The Culture Bunker
Thirteenth Night, or Whatever You Say
(Act Two, Groundlings Nothing)
by William Ham
illustration by Dave Coscia
SCENE. Same English time, same English channel.
Trichinosis re-enters from page left.
Trich. What, art thou still here? True, ’tis applause that refreshes, but I had thought you would be well shaken and gone flat by now, or leastwise sitting still as mountains do. And yet you bubble and fizz with great pep, see? Returned to deposit yourself in your seats like youthful sheep. ‘Tis the choice of an ewe generation, I expect. Even after this nocturnal intermission you gaze upon me with sunny delight, as if I were a king, and you my servants awaiting the royal crown’s coda. Ha! I must attest, I like the sprite in you. Before, I would fain root myself in a bier, but I am no longer seeming six feet down but feeling seven up! I’d like to teach the world to sing!
Enter Lord Worcester and his servant, Rutland.
Worc. Who disturbs my slumber?
Rut. Thou art not sleeping, Lord Worcester. Thou art blind.
Worc. Oh, yeah.
Trich. Who approacheth? Pick up thy cues!
Worc. ‘Tis your old mentor, Worcester.
Rut. And his longtime companion, Rutland.
Trich. Oh, gentle Worcester! Not-quite-as-gentle Rutland! What cheer? On this stage most impoverished, you bless this simple protagonist with the sight of your blind melon. (Aside) Forgive me, I had one left over from last month. And Rutland… well, you’re good, too. Prithee, do you not recognize me, my fair county-monikered men?
Worc. I know thee not, old ham.
Trich. But Worcester! Campy counselor! By my troth, I would that thou wouldst…
Rut. Shut thine pie-hole, Trichinosis! My lord is dying and so art thou by the looks of things, thou underrehearsed beverage- referencing knave! Take you heed! Take two, they’re small.
Worc. I am aged, sightless, bilious and bibulous, my soul fileted and garnished with maggots of rancor. I can now be but one thing…
Trich. You meanst?
Worc. Yes… A theater critic.
Trich. Audible gasp! A fallen scribe! Forsooth!
Worc. No, for the Southwark Sun-Times!
Trich. Oh, that I should hang from downcast thumbs, so opposable are ye.
Rut. Give the overacting wretch your message, Lord.
Worc. Bring me to center stage! (hands cane to Rutland) Unstick me, Rut… Shall I compare thee to A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
Thou art lumbering, and more derivative. Dull plots do slack the glassy jaws of most. And silly plays have all too dumb a cast… That is, with the exception of (actor’s name here) as the sightless critic, Worcester, who brings dignity and pathos to an otherwise poorly written part. But one small gem is hardly enough to redeem a steaming heap of theatrical dung. Thirteenth Night is, in short, much ado about a bunch of doo-doo. I’m Worcester, the blind theater critic. Back to thou, Rutland.
Rut. Thank you, Lord. My master baits the hairy hand of fate. Well-gripped is he, yet he canst not get a hold of himself. No more pull has he to watch his dream bear seed.
Trich. And what dream has he?
Worc. To rewrite Elizabethan plays for the adult market!
Trich. What say? Say what? What’choo talkin’ ’bout?
Worc. Yea, diff’rent strokes I seek! Think of it! The Merry Swives of Windsor!
Rut. King Henry’s Eighth Today!
Worc. The Merchant of Dennis! Two Gentlemen of Verona and a Well-Greased Chicken! And I’ve been polishing dialogue…
Rut. Among other things. How dost thou think he went blind?
Worc. “Once more, into her…”
Trich. Yes! Yes! I know your mind. All too well, I fear. But what hast that to do with me?
Worc. I come to bury your play, not to praise it! With my failing breath I forswear… juiceth it up a little!
Rut. Yeth. Where’s the action? Where’s the passion?
Worc. Where’s the death? (clutches chest) Oh, here it is. How predictable. (dies)
Rut. Oh, saucy Worcester! My sweet Lord! Harry’s son is dead, by George! It’s all too much! I want to tell you that I too am well taxed, man. All things must pass, and so shall I!
(dies)
Worc. (raises slightly) See? Much better, isn’t it? (dies again)
Enter Perspiro.
Pers. By the blood of Santa Anemia!
Trich. What makes my nostrils flare? ‘Tis like unto cut cheese in here! It could but be…
Pers. Perspiro! Bastard step-cousin-in-law of Worcester and son of the sun!
Trich. Thee, odorant? Heir of Sol? Your wits are arid! Extra dry, they are!
Pers. And you, you flavor your words with the rankest old spice! ‘Tis no secret. Thou art strong enough for a man, but better made for a woman!
Trich. Sweat me not! Your words glide on smooth, but with a few strokes they will stop, by Mennen!
Pers. I will take up my sword (which we had not the budget for) and with great speed stick it to you!
Trich. Ha! Raise your hand if you’re sure!
They begin mime fighting.
Pers. I will marry you to the sweaty, stinking pits of Hell, thou prating rightguard!
Trich. If this be my betrothal, let the bans roll on!
Pers. Thou thinkest this an easy ride? St. Peter may not be so fond’a that!
Trich. Art thou born to be wild? Step in, wolf! Don’t bogart thy joints, my friend! Pass them over to me!
Pers. Have at you!
Trich. Gezundheit!
They mock-stab each other with their mock swords.
Pers. I am theoretically hurt.
Trich. As hypothetically am I!
Pers. I see the aforementioned Peter, his sister Jane, her turner Ted, his barber Ella… all gathered on a golden pond where the loons and the Normans play! Roll over! I am coming home! They shoot whoresons, don’t they?
Trich. Oh, just die already. I must give this dumbshow an ending.
Pers. Better I should die than to bear another soliloquy.
(dies)
Trichinosis staggers to center stage.
Trich. My breath grows short as my wit grows dim and this play grows overlong. And yet I must speak these final words, then eat them, like the Feast of Pronunciation. Watch the king leer as he watches Captain Morgan lead the Grenadine Guards. Pray, pass Henry the fifth, hang Jim from the beam, so that they may hang over the drink as it ripples past rolling rocks like a thunderbird. The colour of a red dog, uncommonly smooth. Darling buds are none the wiser for it in their absinthe.
But what of this and not and else of it?
Mayhap I should have got me to a punnery.
To be… or what?
(clutches chest)
Exit Trichinosis.
No refunds.
Curtain.
(dies)
