Mr. Wimbledy - Act V

ACT V

...

In Mr. Wimbledy's vast rec room, full of extravagant items: a plethora of toy robots, Gouda, train sets, teddy bears, candy necklaces, candy necks, real necks, ponies, candy saddles, a chocolate fountain, a chocolate bidet, a puddle of gravy, a bowling alley, a bowling pin, conjoined magicians, monkey butlers, panda  butlers, gummy butlers, tricky butlers, French butlers, dead butlers, dead French butlers, as well as yogurt sculptures of a plethora of toy robots, Gouda, train sets, teddy bears, candy necklaces, candy necks, real necks, ponies, candy saddles, a chocolate fountain, a chocolate bidet, a puddle of gravy, a bowling alley, a bowling pin, conjoined magicians, monkey butlers, panda butlers, gummy butlers, tricky butlers, French butlers, dead butlers, dead French butlers, and yogurt sculptures. Fireworks are perpetually dazzling high above, near the fresco-painted ceilings which depict sugarplum fairies and sugarfairy plums dancing and circling a graphic portrait of Mr. Wimbledy's chin. Enter Mr. Wimbledy and Son Boy, both uniformly dressed in orange jumpsuits.

MR. WIMBLEDY
What shall we do first, my boy?

SON
 I don't know where to begin, Pipipsy!

MR. WIMBLEDY
How about a little luncheon?

Son Boy, about to say yes, turns and screams at an incredibly high pitch, violently convulsing.

MR. WIMBLEDY
Prithee, what is it that makes you tremble so, my new boy? 

SON
 (Stops screaming abruptly) Oh, I just have never been offered lunch before.

MR. WIMBLEDY
Your past father nev - ?

SON
(More shrieks) PIPSY!

MR. WIMBLEDY
Mother of God.

SON
(Drying his ears) Sorry, Pipipsy. It has only been thirty minutes since my father has died - I need time to adjust. 

MR. WIMBLEDY
Son.

SON
Yes?

MR. WIMBLEDY
Son Boy.

SON
Yes, Pipipsy?

MR. WIMBLEDY
Your father died three years ago.

SON
No...no it hasn't been so long!

MR. WIMBLEDY
 Look in the mirror, Son Boy.

Son Boy looks up at the mirror held by butler hanging from the ceiling. He examines his chin - it is three inches long.

SON
You're right, Pipipsy. Maybe I need to move on.

MR. WIMBLEDY
Son Boy, you must be zesty boy, fortuitous boy. This Pipsy of yours never fed you lunch?

SON
I thought no one's dads fed their children?

MR. WIMBLEDY
No my son! Fathers are supposed to nurse their sons. You have been deprived of a proper childhood - and I, with all my riches, will provide it for you.

SON
(Squirts black liquid) Alright.

ALL OF THE BUTLERS
(To Mr. Wimbledy) Hey baby, lunch is ready.  

MR. WIMBLEDY
Excellent! What has been prepared today?

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate - we can not consecrate - we can not hallow - this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us - that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom - and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

SON
Pipipsy! The tigers!

MR. WIMBLEDY
Quick my boy, quick! Into the shelter!

Mr. Wimbledy opens the largest butler and he and Son Boy crawl inside. A tiger nearly catches them. Lights fade.

 ...

 Scene set inside of the butler. A single lamp hangs above. A rib cage backdrop. A single flute plays "Ring Around the Rosie" for the remainder of the scene.

SON
It's a good thing we got away from those tigers in time!

MR. WIMBLEDY
Fool butlers don't know how to make lunch.

SON
 When do you think the tigers will die, Pipipsy?

MR. WIMBLEDY
Soon Son Boy, soon. My butlers will fight them all off. But we won't have to wait until the tigers are all dead to come out of here. As we speak this butler is leading us outside where it is safe.

SON
Teehee, you have some helpful butlers teehee!

MR. WIMBLEDY
It's all a part of my fabulous wealth, Son Boy.

SON
How did you become oh so wealthy?

Mr. Wimbledy's forehead swells to the size of a watermelon.

MR. WIMBLEDY
Oh never you mind that, little one. 

Son Boy, ignorant as a carrot, ignores Mr. Wimbledy's telling swelling. 

SON
What are we gonna do while the butlers fight the tigers?

MR. WIMBLEDY
Oh, I don't know, Son Boy... probably just . . . go to Bismarck!

Mr.Wimbledy throws confetti everywhere and begins his trademark spin.
 
SON
(Full of juice) Wow!   

The stage begins to jiggle.

MR. WIMBLEDY
 Looks like we're ready to go, my boy.

Lights fade. The audience is sedated with noxious gas to simulate the passing of time.

  End of Act V.

(Act VI coming soon.) 
 

Mr. Wimbledy - Act IV

ACT IV

...

The bathroom. Son Boy is kneeling next to the tub, where his dead father lies and decomposes. The radishes hanging from the shower head are rotten. Son Boy places a sombrero over his Pipsy's lifeless head, as a funeral rite.

SON

Guess I'll be taking my baths at Mr. Linder's house again, eh Pipsy?

DAD

(Dead dad sounds)

SON

Who's knocking at the door?

Sound of door knocking.

SON

Come in.

Enter a Sherpa in mountaineer gear. He is covered in snow.

SHERPA

Are you Son Boy?

SON

I used to be.

SHERPA

I used to be.


The Sherpa blushes. After a moment the actor playing the Sherpa remembers his line.

SHERPA
I...I have something for you, then...?


SON
What is it?


The Sherpa pauses to remember his line.

SHERPA
Shit.


STAGEHAND
 "It's a new dad. Issued by the chancellor."

SHERPA
Oh. It's nude dad issues, by chance.

SON
(Pretending the Sherpa did not flub) A new Pipple?

SHERPA
 That is...corcorrect.

SON
(Whining like a French boy ) Je ne veux pas d'un nouveau papa!

SHERPA
That's too bad cuz you're gonna get cuz you're gonna get get one...one.

The new dad comes out of the Sherpa. He is fresh, dizzy, and dressed in dungarees.

SHERPA
His naHisname's Mr. Wimmley anananhe's a dad?

MR. WIMBLEDY
Charmed.

Mr. Wimbledy bows to Son Boy.

SON
What do you do?

Mr. Wimbledy, in his curious nimble squat, begins to spin in place.

SON
Wow!

Son Boy giggles and piddles his britches.

SON
Teehee, stop, new daddy.

Mr. Wimbledy stops spinning and gives Son Boy a briefcase full of money.

SON
Wow!

MR. WIMBLEDY
You're my world.

SON
Teehee!

Son Boy blushes and his eyes fill with pulp. The Sherpa dissolves, stage left.

SON
What should we do first, new Pip - new Pepsy?

MR. WIMBLEDY
(Gargles)

SON
Teehee! You're right. I should call you something else.

Son Boy looks around the room and spots his dead dad lodged in a sea of mold.

SON
I know! I can call you...Pipipsy! 

Mr. Wimbledy clutches Son Boy's head.
 
MR. WIMBLEDY
YES! YES, my boy!

 Son Boy and Mr. Wimbledy stare at each other for months. They eat Pipsy. 

 End of Act IV.

(Act V coming soon.)

Mr. Wimbledy - Act III

ACT III

...

An office room, filled with a basketball court. As the man, the Un-Dadler, talks to Son Boy, the basketball players skirt past. The red team is losing.

UN-DADLER
Now, Son Boy, your father has died, correct?

SON
PIPSY! (Cries, chews on knees)

UN-DADLER
Your Pipsy died of a severe heart-crusting.

SON
PIPSY!


UN-DADLER
Your Pipsy is dead.

SON
PIPSY!

UN-DADLER
Please, Son Boy. You must be strong boy, young boy. I have taken to the matters of un-dadling you. The process is almost complete - but first it will mean ridding you of your fatherly hairs.

The wizardly wink of the Un-Dadler, a-tune to a grassharp whiz mixed with mischievous clarinet scales, instantly removes all of Son Boy's hairs. 

UN-DADLER
(Pleased) Yes. That will do.

SON
(Shining like a supple calf) Oh Monsieur, if I am un-dadled, am I no longer Son Boy?

UN-DADLER
I'm afraid not. From this point forth, you are simply Son Boy.

SON
Ohh...

Son Boy leaks orange drink, in sorrow. A basketball hits him in the back of the head, but it does not bark.

SON
Will I ever be Son Boy again?

The Un-Dadler gives an aggressive look, as though his thoughts are constipated with grief and jelly. His veins begin to undulate, his wrinkles wrink.

UN-DADLER
Eue - !

Raw beef jettisons from the opening in the Un-Dadler's chin and coats Son Boy in a fine pink paste.

UN-DADLER
(Relieved) The process is finished! You are officially un-dadled!

SON
But I didn't - !

UN-DADLER
I'm afraid that is that.

The Un-Dadler runs away.

SON
Now whatever will I do?

The basketball players crunch. The lights dim. Spotlight on Son Boy.

SON
(Accompanied by lonesome piano ballad - Sings sonorous, melodious, shrill) Oh, I am but a Son Boy! Ah! A Son Boy! Ah! To, to be, toto to be, oh be, a Boy, but a Boyyy, a Son of Suns a Boyyyy!....Beeeeee! To be a Son Boy Boy oh bibbib b bahh boyyy....! Suuuuaaaong, boy... Son.... Boy.

The lights fade slowly, as Son Boy shrieks and vomits profusely on the court like a poisoned toddler.

End of Act III.

(Act IV coming soon.) 

Mr. Wimbledy - Act II

ACT II
...

In a bathtub, with ornamental radishes delicately hung from the shower head. The walls are a sanguine color, a pasty texture. The father is sitting in the tub, his gloves still bone dry in the living room off-stage. The father begins to wriggle with a discomfiting thought. 

DAD

(Calling from the tub) Son! Oh my Son Boy, come here!

SON

(One of the radishes becomes the boy) Yes, Pip?

DAD

Why my son boy, steady boy, young boy! What were you doing gallivanting about in the radishes again?

SON

Well, gee, there's a terrible storm out there, Pipsy.

DAD

Son.

SON

Yes Pip?

DAD

Son boy.

SON

(Perturbed, slightly peckish too) What, Pipsy Father?

DAD

(In a burst of fury) What did I tell you - about playing - IN THE rrrrRRADISHES??!

The father begins to flog Son Boy with the radishes. They squeak against his body. He is not visibly harmed, but the squeaks make Son Boy cry.

SON

Pipsy, no!

DAD

(Each word intermittent with moist anger-belches) Learn you! This will learn you!

SON

But, Pipsy, the storm! I had to hide!

Pipsy Pants becomes red in the face. His eyes ball even more than usual and begin to shrink. His spit becomes creamcolored and bubbly.

SON

Pip! Your heart! She is weak and full of crust, Pip!

Pip's teeth elongate, symbolizing his death. He no longer moves. The bathwater begins to turn to sludge. Suddenly, while crying, Son Boy hears a thunderous burp from the storm outside.

SON

(Sobbing, periodically burping) The real storm was in here, Diddy Pips!

End of Act II.

(ACT III coming soon.)