... practicing!
REX: That's my boy! Haha! [REX jumps up and kicks the table over]
MYRTLE: Rex!
REX: Sorry.
MYRTLE: Let's leave Floyd to whatever he's going to do, dear.
REX: All right. Do we have any jerky? [the DOG perks up at this]
MYRTLE: In the cupboard.
REX: Just the way I like it.
[They leave to an unknown backstage area. The DOG shakes and bolts out in a wild, floor-scratching leap for the door. FLOYD grabs him by the hind legs, barely restraining him. He is clawing the door for all he's worth.]
FLOYD: No!
DOG: I gotta get some man, I gotta have it!
FLOYD: No! Bad dog! We can't leave this room!
DOG: Maybe you can't!
FLOYD: Stop!
DOG: I'm gonna do it! I'm gonna break the door down!
FLOYD: Look, Teal's going to be back in a moment!
DOG: I need jerky! I need jerky! IneedjerkyIneedjerkyIneedjerkyIneedjerky -
FLOYD: Quiet!
DOG: WOOF!
[The DOG kicks Floyd back and pushes the door open, tearing off in the general direction of that backstage area. FLOYD brushes himself off angrily, and grabs the doorknob, preparing to leave. Just then a metallic clanging and rustling sets in, and he looks behind him to see TEAL emerge from a secret pipeway. She is still in her dirty-burlap mode, but the burlap has been replaced with cheesily hip GAP-style clothing, in muted pinks and, yes, teals. She has large heart-shaped sunglasses on her head and sandals on her feet.]
TEAL: I knew you would try to escape, human Floyd.
FLOYD: No, I wasn't, Teal. Really!
TEAL: Tell me no lies. You seek to betray me. You would see this fallen Teal die.
FLOYD: No, please!
TEAL: Your pleas are of no interest to me. If you are against me you shall be privately drawn and quartered soon enough, and your head placed upon a pike for public display. Come, help me with the shopping bags. I have bought cheese dip.
[She reaches into the pipes and pulls out several shopping bags. FLOYD helps, and soon quite a lot of groceries are strewn all about.]
TEAL: Human, I have provided for you here, have I not?
FLOYD: Yes, yes you have.
TEAL: I have given you all you need to survive here happily?
FLOYD: Oh, certainly.
TEAL: Good. I would not wish to bring you to ruin. You are a decent human being, Floyd Martini, and deserve better than to be trapped under my influence.
FLOYD: I don't know what to say to that.
TEAL: Say "thank you," human.
FLOYD: That I can do. Thank you. I ... well, I've made a few more of the redecorations you asked for.
TEAL: I noticed. If only the planet were so easy to reshape as this room. The surroundings have some style now, even if they must remain considerably less clean than Olympus. They hurt the eye and tear at the heart, and I may grow mortally ill from the very sight of them, but they will suffice.
FLOYD: Thank you.
TEAL: You and your canine have provided for me well. If I could I would give you all the power in the world, but having no power of my own I can be no more than a mild annoyance to you.
FLOYD: Well, you're only human after all.
TEAL: Half-human.
FLOYD: Half-human. Right.
TEAL: Thank you for putting up with me, human Floyd.
FLOYD: Thank you for letting me put up with you, goddess Teal.
TEAL: [thinks] Oh, one last small matter. Did you hear a noise some moments back?
FLOYD: What sort of noise?
TEAL: A sort of AGGGGGGGGGHHHHOOFTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKAGGGGGHHHTHUD noise.
FLOYD: Yes, I think I did hear something like that.
TEAL: I heard it as well. It was an odd thing to hear. So I picked up that noise, and dragged it through this pipe with me.
FLOYD: What, the noise?
TEAL: Help me with it.
[FLOYD, against his better judgement, helps her reach into the pipe and pull out something large.]
FLOYD: It's heavy.
TEAL: Yes, louder noises generally are.
[Straining, they pull out the injured body of a teenage boy.]
FLOYD: Why, it's a body! He looks injured.
TEAL: Yes, he had a rather long fall off your roof. Bounced off a tree, and hit six thick branches on his way down.
FLOYD: He looks quite young.
TEAL: Yes, he was.
FLOYD: Do you think he's dead?
TEAL: Not at the moment, but my feelings may change given enough conclusive evidence to the contrary.
BOY: Urghh ....
FLOYD: That settles that.
TEAL: It's nice to be right.
FLOYD: Where do we put him?
TEAL: Stop asking questions, human, and make a decision yourself. Or is that impossible for your kind?
FLOYD: Difficult, but not impossible. [sighs] On the bed. We'll put him on the bed.
[And they do.]
What was he doing on my roof?
TEAL: That's a question, human.
FLOYD: Yes, and one I can't answer myself.
TEAL: I can't answer it either. Perhaps he can. [looks down at the BOY, who is not moving.] Or not. Actually, I believe he was fiddling with your television antenna. Have you noticed anything strange about that spoon-feeding media receptor of late?
FLOYD: Yes.
[pause]
TEAL: [annoyed] ... What have you noticed?
FLOYD: [smiling] That's a question, Teal.
TEAL: You have me there. [draws sword] But then I have you. Answer, Floyd. It's simply common courtesy.
FLOYD: Well, just after you arrived here, the teevee stopped showing the ordinary stuff, like gun shows and "Your government loves you" newsreels, and started showing only repeats of one old show, "Lucky Xenon and the Black Hole Battlers."
TEAL: Hmm. [sheathing sword] Yes, I know the program. Kit Yaddow was quite good as Lucky.
FLOYD: You actually saw the show?
TEAL: I watched two episodes, once. ... It was a favorite of Hermes.
FLOYD: Ah.
BOY: Urghhh ...
TEAL: [placing hand over the BOY's face] He's cold to the touch. Alive, but in shock. These are critical moments.
FLOYD: Eh, let him sleep it off.
[A loud crash and male scream. With blinding speed the DOG bolts through the scene, breaking the door open once again and sliding across the floor clumsily.]
DOG: [out of breath, ranting] The jerky's on the top shelf. I couldn't reach it. I'm a failure as a dog. But I tried. Oh, how I tried. I climbed the walls and very nearly flew, trying to reach the stars on wings of jerky. In the end I had to settle for a milkbone instead. Oh, and I think I might have killed your father.
REX: [offstage voice only, very distant] Ow! Oh, ah! AHH ...
MYRTLE: [voice only] Rex! Rex, no! He's just a dog! Rex, put down that gun!
[Another clatter of noise.]
FLOYD: He'll be all right.
DOG: Who's the stiff?
FLOYD: Don't know. It's a kid. Fell off the roof.
TEAL: He's not dead yet.
DOG: [looks about, and then has a sudden and startling revelation] You've been SHOPPING!
TEAL: Yes.
DOG: [dancing, tearing through bags] SHOPPING SHOPPING SHOPPING SHOPPING SHOP-PING!
FLOYD: Yes.
TEAL: I bought you the beef products you asked f ...
DOG: [producing a small package, the discovery of his life] JERKY! AHAHHAHHHAAAAAHH!! Oh pickled temptress, we meet again at last. Soon you will know what it means to be once more entrapped in my salivating embrace. JERKY! JERRRKYYY! AND IT'S ALL MINE!
FLOYD: Uh.
DOG: BACK OFF, TWO-LEGS! AHHHAHHAHAHHAHAHAAAA - AAAOW!
[without raising an eyebrow, TEAL has brought her hand down in a swift chopping motion and disabled the DOG, who falls unconscious on the floor, still clutching his prize and mumbling "jerky ... jerky ..."]
TEAL: I will need some time alone. Where can I find a literary version of all your world's information, as rewritten for the intelligence level of a slightly dim fourth-grader?
FLOYD: Oh, that would be the encyclopedia. I don't think we've got one anymore, though. Rex burned all the books last year. No, wait - mother buried them in the bomb shelter. It's outside. Looks like a bomb shelter. You can't miss it.
TEAL: So I go, and with due reason, though unclear to you in this dark season. Crawl on, Floydkind.
FLOYD: Same back atcha.
[TEAL leaves the room via the pipe. FLOYD seems lost in thought. The DOG is still paralyzed, unmoving on the floor.]
DOG: I know what you're thinking, and you can forget it right now.
FLOYD: What?
DOG: [chewing thoughtfully on jerky stick] Come on man, I've got eyes. I've seen how you look at the girl when you think no one's watching.
FLOYD: It's just a look.
DOG: Then the eyes have it. There are six hundred and twenty-one factors working against you, and I'll give you the first three. One, she's not interested in you. Two, she's tried to kill you three times a day since she came here. Three, she's completely and incurably insane, if you haven't noticed.
FLOYD: I've noticed. I call it eccentric.
DOG: She's a loon! She's stark raving buggo! Admit it! And you being interested in her is as crazy as she is. Unless that's why you're interested in her. You've never had a serious relationship in your sad, sheltered life, why start now? And if that's true you deserve each other.
FLOYD: All right, all right. You're just mad because she knocked you flat in the middle of a meal.
DOG: That's reason five hundred and thirteen.
FLOYD: Give or take.
DOG: No. And that reminds me, I still haven't paid her back for that chop.
FLOYD: Wait, stop ...
[But the DOG clatters off on all fours through the pipe.]
DOG [voice only, distant and tinny]: Hey, how's it going? I was thinking we could have a sort of rematch, you know? Heyyyy ...
[An enormous shattering THWACK. The DOG flies back through the pipe as if rocket-propelled, and crashes hard through everything in FLOYD's room. The mutt lies there, twitching, for a bit.]
DOG [staggering to feet, slurred] I got a few good taunts in. She knows I'm tough. She's runnin' scared ... [falls down again, heavily. Without getting up or seeming to regain any consciousness he simply claws his way out the door and slides offstage.]
FLOYD: ... It's so quiet. [pause] Not a sound in the world. It's as if all the motion, all the screaming, clatter and noise there ever was has simply ended, all around me. No toasters, no washing machines, no government advertisements. Nothing. [pause] It's almost scary. But kind of nice. At last, it feels like I can think. Yes. The silence makes me want to reconsider everything. Solve mysteries of the universe. Write poetry. Create art. Change things. [very long pause] ... I'm bored. Wonder what's on the television. Lucky Xenon again. Right.
[he has gotten up, and turns on that particular appliance.]
TELEVISION VOICE: Tonight, on "Death by Request ..."
FLOYD: Hey! Where's Lucky Xenon?
TELEVISION VOICE: ... one of these three contestants will be electrocuted for crimes against the government, live - but not too live! - on your teevee screen.
FLOYD: Geez, this bites. What a gyp.
TELEVISION VOICE: And now, the producer, host and star of "Death by Request," Kit Yaddow! [canned applause is heard]
FLOYD: Oh Kit, you've sunk to a new low.
TV VOICE OF KIT: [same voice as the RECORD PRODUCER and LUCKY XENON] Thank you, thank you folks. Oh, you're too kind. Stop it. No, I mean it. Stop it. I don't need this. Stop it, or I'll have to hurt all of you ...
[FLOYD turns the TV set off in disgust, and sits back down near the bed.]
FLOYD: What happened? I had a good thing going here. I didn't need to leave the room. I had lots of cereal, processed meats and jell-o. No death and propaganda on the teevee, only cheap sci-fi comedy. Now that's gone. I may just have to leave this room next. [stands, paces, looks at the still-unconscious BOY] It's the kid's fault. He was messing with the antenna. He put the teevee back to normal. He killed Lucky Xenon. Who am I supposed to identify with now? Look at me. I'm talking to myself. I'm thinking, and it hurts. I need some noise.
[He knocks over piles of junk and produces a small guitar, which he begins to strum in a detached way.]
How did that theme song go again?
Lucky Xenon, friend to the ...
No.
Lucky Xeeenon ...
I can't remember. I'm losing my mind. That's all right. I'll write my own song.
I'm Lucky Xenon, king of the world
Got an oxygen smile for a nitrogen girl
A twenty-ton ship and a robot named Dave
I'll behave, so long as no one tries to stand in my way
I'm Lucky Xenon, I've never been touched
I am one with the stars, and we cannot be crushed
Twenty suns are ahead, and I'm planning to fly
I won't die, there's too much to be done with today
[The BOY now sits up and begins to speak for the first time. But it is not the voice we expect. He speaks like the head of a major university - it is the voice of an old man.]
BOY: [mostly speaking rather than sung]
I'm Lucky Xenon, but I'm getting quite old
My bones are weak, and space is awfully cold
Twenty suns have set, time to swallow my pride
Go inside, have some brandy and provide for the young
FLOYD: [as in response]
I'm Lucky Xenon, meeting the great
Flying out into the universe to face my fate
I've chatted with the gods, and if fortune smiles
In a while, I'll discover how they have thir fun
BOY: Who is Lucky Xenon? Is he myth or a man?
We're all zipping round the sun without a clue or a plan
Corporal, disengage! I want permission to dream!
I've not seen any future, but it's now that we dance
FLOYD: I'm Lucky Xenon, straining to see
I'd never seen the world, until the world found me
Ignoring all the empty, there are heavens above
I'm in love with a girl, and I haven't a chance
BOY: When will Lucky Xenon learn he's only a schmoe?
A never-stopping, planet-hopping regular Joe?
Let him and others live in their moon-beaming hopes
They're dopes, but it's lovely! So are you, so am I
FLOYD: I'm Lucky Xenon, whatever they say
Enjoying sugared cereal beyond the Milky Way
There's no past, there's no present, there's no future in time
What is mine here is everyone's, so reach for that sky
I'm Lucky Xenon, but heavens above
I'm in love, stuck in love, stuck in love ...
[he pauses a moment, wondering what he's been singing, and who he's been singing it with. He turns and talks to the BOY.] You're awake.
BOY: I'm awake. Alive too, for the most part, though with all parts containing more than the expected amount of pain.
FLOYD: Serves you right for fiddling on my roof. What were you trying to do, kill me?
BOY: I was simply fixing your TV reception.
FLOYD: Yes, trying to kill me, just as I suspected.
BOY: Heh. Teevee's not dangerous, boy. In uncreative hands it simply represents a lack of ideas. Ideas are dangerous, so a lack of ideas would logically be non-dangerous. Quod Erat Demonstration-Model.
FLOYD: You're an odd fellow. Who are you, anyway?
BOY: You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
FLOYD: You haven't told me, and I don't believe you already.
BOY: Ah, a failure before I've even tried to become one. Never mind, I'm used to it.
FLOYD: You'll have to tell me sometime. This isn't a safe place, here. There are guns and swords and axes and wild dogs here.
BOY: The American Way in action! Lovely. I must take notes. [Produces a notepad and paper from his pocket, perhaps from a windbreaker jacket he's wearing.] What are the wild dogs' names?
FLOYD: There's only one.
BOY: Has he got a name?
FLOYD: I don't think so. I've never asked him.
BOY: Perfect. [writes this down]
FLOYD: You're a writer, then?
BOY: I'm not going to answer that. I shouldn't be here in the first place. Telling you anything about myself would only compound my many recent mistakes.
FLOYD: Mistakes?
BOY: Oh, do pay attention. It was a mistake your television tapped into my frequency ...
FLOYD: Your frequency? Lucky Xenon?
BOY: Yes. It was a mistake I found out about it, it was a mistake that I was thus forced to come and correct it, it was a mistake that I fell and injured myself near-fatally in the process, it was a mistake that you found me and tended to me here, and it is thus a mistake that I find myself here now.
FLOYD: That you find yourself here now?
BOY: Not yet, but I continue to look for me. What is your name, Floyd Martini?
FLOYD: That's an odd question.
BOY: Well, it's redundant. Sorry. I could think of no other way of conveying your own name to you.
FLOYD: I already know my own name.
BOY: It's a good start.
FLOYD: What I want to know is - how do YOU know it?
BOY: You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
FLOYD: You'll choke on those words someday.
BOY: One of the risks of life, Mr. Martini. You're fairly bright, for a young fellow.
FLOYD: [flatly] You're quite young yourself, or haven't you noticed?
BOY: Me? No, I'm far from young. My best years are long behind me.
FLOYD: Oh, come on. How old are you? Thirteen, fourteen?
BOY: I'll be eighty-five next January.
FLOYD: [laughs] You're not much of a liar.
BOY: I'm not a liar at all.
FLOYD: Fine, be that way. But I won't feel sorry for you on your sixteenth birthday, when you need a motor license but think you're too old to drive. [laughs]
BOY: I told you you wouldn't believe me.
FLOYD: You've not told me anything yet. Nothing that makes much sense, anyway.
BOY: How about my name, Floyd? Could we start with that?
FLOYD: Sure, why not?
BOY: Well, I'll tell you in a little while. I thrive on suspense.
[Lights down on the FLOYD'S ROOM portion of the set, and up on the LIVING ROOM portion. The DOG is there, fueling himself with jerky and plotting a bit.]
DOG: Ohh, this time I'm going to get her. This time she'll get what's coming, get it good. She thinks she can just waltz in here ranting about gods, shut me up with cheap-grade jerky and a bit of judo, angling for the affections of my human? She's picked the wrong mutt to mess with. I'll give her a [motions] WHAAH! and a PHWOAARR! and a WHAT-HA! Right up the spine.
[footsteps are heard in the distance]
Yipe, she's coming!
[he runs and hides, and is seen no more. TEAL enters, looking lost - she is seeing the living room for the first time, and holding an encyclopedia ... M, for "Mythology, Classical," and open to that article.]
TEAL: Not a single word in my favor! Pages on Athena, Apollo, Artemis and Aphrodite, but nothing on me! Me, the nameless wonder who tamed the hundred hounds of Hephaestus! Me, who taught the stars to twinkle and the willows to weep! Me, who wrote the only definitive guide to the mind of Hades! Me! First on Olympus, but clearly last on earth. What a friggin' letdown.
[Enter MYRTLE, wiping her hands]
MYRTLE: Oh! ... Hello.
TEAL: Oh, uh, hi!
MYRTLE: Who are you?
TEAL: I'm ... just ... visiting.
MYRTLE: Nice to meet you. I'm Myrtle.
TEAL: I know. You've been tending to your husband.
MYRTLE: Yeah. I think he'll be okay, but he yells a lot. Got a nasty bump on his head. Tripped over the dog.
TEAL: You should bathe the wound in the ashes of Vesuvius, and weave a bandage from the flaxen saliva of Ophion the world-serpent. That is, if you wish your husband to regain his full strength.
MYRTLE: I might, at that. You're ... visiting, are you?
TEAL: Yes. I am coming door-to-door to research a new edition of this earth encyclopaedia. Did you know there's not a single paragraph in the entire classical mythology section devoted to Teal, the goddess of namelessness?
MYRTLE: Well, that's surely an oversight, isn't it? I have the same problem with pancake-mix directions.
TEAL: Should I discover it was a purposeful decision to render me thus into historical oblivion, those responsible shall be purged of their errors in fire.
MYRTLE: Oh, you can't do that. You've got to keep them light and fluffy, otherwise they'll never taste right without syrup.
TEAL: [placing hand on MYRTLE's shoulder] You are a woman of great strength and wisdom. May the heroes of Olympus bless forever your earth-trodding feet. [she leaves]
MYRTLE: Oh! Thank you! Do visit again! ... Well, wasn't she nice. I wonder who that was, anyway.
REX'S VOICE [calling from offstage]: MYRTLE!
MYRTLE: I'm coming, I'm coming! ... Honestly. Men and babies. After experience with both one finds there's no difference whatsoever. Hmph.
[MYRTLE exits towards the center of the stage, upstairs to tend to the injured. Lights down on the living room, and up on Floyd's room, where TEAL lingers at the door reading, opening it just as the lights hit her. FLOYD and the BOY are still there.]
TEAL: Oh, uh. Uh! Damn. I'm beginning to pick up the slurs and pauses of the earthbound. How very, like, frightening. And stuff.
FLOYD: Hello.
TEAL: He's ... you're ...
BOY: Awake? Yes.
FLOYD: [to the BOY] This is Teal, the woman who saved you. She's half-goddess, but nice really.
BOY: [taking her hand] Charmed.
FLOYD: And Teal, this is, uh ...
BOY: Ian Leonard. Pleased to meet you.
FLOYD: What??
BOY: Ian Leonard. Once a writer, twice a fool. Three for a dollar, or your money back.
FLOYD: Look I'm sorry, you are not Ian Leonard. Ian Leonard has been writing for over forty years. You've not been walking for half that long.
BOY: I've never suggested, boy, that life makes sense. I simply present it as I see it, which can be amusing considering that I'm spiritually blind.
FLOYD: Black Hole Battlers radio show, series 5, show 6.
BOY: You've wasted your life, Floyd.
FLOYD: I know. You may know his work, but you've got to tell me who you really are. Mr. Leonard is a favorite of mine, but ...
BOY: But he's dead.
FLOYD: What? No!
BOY: Been dead for eleven years now. Death was always the thing I feared most. Spent all my life trying not to reach the big 5-oh, trying not to die. I suppose some days I forgot how to live. But I made it through; I kept writing, under this and other names, to pay the bills, changed my age twice a decade on every government form I could find, and when I finally did trip on past my prime, I went into hiding. It was about this time I became extremely interested in cell division. You know how an amoeba reproduces, Floyd? It just grows a bit, pulls apart, and splits itself into two perfect copies. An amoeba never changes, never ages, Floyd.
FLOYD: Lucky Xenon tv show, series 2, show 3, "Reproduco the Great." Marvellous villain.
BOY [IAN]: Exactly. Well, my beloved wife Paula and I had produced a son in the traditional way already. She called him Sean ...
TEAL: Mr. Leonard, Ian ...
BOY [IAN]: Sean, actually, if we must be technical. The second of that great line. You see, it occurred to me that a man might live forever if only he could make his offspring an exact copy of himself. It wasn't easy, of course. I would have to train the creature 24 hours a day, from day one, and it was already half a year old. Now normally in rearing a child you let the thing choose its own path, and teach it morals and positive values, knowing that the outside world would corrupt it soon enough. Well, I had no such luxury. I would have to corrupt the child myself, in the exact same ways I'd been corrupted, only faster. I let the baby play at cards and drink alcohol. I stubbed its toes, gave it dying grasshoppers to play with, and called it names.
FLOYD: Now I don't think this is really ...
BOY [IAN]: It worked. The thing responded to hardship as if born for it. When I began to speak to it every waking hour and tell it stories detailing every quirk of my soul and event of my life, it was uniquely receptive. I was uniquely receptive. That was what my father gave to me. He made me into Ian Leonard. What was in him flowed directly into me, and it took nine long years. When all he was had been spent, and he had no more to give me, he simply wasted away and died. Paula, poor, lovely, perfect Paula, she couldn't take the strain of life with and yet without him, and died soon after. So was I spared the trauma of having a wife for a mother, a mother for a wife. I buried them by hand in a dirt grave. It was a thursday. I left our hollow to build another, and keep on writing, eighty years old in a ten-year-old body.
TEAL: That's horrible! I mean, that's the most awful thing I've ever heard!
BOY [IAN]: What's so awful about it? My good lady, death is awful. Life is joyous. I am alive! That's the important thing.
TEAL: What about morals, and free will? What about Sean?
BOY [IAN]: Sean is dead. I rather doubt he ever lived at all. Certainly he never made much of a positive impression on me.
TEAL: Did you love him?
IAN: How could I? Do you love your wastepaper basket? That's all he was, a receptacle. A man can't be expected to love a receptacle. Come on girl, don't overthink this. Every father wants to live on through his son. What about you, Floyd? How much of your papa is in you?
[during the previous dialogue, FLOYD has sat down limply on the floor and buried his head in his hands.]
FLOYD: It's not a fair ... it's just ... not.
IAN: Speak up there, boy. My hearing's not what it used to be.
FLOYD: I said it doesn't seem a fair thing for me to judge!
IAN: So be it. I always said, no one wants to make decisions anymore in this world. So, let them not make them. Let them avoid. Let the whole world avoid everything. Then we'll see where we are when the next comet hits!
[FLOYD stands up, looking down, and heads slowly in the direction of the door.]
FLOYD: Would you excuse me a moment?
TEAL: Floyd, where are you going?
FLOYD: I just need some fresh air, that's all.
TEAL: No, Floyd, don't. Please, don't.
FLOYD: I've got to do it, Teal. If I don't leave this house now I never will. Let me pass.
TEAL: Floyd, you can leave later. We can leave together! You were going to show me all about advertising, big industry, Sherlock Holmes, the Lone Ranger, the Easter Bunny! You were going to show me Egg MacMuffins, Floyd! Please don't leave without showing me that.
FLOYD: Teal, another day. If I don't come back you'll have to come look for me, and I doubt I'll be there to be found.
TEAL: Floyd! You can't leave! Floyd, I ... need you.
FLOYD: You do?
IAN: Don't listen to the girl, Floyd. Go ahead, leave! Shirk your responsibilities! Doom yourself to a life of unconnected idiocy, just like everyone else your age!
FLOYD: What the hell are you talking about? You don't know me!
IAN: I know your kind. Arrogant, artless, and absent of any respect, honor, and simple mental function. It's the new generation, ye of black lipstick, controlled substances and teflon bullets, and frankly you can have yourselves stuffed for all the interest I'm going to take in you. Without minds, without joy ... [FLOYD has stormed out and slammed the door]
TEAL: Floyd!
IAN: ... WITHOUT HOPE!
TEAL: [exploding] Ooooh! You, you ...
IAN: Me, me, what?
TEAL: You're a very nasty man. That's all I have to say right now. [she storms out the door, and the lights follow her.] Floyd! [she catches up to him in the living room] Floyd, where are you going?
FLOYD: Oh, nowhere now, I guess. Life is getting so complicated. The last few days have been so difficult ... they've been good, it was nice having you here, just difficult, that's all.
TEAL: Floyd, you're a human. The gods protect humans like pets. You'll never have to deal with anyone who's actually running the universe, or do battle with senatorial representatives of pure good and pure evil. On Olympus, everything is black and white, far larger and tougher than life could ever be. On earth you will always be small, and grey, and lucky beyond imagining.
FLOYD: I can't take this, Teal. I don't know what it is, but I can't take it anymore. It's too hard.
TEAL: You don't know what hardship is, Floyd.
FLOYD: Teal, since the day I was born I have never once left this house. Until last week it never even occurred to me that one day I might want to. Now all of a sudden it's occurred to me just how trapped I am, day after day breathing the same air and staring at the same four walls. Books say there are billions of people in this world. I've met about twelve of them, and half of those were dead. That doesn't make a world. I'd certainly never met anyone like you.
TEAL: Like me how?
FLOYD: Where do I start? [laughs] Look, I'll admit I don't believe in any of this goddess stuff, but you're a strong person, intelligent and good. In a little while I'm going to walk out that door. Maybe not this minute, maybe not the next, maybe not inside the hour, but within a day or so certainly. And when I do, you're going to find someplace else to stay, and learn to live as a human. Maybe I'm gonna have to as well.
TEAL: I know all about your world, Floyd. It's not a particularly interesting or happy place. You may have to fill out income tax, and wait in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles. These things may disturb you. But I wish you luck in your journey.
FLOYD: Thanks. You may not know it, but these past few days you've helped me ... a lot.
TEAL: I will continue to help you, human Floyd, for I am coming with you.
[FLOYD gives a look of shock. The doorbell rings.]
FLOYD: Hold that thought.
[The doorbell chimes again, pressed over and over by a seemingly very impatient visitor. FLOYD turns toward the door.]
It's unlocked!
[It continues to chime. FLOYD grabs the doorknob. TEAL hides. FLOYD looks shocked for a moment, but recovers.]
I'm getting it, I'm getting it, all right? Geez.
[FLOYD opens the door. Immediately a STRANGE UGLY MIDGET enters and punches him hard in the groin. FLOYD doubles over in pain. ANOTHER MIDGET enters after, dressed as a medieval herald and holding a large beribboned trumpet, which he/she/it sounds a fanfare on. The PRIEST can almost fully be seen in the door, standing boredly.]
ANOTHER MIDGET: [with too much bravado] Presenting the most rightly honorable Reverending Minister Pastor Vicar and Cardinal Bishop of this particular area, James Michael Soddingworth the [grunt]nth, a Priest.
[The two MIDGETS applaud as the PRIEST enters, yawning, dulled to the world. He wears a long red and black robe with patchwork ornamentation and gold all over it, a frighteningly wealthy corruption of the attire of various popular religions. He also wears a large war helmet, peaked like a bishop's mitre with a cartoonishly huge yellow cross on top of it. Also, a crooked gold staff which could pass for a weapon, and shoes but no pants. His bare legs show.]
PRIEST: Right then, man of God calling, step aside, puny sinner.
FLOYD: What's going on here?
PRIEST: I'm making a religious housecall to provide the word of our Lord to you in your hour of need.
FLOYD: Oh.
PRIEST: What hour is it, by the way?
FLOYD: I don't know, but it's beginning to feel dark early.
PRIEST: Good. What is your name?
FLOYD: You don't know it? I thought ...
PRIEST: You'll think nothing, heathen. You would deny a priest entry into your home?
FLOYD: Well, no, never, I guess ...
PRIEST: You would deny my sacred presence and render your household unclean in the eyes of our Lord? You would give yourself into the whims of the devil, who resides with snarling fangs and teeth in all religions except my own, forever and ever Amen?
MIDGETS: Amen.
FLOYD: Well, no ...
PRIEST: You would deny yourself enough spiritual cleansing to one day enter the kingdom of heaven, and instead wallow with the dogs and Jewish people in the slimy muck of sin?
FLOYD: Uh ...
PRIEST: Don't make me smack you, kid. [gestures with staff]
FLOYD: No then.
PRIEST: I don't believe it! This child of evil is denying me a stay of rest in his own home!
MIDGETS: Shame, shame.
PRIEST: I come here to save you from yourself, filthy thing, and you deny me a chair?
FLOYD: No.
PRIEST: You deny me a bed?
FLOYD: No.
PRIEST: You deny me a three-course dinner and six bottles of whiskey for the road?
FLOYD: Uh ...
PRIEST: Thanks, right, your soul is saved.
[The PRIEST walks off, belching a bit and making a mess of the room, sitting down and making himself comfortable. FLOYD stands dumfounded. The second MIDGET blows another fanfare, then smashes Floyd's kneecaps in with his trumpet.]
FLOYD: Aaagh!
[Enter REX, staggering uneasily through the center-stage door. Most of his head is in bandages, slightly bloodied, and his right arm is in a sling. He looks drowsy, and limps.]
REX: Who's making all the noise in here?
[The MIDGETS point at Floyd. The PRIEST, scratching himself, rises.]
PRIEST: Are you in charge here?
REX: Don't answer a question with a question.
PRIEST: Don't answer a questioned line of questioning with a non-answer. Are you in charge here? Are you important?
REX: I am the head of the household, yes.
PRIEST: Permit myself to introduce me. I am a priest. I've come for dinner.
FLOYD: Oh, don't start that again.
REX: Floyd, quiet! [taking PRIEST's hand] This is a man of God! God is power. Power is glory. Glory is money. Of course you can stay. MOTHER!
[enter MYRTLE, running, through same doorway.]
MYRTLE: Wife, dear. Oh! [notices PRIEST, with respect] Hello.
PRIEST: [suave] Hello.
REX: Uh, this is my ...
PRIEST: Yes. Yes! You've done well for yourself here, mate! ... Charmed.
[PRIEST takes MYRTLE's hand and kisses it. She giggles. The MIDGETS hover in a very intrusive and ominous way around a powerless FLOYD.]
PRIEST: [to REX] Well, like I say, I've just come for the money. The whiskey! No, I've come here for her, for her dinner. Your wife. Son. I've come for your son. That's it. I've come here to save your son from sin, hell, and mortal danger.
REX: He's not my son. I'm just his father. She gave birth to him. That was the start of the problems.
PRIEST: Wicked from the start, eh? Well, we'll soon fix that. I'll need supplies. A Bible, lots of steak, corn, potatoes, greens, bakery biscuits, and whiskey.
MYRTLE: I'll get to work on dinner right away.
[During this, TEAL has come out of hiding and is wandering about in the background. No one has paid much notice of her, until:]
PRIEST: Who's that, then?
[Everyone turns and looks.]
MYRTLE: Oh, that's just the encyclopedia saleswoman. She's very nice, I think.
PRIEST: Oh, she's nice. Holy bejeezus, she's great. She's something, isn't she? She is what it is.
TEAL: Go staple yourself to a tree.
PRIEST: She's got spunk, she has. I don't like spunk.
MYRTLE: Won't you stay for dinner?
TEAL: Yes, I won't.
MYRTLE: Oh, you must! She must, mustn't she?
FLOYD: No, no, I'm sure she's had a very long day, selling encyclopedias and all.
PRIEST: Oh, nonsense. She'll stay for dinner.
MYRTLE: You'll stay for dinner.
TEAL: I'll ... stay for dinner?
PRIEST: That's a good girl, take it unlike a man.
TEAL: Please die, now.
PRIEST: No thank you.
[During this the DOG has entered again, also unnoticed, but jumps back for fear of TEAL and keeps his distance.]
PRIEST: [noticing DOG] Aaagh! A demon!
FLOYD: A dog! It's just a dog, really.
PRIEST: Same difference. It must be destroyed. Its soul is black. This room needs purging.
FLOYD: How do you purge a room?
PRIEST: Simple. Everyone leave, and we'll clean it out.
FLOYD: Who'll clean it out, if everyone's gone?
PRIEST: Some things you just have to leave up to faith. Anyway, the dog. Yes. I think I know what to do. [produces a large gun from inside his robes]
MYRTLE: [screams]
DOG: [barks]
FLOYD: No, no, no, this is all wrong! God is a force of good. God doesn't tell us to kill.
PRIEST: Oh, don't be naive. Read the old testament sometime and then tell me God doesn't want me to have a gun. It's a sacrifice.
TEAL: A sacrifice for what purpose?
PRIEST: For the purpose of random, heartless violence, of course. Don't you watch television?
MYRTLE: Yes we do. We are the target for a constant stream of false advertising, empty claims, cheap sex, glamorized violence, and easy, pointless morality lessons with no basis in real living. [the DOG sneaks away during this] We are a typical television viewing family.
REX: And violently proud of it!
PRIEST: That's good. Our church is built upon the principle of television watching, you see. We are Televisualists. It's a very popular belief system, you see, because it doesn't require doing anything. You can just sit like a blob, snacking, gaining weight, not thinking, not doing anything for your fellow man, and still have faith in the almighty television.
FLOYD: You sound a bit cynical about it.
PRIEST: Well, I'm a cynical person.
FLOYD: Then why did you go into religion?
PRIEST: Oh, for the money, of course.
[The first MIDGET punches FLOYD and runs off.]
MYRTLE: Is there much money in religion?
PRIEST: Oh, bucketloads of it! Promising people heaven is wonderfully easy work, because you don't have to deliver on the promise until after they're dead, and then they can't exactly ask for their money back, you know? [laughs hoarsely and loudly] What percentage of the world's population do you think are leaders, and which just mindless followers?
TEAL: 50% leaders, 50% followers.
PRIEST: Try half a percent leaders, and 99.5 percent gullible idiots.
TEAL: No.
PRIEST: It's a wonderful world for a leader, because no one wants to actually do anything anymore. No one wants to leave the house [TEAL nudges FLOYD], to make a difference, to make their name live on in memory. It takes too much effort, and most everyone is fat and lazy at heart. All it takes is a few fancy words and you can lead the world wherever you want it. It's a brilliantly easy life, for someone like me. All I had to do was make following my religion easier than thinking. Are you fixing dinner?
MYRTLE: Yes, yes, I'm getting to work on it. Rex, where's the remote control?
REX: What, for the television?
MYRTLE: No, for the oven, Rex.
REX: I don't know. You know I never learned to cook. Too many buttons.
MYRTLE: Oh well, I'll find it myself.
PRIEST: And be snappy about it. The saints starved and died for our sins. I don't want to be next.
MYRTLE: Funny man.
TEAL: Isn't he, though? Not funny ha-ha, though, more like funny shoot-the-bastard-right-now.
PRIEST: Thanks.
REX: She just insulted you, man! Aren't you angry?
PRIEST: The church is forgiving. I don't mind a little abuse now and then, I just want the money.
[MYRTLE has exited into the kitchen, to fix dinner.]
FLOYD: Did you say exactly ... what church you represent, Mr. Priest?
[The second MIDGET punches FLOYD and runs off. The first enters again.]
PRIEST: Yes, I didn't. I am founder, president and acting God of the Noble Order of Priesthood Attacking a Non-Televisual Society.
TEAL: The Noble Order of Priesthood Attacking a Non-Televisual Society??
PRIEST: NOPANTS for short. [lifts up robe to expose bare legs and heavy boxer shorts.]
MIDGETS: [singing] Nooooo Paaaaants.
REX: Very nice.
PRIEST: It's one of the most popular rules of our faith. Neither I nor my followers is allowed to wear pants during periods of intense televisual faith-perception.
MIDGET 1: Teevee watching.
PRIEST: As you have no doubt discovered on your own, once the pants have been removed, there is no hope of doing anything productive for the world, as would run counter to our faith. Instead, our followers wake and sleep in their underwear, sitting down in an easy chair and meditating upon their television viewing. If the daily ritual of faith - fourteen hours of television viewing per day - the person need never move at all, thus completing the Holy Rut of Televisual Faith.
MIDGETS: [singing] Nooooo Paaaaants.
REX: Sounds good to me.
PRIEST: Yes, it would. [notices FLOYD's expression of uncontrolled disgust] You don't like me much, do you, unholy one?
FLOYD: No, no I don't.
PRIEST: Why not?
FLOYD: You're a con artist, you're selling fake religion, you're robbing people of, of their money, their livelihood, you're turning them into teevee-breathing vegetables ...
PRIEST: Oh, our religion is much more than just televisual meditation, o sacrificable one. We have lots of community activities.
TEAL: Such as?
PRIEST: Well, for example, this Sunday we're having a mass.
REX: A mass?
PRIEST: Mass suicide. You should come. [FLOYD gives look of utter disbelief and terror] Oh, don't be such a baby. You don't have to participate. You can just watch. It's amazing. Last month two hundred people simultaneously gave up their lives for the cause. What that cause was, they couldn't quite say, but boy were they into it.
REX: [fascinated] Was there blood?
PRIEST: Oh, buckets. Too much to get up, even with a professional rug cleaner.
REX: You do it on carpet then?
PRIEST: Well, it makes them feel more comfortable.
REX: How do they do it? With, with a snub-nosed revolver in the mouth?
PRIEST: No, we give them all hari-kari swords. You know, old Japanese samurai things.
REX: Oh, excellent!
PRIEST: Yes, got two cartons of the things smuggled in after the Really Great War.
TEAL: But why would anyone do such a thing?
PRIEST: Human stupidity. No, they do it for God.
[pause]
TEAL: Which God?
PRIEST: God!
TEAL: [slower] Which God?
PRIEST: The God! You know, the only God!
TEAL: I don't know which God you're talking about.
PRIEST: God! Just ... God! You can't have any other Gods except God, it's ungodly!
TEAL: All right.
PRIEST: There is only one God. People live, die, and kill for their God.
TEAL: I think I can understand that. I've had some training in Godliness. I should probably get to know your God.
PRIEST: That's a good girl. Put all your bits into the arms of the one true faith.
TEAL: So, tell me a bit about your God.
PRIEST: Well, he's very big.
TEAL: It's a he, then.
PRIEST: Oh yes, he'd have to be.
TEAL: Why?
PRIEST: Because we all started to write about him long before we could accept any positive literary female role models.
TEAL: Right. What else?
PRIEST: He's very old.
TEAL: What does he do?
PRIEST: He watches. All of us, all the time.
TEAL: Everywhere?
PRIEST: Anywhere.
TEAL: How creepy.
PRIEST: No, it's not what he does really, it's what he DID.
TEAL: What did he do?
PRIEST: He created the world in six or seven days.
TEAL: All of it?
PRIEST: Yes.
TEAL: No help?
PRIEST: No help.
TEAL: No evolution?
PRIEST: No evolution.
TEAL: I'm sorry, but as a thinking person I can't accept that.
PRIEST: Well, accept it as a fable.
TEAL: You mean, a literary device?
PRIEST: Yes. Like, maybe someone wrote it a very long time ago ...
TEAL: Someone who couldn't accept any positive female role models ...
PRIEST: Yes, and they had to dress it up a bit to make it sound prettier.
TEAL: All right. I can accept that. But there's still a God.
PRIEST: Still a God.
TEAL: Your God.
PRIEST: My God.
TEAL: That everyone you know believes in.
PRIEST: And puts their faith in utterly.
TEAL: And he's big, and old, and created the world, and did everything that put us here, right now.
PRIEST: Exactly.
TEAL: That's some God.
PRIEST: You better believe it.
TEAL: So, what's this God's name?
[pause]
PRIEST: [darkly] ... what?
TEAL: If this God's so great, what's his name?
[pause]
PRIEST: [quietly] God.
TEAL: What?
PRIEST: His name's God.
TEAL: No, he is a God. What's his name?
PRIEST: He can't be named God?
TEAL: No.
[Pause. Quite a long one really.]
PRIEST: His name is ... his name ... I ...
[Absolute silence. A bell rings.]
MYRTLE [entering from kitchen]: Dinner's ready!
PRIEST: Oh, thank God.
[Everyone pushes past MYRTLE and leaves for the kitchen, except FLOYD.]
FLOYD: That priest, his philosophy ... Is that what it's like, out there?
MYRTLE: No. No, it isn't.
[MYRTLE smiles a bit and heads back into the kitchen. One of the MIDGETS comes out of the kitchen and shoves FLOYD. FLOYD, amazingly, shoves back. As FLOYD pushes the MIDGET into the kitchen, we fade to black. Out of that kitchen emerges the black-suited, spotlighted, shades-wearing narration version of TEAL, in a nice quick-change.]
TEAL: Our young friend Floyd Martini has accused this cynical and rather rude visiting Priest of selling false religion. But what is real religion? It means something different to everyone who believes in it, which explains the millions of different shades of faith on earth alone. But nearly all real religion has one basic idea in common - that humans are something more than mere bundles of flesh. A human is born an animal, no better than a cat, a walrus, or a stockbroker. Humans fight for food, they crawl on two legs, they grunt, they respirate, they eat and excrete. They survive to let another generation do the same. But ever since the human race began, its runners have somehow had the strange suspicion that there was more to life, that perhaps humans are thinking beings, built for a higher purpose, possessing a luminous soul, and sharing their universe with a variety of Gods and higher intelligences. Having been brought up as a Goddess, I know this to be true. I've seen it, and need no further proof. The problem with our priest is that he assumes life has no meaning, and money is worth fighting for. He has, in short, got it the wrong way round. We'll not be taking our places at this strange dinner party for a while, but in the meantime have faith.
[TEAL exits. The lights come up very slightly to reveal FLOYD, who is standing by the door and clearly contemplating opening it. Behind him, MYRTLE and perhaps TEAL are setting a large table for dinner as the others lounge about unproductively.]
FLOYD: Hello, door. I'm not afraid of you anymore. You're keeping shut, trying to hide what's behind you. But you can't hide the world from me much longer. Whatever's out there, I can take it. I want to take it. What would you think if I just opened you? Right now? Hmm? HA!
[FLOYD savagely rips the door open.]
MYRTLE: Come help set the table, Floyd!
[FLOYD suddenly seems to snap back to an unpleasant reality. He does not speak.]
MYRTLE: Floyd!
FLOYD: Yes, I'm coming.
[FLOYD looks at the door briefly, then shuts it.]
MYRTLE [almost singing]:
This is where the fork goes
To the right of the plate, parallel to the knife
Not getting in the way of the spoon
(There are two of those)
This is where our lives go
Pressed hard upon the chair, with the social obligation
Somewhere inbetween the sun and the moon
Yes, when your home is burdened with a guest
They're expecting nothing but your very best
And you can either kick them out and get some rest
Or do what society expects
This is where the love goes
Snuck in when none expect it, hope they don't reject it
Some lose control while we purchase a soul
Oh, but nothing worth knowing is known
As we fall others rise, let them all live their lies
For the future's sake
Make your own ...
[The light goes out of the scene, and out of Floyd, as the table is set. This will continue mostly in shadow, the guests seated and the food placed, during the next scene. But FLOYD will not sit down, and instead wander, in shadow. Lights come up very slowly on the FLOYD's ROOM set, where IAN and the TELEVISION are seated near one another. The DOG is also there, asleep. There is utter silence for some time.]
TELEVISION VOICE: The Race for the Presidency of these United States has been cancelled due to lack of interest. Instead, we bring you the numbing hiss of static nothingness.
[The television hisses very softly, and continues to do so during the next speech.]
IAN: Do you think I'm a failure? [pause] I do, sometimes. But you never really can know, can you? What you're supposed to be doing, in life. Whether or not you've done it right. What effect you've had on people. You can only really know what effect they've had on you. [coughs] I don't believe in life after death. It just seems like a facile concept, an easy way out for people who would otherwise die in doubt. I guess we all feel like screw-ups, at the end. I wonder if there ever are any really successful people.
TELEVISION VOICE: [stops hissing] Oh, don't be so depressive.
IAN: I'm just saying ...
TV: Look, the only reason people's lives don't work is because they spend half of them looking for new reasons to be unhappy.
IAN: What do you know, you're only a stupid television set.
[the TV says nothing, then begins, very softly, to cry.]
IAN: Oh, please don't -- I didn't mean, really, I ...!
TV: [bawling] You don't love me anymore!
IAN: Darling, no. Don't say that.
TV: You don't! I knew it when you married that, that Paula person.
IAN: Well, she WAS the truest and deepest love of my life, you know, more beautiful and perfect than all the stars in the sky and asking nothing of me for her gift of undying love.
TV: Yeah, well, whatever. Just ... whatever.
IAN: Look, Teevee, you know I'll always come back to you. You gave me the best years of my life, and I gave you yours.
TV: I think you've got that the wrong way around.
IAN: You always were so gloriously technical.
TV: Why don't you ever write for me anymore? I miss showing your programs every week. I miss your scripts. I miss you.
IAN: Well, I got Lucky Xenon beamed into this house nonstop for over a week, you must have enjoyed that.
TV: Eh, the TV version never quite reached the potential suggested by the radio shows.
IAN: Can't you be grateful for small favors?
TV: I'm sorry, I'm cursed with a 1/24th of a second attention span.
IAN: Aren't we all. [coughs, is beginning to sound genuinely old]
TV: Why did you come here, anyway?
[during this FLOYD has wandered in, unnoticed.]
IAN: You want to know the truth, the real truth?
TV: Do I ever?
IAN: Eh, I'll tell you anyway. The truth is, I came here because of a letter.
TV: A letter? Like on paper, a letter?
IAN: Well, I printed it out after reading it, just to be old-fashioned. It deserved it. It was such a marvelous letter.
TV: A fan letter? More ego-stroking?
IAN: Yes. Well, not exactly. It was pure praise, constant and unstopping, written out carefully and precisely in old-fashioned poetic prose, every word labored over to spread a gratefulness for my talent to all the four winds.
TV: Blech.
IAN: The problem was, it was in praise of something I didn't write.
TV: Ha! Really?
IAN: Yep.
TV: What was the piece?
IAN: Something I sent in to Squash magazine about two months ago. I told them it wasn't my piece, that I was only recommending it, but apparently they put my name on it anyway, or else that letter wouldn't have come to me. Pity, too, the fellow really did love that article. Almost wish I had written it.
TV: So, who did write it?
IAN: Sean did. [FLOYD reacts in shock. No one notices.]
TV: ... Your son?
IAN: Yeah.
TV: I thought he was dead.
IAN: Well, he must have dug himself up for a bit.
TV: Oh, come on.
IAN: The article got written, didn't it?
TV: I don't understand. Ian, YOU'RE Sean.
IAN: Yes, but he's not me. I certainly didn't write that article.
FLOYD: Why did you do it, Ian?
IAN: Who's there? Oh, you.
FLOYD: Why did you do it?
IAN: Why did I do what?
FLOYD: Why did you ruin Sean's life to save your own?
IAN: I thought I could fight death. [coughs]
FLOYD: Congratulate yourself then. At that, at the very least, you've succeeded.
TV: No he hasn't.
FLOYD: What?
TV: Are you blind, kid? Can't you see he's dying of old age?
FLOYD: He's not old! He's a teenager! No one dies as a teenager!
IAN: Listen to the television, Floyd! [coughs] I'm afraid she's quite right. I don't think I have long for this world.
FLOYD: Look, everyone is legally entitled to 50 years of life. It's like a debit card. You're cashing it in a little bit every second of your life, but you can never run out until your time is spent. You're on Sean's time now, Ian, and it'll be an even hundred for you. No one's coming to kill you.
IAN: No one has to. I'm doing a pretty good job of dying on my own.
FLOYD: What are you talking about?
IAN: I don't need anyone's help to die, kid.
FLOYD: You can't commit suicide! That's illegal. They execute people who commit suicide. It's a little redundant, admittedly ...
IAN: I'm not going to commit suicide!
FLOYD: Okay, great! Well, then, cheer up. You've got, what, 35 years left now? Good times, good times.
TV: No, no, no, don't you know anything, Floyd?
FLOYD: Why is this television set talking to me?
TV: I've always talked to you! I talk to everyone, every moment of your lives! But I'm made of plastic, transistors, and a great big vacuum. I'm not real, I have no soul. I'm too bottom-heavy and lazy to speak for myself.
IAN: Oh, don't say that, you're really quite attractive, for a major appliance.
TV: And since I don't have much of a mind of my own, Floyd, I have to accept what other people give me. I take signals from the air and spend my entire life trying to take the pictures and sounds that make sense and give them to you, so that I can talk to you, so that I can teach you. Clearly I've not been teaching anyone the right things.
FLOYD: It's the networks, it's their fault. Don't blame yourself. You've been a great help, really.
TV: The important thing is, Floyd, people die. It's a fact of life.
FLOYD: At fifty. They die at fifty. People come and kill them, with guns and knives and H-bombs.
TV: No. That's just a convenience. The truth is, even if no one ever did anything violent to anyone, everyone would still die, naturally.
FLOYD: What are you talking about?
IAN: There's something that used to exist, Floyd. It was called Old Age. People would eventually, after being alive for a certain length of time, stop being slim and healthy and attractive. They would have gained great wisdom, and lost their innocence, and also in some cases their hair and teeth. They would forget things, and their backs would ache and they'd have irregular bowel movements ...
FLOYD: How horrible!
IAN: No, it's wonderful. It's the most natural thing there ever was.
FLOYD: I don't understand.
IAN: [grabbing FLOYD's arm] Once upon a time, Floyd, people never knew when they were going to die. They didn't have to live in dread, and forever be counting down the seconds til the axeman would arrive. They were free to enjoy life, and not always have to fight to be young and beautiful, because they understood that most folks who are young and beautiful are also dumb, and that understanding the world makes you a little bit uglier but much happier for the journey.
FLOYD: You're talking crazy talk!
IAN: Do you want to know why everyone has to die at fifty, Floyd?
FLOYD: [trying to get out of IAN's grip] No, no!
TV: It's because of me. Old people just don't have the marketing appeal the networks are looking for.
FLOYD: I don't want to hear this!
TV: They aren't pretty enough to be splashed on the screen in living color, they don't constantly waste their money on whatever the advertisers are selling, and most importantly, they don't like to be pandered to. Why do you think teevee always seems to be talking down to the viewer? It shuts them up. It stops them from thinking. It stops them from questioning the message. And what is the message, Floyd?
FLOYD: [almost in tears] I don't know!
TV: Buy, buy, buy! Yes, in only three easy payments of $19.99 you can be young forever. And now, here's a testimonial from a famous celebrity you've got to love.
[FLOYD is in shock as KIT YADDOW, aka the PRODUCER, aka LUCKY XENON, enters, walking sideways to stare straight at the audience and looking, thanks to lighting and a wooden performance, somewhat grainy, prerecorded and two-dimensional. He is holding an orange juice.]
KIT: Hi, I'm a celebrity. I'm better than you. My name, if it matters, is Kit Yaddow. You will remember me from such television series as "Murder, He Committed," "Supermodels for Hire," "Lucky Xenon and the Black Hole Battlers," and the syndicated "Death By Request." Buy this product, now. You know you want to. It's freaking great. Ha, ha!
[KIT stops perfectly still]
TV: You identify with Kit, don't you, Floyd?
FLOYD: I, I don't, no ...
IAN: It's all right, you can admit it. I used to identify with him too. But have you ever noticed he never seems to age? Doesn't that seem at all strange to you?
FLOYD: Look, I don't think I can take any more of this! I am quite honestly about to scream, and yell, and blow twenty-seven separate tubes in my brain and crumple up into a fetal position on the floor, twitching slightly and emitting soft whimpering noises! It's just too much for me, can't you understand? I was happy in my little world! Why have you got to come and destroy it?
[No one says anything. IAN looks downward, slightly guiltily.]
FLOYD: Well? ... [pause] ... Graah, I give up!
[FLOYD storms off and out of the room. We just barely see him in the dark.]
FLOYD [voice only, offscreen]: Right, what's for dinner?
[There is a long and total silence in FLOYD's room.]
TV: Tonight on VTN, all our light entertainment budget's been embezzled by an unscrupulous network president, so there will be no funny violence tonight. Instead, we're going to explore the wacky world of graphic sex, with a fifteen-part series on the mating habits of ...
[IAN shuts off the television, and it makes a subtle, groaning, almost dying sort of noise. KIT, still smiling, crumples very slowly into a heap on the floor.]
IAN: [not quite singing, very softly]
I was Lucky Xenon, but it's no longer my time.
There will be no great adventure for one beyond his prime.
Go, run away, kid, have some joy while you can
Before this world can crush you, turn you into a man.
Grab your best jumpsuit, some anti-grav boots
Make sure your hair is properly curled
Build a fire for the dog with the captain's log
And get ready to save several worlds
For another Lucky Xenon now, it's time to explore
Out the door, shut the door, je t'adore
Paula, Paula . . . Oh well. Good luck, Floyd. I hope someone, somewhere, gives you half a chance to make life worthwhile. A kid, just a kid. I knew a kid once . . .
[And the lights close down on Mr. IAN LEONARD.]
END OF ACT II
ACT III
THE SCENE OF A POPULAR CRIME
[The curtain opens on twinkling lights and indistinct shapes. But they fall away quickly, and we are dropped, far too fast, with a splash and a thud and a too-bright, painful, sudden burst of light, like turning on the sun with a light switch. No fade, just a sudden snap of light, and we see the dinner-party in all its glory. The kitchen table has somehow expanded itself, with the help of about three extra tables, and forms a perfect thin horizontal slash, bedecked almost to bursting with food. Corn, potatoes, greens, and bakery biscuits. The PRIEST sits at the center with a Bible and whiskey bottle, and there is a sudden absurd resemblance to Da Vinci's fragile Last Supper. REX, TEAL in her mall-suit and FLOYD are also present. TEAL is wearing the black clothing seen in her "narrator" guise, minus the sunglasses and not as extreme. This is never explained. Perhaps a large bluish biewscreen hangs at the back of the stage, resembling a television set. This could be helpful in staging certain scenes later. The DOG enters.]
DOG: Look at that meal. I mean, look at it. Really look, for once! It's incredible! Glorious corn, bakery biscuits. Potato fritters. Whatever that green stuff is. What a spread. There'll be steak later too. So much food, just so much wonderful food. And none of it for me. I bet they'll hate it. They'll complain about the spices, and say it wasn't cooked right. They never pay any attention to what they actually have. I do. And I've got nothing. I shouldn't swear, but WOOF! I mean it, WOOF! Pardon my language. How did the human race ever get to such a position of power over me? They're gonna eat like kings, while I'm starving here on the floor. If I even slide over to demean myself whimpering for table scraps, they'll kick me in the head! I have to pull myself together and face facts. I'm a slave here. A non-working slave. They'll keep me alive if I can keep a nice head of hair on me and not bite strangers. The humans own this world, not the dogs. How did this ever happen? Have I been asleep while the great evolutionary change occurred? I seem to remember a time when my race was king, when wild dogs were free to hunt humans through the grass and do battle with vicious, hundred-foot-tall prehistoric tennis balls. Or did I just dream it? It couldn't be. I feel it in me too strongly. Maybe I'm dreaming, and I'll wake up tomorrow sitting in a chair eating all that wonderful food, with the humans on the floor getting kicked in the head for gristle scraps. Sooner or later we'll all have to face the possibility that we're somebody else's dream.
[The kitchen door opens, and the DOG rushes inside and exits as MYRTLE enters, with a big steaming purple steak, five feet wide and one foot tall. She closes the door behind her, and we hear a whimper and thud, like the dog's been hit in the head. The PRIEST looks behind him and beams with happiness, licking his lips.
PRIEST: Marvelous steak.
TEAL: Floyd, do I exist?
FLOYD: What kind of a question is that?
[MYRTLE sets the steak down, and blesses it with her fingers.]
MYRTLE: One, two, one, one, two.
PRIEST: One, two, what?
REX: Never mind it. It's a blessing. Let's get on with the meal.
TEAL: Bit of a peculiar blessing.
MYRTLE: It's not really a blessing, more of a dance step. My mother taught it to me. She used to say that there were a hundred thousand different ways to bless a person's life, but only a few would let that person go out with rhythm.
REX: Why are you blessing the steak, Myrtle? The steak didn't die.
PRIEST: Ah, but it's about to, I can taste it. Come on, she's said the blessing. Gimme gimme gimme.
MYRTLE: A cow died to make this steak. If a cow's not worth blessing I don't know what is.
FLOYD: Steak doesn't come from cows, does it?
REX: No Floyd, steak comes from steak. Let's eat.
FLOYD: Every once in a while I get this strange feeling that I'm not being told everything. This is one of those times.
REX: It's only to protect you.
FLOYD: Protect me from what? Understanding what's going on? If I can't understand what's happening to the world, how can I know what I'm supposed to be doing about it?
MYRTLE: It's a time-honored process, Floyd. The parents try to pretend they're smarter than their kids, and keep them that way by witholding information, guidance, and love. This way, every generation is free to improve itself by becoming more disconnected and stupid than the last, until civilization finally fails and we all revert to a primitive state, so the cycle can start all over again. More biscuits, anyone?
REX: Please.
FLOYD: I'm still completely confused.
MYRTLE: Steak comes from cows, son. They're slaughtered in flesh-shredding machines and poured out into piles of meat, bones and crushed organs so that we can suck on their blood-soaked remains to stay happily alive at their expense. That's where evolution has gotten us. Drink your milk, dear.
TEAL: I wouldn't talk about evolution, Mrs. Martini.
MYRTLE: Why not?
TEAL: There's a [gestures toward PRIEST] listening.
REX: Huh?
PRIEST: I think she means me.
TEAL: I mean nothing, sir.
PRIEST: It's quite all right. I know there's long been a tradition in the church to ignore such things as evolution, since they suggest that the Bible might actually be a genuinely nice bit of poetic and thoughtful literature, rather than the confusing, unreadable thing we're quoted on sundays. But you'll find that my religion has no such pretenses. We're constantly changing to match the times. If bits of the Bible don't suit me, I tear 'em out. Who cares? No one's reading it anyway.
FLOYD: That's terrible!
PRIEST: Hey, people want a Church that accepts evolution, smack dab in the middle of a Church that still reads the Bible literally. You can't have it both ways. So we've thrown out Genesis. And Song of Solomon. And some of the little ones in the middle. It's minimalist religion. By the time we've thrown the entire book out and replaced it with a series of animated videos, we'll be able to say anything we want.
TEAL: So you accept evolution as scientific fact?
PRIEST: Only on weekdays. Thursday we accept evolution, but oppose the theory of gravity. [FLOYD, startled, chokes on his milk.] We call it "Fall-Up Day."
TEAL: Gravity, sir, is not a theory. it is a law.
PRIEST: The president breaks the law. Why can't I?
TEAL: You are exasperating company and unpleasant to talk to.
PRIEST: [smiling wide] You're not so bad yourself.
TEAL: [smiling wider] If you suddenly ceased to exist I'd be better.
PRIEST: You seem to be having existential questions yourself. I can't figure out if you're pretending to be someone you're not, or if you simply don't know who you are. [TEAL, now very angry, gets up and throws the PRIEST across the room.] Jesus stinkin' Christ!
MYRTLE: Be kind to the company, young one.
TEAL: But he's evil!
MYRTLE: It doesn't matter. Just smile and be kind and don't sink down to his level. Show him all the social graces he lacks, and once you've outdone him in every department eventually he'll become so embarrassed he'll become quiet as a mouse.
TEAL: Then we shall lock him in a golden cage at the top of a mountain, to do battle with the scavenging termites and gryphons, who will see his bones picked clean within a fortnight!
MYRTLE: You encyclopedia salespeople have such peculiar manners.
PRIEST: I'm sorry if I've seemed rude.
TEAL: Well, you have.
FLOYD: You're the only truly contemptible person at this dinner-table.
PRIEST: [sitting back down] Well, have YOU ever tried to live your life as a priest? It's freaking hard. I never wanted to go into religion. I never understood it. I wanted to become a personal injury lawyer.
FLOYD: Why didn't you?
PRIEST: Didn't have the grades for it. Got rejected by one too many colleges, and got more and more depressed. I was very hard on myself. Started to diet to excess. I was heavily into yogurt for a while. But they never told me that was fr