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Vampire in a Cage:
A Night in the Theater as a Story
Stage Direction: The actors speak. The Orators describe. There is much stage direction so the Orators speak frequently.
Prologue
The Male Orator (MO) dressed in formal attire walks stage right. A dim spotlight follows him across the stage. It is difficult to see his face. He stops at the corner of stage right. As the action proceeds, the MO describes:
Here was not total darkness. A good thing for with total darkness, the human mind desires panic, to run. It was the easiest decision; fear for fear’s sake, rational thought disrupted, reason becomes centered on one word, escape. But add a small quantity of light with the addition of some gently rolling mist darkness flips into dusk, and oddly this combination generates sadness or maybe romance, not fright. A little light can drive emotion one hundred and eighty degrees around, a clear distinction. With the further addition of frail clicking of thick but sharp claws within an enclosed chilly duskiness though, emotions conflict, do battle with each other and then comes confusion. Yes. What was happening here? Along with the clicks there is a panting, maybe an enormous dog? What else could it be?
But confusion is a common enough of an emotion. It’s so common that most people don’t recognize it as unique; on the contrary, they see it as a normal state of affairs. People are much too comfortable with confusion. Confusion means the inherent complexity of the Universe has gotten too near and then abruptly bursts forth, coming quickly into focus. Confusion comes from a moderate rate of realization, if that rate is much too quick, startled is the resulting emotion. Startled brings with it the fight or flight reflex and escape again is the focus. Reflex speed required. Emotions are too slow a response. Reflex is immediate and single-minded. But reflexes can be contradictory too. They can cancel each other out, negate a body into immobility. The response then is only stand and wait, stand and wait. Wait for what? That is the confusing part?
Stand and wait until something changes. Something moves ahead. Anything. And here something just did.
Was it the volume of the sound or its persistent echo that made it startling? Or was it the sharpness of the metallic clang. Surely, it was a sound that would wake the dead; the very thing it might have just done. Either way, it was a slam in an enclosed darkened space, thus an abrupt impact in an intensely emotional space, a hard space, a contracting, small space.
Small only, relative to the rest of the world. Minuscule relative to the volume of outer space. Nothing compared to the infinite Universe. But as a man-made enclosure, humanity’s constructed protection from that immense outside, it was a large basement. Although, considering the present circumstances, a more descriptive word such as dungeon might come to mind for most reasonable people. Yet, no designated dungeons existed in Oregon, specifically in such a wealthy Portland suburb as was here.
The MO spotlight fades to black but the MO remains. The Male Orator-No Spot (MONS)
The Circumstance
The Female Orator (FO) in a formal gown is similarly followed by a dim spotlight as she crosses stage left. The FO stops, corner stage left, her face is obscured by dimness too. The FO describes as the action proceeds.
It was dim but not too dim for the mammalian eye. Milk producing animal’s black and white night vision was designed to adjust, to operate in low light levels. All mammals evolved from rat-like, nocturnal creature. Night-active, borrowing creatures well adapted to dim, dark and dank. A dungeon thus shouldn’t be frightening to a mammal, it should be perceived as evolutionary Home. Dungeons thus should generate contentment not fear in humans, but they don’t. Even frightened eyes though still adjust, so a large cage slowly came into view; a tall, slim metal barred enclosure. The startling sound had come from that stark structure encapsulating, trapping a man wearing a tuxedo. He was just pulling himself upright in the center of the cage. He was oddly calm while standing in a cautious fashion. It demonstrated that he was not afraid. Why wasn’t he afraid? His smooth face contained almost a smile. The face was the higher primate’s socialization mechanism, the ape’s communication device that predated language, existing long before words inception. Thus lies existed long before the word lie for the tuxedoed man’s face seemed to be lying about something. All too confusing, these circumstances.
A distant but familiar foghorn made itself obvious. The Pacific Ocean wasn’t so far away that it remained unnoticed at night. And then there was a close sound, a scuffling in the surrounding dark, a repeating shuffle that could have been footfalls. Ancient rat feet had also adapted, were modified, eventually molded for the modern world, exactly like those rat eyes had adapted. Dark to light; rocky and uneven to flat and predictable. Feet were clawless now. Clumsy, non-grasping feet. Feet that required fabricated protection. Soft feet needing soled shoes.
It was another man. This man was afraid. He moved abruptly, lacking caution, as if he were confused and very afraid. Fear and confusion, the mixed drink, the cocktail of modern man, was woefully obvious in him. This dangerous mixture intoxicated modern society allowing, propagating so many foolish, unthought-out, and harmful acts. The drunkenness of fright was clear, so was that of vodka. Both were conspicuous. Both with their unique scents.
The tuxedoed caged man only moved his dark adapted eyes to track the fright filled meandering of the free man. The foghorn sounded over a dull pulse, a slow pulse. It could have been the ocean’s waves. It could have been anything. It wasn’t the free man.
The FO spotlight fades to black but the FO remains. The Female Orator-No Spot (FONS)
Act I - The Confusion
MONS: There should have been an all encompassing smell of fear in this make-shift dungeon or the smell of neglect or decay or mold, instead the smell was contrary to expectation, a confusing smell. It was a pleasurable scent, something like lilacs in a pasture. It just wasn’t right. Not for such a setting. But so much was not right here that the free man hadn’t noticed the lilacs. So many little details that he hardly noticed anything at all. Another far too common trait of the modern world, too focused on a single point to see the rest of reality. Artificial blinders for the horse of progress? No more internal than that, more personal. Tunnel vision was the sanctuary for the modern human brain, an escape from complexity, from the chaos of the world, the perpetual this’s and that’s that pester us all. Escape from the persistent complications. Too much of everything, too much of the time. And the caged man’s recognizable smile emphasized these contradictions.
FONS: There was an unfamiliar siren far more distant than the foghorn. It was sharper and more forceful than that, simply impolitely belching horn, so much strength, so insistent that siren, it whined itself easily into the layered sounds. A bully of a sound, the siren immediately jumped to the top of the stacked moodiness, otherwise there was localized silence as the free man stumbled to a stop. The caged man remained upright and calm. He had few other choices.
CM: “Do I know you?”
MONS: The caged man’s voice reflected his posture, controlled and powerful.
FM: “You should!”
FONS: The free man’s voice squeaked out abruptly.
FM: “If you don’t? Why did you come?”
CM: “I don’t know a lot of people.”
MONS: The caged man chuckled. There seemed to be a fire near by, the scent of smoke overpowered the lilacs.
CM: “It was you that sent me the invitation, such a proper invitation. Formal with no R.S.V.P. required. It was nicely produced. Care was visible in its construction. How could I refuse someone with such caring and sense of detail?”
FM: “An invitation from a total stranger.”
FONS: The free man kicked something heavy on the floor, the dullness of its rush away from his clawless foot sounded almost like a moan.
FM: “And you just showed up.”
FONS: A shadow accompanied the moan in its flight.
CM: “If I turned down invitations from strangers, how’d I ever meet new people?”
MONS: The caged man’s chuckle seemed to produce peppermint scent, maybe a lozenge, no more smoke, another contradiction?
CM: “I like meeting new people.”
MONS: There was a shrug with this comment.
FM: “I bet you do.”
FONS: Whined the free man.
CM: “I do. No bets necessary.”
MONS: The caged man smoothed the ruffles of his formal shirt.
CM: “A bit over dressed for such a unique, ah, and intimate gathering. Is this a type of surprise party? My birthday is months away. The cage was a nice, although an odd touch. Unnecessary too. I never resist warmth and affection.”
MONS: The caged man’s chuckle brought back lilacs in green pastures. The pulse of the ocean filled any intermittent silence.
FM: “Bah! Warmth? Affection? For your kind with such frozen hearts?”
FONS: The free man kicked something metallic. It objected to the abuse, noisily.
CM: “And what kind is that?”
MONS: The caged man breathed in deeply.
FM: “You know . . . your kind . . . The kind . . . that kind that should always be caged.”
FONS: The free man wiped his forehead with his left forearm. Despite the cool duskiness, the free man sweat abundantly.
FM: “Never thought it would be so easy.”
CM: “Easy to what?”
FM: “Trap you.”
CM: “If it was a party gimmick, why would I avoid it? That would spoil everyone’s fun.”
MONS: The caged man’s expression was stern. The scent of aftershave escaped from it somehow.
FM: “’S’not a party!”
FONS: The free man kicked more things. They too objected to the abuse and scattered conspicuously. Shadows ran in every direction.
MONS: The smoke came back more intensely.
CM: “Then what is it? This?”
MONS: There was another siren, but closer this time. It was as unfamiliar as the previous one. Sirens were designed for just this characteristic, perpetual unfamiliarity. And then, not to be left out, the foghorn sounded, always the old friend.
FM: “You killed her! I know!”
FONS: The free man cried and whined at the same time.
MONS: And the caged man exhaled. Despite the chill, his tuxedo jacket was gone. The whiteness of the formal ruffled shirt radiated like someone switched on a light or was it only a reflection of aberrant lost lighthouse beam? And there was the smell of almonds as the caged man demanded.
CM: “That’s not a what, that’s a who, but I am willing to switch the question to Who?”
FM: “You know.”
FONS: The free man’s shuffle followed with a bang of a fallen metal chair.
CM: “If I knew I wouldn’t have asked such a question as Who.”
MONS: His bow tie had been an off white but now it was simply off. The almonds were accented with mint.
CM: “I prefer efficiency. I question only when necessary, so still it, the two questions remain, who and what? Please clarify these things?”
FM: “Then you admit you killed her.”
FONS: There was a stumble and a thump in the local darkness. And there was also some other distant noise closer than the foghorn and much less friendly; a moan or a cat cry. It was too indistinct.
CM: “How could I admit to killing someone I don’t know?”
MONS: The shirt was no longer frilled nor bright.
FM: “Your kind doesn’t need to know their victims.”
FONS: The free man gasped as if someone had grabbed him around the throat. He struggled to regain his breath. He wheezed loudly with that conflict.
CM: “I’m not a politician, if that’s what you think.”
MONS: The caged man wasn’t smiling.
FM: “I’ve heard about your kind. All of Portland knows your kind.”
FONS: The free man coughed.
FM: “Blogged.”
FONS: And he pulled in a large quantity of stale, unnecessary air.
CM: “Shanghaiing is an Oregon tradition. You think I’m a Shanghaier? That’s just 1800s ghost stories, to scare the kids. They did exist, just white slavers, human traffickers, of a sort.”
MONS: The caged man frowned with a scent of an extinguished wood fire.
CM: “Are you accusing me of enslaving your lady friend and then letting her die? I’m much too practical for that. Not a good business practice; abusing and then destroying your own inventory.”
MONS: A laugh would have been appropriate here but there was none.
FM: “Stop these denials!”
FONS: The free man screamed. It became clear that there were true rats in the make-shift dungeon, they squeaked in complaint of his excessively expressed emotion.
CM: “I have denied nothing other than knowledge. I don’t understand what’s happening here.”
MONS: The caged man cleared his throat with the scent of roses.
CM: “This is not very entertaining, innovative but not much fun.”
FM: “Fun! Fun? Fun was the last thing . . . not my intent.”
FONS: The free man’s whine was shrill but weak. He was losing strength.
CM: “Then you have succeeded.”
MONS: The caged man looked around slowly, but knowingly.
CM: “No fun here anywhere.”
FM: “When did vampires get to be comedians?”
FONS: His whine had fallen further to more of a whisper.
CM: “Vampires? How would I know what vampires would or wouldn’t do?”
MONS: A sharp smell of dieing roses assaulted the air. The shirt was a little blue to match the caged man’s thin tie.
CM: “You must have me confused with someone or something else.”
MONS: A laugh like cinnamon was appropriate here.
CM: “I am not a mythologist or a film maker. The horror films are made further north. Seattle. Canada does a lot.”
MONS: He pointed in one direction, behind him.
FM: “Stop this!”
FONS: The free man screamed out with rediscovered force.
FM: “This is ridiculous . . . everyone in the city knows. After that incident. The vid clips.”
FONS: The free man’s voice was raspy, strained after his screams. This time the foghorn criticized his misuse of voice and emotion.
FM: “Your whole firm, it was clear, everyone saw it, vampires all! The dead were all found bloodless!”
CM: “We are lawyers, true. Some of our unhappier clients do call us bloodsuckers.”
MONS: The caged man laughed long and deeply, almost too deeply for a man his size.
CM: “But that? That was tabloid journalism. A Halloween prank. Just a marketing ploy. Boost revenues at the expense of other’s reputations. Who would believe anything they see on the Internet? Read in the newspapers? All rubbish, worthless distractions for adolescents and drunks.”
MONS: The caged man waved his right hand dismissively with the scent of almonds in the air.
FM: “No need to believe. People know. I know.”
FONS: The free man’s voice was ominous and threatening.
FM: “Seen.”
CM: “Knowing? In this world of virtual facts and professional falsehoods?”
MONS: The caged man laughed without humor.
FM: “I know you’re a vampire.”
FONS: The free man’s whisper was determined but frail.
CM: “Then you are confusing reality with fiction, a myth. Vampires don’t exist.”
MONS: The caged man’s laugh changed to a chuckle and an amused shrug.
CM: “I’ve lived long enough, too long to know that. I know that. We have a conflict of knows then I guess.”
MONS: The distant pulse filled the silence as did the breathing of the two men. All proceeded at different rates.
FONS: The free man sucked in way too much air, it made him dizzier, and then said,
FM: “Admit you murdered Justine. You killed her. I have caught you. I have you trapped.”
FONS: The free man sputtered into tears.
FM: “She’s gone. I can’t bare it!”
FONS: There was a bang in the dark.
FM: “You won’t get away this time. Not like the last time!”
FONS: His breathing was erratic. He coughed.
FM: “Just because I was powerless to save her doesn’t mean I am impotent with you.”
FONS: The free man sobbed and then stopped. With a roar he hurled a metal chair against the bars of the cage. The sound was chaotic but ultimately a disappointing, futile gesture. The resulting silence intensified that futility. The caged man hadn’t flinched or ducked or even held up his hands, but he hadn’t smiled either.
MONS: The caged man’s flannel shirt was more appropriate for the make-shift dungeon as was the scent of decay and mold.
CM: “Ah, loss of a loved one can be so disorienting. Tragedy can be almost hallucinatory. Pain is a drug too. Bad medicine. A torture of a treatment, so is revenge.”
MONS: The caged man’s voice reached out, as soothing as a balm.
CM: “I think I understand the What now. So, so, sorry for your loss. But I didn’t kill Justine.”
MONS: Although his lips didn’t smile, his voice did.
CM: “Nor am I a mythical beast.”
FM: “So you admit you know her.”
FONS: The free man gulped loudly with emotion.
FM: “Ah, knew her.”
FONS: He kicked a metal chair, except for the self-inflected pain in his foot, another noisy futile maneuver.
CM: “I knew a Justine that died, true. Consumption, the modern form, drug resistant tuberculosis, it was. Her lungs were eaten away, consumed, like a cornfield by locust. Not something a vampire would do, I think? Life sucking true, only no blood.”
MONS: It smelled of soot and a fire extinguished. The caged man’s blue jeans were as appropriate now as the flannel shirt.
CM: “A lovely woman, this Justine. At fundraisers we would meet.”
MONS: The sea-damp of the distant ocean varnished the air, hardening the mood, sharpening the sound.
CM: “Where the carrion is, there the eagles will gather.”
MONS: The caged man’s eyes glowed slightly with their glee.
CM: “Money seekers flock around the moneyed folk, such willing prey. They love the attention so much, rather unnatural, actually.”
MONS: A knowing chuckled.
FM: “You lie!”
FONS: The free man screamed out. It startled a door somewhere in the house into slamming.
MONS: The smell was of diesel exhaust from a malfunctioning semi-truck. And the caged man’s black hair appeared to be gray, going to white.
CM: “About what? Dishonesty is routine but still a dangerous accusation. Take care wielding such a sharp tongue.”
FM: “You killed her.”
CM: “She is dead.”
MONS: But his hair was black after all.
CM: “There is no question of that. An honest statement, there.”
FONS: Only an interfered silence replied. It wasn’t actual silence, just the familiar background noise, too common to be noticed. The dull pulse was there as was a song somewhere that came and went.
CM: “So you’re going to kill me, because she is dead? The What is revenge, yes. But if I were a vampire? This has always confused me. If you kill the undead, they become the un-undead. Does the double negative cancel out the dead part and make them alive?”
MONS: The interfered silence remained.
CM: “So, simple destruction is your goal. My destruction as a revenge, a vengeance to compensate for your love’s loss. My death for her death? A life for a life? Even Steven? Facts don’t matter. Very Republican. Very Biblical. Very much an accounting solution, balance sheet justice, but misdirected and futile. But why all of this, ah, elaboration? Why the trap? Why not an assignation? Why this atmosphere. Why this theater?”
MONS: The caged man frowned.
CM: “I admit, I don’t understand this at all. I understand grief, but you will have to explain the rest of this elaborate dramatic chaos.”
FM: “Why did you let her go? You didn’t have to.”
FONS: The free man sobbed for a moment and then sighed deeply, desperately.
FM: “You could have made her one of the undead.”
FONS: The free man whined.
FM: “That’s the least you could have done.”
FONS: He screamed that. It startled the contemporary basement rats further. They scuffled around on little rat feet, smallest of nails on concrete.
FM: “She would have been the most beautiful vampire.”
FONS: He sobbed.
MONS: Ozone does have a distinct odor. No one can describe its uniqueness without speaking of electricity and the caged man frowned.
CM: “You are confused my dear fellow. Grief has deranged you, made you stupid. Revenge is an impotent tool in these matters. Incorrect, too! It can’t bring back the dead.”
FM: “Confused?”
FONS: The free man sniffed.
FM: “Well, yes but not with this. Vampires can do that if they chose. They can make more vampires. Where else would vampires come from?”
FONS: The free man’s sigh seemed like tears.
FM: “Animate the dead, even as the undead, she would still be here . . . somewhere . . . still with me?”
CM: “This is a scolding then?”
MONS: The caged man rubbed his long white neck.
CM: “Equally futile though. I never listened to my mother, why listen to you?”
MONS: The caged man sighed.
CM: “An ancient saying from the past, ‘there are only three things to be done with a woman; love her, suffer for her or turn her into literature.”
MONS: It was a scent that should have belonged to a flower, if it didn’t already.
CM: “If God were anything he / she would be art. Why not make Justine art, a pleasant little comedy instead of a bloody tragedy and then compound her tragedy with these? It would be easier on your soul to let it and her go.”
FM: “You want souls do you?”
FONS: The free man sobbed.
FM: “Is that what vampires do? Steal souls? Keep them from heaven?”
FONS: He wept deeply slumping against the exposed concrete wall.
CM: “A vampire as Heaven’s doorman?”
MONS: The caged man chuckled with roses.
CM: “Never in the mythology, I think not.”
MONS: He shook his head slowly in disbelief.
FONS: The cold ridges roughness of the concrete provided the free man no comfort whatsoever. He wouldn’t have realized it if it had.
FM: “I need to drink.”
FONS: Erupted for the free man’s guts.
CM: “I think it’s clear that you’ve had much too much of that.”
MONS: The caged man seemed taller, stronger and maybe older. It smelled like any father’s aftershave.
FM: “No! Water!”
FONS: The free man sobbed. He stumbled to the small refrigerator. Its inner light flashed out into the make-shift dungeon. Shadows retreated abruptly. The caged man’s face seemed like an animal’s only for a second. The free man grabbed out a bottle of water, pouring it over his own sweaty human face and into his dried human mouth. It gagged him, he coughed and retched. He spat it out on the floor.
CM: “It’s Ecstasy. Yes, I can see that now. X is a dangerous drug. All drugs are dangerous.”
MONS: The caged man’s hair was white again.
CM: “Too many drugs in this world. No wonder you’re in this state. Near delusional, losing all rationality. Alcohol, X and grief too dangerous a mixture for anyone. Dead or undead. So you blame a vampire?” There was a deep laugh and the smell of gun powder.
CM: “Why not Tinkerbelle? Should we clap our hands if we believe in vampires?”
MONS: The caged man clapped only twice.
FM: “You lie. You lie. You lie! Liar!”
FONS: The free man threw the empty bottle at the cage, a profoundly impotent gesture. The empty plastic popped bouncing across the naked concrete floor. The plastic scraping lead to a distance melody, off in the layered white noise distance, from maybe a car radio, because the song moved off with melancholy.
FM: “Lying killing bastard.”
FONS: The free man sobbed, staggering over to the wall. Not simply a lean, he fell helplessly against wall. A fall so hard blood must have been drawn.
Act II – The Reality of Love
FM: “Love lost.”
FONS: The free man whined.
FM: “Was a soul lost.”
FONS: Deep sigh.
FM: “Death too high a wall.”
FONS: The free man banged his head against that wall, blood was surely there.
FM: “An unnecessary wall. Why didn’t you change her?”
MONS: The caged man shook his head laughing. His clothes glowed with the fragrance of a rose.
CM: “A wall. A barrier. A cage? A trap? Ha! Ha! Ha! Love as a trap, an emotional trap. A mind trap. So obvious. Too obvious!”
FM: “A kind trap then?”
FONS: The free man muttered. He sighed.
FM: “A necessary trap then. Traps are necessary.”
CM: “To catch what? To catch yourself or is that a Who?”
MONS: The caged man was in a tuxedo again with the lilacs.
CM: “The What? To maintain the same? Catch the good times and hold them down? Make certain they will never run away? Trap the good? Keep out the bad? Very conservative an endeavor.”
FM: “What would you know about it?”
FONS: The free man sputtered.
CM: “I know a lot, maybe too much. No, I simply desire originality over love. I love you. I love you back. I love you more. Etc. Etc. The redundancy of love has been very disappointing to me.”
MONS: The caged man reached out. He put his hands between the thick, immobile bars. His hands seemed to float there palms outward. There was a shine from them too. The scent could have been wintergreen or maybe peppermint. It’s so hard to distinguish which.
FM: “How can love be disappointing, boring?”
FONS: The free man stood up with difficulty. He was as unsteady on his feet as he was in his mind.
FM: “Love is the ultimate goal.”
CM: “Ultimate? What an adjective to attach to love? Romance! Too much romance in this silly assed world. Excessive romantic expectation always leads to disappointment.”
MONS: The caged man withdrew his hands.
CM: “An accumulation of disappointments. Life’s sewer is clogged with such unobtainable dreams.”
FM: “Romance? Excessive?”
FONS: The free man bumped against something in the dark, tripping. He fell to his knees. He grunted with the pain.
FM: “Can’t believe.”
CM: “The ultimate in romance, courtly love, was always unrequited. Thus always disappointing someone. Requite means to reciprocate, to return. No return on your love in the medieval royal court. Love without discourse, without intercourse, becomes selfishness, self-centered love. Love within only yourself, only about yourself.”
MONS: The caged man appeared naked for a moment and cinnamon was back.
CM: “Just my point. Pointless.”
FONS: The free man attempted to stand but fell, stand but fell, stand but fell.
FM: “Love can’t be selfish.”
FONS: He muttered.
CM: “But romantic love is just that. Romance is only about imagination, a.k.a. dreams. Nothing really happens except maybe wet dreams. Nothing is supposed to happen. The virgin must remain pure, virginal, untouched and unspoiled, unchanged. She must remain unobtainable. It’s not natural. A religious conceit like the virgin birth.”
MONS: Caged man was really in his tuxedo.
CM: “No sex. No sex without the intent of reproduction. Babies for Jesus. The church wants your gametes to do their bidding. Their ultimate tithe; the sperm and the egg, not just your first born but all of your future born. In vitro fertilization should be a religious event. Marriage is the substitute, the contract, the waver of gonad autonomy, turning your offspring over to the church. Breed good little Christians, Islamics or Buddhists. Children as a sacrifice to whomever’s view of God. The children are always the sacrificed. If we love them so much, why do we survive and not the child? I’ll never grow up was always an excellent sentiment to me.”
FM: “You lie!”
FONS: The free man sputtered.
FM: “Love is selfless. No manipulation!”
CM: “It’s all selfish. Love is egotism only, simply self satisfaction.”
MONS: Lilacs again as the caged man laughed.
CM: “And all manipulation, self manipulation, mostly. Self-gratification. Masturbation can’t be unrequited! By definition.”
FM: “Lying! Killing! Eviler.”
CM: “Eviler? Whatever! Self-gratification is definitely what you’re doing here.”
MONS: The caged man seemed to be in dark robes.
CM: “Is this love?”
FM: “T’is revenge because of love.”
FONS: The free man banged the concrete wall with his fists. The thud was dull. It was a dead sound, but could it be a desperate one too?
CM: “My point, revenge is only selfish. Your love object is gone.”
MONS: The caged man’s tuxedo was white with the scent of mint.
CM: “Revenge to counter love lost? Impotent and selfish. The wrong balance sheet. You’re such a bad accountant. But I didn’t kill her. As I said.”
FM: “But you didn’t bring her back.”
CM: “Most Gods could be accused of that crime a million times over.”
FM: “Don’t talk about God!”
CM: “You can’t talk ultimate evil without revealing ultimate good. Life gains its essence from contrast. Black white. Hot cold. Male female. Sharp edges make reality more distinct. It makes life bleed.”
MONS: His tuxedo was black with roses.
CM: “You speak of vampires, a manifestation of ultimate evil. A myth, of course, as most manifestations are, like love, it centers on blood and loss and power.”
FONS: With an inarticulate scream, the free man swung his fists wildly at the cage. The caged man grabbed the flying fists in the air just before they hit the bars.
FM: “You’ll hurt yourself.”
FONS: The free man screamed again pulling his arms back so violently, he fell backwards into a table of paint cans. The cans banged and clanged and fell and broke open. The smell of fresh paint flowed out into the make-shift dungeon. The smell turned metallic much like the smell of blood. Is it more a taste than a smell? It’s both.
CM: “Did you hurt yourself? Are you okay?”
MONS: The caged man’s flannel shirt accompanied the scent of pine.
FM: “How dare you!”
FONS: The free man muttered, slipping and struggling to stand up in the spilled paint.
CM: “The bars would have fractured the bones in your hand. You have enough problems to deal with.”
MONS: The caged man smoothed the air on the inside of the bars. “The metal is too strong, resistant to human frailty. Too strong even for human anger.”
FM: “Evil many . . . evil many . . .manifestation of evil.”
FONS: The free man slipped down on the sticky floor.
FM: “You admit! Must admit!”
CM: “Stay down. It is safer for you there. Close to the ground.”
MONS: The caged man was in dark robes with the smell of smoke. Some distinct rhythmic beat filtered in from afar. It could have been the residuals of a song. It could have been a machine struggling to continue its purpose. It could have been the heart beat of a giant Cyclops blindly feeling for that rogue Ulysses. It could have been anything, but it was a beat. The beat over laid the pulse from the ocean.
FM: “She was so . . . beaut . . . so much to me.”
FONS: The free man stayed down and sobbed.
FM: “She was so much . . . like a piece of art. She was nature’s art.”
CM: “Nature is indifferent to the constructs of art.”
FM: “Wha’s that mean? You insulting . . . she . . . my love? Was my love. Was everything . . . to me. And you took it away.”
FONS: The free man tried to stand again and noisily fell among the cans. He flailed on the floor in frustration.
MONS: The smell of smoke grew and grew. The caged man’s face looked like an animal for a moment.
FM: “You took her away.”
CM: “I thought my flawed behavior was not resurrecting her?”
MONS: The caged man was in black robes with more and more smoke.
FM: “Not living up to your potential.”
FONS: There was a belch and a stumble. Chaos in noise but dimensionlessness in shadows.
CM: “A common trait for humanity and Gods, apparently.”
MONS: The caged man raised his arms. The robes made them look like wings. Still, the lilacs continued to bloom.
CM: “So you want her back. No matter what? The What is, I’m being held hostage in exchange for her return. The Who.”
FM: “Just so.”
FONS: A stumble and a faint bang. The foghorn intruded again, not so friendly this time. Still off in the distance, the ocean, constantly moving but never getting anywhere. But the moan moved or was it a cat’s cry. The essence of being an animal, motion. Although life causes motion so does gravity, but life moves in other directions than down. Gravity was as insistent as life but more single-minded, for gravity it was only down, always down. The free man had a problem with gravity, a severe problem. But it wasn’t gravity’s fault, it was within the free man’s brain where the problem lay. Not in the stars but within himself. His coordination of not-down motion, was impaired. Far too impaired for him to do any good.
CM: “Potential and disappointment. Always too much together. Disappointment, thy name is man. Expectation verses reality.”
MONS: It could have been the caged man that laughed. It might have been someone else or from some place else. Roses replaced lilacs.
FM: “Reality? Bah!”
FONS: The free man threw an empty paint can at the cage. The thump was dull, neutral, hollow and, ultimately, disappointing.
CM: “Bah indeed. Reality as a point of view.”
FM: “View point! Do point. Need to do.”
FONS: The free man was losing coherence as he lost strength.
CM: “Implementation of expectation? A good idea that almost never happens.”
MONS: The caged man smiled. His hair was white and flowing. Was it aftershave or simply turpentine?
CM: “Love requited? Life unrequited.”
MONS: The ocean waves, their perpetual action, were sometimes thought to be Earth’s heart beat. But should a heart constantly grinding away at the body? The waves were more grinding wheels of eternity, a shear cutting away, wearing away all boundaries, all transitions, a.k.a., the shores. True purpose though, was as indistinct as was the true source of the rhythmic pulse.
FM: “But love is the ultimate . . .”
FONS: The free man grabbed out another water, the light flashed, the chaos of the chamber revealed.
MONS: The caged man looked more animal than man. As if man were not as dangerous of an animal that ever took stride on the Earth? That pleasant Earth. Does the Earth smell of decay or rebirth or is it the same thing?
FONS: The free man rubbed the cold bottle over his neck and then poured the water into his mouth and on his face.
MONS: The caged man was definitely a man. The tuxedo was neat and pressed. Crisp was an appropriate adjective, as description but inappropriate for the mood. Revenge was never crisp; sharp, jagged, brittle, hard, but never crisp. Crisp was too positive, revenge was never positive in anyway. The caged man was always slightly inappropriate as was his smile, very inappropriate.
CM: “Affectation? Obsession? Infatuation? What?”
FM: “No! E, e, emotion.”
FONS: The free man stuttered. His brain wasn’t working properly anymore.
CM: “Love is just misplaced desire fixated on the reward of pleasure, physical bliss, the sexual climax. More a conditioned response. I love you so I get sex. Pavlovian! A Skinnerian conditioned delusion. Love equals climax.”
MONS: The caged man gestured in the air and then stared ahead.
CM: “Romantic love is just an alpha state. A self-induced pleasure trance. A self-hypnosis of a sort, superficial and illusionary.”
FM: “She was the Queen of my heart.”
FONS: The free man threw the empty bottle. Hollow plastic sounds of futility, of immortality, never to decay, never to change even while the world changes all round, only to exist as the same container, an empty container of only potential never action.
CM: “Nice cliché. That worked for you? Remember though, the Queen of Hearts was a mad Queen.”
MONS: The caged man’s laugh was grave because graves smell only of disturbed earth. Soil was the fertile recycler of nutrients. With death, the body was reused, only energy was lost. Life’s order was forced on the Universe by that energy, energy for order, so energy lost, order lost, destruction was always as expensive as construction.
CM: “Romance, the literature of romance is only ever about beginnings and endings.”
FM: “So, you are a liar. Vileness complete.”
FONS: The free man sobbed.
FM: “Endings? Beginnings? There is more middle in life, the in-between is so much better something that your foulness can’t comprehend.”
CM: “The two ends of a short string. It may be better, but art testifies it to be dull and boring. It’s not much there. It’s just not written about. No drama in the middle. Too thin of a string to grab on to.”
MONS: The caged man’s profile grew immense and dark. Solvents and caramel.
CM: “Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, the greatest love story ever told was a beginning and a tragic end with only the tiniest of middle that almost everyone forgets about. Like drama, emotions need unforeseen change. Emotions are hardwired in the brain as an automatic response to abrupt change in the world.”
FM: “Bring her back!”
FONS: The free man swung a wooden chair at the cage. The chair exploded with sound and fury, splinters and impact. It was almost as if the wood caught fire, the smell of smoke and extinguished fire was intense.
CM: “You want her back?”
MONS: The caged man’s voice was calm, almost emotionless.
CM: “Her back or your love back?”
FM: “She is my love, you bloodless fool. The same thing.”
FONS: The free man slumped on the bars. He sobbed and then recoiled with realization of his location.
FM: “I got you. You won’t get me. I want my love, my lover back! Bring her back!”
FONS: The free man screamed.
CM: “Or I’m trapped forever?”
MONS: The caged man’s body seemed transparent for a moment.
CM: “Only a god or a vampire could do that in your mind. Your poor battered mind.”
MONS: The caged man reached his hands out between the bars.
CM: “You poor sick fellow. Control a vampire. Control of the soul. At least, your mind didn’t make me a god. Gods are too hard to control?”
MONS: The caged man’s laugh was lilacs in mown grass.
CM: “A vampire at least, used to be a man at some point in the past. A god has no frame of reference with humanity, quite true. A sick mind but a logical one.”
FM: “Bring her back!”
FONS: The free man knocked over the last table, tools scattered in distress.
FM: “I’ll kill you if you don’t”
CM: “No longer hostage? But if I’m dead already? How is death a threat?”
MONS: The caged man moved his fingers gently, enticingly.
CM: “It’s not death though. What’s traditional for vampires? Impalement? Stake through the heart. Garlic in the mouth? Immobilized but destroyed. No Heaven, just hell defined as nailed onto the Earth.”
FONS: The free man gasped.
CM: “Ah, the soul again. Soul nails, like in shoes? Tethering the soul, unrequited eternal bliss. Salvation is selfish too, I see.”
MONS: The caged man moved his hand up and down. The free man’s head followed his eyes, which tracked the caged man’s hands, his slightly glowing hands.
CM: “But if I don’t believe in Heaven, how can that be a threat? A vampire wouldn’t believe in a god that would be so viscous as to make them a bloodsucking fiend.”
FM: “Punishment has to be punishing.”
FONS: The free man’s voice was calmer now. The whine was less. The tears were gone.
CM: “The punishment fits the crime?”
MONS: The caged man quietly chuckled.
CM: “Gilbert and Sullivan are hardly appropriate here I think? Kidnapping and insanity, uhm, well maybe they do fit?”
MONS: The caged man closed his hand into a fist.
CM: “Should I bring her back?”
FONS: The free man staggered toward the cage. He almost grabbed the bars.
FM: “Oh, yes, yes, please? I beg you.”
CM: “Polite?”
MONS: The caged man moved his eyebrows up and down.
CM: “No demands? No screaming accusations?”
FM: “No, that didn’t work, did it? No please is all I have left.”
CM: “In my long life, too long maybe, I have always responded to polite.”
MONS: The lilac was replaced by gunpowder and smoke and somewhere out there a song passed by over the top of that eternal distance pulse. The rats scratched at the floor with purpose, for escape? The caged man raised his arms and then lowered them slowly.
FM: “Yes, then please, oh please, bring her back.”
FONS: And the free man gagged at the realization that she was there in the cage.
Act III – The Queen of Hearts
MONS: Justine lowered her arms. She was barely clothed with a musky scent of too much perfume.
J: “So I am here?”
MONS: She turned her head slowly back and forth.
J: “Looks like there’s no exit.”
MONS: Then she laughed.
J: “Sartre would be pleased.”
MONS: She tapped the bars and then caressed them, moving her hands rhythmically up and down. Intentional sensual.
J: “And you out there.”
MONS: She giggled girlishly.
FONS: The free man staggered back with drug-induced exaggerated shock.
FM: “It is you. He did it.”
J: “Lawrence, you ass, of course it’s me.”
MONS: She reached through the bars, her fingers pulling at the air.
FONS: The free man slipped in the paint, fell and banged his head on the concrete floor.
FM: “Ahhh!”
J: “What’s the problem here?”
MONS: Her voice was as motherly as the smell of bread.
J: “Come here.”
MONS: It was a mother’s demand that was always obeyed.
FONS: The free man pushed and pulled himself up the concrete wall. The rough surface grasp out with futility, not holding him down. He should have remained down.
FM: “It is you?”
J: “It is me. You silly ass. Don’t be so redundant.”
MONS: She giggled with honeysuckle.
J: “You always were begging for my attention. Now I’m here. And you stay way over there in the semi-dark.”
MONS: She waved her hand in the air and pulled them back into the cage.
FM: “But I didn’t think . . . here? Now!”
FONS: The free man balanced himself. He had red and blue paint all over him. He rubbed his face, streaking it with color.
FM: “It’s not what I thought. Would have. Your corpse necessary . . . I didn’t . . . What?”
J: “When did the world start obeying you? You were always at war with reality. I think it didn’t much like you either.”
MONS: Her robes were white and reflective. Her hair glowed bright, blond to white. She was too beautiful for a dungeon of any kind.
J: “Why should there be a truce now?”
FM: “I love you . . . and you are here.”
FONS: The free man shook his head as if to clear it of something, confusion, illusion? And then he rushed toward the cage. He reached through the bars grasping her robes roughly.
FM: “You feel real.”
FONS: The colors transferred to its paleness.
FM: “I feel you.”
FONS: He gasped.
MONS: She giggled again at his persistence. She slowly allowed him to pull her near. She stroked his face through the bars.
J: “You’re sticky. You were always sticky with something.”
MONS: She giggled again as he pulled her more forcibly to him, but the bars interceded.
J: “You were always hard too. When you were sober that is.”
MONS: She turned her face away as he tried to kiss her lips.
FM: “But I love you.”
FONS: He muttered helplessly. Still trying to give a kiss, to get a kiss. It would be a tacky, yet colorful kiss.
J: “Shouldn’t that be STILL I love you?”
MONS: She pulled her head back and then breathed deeply into his face. Her breath made him quiver throughout. He blinked in confusion.
FM: “What? I don’t? But you’re here.”
FONS: He pulled and pulled. Tried and tried. Failed and failed.
J: “Lawrence, you’re hurting me. You were always hurting me. Stop!”
MONS: She laughed too deeply for her delicate beauty. There was the smell of smoky peppermint.
J: “I love affection but affection shouldn’t hurt.”
MONS: She slapped the side of his head.
J: “There! A token of my affection.”
MONS: She pushed back futilely.
J: “Intoxication is never attractive.”
MONS: She slapped him twice again.
J: “See how much I love you?”
MONS: She pushed more with distain.
J: “Drunks are too selfish to be any fun.”
FM: “It dulls the pain.”
FONS: The free man shook his head slowly. Still, he grasp at her. Her robes ripped loudly.
J: “Painless for you, obviously.”
MONS: She pushed at him, another futile gesture.
J: “So telling. You just hand off the pain. Pass it on. It’s the only thing you’re not greedy about.”
FM: “Not when we make love. I miss it so much. Us in love. I was lost then. In a good way.”
FONS: The free man couldn’t get his face through the bars.
FM: “We were one then.”
J: “One yes. How romantic? Only you. You only.”
MONS: She turned her head away from his lips.
J: “Self-centered orgasms are not love. No sharing there.”
FM: “What?”
FONS: The free man halted his attempts to draw her near.
FM: “You seemed to enjoy. . . .”
J: “Seemed, mostly. What women do best, seem.”
MONS: She took advantage of his surprise and pushed completely away from his painted hands. Her perfume overwhelmed the dungeon.
J: “Sticky and self-centered. Most men’s descriptors.”
MONS: She pulled at her robe. Tsking at the colored finger prints.
J: “Damn!”
MONS: She frowned at the rips in the thin fabric.
J: “All thoughtless dicks.”
FM: “But the boat?”
FONS: The free man clung to the bars, to hold himself up as much as any other purpose. The throb of the ocean or whatever it was dominated the environment and then a song moved through. A scream in the midst or was it just a seagull?
J: “But is right!”
MONS: She threw down the tails of her robes in disgust.
J: “Always that damned boat.”
MONS: She turned abruptly.
J: “You were always wrong about what happened on that boat. Seeing it wrong was a common state for you.”
FM: “It was a turning point, an emotional crux.”
FONS: The free man whined.
J: “An illusion on the water was what it was.”
MONS: She stood just out of reach.
J: “A little bit of farewell fun. A crutch, not a crux.”
FM: “But we were special.”
FONS: The free man released the bars. He wobbled but remained standing.
FM: “A special couple.”
J: “We were, is all. Special? No.”
MONS: She turned her back and the robe was unstained, undamaged.
J: “Nothing special, is all. Same and common, just a couple, not special.”
FM: “You lie! I loved you! Love you so.”
FONS: He muttered.
FM: “You’re so beautiful.”
J: “Men always say that with their eyes closed, even if they mean it. There is no beauty in the dark. So by definition they can’t be lying. Beauty bah! I hear it all of the time.”
MONS: She waved her hands in the air.
J: “Beauty is a con job.”
MONS: The rat feet pattered, their claws scratched. A musky smell followed their footfalls.
J: “Beauty is vanity’s lever. ‘You’re so beautiful.’ ‘Such beauty.’ ‘Come with me and I will tell you again how beautiful you are. Beautiful again and again.’ As if it means anything at all? The security of complements. We beauties all age no matter what. But beauty doesn’t age, it dies young. No security there. No security in love. Just lies of desire. The lies of desire. The title of my autobiography. I’ve heard them too many times. It’s fun now and then but boring mostly. Boring and dull.”
MONS: She appeared naked. It made the free man sob.
J: “Repetitive, meaningless, the lies of desire. Deception. Self-deception. Illusionary greed.”
MONS: Her robes were red now, accompanied by smoke. The pulse of the ocean emphasized its presence, while the free man sobbed sinking down onto the floor.
J: “Making love? Ha! Not love, it’s just tactile stimulation, approaching orgasms for the men. They named it appropriately, Climax. The top of a mountain no where left to go, it is the end.’ The top and the bottom both ends. Both termini. Endings are so important in love.”
MONS: She laughed too deeply for her size.
FM: “Heard that somewhere before.”
FONS: The clang of cans and squeak mice.
J: “You should have listened better. That’s the most important part of romantic love, the two ends. The in-between remains unseen.”
FM: “Ah! Yes.”
FONS: He slipped noisily, attempting to stand.
J: “That was the boat. The message of the boat. It was an ending and you forgot that or didn’t realize it. I said No, no, no, but you didn’t, couldn’t hear it. The subconscious never hears negatives. Most men treat love with their subconscious. No no’s, never any no’s. It fits.”
FM: “And then you died.”
J: “And that was an ending too. It’s supposed to be.”
MONS: She lifted her arms and the robe appeared to be wings as light as an angel. She let them fall in disgust.
J: “Obviously too romantic a gesture. An unavoidable melodramatic affectation out of my control.”
FM: “But I loved you so. You shouldn’t have died. Why did you die?”
J: “Out of my control. But you ‘loved’ me so much you ruined that ending too.”
MONS: She waved her hands in the air in front of her. Lilacs in green pastures seemed to arrive with the beat of a distant song. And the cry of the gulls attacking the edge of the sea.
FM: “But I needed, need you . . . back.”
FONS: The free man pulled himself up the wall with difficulty.
J: “You! You! You!”
MONS: She slapped at the bars.
J: “In an infinite universe everyone is its center and everyone is not. It, me, you don’t matter. The Universe goes on without hesitation. Death of the individual, any individual, does not matter.”
FM: “But I’m . . . only me?”
FONS: The free man slumped against the wall.
FM: “Me seems not to be enough.”
J: “No one is good enough.”
MONS: She waved her hands outward.
FM: “Who’s egoistic now?”
FONS: The free man whined.
J: “Me included.”
MONS: She inhaled deeply. Her robes darkened.
J: “Realization of that is a most important bit of knowledge for humanity. Most never know it.”
FM: “What are you saying?”
J: “Just look at yourself. What you’ve become. You’d be better off some one else.”
MONS: And she was suddenly in a tuxedo, a black tuxedo, neat and pressed.
FM: “Everyone’s wish.”
FONS: The free man shook his head.
FM: “Be some one else.”
FONS: He grabbed his sticky hair and shook his head more violently.
FM: “Someone smarter, more under control.”
CM: “Yes, I know. I do it all of the time.”
MONS: The caged man said with a mild smile. The smell of roses and chocolate.
CM: “It’s the best thing about being me. I can always be someone or something else.”
MONS: He laughed with smoke.
CM: “And the control, the strong over the weak minded.”
MONS: He laughed and laughed.
Epilogue
FM: “What’s? She? Where did she go?”
FONS: The free man rubbed his face too vigorously.
CM: “You were so polite. I brought her back for you.”
MONS: The caged man waved his hands in the air to rest them on the bars of the cage. There was a scratching, a squeak, metal against metal.
CM: “Learned a lot in my too long a life. Hypnosis maybe. Relatively easy to manipulate the weakened mind. Houdini did it, escaped both locks, chains, and common man’s perceptions. Fooled them good. Magician equals Illusionist. But I can only do it for a short time though. Too confusion for long periods. Even I have my limitations.”
MONS: The caged man chuckled with peppermint.
CM: “Not a good enough Houdini.”
FM: “It wasn’t her?”
FONS: The free man wept. He so wanted to be someone else. Someone who couldn’t feel pain or confusion.
FM: “She wasn’t real?”
CM: “What woman is actually? Their game is fantasy and enticement.”
MONS: The caged man clicked his tongue.
CM: “Also, why isn’t stage magic real? The illusion still happened. It was just misdirection. So why wasn’t she real? Was it because she didn’t fall into your arms in uncontrolled love?”
FM: “She looked real. She felt real.”
FONS: Whining was all the free man could do.
CM: “Maybe she was too real?”
MONS: The caged man laughed.
CM: “Expectations were not met so she couldn’t be the real her? You’re so human. Routine haters of reality.”
FM: “But we were in love.”
FONS: The free man slumped against the wall. He flailed his arms weakly.
CM: “In lust at best, I saw.”
MONS: The caged man’s tuxedo glowed white.
CM: “It came and then went. Ha! Ha! Ha! Love’s an evil bitch sometimes. Love is unshared always.”
MONS: Roses and fires extinguished.
FM: “Love unrequited?”
FONS: The free man whispered.
CM: “Life unrequited, yes. I’ve been around way too long for love to matter, for life to matter. Fun is what’s left over. The brain’s chemicals of joy; endorphins, enkephelon, the opiate receptors. Natural high indeed. Even chocolate will cause their release. Fun is good when you can find it.”
MONS: The tuxedo was dull and black as was the musky scent of the make-shift dungeon.
FM: “Fun?”
FONS: The free man was too confused to make sentences.
FM: “Chocolate?”
CM: “Fun redefined. Manipulation of man. In the manner of what Houdini did, but more personal of a performance. Yes, it’s selfish, maybe childish of me. Sorry, but we all have our faults.”
MONS: The caged man’s smile was as conspicuous as the evil expression on his face.
CM: “Such as disobeying mother by playing with your food, type of fun. A guilty pleasure maybe is a better description.”
FM: “What? No sense.”
FONS: The free man shook his head slowly, carefully. The pulse of the ocean more than intruded. It dominated. It varnished the air, polished it to an uncomfortable sharp edge.
FM: “You are in the cage.”
FONS: A sentence finally came.
FM: “No fun at all.”
CM: “Oh that?”
MONS: And the caged man flipped his right hand in the air above him. The cage jumped up and away. He laughed louder as the metal smashed and banged in the distance.
CM: “It was a tool. Part of the game. A bit of make believe. An illusion of entrapment. Useful for a while. Unnecessary now as the game ends. The Endgame ends. Just like romance, a game must end to be fun.”
FM: “You are a vampire!”
FONS: The free man backed into the wall. The paint cans responded as usual.
CM: “Nope. Said that before. No blood sucking Dracula thing that’s all melodrama, theater for the easily spooked, but I am something else not normal, nor common, certainly. But who wants to be normal? So dull. I am something else not commonly thought. A changeling, an immortal maybe, hard to know that, but not dead yet, not dead for a very long time. Not undead either. I am very much alive. Too much alive maybe?”
MONS: The tuxedo was still pressed and neat.
CM: “I get very very hungry at times. Especially when I’m having fun.”
MONS: The tuxedoed man laughed will glee.
FM: “What?”
FONS: The free man could barely speak.
CM: “Oh and I am sorry.”
MONS: The tuxedoed man wiggled his fingers in the air.
CM: “I lied a little. Don’t like doing that much. Maybe not a lie, technically I told you the truth.”
MONS: He glided slowly toward the free man.
FM: “You did kill her?”
FONS: The free man attempted to shout but failed. He was attempting a number of things but failing at all of them.
CM: “Uhm, maybe technically. We did have an intimate relationship, that fun I was speaking of, oh but it was right after your boat parting. We had a few weeks together and then she died of TB. No blood sucking as I said, butttt, the TB, she did catch it from me.”
MONS: The tuxedoed man sighed.
CM: “I really liked her. But this is a problem with immortality in general or mine, at least, I carry diseases sometimes without knowing. No symptoms you see. Hard to know what I’m hauling around. Very unfortunate sometimes. I really liked Justine.”
MONS: The tuxedoed man stepped right up into the free man’s face.
CM: “I know why you loved her so, so many men did. I would have a few life times ago. Now, she was a pleasure. She was a good bit of fun. I too am sorry she died. I would have resurrected her if I could. You should know.”
FM: “But you did kill her.”
FONS: The free man blurted.
FM: “You are a monster. Unnatural monster.”
FONS: The free man whined.
FM: “I knew. I know.”
CM: “Yes, you do. That is unfortunate too. The firm has been pissed about my lack of discretion with our uniqueness. That Internet thing was a real bother. I am just too bold, they repeatedly say. Such knowledge about us causes too much trouble in the normal world. You know one should try to get alone with one’s work mates. It makes the work day flow so much easier. So annoying being proper, but this was a few minutes of fun. You must admit?”
MONS: The tuxedoed man chuckled with lilacs and cut green.
CM: “Fun always makes me ravenous though. Two birds with one stone situation here.”
MONS: The tuxedoed man tongue seemed larger than it should for a man his size.
FM: “What?”
FONS: The free man squeaked.
CM: “First, you know what you shouldn’t. Second, I’m hungry. The solution is pretty obvious.”
MONS: The tuxedoed man put his right hand on the free man’s quivering chest.
CM: “To me at least. Soon you’ll get the point.”
FM: “Don’t.”
FONS: The free man screamed weakly with a desperate,
FM: “You can’t.”
CM: “See you got it, but why shouldn’t I? Even the most unnatural of monsters needs to eat.”
MONS: The tuxedoed man placed his left hand over the free man’s face. He pushed the head back gently exposing the free man’s white neck. The tuxedoed man’s face completed its change into a wolf’s as his furry muzzle bit hard and satisfyingly into that quivering flesh. The free man was silent, entering the interfered silence of the make-shift dungeon. The ocean still pulsed. The uncertain cry still cried. The foghorn was friendly again, while the rats still scratched across the concrete into the dark.
Stage to black. Spotlight on the two Orators only. They stated simultaneously:
THE END
Copyright 2008 - MWC