Academic

AT RISE:

TWO PROFESSORS stand behind lecterns.

PROFESSOR 1:
Statement! The internet has promoted a new love of the written word amongst today's youth.

PROFESSOR 2:
Refutation! They waste the written word, bastardizing for convienience's sake, and using it only to promote their own shallow, mundane world views.

PROFESSOR 1:
Compromise! No-one appreciates anything properly anymore.

PROFESSOR 2:
Addendum! Except for me.

PROFESSOR 1:
Rider to the addendum! Except for us.

PROFESSOR 2:
Agreed!

They shake hands. Then there is some SEX and VIOLENCE to make sure the audience leaves satisfied.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Fact or Fiction?

AT RISE:

Two CATS sit onstage.

CAT 1:
Man, I really appreciate that guy.

CAT 2:
What guy?

CAT 1:
You know, that guy who shows up and takes care of us when that other guy is away.

CAT 2:
Oh, that guy. Yeah, he's cool I guess.

CAT 1:
I feel like we should thank him somehow. You know, give him a token of our sincere gratitude.

CAT 2:
Like what?

CAT 1:
I figure we can just pee all over his stuff.

CAT 2:
Ooh, good call. I'm sure he'll love it.

CAT 1:
Indubitably!

They high five.

NARRATOR:
And then they did. The bastards.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Indicative

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN sit on a couch, watching television.

MAN:
Isn't it interesting how a relationship can be implied simply by entering into a scene with two characters sitting in close proximity to each other?

WOMAN:
No.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Monologosphere

AT RISE:

DOUG stands before the audience. He's naked, why not.

DOUG:
One time I was going to write one of these new-fangled internet plays that are sweeping the country with brilliance and grandeur and thought "Hey, I'm going to try something different! I'm going to write a one-man monologue play!". So I sat down and started to write. Rather well, if I do say so myself. But after the first ten lines or so I started to realize something. I started to realize that I wasn't writing a ground-breaking one-man internet play at all. I was writing a freaking blog post. Here I was, master of craft and nuance, working at what would have been the top of my game on a proper stage, and yet on the internet, or "internets" as it is also referred, I was the equivalent of an insanely brilliant 16 year old, writing a post about the mundanities of his day to day life. Now I guess I could analyze this in some sort of amazing highbrow essay, concerning the connections between theatrical stylings and internet fueled self absorbtion, perhaps even going so far as to point out the now labored portrayl of theatre folk as masters of self absorbtion, but I am a lazy, lazy man. So I will simply write a play, a silly, yet probing play, about the word "poo-poo".

He wiggles his buttocks.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

It's Effin' Amazin'

AT RISE:

A bread pan sits on a table.

NARRATOR:
(Off stage)
YEAST!

Bread rises in the bread pan until it is a full loaf. The NARRATOR enters, and holds the bread aloft!

NARRATOR:
YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSSST!

Spotlight on the bread. Until...

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Pastiche

AT RISE:

Something happens. What? Beats me. Why don't you try thinking something up now and then. Sigh. I gues that's not the deal, is it. Okay, fine. There's an explosion, and scraps of newsprint fall to the ground like ticker tape. A NEWSIE enters, eating an apple. On the opposite side of the stage, a DAPPER MAN enters.

DAPPER MAN:
What's all this then?

NEWSIE:
Nothing worth worrying about. The newspaper's exploded.

DAPPER MAN:
Are you referring to the physical object, or the organization that prints and distributes said object.

NEWSIE:
Both.

DAPPER MAN:
Oh.
(beat)
Which paper was it?

NEWSIE:
All of them.

DAPPER MAN:
Oh. Shouldn't you be more concerned?

NEWSIE:
Probably.

DAPPER MAN:
I see.

NEWSIE:
Do you?

DAPPER MAN:
No.

A beat. The Newsie eats his apple.

DAPPER MAN:
Would you care to accompany me on a fantasical globe-trotting adventure featuring machines the push the boundaries of steam-powered locomotion?

NEWSIE:
I thought you'd never ask.

And they skip off together. A DUSTMAN enters and begins to sweep the newspaper into a large pile.

DUSTMAN:
Ain't that always the way.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Honest Question

AT RISE:

A MAN WITH THE HEAD OF A SPERM WHALE enters. He speaks to a SMALL POTTED PLANT.

MWTHOASW:
If I told you that I vomited rainbows and cried diamonds, would you find a way to love me?

Silence. The lights slowly dim.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Free Time

AT RISE:

A YOUNG MAN sits at a bar, nursing a glass of beer. He speaks to a BARTENDER.

YOUNG MAN:
I'm thinking of developing a drinking problem.

BARTENDER:
Oh?

YOUNG MAN:
Yeah I think it would really give my life a focus and direction it's been lacking up until this point.

BARTENDER:
I don't think that's an entirely accurate worldview.

YOUNG MAN:
Maybe so.

He takes a small sip of beer.

YOUNG MAN:
But hey, maybe I'll get lucky and be one of those really brilliant drunks, like Oscar Wilde or something. Hemmingway! I doubt he wrote a word sober.

BARTENDER:
He also shot himself in the face.

YOUNG MAN:
You know, you really could be more supportive.

He takes another sip. He grimaces.

YOUNG MAN:
How many have I had so far?

BARTENDER:
One.

YOUNG MAN:
This is going to take some doing.

Another sip.

YOUNG MAN:
I'm trivializing a debilitating disease, aren't I?

BARTENDER:
Yes.

YOUNG MAN:
I was afraid of that.

He sighs.

YOUNG MAN:
Maybe I'll just give Mah Jong another chance.

BARETENDER:
That might be a better idea.

There is a buzzing noise. The Young Man takes a phone out of his pocket. He looks at the display, then quickly puts it back in his pocket. He sighs again.

YOUNG MAN:
Can I get a water?

The Bartender hands him a bottled water. The Young Man opens it and takes a swig.

YOUNG MAN:
Yeah. Mah Jong it is.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Busy Weekend

AT RISE:

There is a wonderful wedding ceremony, with charming gaffes and heartfelt sentiment. As the BRIDE and GROOM exit, walking down the aisle, the attending family members and friends simply smile, and take joy from the union of two, very much in love, individuals. It is a wedding in the truest sense of the word, and everyone, hopeless romantics and jaded cynics alike, are aware of of this. After the exit of the bride and groom, the BEST MAN speaks.

BEST MAN:
And now... drinking!

EVERYONE cheers. Huzzah!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Arbitrary Drama

AT RISE:

THE AUTHOR enters amidst a shower of rose petals.

AUTHOR:
Hey my sister's getting married today, crazy huh? Also distracting creatively. So now, an arbitrary middle and end to this fine piece of dramatic literature.

A JOGGER enters.

JOGGER:
Help! I have a Major Dramatic Question!

AUTHOR:
Yes?

JOGGER:
Where is a good place for jogging?

AUTHOR:
Anywhere! Jogging starts from the heart.

JOGGER:
You're right! I guess there is a lesson here for us all.

The Jogger jogs off.

AUTHOR:
See you next time everybody! Sorry this was terrible!

He disappears in a cloud of stardust.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY. CONGRATS SIS!

Long Car Trip

AT RISE:

C and D sit on a swing set.

C:
What's more dramatic than two people in a scene?

D:
Three people?

E enters. After a moment, everyone shrugs.

C:
Nope.

E exits.

D:
Two people and a stuffed monkey?

A Stuffed monkey is thrown onstage. Instantly, C and D fall upon each other and the monkey in a heartbreaking display of pathos, forbidden love and black comedy.

After a few moments of this, the monkey disappears.

C:
Yup.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Wishful Thinking

AT RISE:

A JOB INTERVIEWER sits at a desk across from a DUDE/DUDETTE. The interviewer reads from a resume.

INTERVIEWER:
Under skills, it says: "Diabetic Cat Maintenence". Care to explain?

DUDE/DUDETTE:
Yes. Experience has proven that I have the skills necessary to keep a diabetic cat alive for weeks at a time.

INTERVIEWER:
That is totally awesome.

DUDE/DUDETTE:
Isn't it?

A Hi-five!

INTERVIEWER:
Every job is yours. Ever.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Grin and...

AT RISE:

A BEAR sits on stage. That is, a large fuzzy mammal with razor sharp claws, not a large fuzzy gay man. If local law enforcement officials or park rangers have a problem with the use of a live bear on stage, the bear can be replaced with an actor in a bear costume, though the author of this work must stress that this should be a last resort. Anyway, there’s a bear. It’s big and bear-y.

NARRATOR:
(from offstage)
The dawn of man.

A CAVEMAN HUNTER rushes onstage, and before the bear can act, the hunter headbutts it as hard as he can. The bear is unfazed, but the hunter lies on the ground, stunned.

NARRATOR:
And with that, the ancient truce was broken.


BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Every Damn Day

AT RISE:

The eyewear manufacturing lab of a LensCrafters. Horrible Bryan Adams songs play on the radio. MARK wears a lab coat and fiddles with a pair of glasses. TONY enters the lab and puts on a lab coat.

MARK:
Morning.

TONY:
Hey.

MARK:
Hot out, isn’t it?

TONY:
What?

MARK:
It’s hot outside, huh?

TONY:
Oh, it’s hot outside?

MARK:
Yeah.

TONY:
Yeah?

ED enters.

ED:
What’s up guys?

TONY:
What’s up?.

MARK:
Nothing. It’s hot out.

ED:
What?

MARK:
I said the weather is hot.

ED:
The weather’s hot?

TONY:
That’s what he was saying. Why don’t you ever listen?

MARK:
It’s not a big deal, really.

TONY:
Oh. It’s not a big deal?

ED:
What?

TONY:
What, “what”?

ED:
Huh?

TONY:
You know what? Never mind.

Tony exits.

ED:
That Tony, huh?

MARK:
Yeah, I guess.

ED:
What?

MARK:
Nothing.

Ed cracks up laughing, and exits.

When he’s sure he’s alone, Mark slowly reaches over and turns off the radio. He continues to work on the glasses, in silence.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Dog Day Afternoon

AT RISE:

A and C laze about.

A:
Leopard shark.

C:
Excuse me?

A:
Leopard shark.

C:
What’s that?

A:
A type of shark.

C:
Oh.

A:
It looks like a leopard. I think.

C:
That’d be my guess.

More lazing about.

C:
Dolores Bacon.

A:
Huh?

C:
Dolores Bacon.

A:
Explanation?

C:
It’s a name. A lady name. Saw it on something, somewhere.

A:
Very… crispy.

C:
Not necessarily.

A:
That’s fair.

C:
How much longer?

A:
Three hours.

C:
Bleh.

A beat.

A:
Plastic spoon.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Tutorial

AT RISE:

A GUY AT A TYPEWRITER sits, oddly enough, at a typewriter. He types! He is very efficent, a model of effective writing habits. I bet he writes first thing every morning, and shuns ecesses in all things to keep his mind sharp and fresh. That mother-luncher probably goes to bed at a reasonable hour, and always knows where his stories are going. I bet he even does outlines, the git. Oh, how I hate him. And so should you!

A MAN IN A RACOON SUIT runs into the room. He is very distracting.

MAN IN A RACOON SUIT:
I need to tell a story quickly and effectively within severe length limitations. TEACH ME HOW.

MAN AT A TYPEWRITER:
Beginning. Middle. End. Set up a problem early and resolve it, or use a clear lack of resolution as a form of resolution.

MAN IN A RACOON SUIT:
Your generalizations do not reflect my specific problem. I SENSE CONFLICT THAT MUST BE RESOLVED.

MAN AT A TYPEWRITER:
The solution to your problem or problems is simple: don't mice words.

He hurls a throwing star at the man in the racoon suit, striking him in the head.

MAN IN A RACOON SUIT:
So efficient! And with space to spare!

He dies.

MAN AT A TYPEWRITER:
Don't do drugs!

Thumbs up!

BLACKOUT. END PLAY. GIVE YOUR MOTHER A HUG, WHY DON'T YOU.

Mowing the Lawn

AT RISE:

A MAN and a WOMAN sit on a large galapagos tortoise.

WOMAN:
Tell me a story.

MAN:
About what?

WOMAN:
A donkey.

MAN:
Once upon a time-

WOMAN:
Wait.

MAN:
What?

WOMAN:
Donkeys make me sad.

MAN:
Because they're sterile?

WOMAN:
No, that's mules.

MAN:
Then what's wrong with donkeys?

WOMAN:
One time I read a sad story about a donkey and a dolphin. I was depressed for a week.

MAN:
Okay fine.

WOMAN:
But you still have to tell me a story.

The man thinks.

MAN:
Once upon a time, a man and a woman sat on a tortoise. They were happy on the tortoise, but still found themselves, on occasion, wondering what their lives would have been if they'd decided to ride a donkey instead.

They sit for a moment.

WOMAN:
That still had a donkey in it.

MAN:
Did you like it?

A beat.

WOMAN:
Yeah, I liked it.

The tortoise plodes on.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Out of Nothing At All

AT RISE:

ED stuffs envelopes. CHRISTOPHE enters.

CHRISTOPHE:
Heya, Ed.

ED:
Christophe.

CHRISTOPHE:
Enough idle banter! What's with the envelopes?

ED:
I'm getting a mailing ready.

CHRISTOPHE:
For what, charity?

ED:
No, just to say "hi".

CHRISTOPHE:
Ah, old friends.

ED:
Nope. Strangers. Picked their names randomly out of the phone book.

CHRISTOPHE:
I see.

ED:
Do you?

CHRISTOPHE:
No.

ED:
Ah.

CHRISTOPHE:
Is this some kind of sex thing? Like mailing them all photos of your butt.

ED:
Nope.

CHRISTOPHE:
Some kind of ironic counterpoint to the digitilization of communication?

ED:
Not really.

CHRISTOPHE:
Are you actually going to give me any sort of explanation for this?

ED:
Probably not.

CHRISTOPHE:
Okay.

Christophe sits down.

CHRISTOPHE:
Just saying hi?

ED:
Just saying hi.

Christope appraises Ed for a moment, then starts stuffing envelopes. Ed gives a small smile.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

So Very Tired

AT RISE:

A COSMONAUT tapes pieces of bologna onto a SEXY LADY. They are on a bed. And yes, it should be as awkward as it sounds.

SEXY LADY:
Could you please explain the erotic signifigance of this?

COSMONAUT:
How could I explain such a thing to one who has not seen seen first hand the vast, soul-crushing emptyness that lies beyond the fragile boundaries of our blue speck of a planet? Now stay right there while I get the quiche.

He exits.

SEXY LADY:
The things I do to pay for medical school!

The studio audience EXPLODES with laughter. The WRITER enters.

WRITER:
I am so sorry.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

What It Is

AT RISE:

The dystopian ruins of a once great city. It is raining, because it always rains in these situations. You could call it Orwell-ian, but that would betray a deep lack of imagination.

A WOMAN enters.

WOMAN:
Food?

A futuristic SOLDIER enters.

SOLDIER:
Totalitarianism!

WOMAN:
Meek acceptance.

The soldier exits.

A MAN enters.

WOMAN:
Food?

MAN:
Fear. Distrust.

WOMAN:
Wit. Sarcasm. Glimmer of hope.

MAN:
Sandwich.

He tosses her a small parcel. The woman opens it, revealing a sandwich. She eats it.

WOMAN:
Curiosity.

MAN:
Enigma. Hint of depth.

WOMAN:
Companion.

The soldier re-enters.

SOLDIER:
Questionable authority!

He draws a gun.

MAN:
Disrespect! Rebelliousness! Troubled past!

SOLDIER:
Mindless acceptance of government!

WOMAN:
Blossoming emotion!

MAN:
Surface level disregard! Slight trace of reciprocation.

SOLDIER:
Interruption! Restatement of purpose! Metaphor!

He shoots the man.

WOMAN:
Rejection of status quo!

She throws a rock at the soldier, knocking him out.

MAN:
Dying.

WOMAN:
Love?

MAN:
Love.

He dies. She looks around.

WOMAN:
Resolve!

The rain stops. The woman looks at the man.

WOMAN:
Sandwich!

She takes a sandwich from his corpse, holds it aloft. The sun comes out.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

They Can't All Be Gold

AT RISE:

A and B sit on a bench.

A:
Have you ever noticed how many plays have blatantly ripped off "Waiting For Godot"?

B:
No.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

They Never Ask Why

AT RISE:

A DIRECTOR and a PLAYWRIGHT are chillin'.

DIRECTOR:
Playwright!

PLAYWRIGHT:
Yes, Director?

DIRECTOR:
I want you to adapt Hamlet into a Cold War era nuclear submarine thriller.

PLAYWRIGHT:
Why?

DIRECTOR:
I have a vision of transposing the claustrophobic formality of courtly life into a more physically claustrophobic space.

PLAYWRIGHT:
Why?

DIRECTOR:
To intensify the tension between Hamlet, now a young naval officer, and his new commander, Claudius, who just mutineed against Hamlet Sr., took control of the sub, and is now headed for Russian waters.

PLAYWRIGHT:
What about Gertrude?

DIRECTOR:
G.E.R.T.R.U.D.E. is now the sub's computerized control program. It's an acronymn, see? I don't know what it stands for, though. Gas...something,maybe.

PLAYWRIGHT:
And Ophelia?

DIRECTOR:
The ship's cook.

PLAYWRIGHT:
And how does she manage to drown on board a hermetically sealed nuclear submarine?

DIRECTOR:
She launches herself out of a torpedo tube.

The Playwright thinks for a moment.

PLAYWRIGHT:
I think you need to call your wife.

DIRECTOR:
I miss her so much.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Playwriting One

AT RISE:

A SMALL KITTEN runs in an endless clockwise loop. Soothing classical music plays.

A MAN enters. He observes the kitten, who continues to run, oblivious. The man begins to run around the kitten in a counterclockwise circle.

A WOMAN appears. She waves at the man, who ignores her, and then at the kitten, who is in its own world. She frowns, then starts doing jumping jacks with her back to the audience.

A DIFFERENT WOMAN enters. The man stops running as the different woman rushes over to greet him. They clasp hands and skip in circles around the kitten, who is totally out of it by this point.

The first woman stops doing jumping jacks and gives a whistle. A 19TH CENTURY STRONGMAN enters, and picks up the kitten, carefully avoiding the man and woman, who are still running in circles. The kitten, it should be noted, is more than likely very dizzy at this point.

The first woman and the strongman toss the kitten gently back and forth between them, laughing merrily. A little too merrily.

The man and the second woman stop running and do fifty push-ups on either side of the kitten-tossing couple. Everyone is impressed.

Both women exit, leaving the strongman and the man-man standing side by side. They each hold half of the kitten.

A DISTINGUISHED GENTLEMAN and a MOOSE enter and flank the stage. The two women re-enter, the second woman now sitting on the first's shoulders. Everyone gives a classic "slow clap" and then:

KITTEN:
Politics!!!!

Jazz hands and bows all around.

A UNICYCLIST rides across the stage. Just as in real life, no one seems to care.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Scientific

AT RISE:
Darkness. A light appears, illuminating a SINCERE YOUNG MAN.

SINCERE YOUNG MAN:
Because my girlfriend dumped me.

Another light illuminates a CHEERLEADER.

CHEERLEADER:
Because we just won the big game.

A COWBOY is illuminated.

COWBOY:
Because the west ain’t so wild no more.

A CONCERT VIOLINIST is illuminated.

CONCERT VIOLINIST:
Because classical music is still important.

A BUSINESSMAN is illuminated.

BUSINESSMAN:
Because I have chlamydia.

SINCERE YOUNG MAN:
That’s why…

COWBOY:
That’s why…

CONCERT VIOLINIST:
That’s why…

A SMALL CHILD appears.

SMALL CHILD:
That’s why we need to blow up the moon.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Freelance

AT RISE:

MAX, a young man in a bright pink bathrobe, sits at a small kitchen table. Atop the table is a shiny silver toaster. Max stares at the toaster, occasionally prodding it with a fork.

MAX:
Intriguing.

SAM enters. He is a similarly young man, though he is clad only in the skimpiest of briefs. It is not an impressive sight, yet enthralling in it's own way.

SAM:
Toaster, eh?

MAX:
Toaster indeed.

SAM:
I see. Query.

MAX:
Recognized.

SAM:
What's so interesting about that toaster?

MAX:
I have reason to believe that there is a frog in it.

Max produces a post-it note, and hands it to Sam.

SAM:
(reading)
"There is a frog in the toaster. Do not be alarmed." Curious.

MAX:
Curious indeed. All the more so for the origin of this note.

SAM:
That being?

MAX:
It was stuck to my forehead when I woke up this morning.

SAM:
Ah. Foul play then.

MAX:
Perhaps. I'm trying to hold off on such a judgement until i have concluded my inquiries.

He pokes the toaster once more with the fork.

MAX:
Foul play it is.

SAM:
Dastardly. May I suggest a course of action that might bring this investigation to a close?

MAX:
By all means.

SAM depresses a lever on the side of the toaster, activating it's heating element. After a moment, a small frog jumps out.

MAX:
Well, that's another case closed. Well done, one and all.

The frog gives a small ribbit.

SAM:
You've got that right!

They laugh. Freeze frame.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Montgomery Effect

AT RISE:
Two librarians, NEIL and CAROL sort books. Carol stops, and looks thoughtful.

CAROL:
Hey, Neil?

NEIL:
Yes, Carol?

CAROL:
Do you think you can you be both a library cataloguer and a nihilist?

NEIL:
Well, logically, a cataloguer would have to believe in cataloguing, believe in the worthiness of the system which he or she was enforcing, in order to effectively go about his or her job. So I’d have to say no.

CAROL:
Oh. I suppose that makes sense. It’s just that I thought I was suddenly struck by the futility of man’s attempt to impose meaning and order to a chaotic universe, thus destroying my capacity to believe in anything. For what is belief but another such attempt, albeit one imposed solely within the self? And once one begins down that dark path, what choice is there ultimately but the decision to reject all notions of God, man and society?
(She picks up a book)
But here we are.

NEIL:
Indeed. I wouldn’t worry too much, if I were you.

CAROL:
Why’s that?

NEIL:
It’s a well-known fact that librarians are more prone to such existential breakdown than any other profession. Aside from garbage men, of course.

CAROL:
Oh. You mean you’ve felt the same?

NEIL:
Of course.

CAROL:
And how do you deal with it?

NEIL:
My debilitating dependence on alcohol, mostly.

CAROL:
Oh.

A beat.
Must be nice.

NEIL:
It gets you where you’re going.

CAROL:
I shall have to give it a try.

Neil gives her a small smile, and they go back to work.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

Morning After

AT RISE:
A science vessel on a stormy sea. JACQUES COUSTEAU stands at the prow, waves crashing about him. His ancient brow is troubled.
With a soft splash, a GIANT SQUID appears.

GIANT SQUID:
Hey, Jacques Cousteau.

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
Oh. Hello, Giant Squid.

GIANT SQUID:
This is awkward, isn’t it?

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
Yes. Yes it is. Awkward.

A beat.

GIANT SQUID:
Did you get my voicemail?

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
Yes. It was… Yes, I got your voicemail.

GIANT SQUID:
Oh. Good.
(gesturing to the ship)
So this is the Calypso?

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
No, this is my other boat. My… private boat. It has satellite TV.

GIANT SQUID:
Oh. Can I… come aboard?

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
No. I mean…It’s not a good-

GIANT SQUID:
You’re probably right. It was a stupid… I should go.

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
I didn’t mean…

GIANT SQUID:
I know.

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
It’s just...

GIANT SQUID:
Jacques. I know. It’s okay.

JACQUES COUSTEAU
Okay.

GIANT SQUID:
Give me a call sometime, would you?

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
We’ll see.

GIANT SQUID:
I suppose we will, won’t we?

The Giant Squid gives a wan smile.

JACQUES COUSTEAU:
Goodbye, Giant Squid.

GIANT SQUID:
Goodbye, Jacques Cousteau.

The Giant Squid disappears beneath the waves.

Jacques Cousteau makes sure the squid is out of sight, then picks up a large harpoon from the deck. He raises it high above his head, tears appearing in the crinkled corners of his eyes.

He holds his position, and is become a statue carved in supplication to an oceanic god of death. But he cannot do it. The harpoon drops to the deck.

Looking out once more to the endless sea, Jacques Cousteau produces a pipe from one of the innumerable pockets of his vest, lights it, and silently puffs away.

BLACKOUT. END PLAY.

The Reaction of Chad Roberts to the Music Video for Michael Jackson's "Thriller" or: Vincent Price.

Time: 1983
Setting: Chad’s Apartment


AT RISE:


CHAD ROBERTS, 23 years old, sits on an old recliner.
He’s watching a television, which faces upstage. We hear the end dialogue of the music video for Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. CHAD is sitting absolutely still, his mouth agape. The video ends.

CHAD:
Holy shit, he’s a werewolf.


SCENE TWO

CHAD as before, his girlfriend, AMY now stands beside him, unimpressed. We again hear the end of the video.

AMY:
So is he like a zombie and a werewolf or …what?

CHAD:
No “or what”. He’s a fucking werewolf, Amy.

AMY:
Make love to me, Chad Roberts.

Blackout. End play.