Saturday, February 25, 2012

You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools, a play in one-half act

Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage
Juan, The Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage
Lemmy, noted baritone bassist & collector of blow-em-up baubles
Fryer Bungy, English conjurer & skillet gourmand
Kid Darkthrone, not-very-noted local misanthrope, reformed
The Potato Witches of the Caucasus, pastiche weirdos who know a big secret
Baba Yaga, dancing Slavic sorceress
Otto von Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor, made not of iron but of duh
Aide-de-camp, NPC & Hessian
Bear, bait, & lovable ursine scamp

When we last left etc., 'twas some Jedi mind tricksy that both created a new alliance with such deft aplomb that the League of Nations would be sucking their thumb in laudanum shock, & freed the rebellion from the nefarious clutches of the Dark Lord of the Skillet, Fryer Bungy. DUCHESS, EARL, LEMMY, & KID DARKTHRONE stand, having left the German dime store with ten thousand marbles & one other thing, you'll see. Drink up, shoot in, let the third act begin.

DUCHESS: We're --

LEMMY: fucked --

KID DARKTHRONE: mumblejumblewhiskey.

EARL: Stay mellow, hep cats.

OTTO, FRYER BUNGY, & AIDE-DE-CAMP enter, exiting a billowing cloud of dust & a strangely rhythmic yet dissonant rumble in the distance that's less distant with each dissonant yet strangely rhythmic rumble.

LEMMY (enraged): Fuckin' wankers!

LEMMY clocks AIDE-DE-CAMP on the skull with his bass, knocking him out.

OTTO (chuckling): That Hessian was our last hope.

FRYER (giggling): No, there is another.

OTTO: (cackling with snotty glee): & another, & another, & so on, & so on, & so on.

A colossal column or ten of Berk-heads, each of each of the hundreds as tall as a really tall house with equally tall pointy olde tyme helmets you know the ones, march menacingly out of the dust, with menace, & probably some guns.

EARL (chortling): You fool! You foolish fool!

OTTO: Ja, sie blieben quieten und don't call me stupid!


WITCH #1: Earl --

WITCH #2: use --

WITCH #3: the --

EARL: Schwartz?

WITCHES, ALL THREE: The earplugs!

EARL rolls the marbles, all ten-thousand of them, one for each foot of OTTO's army, that's five-thousand, & since they're marbles & these are real big contraptions made of iron what else, but rest assured that the POTATO WITCHES didn't rest but sent a carrier pigeon to call not for help in desperation, but to initiate phase two of their brilliant counter-counterstrike that would make the Grande Armée blush if they hadn't been freezer burned outside Pooty-Poot's Playhouse. Oh yeah, while the Berk-heads are busy stomping, all the good guys put in their dime store ear plugs. BEAR enters.

BEAR (growls with gusto): *growl*

FRYER: Everything louder than everything else!

The shockwave rattles not just the bones of all present, but the moustache off OTTO & onto the German soil, swimming in shards of Krazy Leim.

OTTO: Gott im himmel! Mein ears! Mein moustache!

In the obfuscating confusion, KID DARKTHRONE, being a kid & thus smaller than everyone else, rushes in between the giant metal legs tripping over each other, grabs the prize moments before it is crushed like so many marbles, & since the stache was magical like a Bag of Holding or a +1 broadsword, I hope that was clear if not sorry, the army crumbles into nuts & bolts & galvanic whirring machines, rusting real quick like one of those time-lapse photographic essays.

DUCHESS: Now, Lemmy, to fulfill your part of the bargain, help us find --

BABA YAGA enters riding her dancing hut & holding the Fabergé Potato, which she pickpocketed from OTTO in the inveigling discomfiture.

BABA YAGA (crowing): this?

DUCHESS: Baba Yaga!

BABA YAGA: That's my name --

EARL: We'll wear you out!

BABA YAGA (sighing): Who writes this thing?

EARL: Don't ask.

WITCH #1 (serious): You --

WITCH #2 (seriouser): must --

WITCH #3 (seriousest): retrieve --

LEMMY: Lemme ask ya somethin' Baby Yags, howsabout --

BABA YAGA: You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen.

LEMMY: They's brown ya fuckin' blind bird.

BABA YAGA (winking): I do need glasses.

LEMMY (nudging): I fuckin' knows how ta get two pairs for the price 'a one.

BABA YAGA: Oh, Lemmy.

LEMMY: Oh, Baby Yags.

You would of course be cordially invited to the wedding of Miss Baba Yaga & Mr. Ian Kilmister but since that was a textual interpolation by a hand devious cough DUCHESS cough, we'll stop here. As for loose ends, FRYER BUNGY either escaped into the Black Forest, was abducted by Atlanteans, or was hired as cook by a traveling harlequin comedie-burlesque troup depending on which rumor you choose to believe; OTTO VON BISMARCK went back to Berlin where conflicts with Der Kaiser would almost sideline Germany's chances in the 1974 World Cup; the Fabergé Potato is back on the mantle in the Museum of Palimpsest Oddities where it belongs; & as for who caught the bouquet, oh, let's say Moe.



ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

BABA YAGA is Wendy O.?

Who knew!?!

P.S. I'm still pissed that the video of Wendy driving an exploding Cadillac into the Hudson is no longer on youtube.

Randal Graves said...

Wendy O is Randal's photoshopping skills paying no bills, but it worked out well, but hell, really? The internets is supposed to have *everything*.

susan said...

I'm not in the least surprised Baby Yags bears such a strong resemblance to Wendy O but somehow I was expecting Lemmy to be taller. He was taller in the other acts, wasn't he?

I see you've followed Holmes' maxim to letter in eliminating the impossible and leaving whatever remained, however improbable as the truth of the mystery. All in all this was a most satisfactory conclusion.

Prunella Vulgaris said...

Tragedies end with the heroes dead, comedies end with weddings, right Shakespeare?

Chortles abounded. You've outdone yourself.

Randal Graves said...

susan, I'm guessing, and this is only a theory, that Lemmy is eight or nine shades to the wind and the sorceress is the only thing keeping him from completely slouching over. He's still seven feet tall.

As for the wedding ending, all credit must go to better half of the Peonage, 'twas her idea, and it saved the day.

duchess, wait, you all thought these are comedies? You won't be laughing when that potato - I've said too much.

Beach Bum said...

You would of course be cordially invited to the wedding of Miss Baba Yaga & Mr. Ian Kilmister but...

Thank God, I don't do weddings. Funerals actually have better food and drink and I do not have to wish some giggly bride and groom good luck.

The only thing worse than a wedding is yard work and I did that crap all day yesterday.

Demeur said...

We know the Fryer Bungy set about on a new quest for the secrets of hamburger helper©and stove top stuffing ©.

Randal Graves said...

BB, plus you don't have to wait for the temporarily-happy couple to return before chowing down.