Saturday, April 03, 2010

Act I, Francine II

A dicey-lookin' castle in the South of French Polynesia. Enter Yancy wearing a-- holy crap, is that guy wearing a funnel cake on his head? Good God, man! It‘s matin season for the wily marmoset! They don't take kindly to cranially donned deep-fried pastry treats when's the time to "get down" as O. Henry was fond of saying at the local barbershop, waving a sabre and stinking of gin (and I don't mean the alcoholic beverage, if ya know what I mean? Know what I mean? You don't? Grab a Kelly Blue Book and turn to the Dodges, das boot!).

Yancy tumbles into the great hall and quickly inflates a Pilates ball (Lord, I hope it's a Pilates ball). The shortness of breath triggers a violent deja vu of his days as a farmhand for the mob. "Free range, my ass!" thinks Yancy completely within the confines of the stage directions. A quarter hour passes before our hero comes to, slathered in brown mustard. The cotillion has begun and poor Yancy has spent all his time taking an extension course on Inland Oceanography. Oh, Yancy... will you ever learn (anything other than Inland Oceanography)?

YANCY (Bellowing, as he whispers)
I am called hither at the pleasure of the king!

GUARD (at least that's what he tells his parents)
Speak up, knave! And for Pete's sake put down those bellows. The fire is well-stoked... uh, anon? I guess?

I am called hither at the pleasure of the king!

Too late. His majesty has just finished a disappointing foot massage. I told him Alvin wasn't a woman's name but OH NO-- He's just gotta get ALL kingy on me. On the bright side, those bunions ain't coming back any time soon.

Well then, my good fellow man-child, where might a traveling barrister find a locksmith? Honestly, am I the only jackass in this county still driving a Yugo?

Yancy titters and juts out his hand. The Guard reluctantly slips him a franc and honest appraisal of his performance in the form of a well-tempered raspberry.

Y'know, you look just like my cousin in Dorchester...

Don't tell me.... Marjorie? Damn her and her love affair with cheap wine and cheaper plastic surgery! No offense.

Not until Thursday.

The gents burst into a fevered game of backgammon. The curtain falls taking out the first two rows. Next time, hire union stagehands, dumbass.


1 comment:

  1. Author author! If only there had been one. Still, that'll learn those country club not-inviting me patrons in the first two rows a thing or two about labor relations in the age of Crisco (eh, your choice which one) (to which I refer) (I mean).


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