| MR. WIMBLEDY |
A PATERNAL ODYSSEY IN 10 ACTS
YANN BINK
I dare do all that may become a
man;
Who dares do more is none.
Who dares do more is none.
—Shakespeare, Macbeth
ACT I
...
In a locker room, with many cats.
DAD
Son!
SON
Dad!
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!
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, attune
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!
But I
didn't - !
UN-DADLER
I'm
afraid that is that.
The Un-Dadler runs away.
Now
whatever will I do?
The basketball players crunch. The lights
dim. Spotlight on Son Boy.
(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.
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.
Guess
I'll be taking my baths at Mr. Linder's house again, eh Pipsy?
DAD
(Dead dad sounds)
Who's
knocking at the door?
Sound of door knocking.
Come
in.
Enter a Sherpa in mountaineer gear. He is covered
in snow.
SHERPA
Are
you Son Boy?
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...?
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.
(Pretending the Sherpa did not flub) A
new Pipple?
SHERPA
That
is...corcorrect.
(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.
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.
INTERMISSION
INTERMISSION
INTERMISSION
INTERMISSION
INTERMISSION
ACT VI
...
Not entirely in a North Dakotian bistro. It
is sunny and warm. Birds are released into auditorium.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
I got
something for you, Son Boy.
Mr. Wimbledy places a cat-shaped package on
the counter. It meows. Son Boy excitedly unwraps it.
SON
Wow
this sure is something, Pipipsy.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
I
thought you would like it.
SON
Pipipsy,
I have a question.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
What
is it, dear boy? Do you not like your gift?
SON
No,
it's everything I've ever wanted...
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Goood.
SON
But,
besides that...why did you adopt me, Pipipsy?
MR.
WIMBLEDY
I
suppose I should let you in on a little secret, Son.
An obese man somersaults over to the table.
He burps and two very long waiters crawl from his gullet.
WAITER
1
?
WAITER
2
today
WAITER
1
we,
WAITER
2
are
WAITER
1
How
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Fine,
thanks.
WAITER
2
?
WAITER
1
order
WAITER
2
to
WAITER
1
you
WAITER
2
Do
WAITER
1
want
WAITER
2
yet
MR.
WIMBLEDY
We'll
take two browns.
WAITER
2
wel
WAITER
2
Very
WAITER
2
l
WAITER
2
. We
w
WAITER
2
ill
be
WAITER
2
moment.
WAITER
2
back
WAITER
3
in
WAITER
2
just
The waiters crawl back into the obese man,
and he rolls away.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
(Wistfully) Anyways, Son, I picked you
because - because...
Son Boy leans in to listen. Mr. Wimbledy
begins to cry and snap his hands.
SON
What
is it, Pipipsy?
MR.
WIMBLEDY
You
are very special to me Son Boy. For I have never had such a Son before. My life
has been a very arduous and clammy life.
SON
Why,
oh why why Pipipsy?
Mr. Wimbledy calms down and begins stroking
his eyelashes, milking them. The milk drops on his cheeks.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
I'm
not sure if I'm ready to tell you about my past yet. Perhaps...perhaps another
time. It is not something for pure ears such as yours.
SON
I am
not so innocent, Pipipsy!
MR.
WIMBLEDY
(Laughing)
Oh is that so? And why is that, my boy?
SON
I
have heard toilet songs.
MR.
ASTONISHEDDY
Son.
SON
Yes,
Pipipsy?
MR.
ENRAGEDDY
Son
Boy.
SON
Yes?
MR.
OKAYDY
(Laughs) That is alright, my boy! Toilets
are one of many things you must educate yourself with over the coming years.
Growing up is a long, salubrious, loquacious process of which your boyhood will
be slowly whiddidled.
SON
What
do you mean, Pippi?
MR.
WIMBLEDY
As
you grow older, the many viscicles of your body will effervesce, undulate,
convulse, retract, extract, radiate, bend, twist, pull, push, squeeze, swell,
bleed, inflate, detach, reattach, wink, blink, rise, fall, quar, quilt, sweep,
swell, swipe, sweat, break and bond and bing and bong- all culminating in a
violent pubescent explosion in your teen years - where all of your appendages
and features will pop and bang and boom into a sort of biological fireworks
display.
Son Boy stares wide eyed and afraid. He has
poopled.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
But
not to fear my boy! You see I made it through? Everyone almost always does.
SON
I am
full of jam, Pipipsy!
MR.
WIMBLEDY
You
often are, my querulous little gutter. For now you are fine.
SON
If
you say so, Pipip.
The waiters return, this time by the folds
of the obese man. He has a hat now. Have stage hands watch hat carefully.
WAITER
1
meals
WAITER
2
Here'
WAITER
1
s
SHERPA
y-your
WAITER
2
gentlemen
WAITER
1
.
The plates are set on the table with utmost
care. Mr. Wimbledy stares at the plates.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
These
are not what we ordered.
ACT VIII
...
Still not entirely in a North Dakotian
bistro.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Will
I have to gut the two of you bastard waiters, and take your guts andgrind them
into beef, and eat that all of that stringy manbeef, and then fill your empty
skinbags with the puke of your pulchy beef guts, and then tie strings to your
corpses and perform a marionette play wherein you bring us the right fucking
meals, or will you just bring them yourselves?
WAITER
1
Yes
sir.
WAITER
2
No
sir.
The waiters look at each other nervously.
Mr. Wimbledy gets up and the waiters run to South Dakota, where they stay at a
motel for two weeks and rethink their careers. Waiter 1 begins to pursue an
online business in bag analysis and meets a fine woman at the laundromat named
Sandy, who loves animals and has red-dyed hair and an exceptional chin. She has
not buried her father's corpse and though this makes Waiter 1 pensive to wed
her he realizes he is falling prey to his lifelong fear of commitment, and he
arranges an elaborate proposal, involving a skip-rocktastic outing at Ocean
Shores, and a humble but outgoing beluga whale named Todd somersaulting to
shore and blowing an engagement ring out of his blowhole. The exchange between
Todd and Waiter 1 is long and convoluted, but should be improvised. These main
points should be covered: 1) Waiter 1 needs to ask Todd for his help. 2) Todd
needs to be reluctant, for he has only known Waiter 1 a fortnight. 3) Waiter 1
convinces Todd that he, Waiter 1, is Todd's father. 4) Todd must test Waiter 1
and ask what he, Todd, loves most. For only a true dad can know what his son
loves most. 5) Waiter 1 answers, "His father." 6) Todd, realizing
this paternal epiphany, grows man-legs and comes to shore and hugs Waiter 1 and
says he would be glad to help Waiter 1 in his time of need. 7) Waiter 1 laughs,
suggesting that he has fooled Todd,who is in actuality his father. On the day
of the proposal, Waiter 1 takes Sandy to the beach, and they skip rocks and
talk about corn. Todd bursts onto the scene with the ring, and in the process,
lands on and subsequently kills Sandy. Waiter 1 is aghast. Sandy is a-dead.
Todd is ashamed, but only for a moment. With his manlegs, he gets up and hugs
Waiter 1, who is confused. 8) Todd tells Waiter 1 that he knows he is Waiter
1's true father. 9) Waiter 1 asks how. 10) Todd notes that only a true dad can
know what his son loves most. When he killed Sandy he could sense the love in
his son die. The two cry and the curtain is drawn. Waiter 2's story will play
simultaneously on stage with Waiter 1's. In the motel Waiter 2 becomes addicted
to morphine and overdoses around the same time Waiter 1 begins his online
business.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Bunch
of no good hacks, eh Son Boy?
SON
Gee,
Pipipsy...you were mean to those men...
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Sometimes
you have to be, Son Boy. Sometimes, you have to be.
SON
Why?
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Sometimes
you have to work hard to get what you want. And sometimes people get in your
way.
SON
But...
MR.
WIMBLEDY
I
never wanted you to see me that way, Son Boy.
SON
But
Pipipsy, I don't want to be afraid of my Pipipsy. Why must you be so mean to
those men, Pipipsy?
MR.
WIMBLEDY
You
must learn that not everything is pooples and giggles, Son Boy.
SON
What
do you mean...? I don't like this!
MR.
WIMBLEDY
You
must learn to be okay with the way the world works, Son Boy. The weak must bear
the weight that the strong can lift. That is how it has always been. The sooner
you can accept this, the stronger you will be.
SON
I
don't want the world to work that way!
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Your
whining is becoming quite annoying, Son Boy!
SON
(Crying) Pipipsy, don't say that!
MR.
WIMBLEDY
(After much thought, sighing) Son Boy, I
think it's time we had you do the test.
SON
What
is the test?
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Oh, it
is, Son Boy. It is a very terrifying test. But it is a necessary test. I did
not want to tell you this for a long time, Son Boy, but now it seems I must, so
that you may understand my actions: I have had past sons.
SON
No!
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Quiet.
And these sons have all failed this test. You, my Son Boy, must do it, so that
I can continue to call you my Son Boy. I must
have a strong boy. It is clear you are not strong yet. The test will make you a
strong boy.
Son Boy is stricken by everything he has
been told. He releases no fluids, and asks no questions.
SON
Très
bien.
MR.
WIMBLEDY
Luckily,
the arena is only a twenty minute walk from here.
As they exit, the table begins to cry because no one was listening to him and he wrote a very good poem.
ACT IX
...
Son Boy is crouched in a small cage. He is
in a dark cellar, and a guard stands by him. The guard is thick, like meatloaf,
if meatloaf had pulsing veins all over its arms. He is dressed in teeth. Son
Boy wheezes and plarps.
SON
(Weak 'n meek) Mister, what's going to
happen?
GUARD
(A gravely, bomberous voice) MmmBoy! You
are getting yourself a very big time! Huoh hoha!
SON
I'm
sorry, what do you mean?
GUARD
Master
Wimbledy got a huge banger for your
hands - you best tank it! Oh ho!
SON
Do
you want me to be quiet or are you asking me to get prepared for something?
GUARD
Oh ho
ho!
SON
I
don't want to talk to you anymore.
The guard vomits with raucous laughter. He
begins rolling on the floor.
GUARD
Oh!
Ohhoh! Oh ho ho!
SON
Oh,
how I wish I knew what was in store for me! If only I could take joy in it all,
like this guard.
The guard begins to twist his own nipples
and scream.
SON
But I
can't! I only wanted to be coddled by my Diddypips and live safely in his
bosom! Here, it is so cold, so moist, so dark, so dank... it is so hard to find
any joy here....
The guard vomits more and laughs.
GUARD
Oh
bibs!
SON
How
long do I have, mister?
The guard ceases his play.
GUARD
I'd
wager a wink.
The guard winks.
SON
I
think I understand you.
GUARD
Ohho!
SON
It
doesn't matter when, does it?
The guard winks again. A small bit of ocular
discharge squirts out of his winking eye.
SON
Oh, I
remember so fondly my early days with Pipsy. We used to wink like that together.
Pipsy! Our days were full of games and songs and snaps. And floggings. I
remember the day you flogged me with a cat when I had told you I wanted to
dance with you.... You were so good at the mamba and yet you never wanted to
share your wisdom with me. Oh Pipsy! What do I do?
A spidder crawls onto Son Boy's arm and
begins to cry and sing, in a squeaky tenor, "O Sonny Boy."
SON
Don't
cry for me, spidder. I don't need any pity.
Still crying, the spidder scuttles into Son
Boy's britches and crawls up his urethra.
SON
(Screeches and writhes in pain and terror,
like a cat being shook)
Son Boy soon forgets what just happened and
continues to mull over his situation.
SON
Was I
always doomed to this? It seems like I allowed myself to be led this way and that...I
suppose this is my chance, my chance to lead myself. My fate will come when it
comes, and I must always be ready for it, whatever it may be. My dear Pipsy
wasn't. I have to be better than that. No more hiding in the radishes! No more
bosom coddling!
The cellar door opens. Another guard is at
the top of the stairs.
GUARD
2
It's
a biiiig dinger out there! Getchyur
britches tight! Oh ohhooho!
SON
I am
ready.
Both guards open Son Boy's cage, and lead
him out the door. He piddles and drowns the spider.
ACT X
...
(Note:
the audience and actors will be transported to Rome, Italy, via sack, for this
scene to be performed on location at the Colosseum.)
Son
Boy is pitted in the center of a large arena, which bears identical semblance
to the Roman Colosseum, but it is coated in the royal colors of glittery teal
and orange. Seats are populated by sons and dads, all voraciously hooting and
burping. Everyone dons silk loin cloths and corduroy shoulder pads in spirit of
the games. The sons periodically spit up, and their dads dab at their chin
dribble with satin kerchiefs. Son Boy, still in his jumpsuit, in the center of
it all, looks around. Bill Dung, a man in a toga and fedora, steps up to a
microphone in the center of the stage.
BILL
DUNG, the ROMAN
Oh hello, my friends!
CROWD
(Burps)
BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Today is the day. The annual match that our dearest Mr. Wimbledy throws every Sprung - The Hotshot Boy-Man Games!
CROWD
(Tangos, and eeps)
BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
For those that are new to this delightfully egregious sport, I will go over the rules.
MAN IN CROWD
Mmm!
BILL DUNG, the EXPLAINER
Our subject, (turns to Son Boy) this delightfully shiny lad, must defeat in battle the three Insurmountables: Pubert, the Dazzler, and the Big Squeeze.
CROWD
Oh! Oh, wowee!
Bill Dung pulls strawberries from under his toga and eats them.
BILL DUNG, the MORE EXPLAINER
(Mouth full of strawberries) Thuh gemmes wullbeginne shune ahftuh the intoduckory kwayur.
SON
Um, will I have anything to fight with?
Oh hello, my friends!
CROWD
(Burps)
BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Today is the day. The annual match that our dearest Mr. Wimbledy throws every Sprung - The Hotshot Boy-Man Games!
CROWD
(Tangos, and eeps)
BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
For those that are new to this delightfully egregious sport, I will go over the rules.
MAN IN CROWD
Mmm!
BILL DUNG, the EXPLAINER
Our subject, (turns to Son Boy) this delightfully shiny lad, must defeat in battle the three Insurmountables: Pubert, the Dazzler, and the Big Squeeze.
CROWD
Oh! Oh, wowee!
Bill Dung pulls strawberries from under his toga and eats them.
BILL DUNG, the MORE EXPLAINER
(Mouth full of strawberries) Thuh gemmes wullbeginne shune ahftuh the intoduckory kwayur.
SON
Um, will I have anything to fight with?
BILL DUNG, the ANSWERER
Ohgh, yesh. (Swallows strawberry) The boy will have but one weapon! A butler of fine pedigree, one of Mr. Wimbledy's choosing.
SON
Oh. Okay.
BILL DUNG, the LEAVER
But, for now, we must let the choir take the stage!
Bill Dung leaps on his motorcycle and does a killer burn out, spitting dirt in Son Boy's face. He wheelies away, into the large gate at the rim of the arena. Son Boy remains standing there, confused as to where he should go.
MAN IN CROWD
Hey! Boy!
Son Boy looks in the direction of the man in the crowd.
MAN IN CROWD
Hey!
Son Boy turns away and then turns again and looks in the direction of the man in the crowd.
MAN IN CROWD
I have a puzzle for you to solve.
The man pulls out a melon and a protractor.
MAN IN CROWD
Oh you will have a merry time with this one, boy. Just give me a second to get things set up.
The man begins to set up the puzzle. He winks at Son Boy.
MAN IN CROWD
Hold on to something! It is a zesty puzzle.
A crow flies down and tries to take the melon.
MAN IN CROWD
God please, NO! Not now!
The man struggles with the crow and the puzzle and soon a swarm of crows have overtaken him, squawking and pecking and fluttering. After a minute the crows clear and the man is gone.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Tragedy befalls us all in these trying times. Son Boy, you must not be scared.
SON
Oh.
The choir rides into the center of the arena on a butler. They are dressed in silk onesies and sailor hats.
CHOIR
(All sopranos and falsettos, accompanied by kazoo and drums) Boy! Boy to man! Hotshot hotshot boy man man! What does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean mean mean mean mean mean mean mean? B-b-b-b-bingbong zippypin dingberplebim! Zeepeeepeeepeeeepepepep MANMANMAN MAAAAAA -
The choir dies and stops being there. The sky becomes a face.
SKY FACE
Ohoho! The games are at starting for us now, friends!
Turn on industrial tanning lights in the auditorium so the audience begins to sweat. The sky implodes and the force burns off everyone's hair. On stage, the big gates on the edge of the arena open. Bill Dung, the Roman, comes out with a butler under his arm. He hands it to Son Boy. Son Boy looks at Bill and the butler incredulously, and with just a little bit of crippling despair.
BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Mr. Wimbledy has ordered you to use this butler in battle, Son Boy. It is not much, but Mr. Wimbledy has given specific instructions that you are given no advantage over the Insurmountables.
BIBBY BUTLER
(Chungles)
Son Boy takes the butler. The butler is pleased in Son Boy's hands.
BILL DUNG, the ROMAN
Nice. Now, Son Boy, the test will begin!
Bill Dung hides behind Son Boy for the rest of Act X. The big gates at the edge of the arena close. The gates open again. They close again. They open partially, then close. The gates close twice without opening, then open doubly, tripply, and close half way and open and then close again and then open and close, and open a crack and then a smidgen and then a hair, and then close and then slam, and a little baby peaks out, and then the gates open somewhat and then shut and open again. Out comes Pubert, a sentient pile of grease, puss, and hair with tentacle arms and four eyes.
PUBERT
Blarghghgle! Where's the boy!?
SON
Yip!
In a quick panic, Son Boy throws the bibby butler at Pubert and it is immediately absorbed in the folds of his sludge.
SON
Yipip!
PUBERT
Imma swallow you anyo bitty bebeh bodeh!
Pubert lunges like a hungry burrito at Son Boy. Son Boy gets absorbed into Pubert.
SON
Eeee, yuck!
Son Boy coughs, for all the grime and putrid matter fills his lungs and makes him angsty. He swims about, trying not to breathe, and eventually finds the butler, who has started to decompose but is still handsome enough to court, there in the depths of Pubert. Using the butler, Son Boy bursts out of Pubert's head.
PUBERT
My head is gone!
Pubert's face splatters the audience as well as the sons and dads in the Colosseum, leaving everyone coated in clammy green and white paste. Everyone cheers.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!
Pubert grows a new face.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!
PUBERT
You thought you could get ridda me?! Burhurhurhur! I'm not goin' anywhar till you’re a MAN!
Pubert slithers over to Son Boy and tries to eat him again. Son Boy evades him best he can by leaping and running about, but the constant pursuit wears him out.
SON
(Aside, to self and to Bill Dung, who, need I remind you, has been hiding behind Son Boy this whole time) I gotta find a way to kill Pubert! But how?
Son Boy spots a discarded gorilla near the edge of the arena. He runs over and picks it up. Pubert rushes after him, like a slug on amphetamines. Son Boy takes the gorilla and holds it up in front of him.
SON
Look! It is I, Son Boy!
PUBERT
Phlerbblebrb! What?
SON
Yes! Look how my body as come of age! Look at my hairs and wrinkles! Oh how age has ravaged me!
PUBERT
But if you are a man, then I am useless!
SON
Mmmmmm!
Pubert bursts like a swollen man-pimple. The crowd erupts in cheers.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN SITTING BEHIND MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!
The gate opens again, revealing a fantastic glow, with iridescent lights and fluttering bursts of glitter. Son Boy is in awe. A figure emerges from the glow - a figure that is thin and has long copper hair. It is the Dazzler, dressed in red tights and a golden fleece vest.
THE DAZZLER
Son Boy, dear boy! Watch my tricks!
The Dazzler begins to juggle infants and sing and spin. Son Boy begins to watch, falling in a trance. As he is dazzled, mesmerized, the Dazzler approaches with a sinister grin on his face.
THE DAZZLER
Now is the time I will kick you!
Son Boy is unaltered by the threat. He remains hypnotized. The Dazzler begins to kick Son Boy in the shins. Son Boy's shins squeak.
THE DAZZLER
Oh yes!
Son Boy, shins pummeled, does not react emotionally, but he begins to bleed and fall to the ground. The Dazzler's juggle tricks are too dazzling.
THE DAZZLER
Oh yes! Looks like I've got you now, Son Boy!
The Dazzler, having snacked on a hot pepper before the show, burps a zesty burp. Disoriented by the zest, he drops one of his infants (it is ~okay). The breach in pageantry snaps Son Boy out of his spell.
SON
Gee!
THE DAZZLER
No! My pageantry!
Son Boy, quickly realizing his advantage, kicks the Dazzler in the knee. The Dazzler bursts in a billow of glitter.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Hell yeah!
A great booming sounds. Son Boy, sweating like a bee, turns and looks toward the gate. He is exhausted, his butler is dried up, but he braces himself and stands up straight. The Big Squeeze stomps out of the gate. The Big Squeeze is burly, with two monstrously sized hands - each about the size of seventy thousand bees taped together. He has a long hair and crunkled knees. He is bald, and his thumblike head seamlessly descends into his sausage neck, which descends seamlessly into his tubular body.
THE BIG SQUEEZE
Are you ready to be SQUEEZY?
The Big Squeeze skillfully toddles over to Son Boy, his hands widespread and ready for a squeezing. He tries to squeeze Son Boy, but Son Boy swiftly dodges him.
THE BIG SQUEEZE
Come here, boy!
SON
No!
THE BIG SQUEEZE
Don't run!
SON
No!
THE BIG SQUEEZE
I need to squeeze ya!
SON
No!
The Big Squeeze catches Son Boy and begins to strangle him. His laughs are intermittent with burps and phlegm-coated coughs. Son Boy's face begins to purplen.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Son Boy! Use the butler!
Son Boy uses the butler.
SON
I did it!
Son Boy, now broken free from the Big Squeeze's clutches, begins an excellent interpretation of the Nutcracker ballet.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
Look out, Son Boy!
Son Boy looks out.
THE BIG SQUEEZE
I gotcha now, boy!
The Big Squeeze got him now, boy. Son Boy, in his clutches, squirms like a worm, and begins to cry.
MAN SITTING NEXT TO MAN IN CROWD
You need to get angry, Son Boy!
Son Boy looks at the Big Squeeze, sees all of the hate in his eyes, and he himself fills with rage. He slithers between the Big Squeeze's big, squeezy fingers. He climbs up the Big Squeeze's arm to his shoulder. He clutches the Big Squeeze's head as the giant swings around in confusion.
THE BIG SQUEEZE
(In extravagant song) I am confused!
SON
(Throbbing) Kill!
Son Boy, like a ravenous warthog, squeals and shoves his fingers into the Big Squeeze's eyes. They pop like plump blueberries, and as he screams Son Boy grabs his open jaw and rips it out of his face. Blood spattering everywhere, the faceless Big Squeeze falls to the ground and Son Boy leaps off and stands up. He reaches into the Big Squeeze's throat and pulls out his spine as though he were picking out bones from a salmon dinner, and, in a monstrous rage, plays jump rope with it like a furiously frivolous school girl. The sons and dads in the audience are aghast. For a moment there is a hush,
(hshsh)
and
then the crowd cheers. Son Boy, covered in blood and victory, pants and scans
the fans.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Very, very good, my boy!
Mr. Wimbledy descends into the arena from a butler in the sky.
MR. WIMBLEDY
You have passed all of the tests!
Mr. Wimbledy lands next to Son Boy and hugs him. Son Boy says nothing.
MR. WIMBLEDY
You may now be my son!
Son Boy is silent. The crowd roars.
MR. WIMBLEDY
What is wrong, my boy? You have won! You have won your Pipipsy. Here, you are exhausted. Let us return home so you can rest.
Taking Son Boy's hand, Mr. Wimbledy leads them both onto the butler. Bill Dung, of course, follows closely behind. They ascend over the arena, the crowd below belching and cheering. Son Boy closes his eyes and the sound makes him imagine a roaring river of blood and burps.
MR. WIMBLEDY
Very, very good, my boy!
Mr. Wimbledy descends into the arena from a butler in the sky.
MR. WIMBLEDY
You have passed all of the tests!
Mr. Wimbledy lands next to Son Boy and hugs him. Son Boy says nothing.
MR. WIMBLEDY
You may now be my son!
Son Boy is silent. The crowd roars.
MR. WIMBLEDY
What is wrong, my boy? You have won! You have won your Pipipsy. Here, you are exhausted. Let us return home so you can rest.
Taking Son Boy's hand, Mr. Wimbledy leads them both onto the butler. Bill Dung, of course, follows closely behind. They ascend over the arena, the crowd below belching and cheering. Son Boy closes his eyes and the sound makes him imagine a roaring river of blood and burps.
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 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 hunky 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 bleeds. 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 bleeds. 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 even 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 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.
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.
