ACT XI
...
(The audience should now be brought back from Rome to the theater. Do not feed them.) In the rec room at Mr. Wimbledy's mansion. The tigers and butlers from Act V are lying dead about the room - reminiscent of the locker room full of cats from Act I. Mr. Wimbledy is sitting in his special daddy chair (made of dad-leather and clown hands), reading the paper. He is eating a radish, and there on the floor Son Boy silently manipulates the legs and arms of a toy doll version of Mr. Wimbledy. He burps but does not giggle afterward. Mr. Wimbledy puts his paper down.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Son.
SON
Yes?
MR. WIMBLEDY
You haven't spoken in two months. Just checking in. Are you alright?
SON
Yes.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Alright.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Hmmrphmm.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Son Boy.
SON
Yes?
MR. WIMBLEDY
Are you sure?
SON
Yes.
Yes.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Oh. Alright.
MR. WIMBLEDY
(Coughs)
MR. WIMBLEDY
You don't seem alright, Son Boy. Tell me, what is wrong?
Son Boy briefly glares at Mr. Wimbledy and continues to move the toy back and forth.
SON
I'm bored playing with this.
Son Boy throws the toy across the room. It knocks the head of a dead butler laying on top of a chandelier.
MR. WIMBLEDY
That's alright. What would you like to play with instead?
Mr. Wimbledy takes a bite of his radish. Son Boy stares at it.
SON
I don't want to play anymore.
MR. WIMBLEDY
I suppose that is good. You are growing older. You are a man now, after all - my Son Man.
Mr. Wimbledy gives his wizardly wink.
SON
I don't like it.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Don't like what, my boy? Er, my manboy?
SON
I don't like any of it. I don't want to be a man.
MR. WIMBLEDY
What ever do you mean?
SON
I miss being a boy.
MR. WIMBLEDY
But you did so well at the Games! Look!
Mr. Wimbledy points to the remains of the Big Squeeze, which are smartly piled on top of a pedestal in the corner of the room.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Mmm. Grace. That's what you call that. How could you ever want anything else?
SON
I don't like it. Ever since the Games I've just wanted to kill.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Oh. Yes. (Silent for a moment, thinking.) But, certainly not your father, right?
Son Boy just looks at Mr. Wimbledy. Mr. Wimbledy pooples, but conceals it by screaming.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Well, perhaps we should find something for you, Son Boy. Killing is very important, yes, but you should, well, perhaps focus your time on something else.
SON
I don't want to do anything. I'm bored here. I'm going out to kill something.
Son Boy gets up and begins to walk out of the room.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Come back here, Son!
Son Boy continues to walk. Mr. Wimbledy runs after him. He grips Son Boy's hams. Son Boy stops.
MR. WIMBLEDY
I said come here!
Son Boy turns and pinches Mr. Wimbledy in the chin. It is bleeding. Mr. Wimbledy squees.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Son Boy...
Son Boy looks regretful.
SON
Pipipsy, I didn't--
MR. WIMBLEDY
(Sobbing and throbbing, like a bloated mouse full of seltzer water) Get out! Now! just get out! I need my space!
Exit Son Boy, stage floor.
I don't want to do anything. I'm bored here. I'm going out to kill something.
Son Boy gets up and begins to walk out of the room.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Come back here, Son!
Son Boy continues to walk. Mr. Wimbledy runs after him. He grips Son Boy's hams. Son Boy stops.
MR. WIMBLEDY
I said come here!
Son Boy turns and pinches Mr. Wimbledy in the chin. It is bleeding. Mr. Wimbledy squees.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Son Boy...
Son Boy looks regretful.
SON
Pipipsy, I didn't--
MR. WIMBLEDY
(Sobbing and throbbing, like a bloated mouse full of seltzer water) Get out! Now! just get out! I need my space!
Exit Son Boy, stage floor.
MR. WIMBLEDY
(Crying, burping) I can't do it, I just can't do it! He's a rotten manboy. I ruined him! Oh...like I haven't done this before...I've never been a good father to any of my boys!.... Who can? It's not possible! It just isn't possible! Where did our idea of a good diddy come from? - I've never seen one! The "good diddy" is nothing but an idea! Wah! We-woeh-wah! (Hissing and sobbing.) What to do with him? If only his mother was here...but, oh, she left with the others, didn't she? Just like the others, to leave me here helpless and with soaked breeches!
Mr. Wimbledy falls to the floor, curling up and weeping. His burps are rapturous, violent, fragrant.
MR. WIMBLEDY
"Son, you must be strong boy...fortuitous boy...."
Lights fade.
Six hours later, Son Boy returns to the room. Mr. Wimbledy has cried himself to sleep. Son Boy drags a wagon of meat in with him, and a grizzly bear pelt is folded under his arm. He sees the sleeping diddy. He unfolds the pelt and lays it across Mr. Wimbledy.
He looks to the audience, steps offstage, and walks from the isle to the front door of the theater. He spits up a bit. He steps outside.
Thunderburps burble. Unflinching, Son Boy becomes a radish.
Mr. Wimbledy falls to the floor, curling up and weeping. His burps are rapturous, violent, fragrant.
MR. WIMBLEDY
"Son, you must be strong boy...fortuitous boy...."
Lights fade.
Six hours later, Son Boy returns to the room. Mr. Wimbledy has cried himself to sleep. Son Boy drags a wagon of meat in with him, and a grizzly bear pelt is folded under his arm. He sees the sleeping diddy. He unfolds the pelt and lays it across Mr. Wimbledy.
He looks to the audience, steps offstage, and walks from the isle to the front door of the theater. He spits up a bit. He steps outside.
Thunderburps burble. Unflinching, Son Boy becomes a radish.
End of Act XI.
.....................
End of Mr. Wimbledy, a Paternal Odyssey in 10 Acts.
As people filter out of the auditorium, have the ushers tickle remaining audience members for being such good sports about the whole thing. Send in cleaning crew immediately to collect trash and audience corpses.
As people filter out of the auditorium, have the ushers tickle remaining audience members for being such good sports about the whole thing. Send in cleaning crew immediately to collect trash and audience corpses.
