Steve’s Pebble (Part 5)

avant-garde, experimental theatre, absurdist satire, chaotic theatrical fusion

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Fliss (gold paint now mixed with pink, triumphant):
Resistance was futile.
So we tried confusion.
Confusion worked.
The Borg are now a interior design collective.
They meet on Tuesdays.
They serve tiny sandwiches.

(Train whistle. Enthusiastic. Possibly drunk.)

Woman Tramp (holding a bottle, three coats draped over a pink throne):
This is Scottish whisky.
It says „whisky“ on the label.
But it is blue.
Blue as a frozen loch.
Blue as a sad museum.
Blue as the bat who said no.
Explain this, penguin.

Penguin:
Whisky is amber.
Amber is gold.
Gold is not blue.

Sssssera (uncoiling, symbols flickering „DRINK ME“ for once):
M-m-m-maybe the s-s-s-sea is in the b-b-b-bottle.
The S-s-s-scottish s-s-s-sea is b-b-b-blue.
And the s-s-s-sea is w-w-w-whisky?
N-n-n-no.
That d-d-d-doesn't work.
I'll d-d-d-drink it anyway.

(She drinks. Her symbols turn blue. Then pink. Then confused.)

Fliss:
Whisky should be blue.
Whisky should be whatever colour it wants.
Whisky is an adult.
Let whisky live its truth.

Penguin:
That is not how distillation works.

Woman Tramp:
That is how this castle works.
New rule.
Rule number one: whisky is blue.
Rule number two: the Borg are pink.
Rule number three: the Earl is no longer allowed inside.

(Cello. Dissonant. Then a single dish breaks – celebratory.)

The Earl (outside the gate, wet, miserable, holding a small umbrella):
I built this castle.
My grandfather built this castle.
His grandfather built this castle.
His grandfather was a turnip farmer who got very lucky.
BUT STILL.
Let me in.

Woman Tramp (from the battlements, shouting through a traffic cone):
NO.

The Earl:
I have documents.

Woman Tramp:
Documents are just paper with anxiety.
We have a fur-snake who spells „haggis“ on her belly.
That is more legal than any document.
GO AWAY.

The Earl (weeping slightly):
What am I supposed to do now?

Fliss (leaning over the wall, gold-pink face paint):
We have an offer.
You will work.
As a scarecrow.
But not for crows.
For dinosaurs.

The Earl:
Dinosaurs are extinct.

Penguin:
Exactly.
You will scare nothing.
For eternity.
That is the job.
Do you accept?

(Pause. The Earl looks at his umbrella. Looks at the sky. Looks at his life.)

The Earl:
Does it come with housing?

Woman Tramp:
You will live in a field.
Next to a tricycle.
The tricycle is your supervisor.

The Earl:
I accept.

Sssssera (stuttering, delighted):
W-w-w-welcome to the t-t-t-team, s-s-s-scary dinosaur s-s-s-scarecrow.
You are p-p-p-pink now.
By the w-w-w-way.

(The Earl looks down. His coat is pink. He didn't notice. He sighs. It sounds like relief.)

(Accordion. Bavarian oom-pah. Then bagpipes fight it. Both lose. Beautiful.)

Fliss (sitting at the chess board, pieces rearranged into chaos):
The Sicilian Opening is dead.
Long live the Icelandic Knallangriff.
I invented it.
It has three rules.

Penguin:
Name them.

Fliss:
Rule one: the knight moves like a confused goose.
Rule two: the rook only moves backwards.
Rule three: when you capture a piece, you must apologise to it.
And then promote it.
To a toaster.
Every time.

Woman Tramp:
That's not chess.
That's a support group.

Fliss:
Chess is a support group.
For people who pretend to think.
Now.
I move my king.
To the kitchen.
He wants tea.
The game continues tomorrow.
Or never.
That is also a move.

(The Loch Ness trombone slides. Deep. Low. Approving.)

(Overlap – word tsunami. All voices, soft then loud, chaotic then fragile.)

Penguin: We painted the Borg pink and they thanked us—
Fliss: The blue whisky tastes like a frozen memory of a loch—
Sssssera: The E-E-Earl is a d-d-d-dinosaur ssssscarecrow and he is f-f-f-finally happy—
Woman Tramp: The Icelandic Knallangriff has no winners and that is the point—
Together (whisper, then scream):
THE CASTLE IS OURS.
THE BORG ARE FABULOUS.
THE WHISKY IS BLUE.
THE EARL SCARES NOTHING.
THE CHESS BOARD IS A SUPPORT GROUP.
AND THE BAT STILL SAYS NO.
BUT THAT'S FINE.
BECAUSE NO IS ALSO A YES.
TURN IT UPSIDE DOWN.
LIKE A BAT.
LIKE A TRICYCLE.
LIKE A PINK BORG DRONE NAMED STEVE.

(Train whistle. Long. Then silence. Then a single pebble dropped into water.)

Woman Tramp (whisper, to the audience):
We never found the end of the stars.
We never found the end of the whisky.
We never found the end of the chess game.
That's fine.
The end is a Tuesday.
And Tuesdays don't count.

(A tricycle bell. Once. Then darkness. Then – very far away – the Earl laughing. A dinosaur scarecrow laugh. Hungry for nothing. Free.)

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Penguin (dry, adjusting pink bow tie): We painted the Borg. Pink. Every drone. Every collective thought. Every terrifying cube of assimilation. Now they are fabulous. They have opinions about curtains. One of them asked for a pet. I gave it a pebble. It named the pebble „Steve.“ Fliss (gold paint now mixed with pink, triumphant): Resistance was futile. So we tried confusion. Confusion worked. The Borg are now a interior design collective. They meet on Tuesdays. They serve tiny sandwiches. (Train whistle. Enthusiastic. Possibly drunk.) Woman Tramp (holding a bottle, three coats draped over a pink throne): This is Scottish whisky. It says „whisky“ on the label. But it is blue. Blue as a frozen loch. Blue as a sad museum. Blue as the bat who said no. Explain this, penguin. Penguin: Whisky is amber. Amber is gold. Gold is not blue. Sssssera (uncoiling, symbols flickering „DRINK ME“ for once): M-m-m-maybe the s-s-s-sea is in the b-b-b-bottle. The S-s-s-scottish s-s-s-sea is b-b-b-blue. And the s-s-s-sea is w-w-w-whisky? N-n-n-no. That d-d-d-doesn't work. I'll d-d-d-drink it anyway. (She drinks. Her symbols turn blue. Then pink. Then confused.) Fliss: Whisky should be blue. Whisky should be whatever colour it wants. Whisky is an adult. Let whisky live its truth. Penguin: That is not how distillation works. Woman Tramp: That is how this castle works. New rule. Rule number one: whisky is blue. Rule number two: the Borg are pink. Rule number three: the Earl is no longer allowed inside. (Cello. Dissonant. Then a single dish breaks – celebratory.) The Earl (outside the gate, wet, miserable, holding a small umbrella): I built this castle. My grandfather built this castle. His grandfather built this castle. His grandfather was a turnip farmer who got very lucky. BUT STILL. Let me in. Woman Tramp (from the battlements, shouting through a traffic cone): NO. The Earl: I have documents. Woman Tramp: Documents are just paper with anxiety. We have a fur-snake who spells „haggis“ on her belly. That is more legal than any document. GO AWAY. The Earl (weeping slightly): What am I supposed to do now? Fliss (leaning over the wall, gold-pink face paint): We have an offer. You will work. As a scarecrow. But not for crows. For dinosaurs. The Earl: Dinosaurs are extinct. Penguin: Exactly. You will scare nothing. For eternity. That is the job. Do you accept? (Pause. The Earl looks at his umbrella. Looks at the sky. Looks at his life.) The Earl: Does it come with housing? Woman Tramp: You will live in a field. Next to a tricycle. The tricycle is your supervisor. The Earl: I accept. Sssssera (stuttering, delighted): W-w-w-welcome to the t-t-t-team, s-s-s-scary dinosaur s-s-s-scarecrow. You are p-p-p-pink now. By the w-w-w-way. (The Earl looks down. His coat is pink. He didn't notice. He sighs. It sounds like relief.) (Accordion. Bavarian oom-pah. Then bagpipes fight it. Both lose. Beautiful.) Fliss (sitting at the chess board, pieces rearranged into chaos): The Sicilian Opening is dead. Long live the Icelandic Knallangriff. I invented it. It has three rules. Penguin: Name them. Fliss: Rule one: the knight moves like a confused goose. Rule two: the rook only moves backwards. Rule three: when you capture a piece, you must apologise to it. And then promote it. To a toaster. Every time. Woman Tramp: That's not chess. That's a support group. Fliss: Chess is a support group. For people who pretend to think. Now. I move my king. To the kitchen. He wants tea. The game continues tomorrow. Or never. That is also a move. (The Loch Ness trombone slides. Deep. Low. Approving.) (Overlap – word tsunami. All voices, soft then loud, chaotic then fragile.) Penguin: We painted the Borg pink and they thanked us— Fliss: The blue whisky tastes like a frozen memory of a loch— Sssssera: The E-E-Earl is a d-d-d-dinosaur ssssscarecrow and he is f-f-f-finally happy— Woman Tramp: The Icelandic Knallangriff has no winners and that is the point— Together (whisper, then scream): THE CASTLE IS OURS. THE BORG ARE FABULOUS. THE WHISKY IS BLUE. THE EARL SCARES NOTHING. THE CHESS BOARD IS A SUPPORT GROUP. AND THE BAT STILL SAYS NO. BUT THAT'S FINE. BECAUSE NO IS ALSO A YES. TURN IT UPSIDE DOWN. LIKE A BAT. LIKE A TRICYCLE. LIKE A PINK BORG DRONE NAMED STEVE. (Train whistle. Long. Then silence. Then a single pebble dropped into water.) Woman Tramp (whisper, to the audience): We never found the end of the stars. We never found the end of the whisky. We never found the end of the chess game. That's fine. The end is a Tuesday. And Tuesdays don't count. (A tricycle bell. Once. Then darkness. Then – very far away – the Earl laughing. A dinosaur scarecrow laugh. Hungry for nothing. Free.)

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