The Secret Order by Jordy The Ill

[Scene 1 – The Statistic]
FATTYFOOT:
I did the math. Or I bullied a wizard into doing it.
Sixteen percent of halflings… are named Pip.
Sixteen.
That’s not a name. That’s a… demographic event.
PIP:
Or a very lazy generation of parents.
FATTYFOOT:
There’s a Pip in every guild roster.
On every town council.
In every “random” drawing of names from a hat.
At some point, it stops being coincidence and starts being…
The Secret Order.
PIP:
Or maybe the hat likes us. Hats have taste.
FATTYFOOT:
Just say it.
Is there, or is there not, a secret club of Pips quietly steering halfling history?
PIP:

[beat]
Define “club.”
That’s not a name, that’s an infrastructure.
PIP (deadpan, spoken):
We prefer the term “support network.”

[Scene 2 – The Evidence Board]
FATTYFOOT:
Let’s review the evidence.
Halfling mayor of Potatoborough?
Head baker at the Festival of Crust?
PIP:
Pip.
Great with lattice work. Emotionally unavailable.
Official “Neutral Referee” for the pie-eating contest,
who just happens to be in charge whenever I’m about to win?
PIP:
Pip. 
Pure coincidence.
And also, you always “accidentally” eat the table decorations.
FATTYFOOT:
You all have the same look.
The “I know something you don’t, but I’m too polite to gloat” look.
It’s the same smile my mom had right before she said,
“I didn’t touch your snacks,” and then the snacks were gone.
PIP:
That expression is called “being prepared.”
Some of us like to know where the exits and the pies are.

[Scene 3 – The Rituals]

[Music drops to a low pulse.]
FATTYFOOT:
I’ve heard rumors.
Newborn halfling, suspiciously cute.
Family says, “We’re naming them Pip.”
Then suddenly a bunch of other Pips show up with casseroles
and everyone speaks in little half-sentences for an hour.
PIP:
That’s just a normal halfling naming party.
We speak in half-sentences all the time. It’s efficient.
FATTYFOOT:
Do you make them swear a secret oath?
“Do you solemnly swear to misdirect tall folk
and ensure the supply of second breakfast until the end of days?”
PIP:
We would never make a baby swear an oath.
That’s ridiculous.
We just… strongly imply expectations.
FATTYFOOT:
There’s a Pip in charge of logistics.
A Pip in charge of minutes.
A Pip in charge of “refreshments.”
Another Pip who “isn’t in charge of anything”
but somehow signs all the official letters.
PIP:
Look, if you want something done right,
you give it to someone with a short name.
Less time signing, more time doing.

[Short Musical Sting]

[Minor chord hit. Brief instrumental.]

[Scene 4 – The Cat’s Out of the Bag (Almost)]
FATTYFOOT:
Let’s say, hypothetically,
there was a secret order of Pips.
What would they do?
PIP:
Hypothetically?
Very mundane things.
Gently nudge the village away from obviously bad ideas.
Like “let’s store all the grain in a dragon-shaped warehouse,”
or “let’s put Sir Dan in charge of party planning.”
FATTYFOOT:
So you admit it.
You’re the invisible hand behind halfling events.
PIP:
No, no, no. If anything, we’re the invisible broom.
We sweep up after the events.
We prevent disasters.
Most of the time.
Sometimes.
On paper.
And if things go wrong?
PIP:
We blame the tall folk.
Or a goblin.
Or “unforeseen magical interference.”
We have forms for it.

[Scene 5 – The Dark Humor Turn]

[Music gets softer, slightly eerie.]
FATTYFOOT:
If the big kingdoms collapse,
if the tall folk lose their minds,
if everything goes sideways…
I picture a circle of Pips
sitting around a table with tea and pie,
saying, “Alright, new plan,”
while the rest of the world screams.
PIP:
That’s dramatic.
…
Accurate, but dramatic.
FATTYFOOT:
So there is a Secret Order.
PIP:
There’s a lot of tea.
There are agendas.
There may or may not be minutes.
Sometimes we move festival dates
because of “astral alignments”
and by “astral alignments” I mean
someone miscounted the potatoes.

[Finale – Punchline]

[Music builds slightly, then hangs.]
FATTYFOOT:
Last question.
Are you personally part
of a clandestine sixteen-percent cabal of Pips
subtly controlling halfling society
from the shadows of the snack table?

PIP:
I am absolutely, definitely without question,
not authorized to answer that.

FATTYFOOT:
That’s a yes.

4375/7500

[Soft ominous music fades in. Murmur of tavern crowd underneath.] FATTYFOOT: Alright, Pip. Serious question. No jokes. No songs. Just truth. PIP: We’re literally in a song. This does not feel like a safe environment for truth. [Scene 1 – The Statistic] FATTYFOOT: I did the math. Or I bullied a wizard into doing it. Sixteen percent of halflings… are named Pip. Sixteen. That’s not a name. That’s a… demographic event. PIP: Or a very lazy generation of parents. FATTYFOOT: There’s a Pip in every guild roster. On every town council. In every “random” drawing of names from a hat. At some point, it stops being coincidence and starts being… The Secret Order. PIP: Or maybe the hat likes us. Hats have taste. FATTYFOOT: Just say it. Is there, or is there not, a secret club of Pips quietly steering halfling history? PIP: [beat] Define “club.” That’s not a name, that’s an infrastructure. PIP (deadpan, spoken): We prefer the term “support network.” [Scene 2 – The Evidence Board] FATTYFOOT: Let’s review the evidence. Halfling mayor of Potatoborough? Head baker at the Festival of Crust? PIP: Pip. Great with lattice work. Emotionally unavailable. Official “Neutral Referee” for the pie-eating contest, who just happens to be in charge whenever I’m about to win? PIP: Pip. Pure coincidence. And also, you always “accidentally” eat the table decorations. FATTYFOOT: You all have the same look. The “I know something you don’t, but I’m too polite to gloat” look. It’s the same smile my mom had right before she said, “I didn’t touch your snacks,” and then the snacks were gone. PIP: That expression is called “being prepared.” Some of us like to know where the exits and the pies are. [Scene 3 – The Rituals] [Music drops to a low pulse.] FATTYFOOT: I’ve heard rumors. Newborn halfling, suspiciously cute. Family says, “We’re naming them Pip.” Then suddenly a bunch of other Pips show up with casseroles and everyone speaks in little half-sentences for an hour. PIP: That’s just a normal halfling naming party. We speak in half-sentences all the time. It’s efficient. FATTYFOOT: Do you make them swear a secret oath? “Do you solemnly swear to misdirect tall folk and ensure the supply of second breakfast until the end of days?” PIP: We would never make a baby swear an oath. That’s ridiculous. We just… strongly imply expectations. FATTYFOOT: There’s a Pip in charge of logistics. A Pip in charge of minutes. A Pip in charge of “refreshments.” Another Pip who “isn’t in charge of anything” but somehow signs all the official letters. PIP: Look, if you want something done right, you give it to someone with a short name. Less time signing, more time doing. [Short Musical Sting] [Minor chord hit. Brief instrumental.] [Scene 4 – The Cat’s Out of the Bag (Almost)] FATTYFOOT: Let’s say, hypothetically, there was a secret order of Pips. What would they do? PIP: Hypothetically? Very mundane things. Gently nudge the village away from obviously bad ideas. Like “let’s store all the grain in a dragon-shaped warehouse,” or “let’s put Sir Dan in charge of party planning.” FATTYFOOT: So you admit it. You’re the invisible hand behind halfling events. PIP: No, no, no. If anything, we’re the invisible broom. We sweep up after the events. We prevent disasters. Most of the time. Sometimes. On paper. And if things go wrong? PIP: We blame the tall folk. Or a goblin. Or “unforeseen magical interference.” We have forms for it. [Scene 5 – The Dark Humor Turn] [Music gets softer, slightly eerie.] FATTYFOOT: If the big kingdoms collapse, if the tall folk lose their minds, if everything goes sideways… I picture a circle of Pips sitting around a table with tea and pie, saying, “Alright, new plan,” while the rest of the world screams. PIP: That’s dramatic. … Accurate, but dramatic. FATTYFOOT: So there is a Secret Order. PIP: There’s a lot of tea. There are agendas. There may or may not be minutes. Sometimes we move festival dates because of “astral alignments” and by “astral alignments” I mean someone miscounted the potatoes. [Finale – Punchline] [Music builds slightly, then hangs.] FATTYFOOT: Last question. Are you personally part of a clandestine sixteen-percent cabal of Pips subtly controlling halfling society from the shadows of the snack table? PIP: I am absolutely, definitely without question, not authorized to answer that. FATTYFOOT: That’s a yes.

0/500