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THE DEATH OF REASON

(A Play in Rhyme)

Short Video Trailor

 

Directed by Stefanie Glick and Michael Grais

with Blake Boyd and Jurian Hughes (AEA)

 

(KNOCK on door.  WOMAN crosses the room and opens the door.  HITMAN, an exceptionally handsome man, stands in the doorway.) 

 

HITMAN:             Can I help you?

 

WOMAN:                                        Isn’t that my line?

 

HITMAN:     Not when the visit is clandestine.

 

(HITMAN lets himself into the Living Room and hangs his jacket on the coat rack.)

 

HITMAN:        So you’re the lovely lady who needs,

                       you know, assistance?

 

WOMAN:                                             I’m not quite up to speed.

                    Who are you? 

 

HITMAN:                                Oh, so that’s how you’ll play this.

                    Well lots of ladies have tried that role, miss.

                    But either way, the word on the street --

 

WOMAN:      The street?!

 

HITMAN:                            Don’t worry.  It’s still discreet.

 

WOMAN:     I don’t know what you’re talking about.

 

HITMAN:      Says here…

 

(HITMAN removes a small piece of paper from his pocket and reads it.)

 

HITMAN:                           Yup. Right address.  Beyond a doubt.    

 

LADY 3: (aside)  My goodness.  He is handsome. 

 

LADY 2:                                                     (aside)  What a hunk!

 

HITMAN:      What’s happened in here?  What’s with all this junk?

 

WOMAN:      Oh, just a bit of fun.

 

HITMAN:                                         It’s a real mess.

                      Alhough roses are my weak spot.  I confess.        

 

WOMAN:     They are?

 

HITMAN:                      Yes.

 

 (HITMAN bends to pick up a rose petal and fondles it sensually.)

 

HITMAN:                              Blankets of flowers warm those

                      eternally departed. And in a rose,

                      one hears songs of the broken-hearted. Hey,

                      I think I’m getting ‘bit carried away. 

                      Excuse me.  But it must be your perfume.

 

WOMAN:      Or just the petals strewn around the room.

 

HITMAN:     Soft petals, broken and bare, sigh so sweet.   

 

WOMAN:      Who are you?  You sound more like an aesthete…

                      or poet, or…I feel sort of confused.  

 

HITMAN:      Translucent eyes.  You’ve the face of a Muse.

 

WOMAN:    (transfixed) Well…I…um…

Excerpt from Play 

 

THE THINGS WE CANNOT CHANGE

 (A Short Play) 

 

Excerpt from Play

 

Place:  The Underworld

 

(Lights rise on MARILYN MONROE, MADONNA, PRINCESS DI and PARIS HILTON seated in a circle.)

 

PARIS:

I mean, I can’t believe that I survived!

A ferry of dead souls had just arrived.

I’m at the River Styx…down on the pier…

and when these skeevy skeletons came near,

not one of them knew me, or knew my name!

I guess I should confess, well I exclaimed...

it’s me! it’s me! This one guy says, Are you Rome?

And then this gnomish-looking guy drives home

the point and goes, What’s up, Detroit. Detroit?!  

Then even worse, this maladroit,

mean-spirited spirit says, Hey you,

aren’t you that Motel 6 chick? (breaking down) I withdrew… like mortified. I know I shouldn’t care…

 

(The WOMEN nod in agreement.)

 

PARIS: (cont.)

But I do.

 

MADONNA:

Thank you, Paris, for your share.

The meeting’s open now.

 

PRINCESS:

Hi. I’m Princess Di,

and I’m a --

 

(ORPHEUS, perhaps with a guitar strapped to his back, comes barreling in.)

 

ORPHEUS:

Oh! Hey!

 

MARILYN:

Who’s this? (lusty) My oh my...

 

ORPHEUS:

I’m sorry for the swift intrusion…

 

PARIS:

Greetings!

 

MADONNA: (to Orph)

This is the women’s ten o’clock meeting.

The men meet here tomorrow, and at three.

 

MARILYN:

Madonna, let him stay. He’s so pretty.

 

ORPHEUS: 

Thank you. But really, I’m just passing through.

I think there might be some confusion too.

I’m trying to find where Hades stays.

You ladies know the way?

 

(The WOMEN glance at each other and cackle loudly.)

 

ORPHEUS: (cont.)

What? What did I say? What’s so funny?

 

PARIS:

Like, you can’t be serious.

 

ORPHEUS:

I am. Yeah.

 

PRINCESS:

(sincere) Maybe he’s delirious.

 

MADONNA:  (to Orph)

But folks avoid King Hades. Not seek him out.

 

ORPHEUS:          

Not me. I must unearth his whereabouts.

(turns to leave)  Okay, if you’re not going to help me,

I should --

 

MARILYN:  (calling after him)

With that face, who could disagree?

 

ORPHEUS:  

(pleased, drawn back) Thanks.

 

MARILYN:                      

(showing her legs) Do you like these?                                                                      

PRINCESS:                                                                          (gently) Marilyn, please…

 

ORPHEUS:            

I’m married!

 

MARILYN:                                  

(to Di) Just a little harmless tease. (to Orph) And lovers are like tires.  One should always keep a spare.                       

 

ORPHEUS:                                   

You mean, an affair?

No way. I’ll always be faithful to my wife!           

 

MADONNA:      

What’s cause and effect in the afterlife?      

INNOCENT

(A Play In Rhyme)

 

Currently in development...

 

Synopsis

 

One hot and sticky summer day in Rome

Pope Innocent the Thirteenth lie at home,

his bed attended by the Vatican’s elites,

a clan of cardinals and distinctive priests.

The crowd was rounded out by three or four

illegitimate sons that he adored                                                         (Franceschetto looking mostly anguished),                                        a few light-skinned slaves, and an old Jewish

physician called to give a diagnosis.

“I fear it isn’t a good prognosis,”

said Doctor Giacomo di San Genesio.

“His head is hot and feverish, a piccolo

rash has appeared, they’re tremors, and I dread

the Almighty may soon take him from his bed.”

“You mean, to heaven?!,” gasped a priest in a smock.

“Yeah sure,” replied the diplomatic doc.

 

Desperate to prolong their dying Papa’s life,                        

(and to quell the brewing political strife),                  

it was suggested (but by whom in the room

we’re still not sure) that to thwart the gloom

and to rejuvenate the elderly gent’s health,

(in fact for the wellbeing of the commonwealth),                               the pontiff should drink the blood of youth.

Putting into action this theory posed as truth,                                  

three ten-year-old Jewish boys were each

given a ducat to be, as-they-said-then, leached.

So Innocent drank of the boys bled to death,

but His Holiness weakened, then took his last breath.                                     

This chronicle of the first blood transfusion                                       has been told and retold to much confusion.                         

Many medical historians say it’s probable

while others say it’s likely apocryphal –

nothing more than a peasants’ legend grown                                   

from anti-Semitic or anti-Catholic overtones.                        

That is, this hotly-contested tale from 1492

is real or false, according to your point of view.      

 

 

DOMESTICATION

(A Play in Rhyme)

Excerpt from Play 

 

(LIGHTS up on BUTCH, 17-year-old girl, and her cousin RAGS, 16-year -old boy, as they enter the kitchen.)

 

Butch:              Yeah, Grandma’s the only cool one.

 

Rags:                                                                         We should fly.

 

Butch:              And your dad’s wife.  She’s pretty.  But she’s odd.

 

Rags:               Yeah. 

 

Butch:                      I mean, like how she’s always talking about God.

 

Rags:               That’s because she’s blonde.  They all believe in God.

 

Butch:              That might get in their way of them having more fun.

 

Rags:               Yeah.  I guess so.                   

 

Butch:                                            But she’d make a really hot nun.

 

Rags:               My dad and her go to alcohol meetings like every day.

 

Butch:              Really?

 

Rags:                          And now, like before we eat, we have to pray.

 

Butch:              No way.   

 

Rags:                                Yeah.

 

Butch:                                              She is really pretty though.

                        And she has a bangin’ body.

 

Rags:                                                             Ew, you freak show.

                        It’s not natural for you to be checking out a chick.

 

Butch:              Even the unnatural is natural.

 

Rags:                                                              What?  You’re sick.

 

Butch:              It’s a quote.  By Goethe.

 

Rags:                                                         Well okaaay, braniac.

 

Butch:              Forget it. 

 

Rags:                             I still can’t believe he married that quack.

 

Butch:              Third one.  Wow.

 

Rags:                                         Yeah.                                                   

 

Butch:                                                Just likes spreading his seed,

                        I guess.   Doing his job for the species.

 

Rags:                                                                               He needs

                        to be like shot in the head. 

 

Butch:                                                             I think it's necessary

                        for women to keep men like that on a very 

                        tight leash.      

 

Rags:                                 I guess so.

 

Butch:                                                   I’ve gained five pounds.

                        Can you tell?

 

Rags:                                    No.  Do you want to mess around?

 

Butch:              I’m your cousin.  You jerk.

 

Rags:                                                              So?

 

Butch:                                                                   No. 

 

Rags:                                                                             Whatever.

 

Butch:              Is your dad gonna buy you that car?

 

Rags:                                                                       No.  He never

                         thinks about me.  All he cares about is his dick.

 

Butch:              Just like my mom. 

 

Rags:                                             What?

 

Butch:                                                        Caring about his prick.

                        That’s what they have in common.

 

Rags:                                                                      What?

 

Butch:                                                                               Don’t tell

                        me you’re as dumb as my dad.

 

Rags:                                                              What?  What the hell

                        are you talking about?

 

Butch:                                                Like, they’re totally screwing.

           

Rags:               My dad and your mom are –

 

Butch:                                                            Yup.  They’re doing

                        the dirty deed.

 

Rags:                                    His brother?!  He’s evil.  He should die.

                    

Butch:              Evil likes to disguise itself as a handsome guy.    

 

Rags:               I hate him. 

 

Butch:                                  Fathers are such a bother.

                        Like pimples.  (Beat.) So, that’s your new baby brother?    

 

Rags:               He's not my brother.  Okay?  He’s my half brother!

                                                                                               

Butch:              Damn, dude.  No need to get all twisted.

 

Rags:                                                                                And it…

                       sucks.

 

Butch:                           In biology class, we read about an eaglet,

                        a baby eagle that will actually kill all its siblings

                        by pushing them out of the nest.

 

Rags:                                                                   They have wings.

                        They could like fly.

 

Butch:                                               But not when they first hatch.

                        Biology’s my best subject.  What’s yours?

 

(RAGS picks up an egg from the counter and throws it at BUTCH.)

 

Rags:                                                                                Hey, catch!

 

(BUTCH misses the egg, and it cracks open on the floor.)

 

Butch:              Oh shit, dude.  Why the hell did you do that?

 

Rags:               Like you said.  Just wanted to see a bird egg go splat.

Domestication 
(A Play In Rhyme)
At the heart of this archetypical family drama, inspired by the Cain and Abel story, is a family that seems, ironically, UNdomesticated – a pack of feral dogs pitted against one another in an intimate setting. (No wonder all the characters are dressed as dogs!)
 
--------------------------------------

 

(LIGHTS up on BUTCH, 17-year-old girl, and her cousin RAGS, 16-year -old boy, as they enter the kitchen.)

 

Butch:              Yeah, Grandma’s the only cool one.

 

Rags:                                                                         We should fly.

 

Butch:              And your dad’s wife.  She’s pretty.  But she’s odd.

 

Rags:               Yeah. 

 

Butch:                      I mean, like how she’s always talking about God.

 

Rags:               That’s because she’s blonde. They all believe in God.

                        I hope they're hit by like some biblical lightning rod.

 

Butch:              Do blondes who believe in God still have more fun?

 

Rags:              I guess so.                   

 

Butch:                                  Anyway, she’d make a really hot nun.

 

Rags:               My dad and her go to alcohol meetings like every day.

 

Butch:              Really?

 

Rags:                          And now, like before we eat, we have to pray.

 

Butch:              No way.   

 

Rags:                                Yeah.

 

Butch:                                              She is really pretty though.

                        And she has a bangin’ body.

 

Rags:                                                             Ew, you freak show.

                        It’s not natural for you to be checking out a chick.

 

Butch:              Even the unnatural is natural.

 

Rags:                                                              What?  You’re sick.

 

Butch:              It’s a quote.  By Goethe.

 

Rags:                                                         Well okaaay, braniac.

 

Butch:              Forget it. 

 

Rags:                             I still can’t believe he married that quack...