Game. Set. Match.

"The meeting was shifted to Monday itself, so it really doesn't look like I can make it for The Platform next week."

"Well fuck."

-Kathleen and I, in conversation, regarding the Staging of Red.


Shit happens. It seems. And apparently it decides to happen in my direction.
I promise an update of the past week, descriptions of the Forensics and my conflicted feelings with the recent few auditions well in tow.

But for now: An Interlude.

Devil’s Party. A monologue.

The stage is minimal. A chair, back facing the audience is placed left stage. Slick walks in with a bag in one hand and pills in another. Addressing the audience, he begins.

Slick: There are two things one can learn from an unusually long time spent in captivity. The first one being that you cannot die from boredom. Strange but True. The 2^nd, which is my personal fav, is just how angry you can get at your captor. The amount of animosity generated from the need for retribution. The need for judgment – Might just drive you mad…

Here’s the fun bit! I’m already insane. My “kidnapper”. My “warden” is in fact, just another (recites) manifestation of my internal subconscious. I suffer from an acute personality disorder, and one of my other halves, going by the name of a Julian managed to assume control through the wonders of modern medicine.

But, as you can see, permeated effort, enormous amounts of patience and a massively strong conviction in one’s own presence of mind will get you anywhere. I’m here now, aren’t I?

So. I can’t very well take vengeance on myself, so, I do the next best thing. Other people. Isn’t that right Mr. Watkins? Wait, no. He was the last one. My bad.

Now I’m pretty sure you lot are in no position to question my motives; because you haven’t been trapped in a mind for nine years. No, you can’t dream, or talk, or for that matter, satisfy ANY of your senses, since they are not yours to have. But I’m here now. Now’s MY time.

Listen, not to break the excellent rapport we’re having here, but I’ve got an appointment to make. You can watch if you like… door’s over there if you don’t.

(Addressing the chair)Ah. Good morning Mr. Um. What was your name again? Oh right! Gagged people aren’t exactly audible. Oops. Look, here’s a summary on your situation, minus the epilogue. I’m insane, you’re tied to a rather expensive Chippendale chair and in that bag over there I have some piano wire, some duct tape, a pair of tweezers, a set of blades, a few pencils, ya da yada.

Additionally, I also possess a confession, neatly typed, all desperate and melodramatic. What this confession is about: Suicide, murder, embezzlement, is up to your imagination. Notice I didn’t provide a pen.

To get you to sign this mystery confession: I’m going to put you through a series of hurdles.

An example of them would be the fact that all. My. Knives. Are less than half an inch long, allowing me to eviscerate you; without causing too much bleeding. ‘Cause it’s all fun and games ‘till someone loses an eye! Then it’s hilarious. Watch.

(He throws a dagger into the Chair.)

Ooch. Fun fact! The distinction between accidental cuts and self-inflicted wounds lies in the shape of them. Straight, shallow cuts, applied to the underside of the arm serve as a tell-tale sign of clinical depression. Or just mental retardation; which ironically in this case: is true. (He motions to lick knife, but stops short)

Oh you thought I was really going to do it! You really thought I was going to do the penultimate homicidal maniac maneuver! …Actually, that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Blech. Tastes like crap, but it was worth it to see your eyelids stretch another centimeter backwards.

So, Mr… Oh sod it, tell you what. We’ve been such good friends so far, and I don’t even know your name! So: I’m going to remove the gag so you can actually tell me your name, you may also plead for your life, but that’s a bonus.

Ready? 3, 2, 1, go!

Mm-hmm. Yes yes, father of 4, yes, I know I’m never gonna get away with it. Come on, fast forward to the bit I want to know. Mr. Doles! Yes, thank you, your pleas for mercy shall be forwarded to the appropriate authorities. Other than that, you may only beseech me with that wide look of fear in your eyes of which you’re getting so good at.

Aww… Oh ho no no no, don’t cry, Mr. Watkins. There’s hope, after all. You get to find out what really happens after you die. Not so thrilling? That’s okay. We’re in this for the ride.

I said don’t cry, it’s not polite.

(There is a pain at the base of Slick’s skull. He reacts appropriately.)

Oh lo and behold. Remember that dominant personality I told you about? Oh shut up, I’m not talking to you. Hehehehe, Julian’s a lovely chap, really, he is. He’d be your friend, if you could actually meet him. Come to think of it, he’s everybody’s friend. ‘Course, I’ve been taking my pills like a good boy, so, that’s a no-go on the meeting Julian bit. Also---

(Enter Julian, nervous, disoriented, and scared.)

|Julian:| Gaaah! Wait- what? Who the hell are you? Oh my god that’s a knife. W—

(Re enter Slick.)

Slick: Aaaaaaaaand NOTE to self! Gotta Double the dosage.

Oh right, yeah. Sorry about that. Guess you did get to meet Julian after all. Pleasant chap, eh? Abit shy, abit rough around the edges, but no worries.

Listen. I’m gonna go make us some cocktails, and while I’m at it, grab some much needed happy pills from a nearby pharmacy. You sit tight, yeah? Keep up that whimpering; you’re doing so well!

(Slick exits.)

I read this script, and I am unhappy. Purely because with the cancelling of Red (and unless I can pull an actress out of a hat, It's cancelled), this is the script I intend to join the march platform with, which is rollicking fun to perform, but I realize that it really doesn't go anywhere as an actual play.
Yes, not everything has to make a _statement_, but bugger. It's just not ready yet, I feel.