The Owlstain SCAT
Melos e Artes

Owlstain, FZ 23632

Skid Slekton, Editor and Publisher (EP)

Mona Coltrane, Managing Editor (ME)

Adam Trembart, Art Director (AD)

S’apparaît tous les mercredis depuis 1987.
16 July 2003
Aunt Smaragdina’s Parandrus
Larry Lath
This lost “socio-physiological play in four fairly short acts” from c. 1926 was found not so long ago by Ouida Willoughby Johnson and handily put through, with additions and modifications, a rollicking group production at Glamporium this past Sunday (vid. list of playtoys, infra, showing parts in ALL CAPS, and cast in ital.). So as to inform any whom prior obligation bound into a position of having to skip out on this rambunctious protoplast of “handy histrionics,” Ms. Johnson kindly grants us partial rights so that our own rag can publish it, in full, as a sort of proto-critical accounting avant sa filmographical diffusion as A Tara T. Dirty™ al mismo título plus tard in our city’s bonanza of visual auditoria and fotoludódromos. And so as drooling fools gawking at untold wassail still undrunk, all of us at this circular avidly await our ravishing pantological contortionist’s imagistic bodyworks and frankly oracular goings-on to limn what ici, aquí, syudá, is naught but words, mots, palabras, slová!


PLAYTOYS:

VIVIAN DARKBLOOM (Arnaut Raymond), a dashing young scholar with a slight limp (war wound).

AUNT SMARAGDINA (Gloria Galvari), a lascivious conciliatrix sharing both matral and classificatory kinship bonds with Darkbloom.

NIRUSA (Maryam Ravigiallo), a brassy slut and Darkbloom’s first-cousin.

ORIA (Atoca Inhart), a buxom hussy and Nirusa’s half-sibling.

NORLIA (Gasa Albiano), a vivacious bint and Oria’s third-cousin.

ADA (Ms. Johnson), a sultry harlot who is Darkbloom’s doxy-in-waiting (on his thigh, typically).

SAIAN (Inuhka Bloip), a bibulous trollop who is Darkbloom’s back-wing or arm-chair paramour.

ARAN TRON (SF), a slangy liar known globally by his nom d’appui, Gals Saliba.

BABUR (Dado Udidi), a shy, or sly, lascar who is Tron’s paranymph.

OSNAK (Djuma Kidjaki) and UBAG (Rick Kidjaki), a curious pair of Intrussyan ‘socio-physiologists’.

XWARPO (Tony Hamiltonian), a sycophantic old minion.

PARANDRUS (Polychromatic Hart, Stag or Goat), a schizo-mythic mammal.

BABY (Simulacrum), a post-natal parvulum of this PLAY.

BIBLIOGRAPHY (Various Books), a windy list of works.

LOCATION:
A bucolic parlor in a lupanar of Old Owlstain, 13 Halfox Road, Tixpu 160, Flouziana. A couch; a club chair; a small drinks bar with its rigging, cupboard, and racks; a trio of stools and a duo of chairs; a low tavola or two; a spittoon; standing ashtrays; prostibular whatnot; props and stuff.

First Act

LOCATION:
A bucolic parlor in a lupanar of Old Owlstain. Sound off throughout is that of continuous vigorous frigging as if through a thin partition: murmurs, moans, groans, gasps, shouts; laughing, crying, sobbing, snorting, coughing, snoring, hawking, vomiting, and spitting; bumping and scraping of chairs and stools and ottomans across floor, rhythmic wallbangings, tinkling of springs, rattling of chains, shaking of laths, snapping of whips; buzzing humming grinding whooshing and vrooming of various ‘playtoys’; ominous aspirations of _____ , odd pulsating suctational pushing and pulling of _____ , quaint hydraulic stirruppy chirping of _____ (imagination can fill any blank, dramaturg!).

AT CURTAIN:
AUNT SMARAGDINA stands at a small bar au coin, polishing vasos, drying copas, dusting and counting jugs and jars and flasks, dumping out glaçons, slicing citrons, pulping bananas, juicing fruit, mixing Bloody Mary mix, mollifying flagons of tart viridian Margarita solution with sparkling drams of sugar syrup, and doing various, you know, bar things. Not too far away at his minion’s station, XWARPO stands scrupulously upright and sycophantically vigilant, clutching to his plastron a round gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum.

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Stops bustling and, ducking an Io moth’s alar obtrusions, looks spastically off.)

Mornin’, Viv.

DARKBLOOM

(Wanly limps into room and sits in club chair.)

Buon giorno, Aunt Smag.

XWARPO

(Kowtows and waits.)

Sir.

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Swats an imaginary antlion imago with a dingy twist of dishclout of doubtful acquisition.)

What can I do for ya, Viv?

DARKBLOOM

(Lights a cigarillo.)

I was just upstairs, you know, and trying to unwind this monstrous parasitic worm out of my brain —

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Whips a fallacious praying mantis with a moily slash of dishrag of unctuous origin.)

Pastis?

DARKBLOOM

(Ruminantly wraps lips around his fag’s unburning butt.)

No thanks, Aunt Smag. What I was trying to say is that I was up all night trying to pull this brainworm’s squirming friability out my —

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Prods an illusory ladybird with a lurid bloom of dustmop of prosaic occupation.)

Vodka? Straight? Rocks?

DARKBLOOM

(Blows a solo amorphous ring through a fuming quizzical kiss.)

No, gracias. This sort of larva, you know, has spun its sanguinary cocoon —

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Bats an irrational thrips with a plastic clang of spatula of titanic proportions.)

Bloody Mary?

DARKBLOOM

(Sprouts nostril tusks of tobacco and lung vapor.)

Or is it an aliphatic imago that was sloughing out of its crinkly pupa, pumping blood into its damp wings? No thanks. What I was trying to say is that I was up all night coaxing this wriggling ductility, this writhing fragility of a worm out my —

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Burns a romantic roach with a flaming click of Zippo of sham patina.)

Rum?

DARKBLOOM

(Coughs, spits, shrugs.)

Thinking about this worm, you know — now that sounds a familiar klaxon — is Ada about?

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Points to wall.)

Still workin’. Gin and tonic?

DARKBLOOM

(Sighfully snuffs out cigarillo on his corduroy-bound thigh.)

This worm, you know, slinking its insidious but startlingly lucid way from loin to brain, and gnawing, gnawing, working its way out my —

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Traps a cryptic katydid with a crystal flip of rocks glass of totally bogus production.)

Vodka tonic?

DARKBLOOM

(Squirms in clubchair, pats torso in pursuit of an ancillary box of tight tobacco rolls.)

And upstairs, on my pillow you know, as I was waking up, this thing was stirring — Saian?

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Points to wall.)

Still workin’. Rhum au citron? I know you favor it!

DARKBLOOM

(Lights a cigarillo, stands, limps across room to bar.)

At this hour!? No, no thank you, Aunt Smag. I was thinking about, in a word, writing a play.

XWARPO

(Kowtows and waits.)

Sir.

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Flicks a phantasmal phasmatid [walking stick Abrachia longimanus Kirby, 1889 — scriptgirl’s scholium] with a nail click of digits of farcical causation.)

Not a joyspricky romp touchin’ ’pon no whorin’ and warrin’ and wounds and such now, would it? Porto flip?

DARKBLOOM

(Stands at bar, palms flat against zinc, inhaling lustily.)

No, nothing so muckingly autobiograffistatistical as that. Cosmopolitan and philosophical, I was thinking, you know, a handy histrio about that curious —

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Dabs a suppositious dobsonfly with a sudsy flop of torchon of spurious import.)

Cosmopolitan? Not familiar with it. How about a good dark frothy stout?

DARKBLOOM

(Indignantly puts paid to his cigarillo with an octagonal bartop ashtray’s crystal bottom.)

Sociophysiological thought, socialistic conspiracy against, planification of a world — porto flip? Chingadios mio, no! Just thinking about that puts my gut worms all into a rampant churn.

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Stamps a fabulous locust with a cardboard disk of buvard of glib custody.)

How ’bout just a piccola piccolo pony a’ straight port, huh?

DARKBLOOM

(Limps back across room, sits in clubchair, lights a cigarillo.)

No thanks, this play I was thinking about would —

XWARPO

(Kowtows and waits.)

Sir.

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Clouts a quixotic cicada with a fibrous husk of broom of salacious function.)

Scotch?

NIRUSA

(Struts into room and plops down on couch.)

Mornin’, cuz.

XWARPO

(Kowtows and waits.)

Miss.

DARKBLOOM

(Blows duo of fuming quizzical rings through an airy kiss.)

Bon jour, mi prima.

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Whacks a fanciful scorpionfly with a stout arm of cant hook of frivolous application.)

Scotch and soda? Highball, ya know.

NIRUSA

(Dislimns thin cylindrical brown thing from a bosom clutch of cigarillos, lights it.)

Atta, I’m thirsty! A blyaty Bloody Mary, blyat, and fast!

XWARPO

(Clicks into action, a squat octagonal vaso frothily brimming with an icy spicy tangy thick and crimson pulpy concoction as only AUNT SMARAGDINA knows how to mix miraculously pops forth upon his gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum.)

Miss.

DARKBLOOM

(Coughs, spits, handsigns a hazy validation or disconjuration.)

No thanks, Aunt Smag.

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Smacks an unsubstantial stinkbug with a pivotal joint of tongs of notorious stability.)

Cognac?

NIRUSA

(Plays upon an ophidian borgnic flauta of twisty straw.)

Could you possibly drag and dally with as much otiosity as you possibly can, you lazy old minion, you? Atta I’m thirsty! This rocks, Aunt Smag.

XWARPO

(Kowtows and waits.)

Miss.

DARKBLOOM

(Chucks cigarillo on floor, rubs it sparking out with a brutal boot talon.)

VSO or VSOP?

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Cuffs a notional aphid with a blunt orbit of bodkin of minimal worth.)

Got both.

DARKBLOOM

(Lights a cigarillo.)

Oh — no thanks. Nirusa, mi prima, I was just talking to Aunt Smag about this play I was up all night about thinking of writing — tawny or ruby?

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Goads a totally bogus dragonfly (Idionyx yolanda) with a filthy shaft of ramrod of artificial mahogany.)

Ditto what I just told ya.

ORIA

(Sashays into room and plumps bobblingly down on couch, tucking a stray twin of blossoming bosom back into its bursting cup, draping a kin-kithing arm around NIRUSA’s churlish cou.)

Bisous, mi familia.

NIRUSA

(Blows trio of luscious vapor rings through lascivious kiss.)

Bisous, sisti sista.

XWARPO

(Kowtows and waits.)

Miss. Sir.

DARKBLOOM

(Pulls a long avid drag from his fag’s unburning butt, blows out an infundibular cloud of sallow lungsmog.)

Tawny, if you don’t mind.

ORIA

(Drops tobacco from a tawdry crotch pouch onto a flimsy husk, rolls with a singularly sinistral flurry of digits and thumb, licks with a lurid tip of lingual saliva, lights with a match struck promiscuously against couch-arm cloth.)

Atta, I’m so damn thirsty I could blow a mountain goat, à la Akbar Nod! A luscious Margarita is what I’m craving. Straight. Loads of salt, s’il vous plaît.

NIRUSA

(Rasps up a turgid bolus of glottal mucus, spits.)

Old Xwarpo’s ain’t unwillin’ to salt your biz with a spout from his zib, pizdatya sista!

XWARPO

(Clicks into action, a slim pony of viscous dark autumnal clinging dry liquid light and a tall vitrinal fluting of glossy minty chilly salty solution as bright as spring buffalo grass as only AUNT SMARAGDINA knows how to mix instantly spring up on his gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum.)

Miss. Sir.

NORLIA

(Vivaciously trips into room and capriciously grab’s ORIA’s Margarita from XWARPO’s gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum and flirtatiously voids that yawning Martini glass’s flashing innards at a most singular go.)

Mornin’, kin.

ORIA

(Rising on couch, black and mallow silk kimono yawns to an inviting display of two tusky sows ungating a slip-shod shut kraal of Chantilly.)

Norlia, you —

NORLIA

(Mouth to lush mouth with ORIA — who throats that gift down with a glottal noria of imbibition — sits on couch, draping a thigh on NIRUSA’s lap.)

And a bon bon bon bon bon bon bon bon jour à toi, koossy koossy cuz.

ORIA

(Licks salt from lips, cooing, fumbling with bra latch.)

Maughnin’.

DARKBLOOM

(Dilatory sip and lip lick, nonchalantly stabs cigarillo into chair arm.)

This stuff’s damn good. What brand is it, Aunt Smag, if you don’t mind my asking?

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Huffily shrugs in a sólo-Dios-connaissait-quoi sort of way.)

Our own, you know that. Buy gross caskloads of it, cork into our own old oak firkins. Wanna try ruby?

DARKBLOOM

(Lights a cigarillo.)

Right. I forgot. No thanks. I’ll stick with tawny for now.

NIRUSA

(Throws glass smashing against wall, chucks cigarillo butt XWARPOward.)

Anutha!

XWARPO

(Clicks into action, a squat octagonal glass frothily brimming with an icy spicy tangy thick and crimson pulpy concoction as only AUNT SMARAGDINA knows how to mix miraculously pops forth upon his gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum.)

Miss.

NIRUSA

(Unbosoms cigarillo, lights, sucks, sips through a tooth-gap fug of out puff.)

Atta, I’m so firkin oak thirsty! Could you possibly drag your fawning fraying mangy tail about with as much mumping lackadaisicality as you do, you foolish old satyr, you?

XWARPO

(Straddling a full major ninth, half of him kowtows and waits, half of him mops up glass shards.)

Miss.

ADA

(Wilts into room, jawing a lollipop and, wincing, works a cattish cushion onto DARKBLOOM’s starboard thigh.)

Oh, my poor ass.

DARKBLOOM

(Jabs cigarillo jauntily into chair arm, thrusts hands up skirts, rubbing vigorously to warm ADA’s thin shaking body.)

Buon giorno, my sulky sultry prankish child. Good night’s work?

ADA

(Displays cautious palms in a gracious Tagmic allusion.)

Nothing unusual.

XWARPO

(Kowtows and waits.)

Miss.

ADA

(Right hand on thigh, sinistral fondling DARKBLOOM’s dorsal hump.)

Bourbon. Straight.

SAIAN

(Clutching a clay jug and stumbling into room and taking a palmful of almonds from bar, knocks against XWARPO, causing ADA’s bourbon to fall crashing from his gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum.)

Sowwy, owd goowun. Wat is it you was dwinkin, Ada? Bouwbon ow wum?

(Sniffs shards on floor.)

Wight. Bouwbon. Stwaight.

XWARPO

(Clicks into action, dividing into thirds that squat to pick up glass shards on floor in front of bar, against wall at back of room, a mop, a broom, a dustpan, a fluffy osmotic torchon snap into his six hands, and on his gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum amazingly sprout drinks for all, including NIRUSA.)

My fault, miss.

NIRUSA

(Throws glass smashing against wall, cigarillo butt XWARPOward.)

Damn right, it is, ya dracunculiastic cur! Anutha!

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Grabs a fantastical dustywing with a rusty anchor of grappling iron of sham duplicity.)

Hop to it, old goat!

DARKBLOOM

(Lights a cigarillo.)

Dobri utra, mi krasivaya divuchka! Sit down, sit down, do sit down, if you don’t mind. I was just talking about this play I was up all night thinking about working on.

SAIAN

(Kissing DARKBLOOM’s balding crown, ADA’s chubby lips, taking a swig from jug, and straddling a saffron sharovar onto that club chair’s larboard arm, sits.)

Books wotting youw bwain, is it?

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Stabs a hallucinatory owlfly with an awkward point of awl of pharisaic profit.)

War wound acting up, swat I think.

DARKBLOOM

(Throws cigarillo in a magnanimous arc, crashing with a spark flash against yon far wall.)

Inspiration, I call it.

XWARPO

(Now in fifths and sixths, clicks into action, whirling out rounds of drinks from off his gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum.)

Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Sir.

ARAN TRON

(Striding into room, swinging his joyous stick, sings an air harking back to ‘Buff Low-Down Gals’.)

Coupla gynophiliacs gonna git laid tonight, git laid tonight, git laid tonight. Coupla gynophiliacs gonna — bon jour, signoritas! — git laid tonight — and you too, droopy stary old druk o’ my bloomin’ school days, Viv! — git laid tonight, git laid tonight. Coupla gynophiliacs gonna git laid tonight, all bright moon long! This is my buddy Babur, folks, and our backpacks abubblin’ full to lipring’s brim with lurid oil hats all to hoppin’ mad for lowdown stunts and action and whatnot! Cocking up a birkîyam or two’s our contumacious lust, and ain’t no cocky vassal —

XWARPO

(In unison, kowtows and waits.)

Sirs.

TRON

(Officiously posing, stands with worldly hands on worldly hips.)

Gonna hold back our stallionish lubricity from takin’ no avid gonorturns with rakish profligacy upon all yay fay coy bawds and bints and sluts and harlots and such. Nothing human’s abnormal, sir. Two balls-to-your-wall highballs for us, if you don’t mind, my good man. And a caulk-swaggin’ round for all our drippy shag hinds. You too, Darkbloom. Put it on my tab. Smaragdina, ma’am, whip out that paradoxical playtoy of blood and fur, that ovid animal of cryptic mirth, whip out, as I was saying, your Parandrus! Us boys got nothin’ but ruttin’ on our cyclopic loinish minds tonight!

DARKBLOOM

(Lights a cigarillo.)

I was just talking to our gals about this parasitic brainworm that was gnawing at my brain all night long. You know, that play I told you I was thinking about writing. It was starting to stir on my pillow this morning, I think. Spots of it I saw. Just starting to attain that stadium of maturity at which I could start pulling it out my —

TRON

(Fondly shrugs off such dramaturgid suppositions, cocks a stool against bar, sits.)

That, my dracunculiastic papilio, can, as you call it, lay dormant. That worm’s gonna wait for you, man, don’t cha think? For it’s not just any old toy play’s thing that’s aspoilin’ this king’s marplot, but Aunt Smag’s playtoy’s kingpin a-moilin’ away at Ada’s back parlor’s a thing, Babs, as soon as your lascar’s orbits glom on to it, that’s not too soon forgot. Siii-stiii Fit-naah! Zhiii-nooo!

BABUR

(Ogling ORIA, staring at SAIAN, nodding towards NORLIA, nibbling his lip at NIRUSA, admiring ADA, smirching AUNT SMARAGDINA with a shy (or sly) grin toothily full of lascar’s lust, avoiding DARKBLOOM’s inquisitorial look, docks his fantail into a wobbly barstool’s firth.)

But I’m on my lunch hour.

TRON

(Slaps Babur’s back.)

That don’t signify, my sailor boy, that don’t signify nunca! Aunt Smag, unlock your Parandrus!

(DARKBLOOM shrugs and jabs out a fuming pinky-thick roll of tobacco in a cactus-patch of cigarillo butts haunting a cut-glass octagon of ashy ashtray atop a low tavola; ADA and SAIAN crawl off and crouch down to start unzipping his fly; NIRUSA, ORIA, and NORLIA stand and approach and surround BABUR; chuckling in a most worldly fashion, TRON looks on and knowingly sips his scotch and soda; AUNT SMARAGDINA, brushing away a dubious assassin bug, unlocks cupboard in back of bar and withdraws that ramifying PARANDRUS from its calico shadow. XWARPO kowtows and waits.)

(Lights out — or curtain drawn or down, if you can afford it — will signal that this, our First Act, has run its wanton way to a finish. Sound off, though, will roll on non-stop throughout our short duration of transactuality — and no music, if you don’t mind!)


Act Two

LOCATION:
A bucolic parlor in a lupanar of Old Owlstain. Sound off is throughout as said in our First Act.
AT CURTAIN/LIGHTS:
Much of cast sprawls athwart couch, which is cast aslant, its cushions all on floor. A barstool hauls to larboard, drowning in a pool of bubbly scotch and vomit. Club chair displays rips in its pigskin. AUNT SMARAGDINA is locking a cupboard in back of bar. XWARPO kowtows and waits.

DARKBLOOM

(Asprawl, picks sawdust off pair of saffron sharovars molding too tightly to his plump gams, stands, limps across room, sits in club chair, buttons fly, and lights a cigarillo.)

Ah, this warm lucid ductility of brainworm’s curl and twist! This play’s that thing I was talking about thinking of writing, you know, this play would say nothing, nothing, nothing but words, words, words! Without, that is, a sort of traumatic plot to its start, to its finish, to its — ruby, now, if you don’t mind, blyat.

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

Sir.

ADA

(Asprawl, pulls skirts down from chin, sits up, jaws lollipop and, wriggling abaft, crawls wincingly towards that famous club chair, and sinks, wincing, upon DARKBLOOM’s thigh.)

Oh, my poor, poor ass. Bourbon. Straight.

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

Miss.

ORIA

(Lifts grunting from a sprawling position on larboard hand, hip, and ulna, licks spunky salt from lips and, tucking thoracic twins of plump rotundity tightly to, clicks bra shut with a frontal snap.)

And to think — that animal was just warming up! Margarita, could you?

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

Miss.

NIRUSA

(On floor, back against couch, thighs patulous, plucks tufts of calico fur from yawning frays of stocking.)

Hardly hard at all, you could say, but soooo long! I’ll switch to bourbon now also, thanks. But rocks.

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

Miss.

NORLIA

(Picking cushions from floor, shaking off rainbow pills of cuniculous hart spoor, sniffs palms, fists, armpits, plumps down on couch.)

Could you mop all this up, s’il vous plaît?

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

Miss.

SAIAN

(Ramming clay jug’s mouth uvulaward and choking nothing down but a throatful of cigarillo butts and staghorn shards, throws it with a smash against wall, vomits lavishly, and, smooth as a Roman urn, crawls towards DARKBLOOM’s club chair, waist-hung strand of opals dangling down.)

Mamando mi chupada mamá, chingadios! Anything but that chraa. Your turn, kus!

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

Miss.

BABUR

(Tucking in his shirt, frowns in a half-grinning way — as of a shy, or sly, lascar timorous of his captain’s wrath — at drying spots of vomit on his flaring pant cuffs, and rights barstool)

If I go now, I’ll only miss about a half hour.

TRON

(Trying to fish socks out of his gaucho boots, withdraws a bloody fistful of oily condoms.)

Don’t put your truss in a pair of saffron sharovars, swat I always say, huh, Darkbloom? Half hour of what, sailor boy? Your bark won’t run till high moon. Ain’t Parandrus a most obstirpatory infarct to cork your biz-zibin’ stoma with? Physics of tidal pull and all that. Two bloody highmaryballs, if you don’t mind.

XWARPO

(Starts clicking into action.)

Sirs.

BABUR

(Sniffs at his hands.)

No, no thanks. A pint of plain’s your only man in this sort of situation. I’m hungry. Piss?

XWARPO

(Stops, clicks out of action.)

Sir?

TRON

(Wiping worldly hands on worldly thighs.)

Plain. As my pal says. Two pints.

XWARPO

(Starts clicking into action, but stops again, looks off, kowtows, and waits.)

Sirs?

(All turn off towards a curious knocking at yon starboard door.)

(Lights down and out — curtain too, if you can afford it — drawn, that is. Which is to say, Conclusion of Act Two.)


Third Act

LOCATION:
A bucolic parlor in a lupanar of Old Owlstain. Sound off throughout is as said at our First Act’s start.

AT CURTAIN/LIGHTS:
ALL on boards from Act Two (sans PARANDRUS, naturally) stand rigid, looking off towards curious knocking at yon starboard door, which is slightly ajar.

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

What can I do for you two, sirs?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Shouting from yon starboard door.)

NOI TACIT RUTH GÎTS! ANI GAVS AIL RON, SADOOG! SISTI FITNA WITH GINOT! DIAL T-160 TO GIT LAID TONIGHT! I WANT IT IF IT’S IS GOOD AS NORLIA’S VAGINA’S TIGHT URTICATION!

DARKBLOOM

(Chucks cigarillo, dumps ADA and SAIAN onto floor, runs up stairs.)

It’s a bust!

(AUNT SMARADGDINA ducks down in back of bar and slinks lasciviously away; NIRUSA, ORIA, and NORLIA dash brassily, buxomly, vivaciously, and larboardly out. XWARPO clicks into action and gallantly aids ADA to wincingly sit sultrily on club chair’s arm; SAIAN bibulously crawls to bar and pulls down a clay flagon of hootch. BABUR sits invisibly, still as any shy, or sly, lascar, on barstool. It looks at first as if TRON is sipping knowingly from his glass of scotch and soda [but didn’t Tron just ask for two pints of plain? — scriptgirl’s scholium] as is his wont, but timorosity, too, has bound him within a caul of invisibility.)

OSNAK and UBAG

(Walking through door into room and displaying cautious palms in a gracious Intrussyan allusion.)

Why you run away? Salyutatsiya, qawwad! It mir that our bring foots to this cawnty logur, not voina, not judiskishtiality. Not law. Not cops, not cops us. Kyuuryious sokskiophysikologistichi. Noi, sadoog! Good buddy old pal! Fawn with watching Sista Fista Ginot and xwatnot, ha Ha HA! And Nyorlyia’s tight tight tight! To git laid tonight might our want, but no, no, no, that all, no that all. It soxkiophysikiologistichiskyi. Slot’s yargon. Lyupyanyaryian. You know? Garlot’s talk. Known globally all around world. It this that finding out of our want. That all, no that all.

XWARPO

(Flouts indignantly at this intrusion.)

I think, sirs, that you took a wrong turning? This is not a location which favors gambling.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Ripping a folio from a saffron-cardboard-bound writing pad, hand it to XWARPO.)

It this, it this. Look.

XWARPO

(Motions, with a limp wristflick, towards couch.)

What’s this? A warrant? Abnormal grids I glom, not normal horizontal ruling? You may sit, sirs, if you don’t mind waiting. Drinks? Saian, do you mind?

SAIAN

(Bustling at bar, shows a jug of hooch.)

Not at all. Pastis?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Both sit on couch.)

Oh, no thank you. Spasibo. No, not warrant. It grids as in our traditsyiya. It graffyityi that what found in lavoratoriya downstairs by us.

XWARPO

(Lifts an arrogant brow.)

I’m sorry, sirs, but I am as unfamiliar with this singular idiom as I am with this anomalous mass of lurid glyphs with which your hands must wont jot it.

SAIAN

(Bustling at bar, shows a jug of hooch and a jug of non-alcoholic liquid.)

Scotch and soda?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Abstain with various chiral and nasal signals of submission.)

Oh, no thank you. Spasibo. Not familyiar? Ha! It what known as ‘slot’s yargon, garlot’s talk’. Known globally all world around. You know, lyingyua franca as what you know you talk with in lyupyanyars with all around world. Glyobyally.

XWARPO

(Scornfully aghast.)

I’m sorry, slut’s jargon, did you say, sirs?

SAIAN

(Bustling at bar, holds up a thing for shaking drinks in.)

Pisco Souw? Caju Amigo? Woyal Awwival? Cactus Jack? Widow’s Cowl? Towo Wojo? Mai Tai? My Faiw Lady? Daiquiwi? But alas, I simply don’t know from bat guano about any of this Mawgarita or Mawtini thang. How ’bout bouwbon? Stwaight? Wocks?

XWARPO

(Charily finds fault.)

I pray, mind such raging words, Saian! I’m sorry, sirs, but our assistants-in-training’s phrasal constructions occasionally fail to accord with, to comply, that is, with customary habits — or should I say habitual customs? — of, what you might call, savoir-falloir — savoir-vivir? savoir-hablar? — and go gambolling off into I don’t know what argot-bound abyss of barmaid’s cant.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Making warily complaisant signals with hands and jaws.)

Oh, no thank you. Spasibo. Da, Da, DA. That what from saying us, cawnninglingkquistitsi suawvwar gablar! Barmaid’s cunt! That what for us our cyuryiosity’s cat’s tail is turpid and up Up UP! Barmaid’s cunt! Slot’s yargon! All world round it what for us our kyuuryiositiya.

SAIAN

(Bustling at bar, shows a palmvoid of confusion.)

Did I say wum, siws?

XWARPO

(Captiously barks.)

I think you did.

SAIAN

(Bustling at bar, insists, shows a jug of hooch, shaking it floridly back and forth.)

No, I don’t think I did. Wum, siws? Stwaight? Wocks?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Stand and clamor, strum ghostly balalaikas, kolo-whirl a Scottish or skočnik khorovod.)

Rum ron RHUM! Run rum rhum RON! Rhumba ron rum RUN! Yummy yum yum yum rut RUM!

SAIAN

(Giddily smiling with triumph.)

So wum’s youw flavow, is it, siws?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Sit back on couch, humbly spurn.)

Oh, no thank you. Spasibo. But back to slot’s yargon. It what you call kyontyakt lyingo. Minks iv Aravic i Spanglish i Français i Lagdino i Wolof i mano a many linguo idioma qu’on avoir custom of talking with in this sort of location. Noi, sadoog! Slot’s jargon. LYUPANYARIAN! LYUPANYARIAN what talk in this lupanar all world around! From Djakarta to Ulaanbaatar, from Gray Star to Valparaíso, from Mombasa to Kabul. SLOT’S YARGON!

SAIAN

(Still trying to satisfy.)

I could pouw y’all a cognac or a bwandy or a powt, sirs, if that’s what youw flavow is, sirs?

XWARPO

(Hands curious folio back to our curious ‘sociophysiologists’.)

No, sorry, sirs. I’m not, as I said, familiar with this idiom or lingua franca or jargon or whatnot as you might call it. This is an upright institution of quaint albionic catholicity sans, if you don’t mind my putting it plainly, any taint of colorful latin lubricity. Ici nous parlons un vrai patois, quoi, not this slutty pidgin. Must you shout? And, anyway, this vulgar trio of digits — uno, six, null — with a gross and flaming snout of a turgid tay poking at its gaping jaws will put you in contact with a low-class shack in Tixpu, if what I know of that distant suburb’s topography is not too far off. This (whirls about indicating a bucolic parlor in a lupanar of Old Owlstain) is a high-class club in downtown Owlstain.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Sinking humbly into couchbound capitulation.)

Oh, no thank you. Spasibo. Pidgin, da, da! Istyityutsia, da, da! That what us. Instistutsia of Socksckiophysiologa. And translationistitsi. Cawnning lingkvists. Pidgin!

SAIAN

(Bustling at bar, insists, shows jugs of hooch.)

Stout? Vodka?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Stand and clamor, blow shadowy argols, cavort a hora, sway a yalli, cut a hasapiko, romp a tamzara.)

Vodki, da, dA Da, DA! That our traditstsiya drink! VODKI! VODKI! Ya lyublu vodki! This our translation of this slot’s yargon, or pidgin, as you say. It fawl of pawns, you know? Polylingual. ‘Waiting for you with compassion and turbid implications if you know what I want to say, ha, Ha, HA! in our tiny habitations, it that our vagina’s dryool with garlic and lust that thick, thick, thick, if you know what I am implying ha, Ha, HA! good buddy! FRIG MY ASS! And tasty as running rut rum! HA! Norlia’s cawnt tight as gorny thorn! Zhinot rocks with a fist in it most profound! If you want to git laid, and so on’.

XWARPO

(Clicks into action.)

Dry wool? I don’t think I’m following you. Your vodkas, sirs.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Stand, snatch drinks, sit.)

Look, our gyood man. Oh, thank you, thank you. Spasibo. Vodki! VODKI! It that dialing up that cifra, as you call it, that was found. That tyasky—

XWARPO

(Lifts a quizzical brow.)

A task, sirs?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Nod approvingly.)

Da DA. That a job that for us to do. And so it for us to dial, no? And that man au bout, that gospodin, quoi, you know, say to us, Où you find kakoya cifra? And so it for us to say, Graffyityi in lavoratoriya. Owlstain, Glyampyoryium, not far from bar downstairs, you know? And that man say, you know, What you want to do? And so it for us to say, SISTI FITNA WITH GINOT! NOI, SADOOGIM! And that gospodin say, Go upstairs, turn right, first door. And so alors, it for us to go upstairs, turn right, and this first door. Donc, nos somos acá, ici, at this lokatsiya. Vodki xoroshi. BIS! Yamy VODKI lyublyubim!

XWARPO

(Scoffs.)

And what sort of finds, sirs, in this institution do you pin your airy optimism on?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Wax loquaciously.)

To add to our akvizitsiya of words of slot’s yargon. This word, this ‘gavs,’ you know, that for us not a word that in our vokyabyularitsiya until now — it good pawn, no? It Ivrit word, I think. What do you think? Da, Ivrit. It has dual significhiskifiki — I can’t say that word, can you? Significhiskificalation, implying both ‘gospodin’ or ‘masculinity,’ and also a xwoman’s ass. A XWOMAN’S ASS! Ha ha ha. Xoroshi vodki. Bis bis bis!

XWARPO

(Scowls.)

Is that so funny, sirs? And as I said, must you shout?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Giggling coyly.)

But no, no, no, it gilyaryilyious.

XWARPO

(Bafflingly squints.)

Hilarious?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Nod approvingly.)

That so, that so — as it saying by us. Gilyaryilyious. Ha ha ha. And also ‘mama,’ as in Spanglish, no? Good slotty pidginny pawdgy pawn, no, no, no? Dual signifikichiskification also, as in ‘matriarchal woman,’ and also, lapai mi kura, LAPAI MI KURA! You know, sucky my dicky.

XWARPO

(Shows disdain.)

And is that so funny, sirs? And ‘mama’ was not in that scribbling of that silly graffiti of yours that was shown to my prying curiosity anyway.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Stand and clamor, drum insubstantial timpani, gambol a guapacha, clog a cachuca, fox-trot a bachata, polka a pachanga, mazurka a rumba.)

No gyumour! No gyumour in this lupanar? No. No gymour in this lupanar. But vodki xoroshi. Vodki VODKI VODKI!

TRON

(Coming to from out of his caul of invisibility, glass of scotch and soda slips from his grip and falls smashing to floor, thus waking Babur too back into shy, or sly, visibility upon his barstool.)

Sirs, this is not any sort of a scabrous lupanar, nor any dingy locus of bawdality, nor a salacious clos in which you may piss your swill into sawdust as you stand goatishly gawking at a poor orphan (points at Ada who is displaying cautious palms in a gracious Sihlaucal allusion) who intoxicatingly struts what charms still subsist of that waif-thin body of violation, a rummy casita, if you will, in which no monitoring of bibulosity factor or satyriasis or profligacy or impurity or harlotry or carnality or rank iniquity occurs at all, nor any such sort of instantiation of your tawdry imaginings. This is a, you could say, social pond, as I call it, of culturally, culturally thirsty folk. A community of aficionados. Drinking is but a stimulant of our faculty for musical discrimination, for lyrical appraisal. Saian, two highballs, if you don’t mind.

BABUR

(With startling lucidity.)

But it’s way past my lunch hour.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Wink.)

Zo you snow a gawk from a bandsaw, that it? Ah ah ah! You can’t fool us. Ha ha ha!

XWARPO

(Backs up with hand on bosom, aghast.)

Is that an insult, sirs?

OSNAK and UBAG

(Lift hands and show palms in a gracious Ityalian allusion.)

Insult nobody, anybody no insulting nobody, not us, not us, that sociophysiologichiskiky law. No insult, no insult. Play us song? If you so kind, play us song, if you so can do it? It kyuuriositiya that killing this cats by us. This no lupanar, no? But what that sounds as though through thin partition, ah? Ah? And why that this barmaid has no pants on, ah, Ah, AH? And this not blood on this girl’s ass? Vodki xoroshi. Sound off must stop instantly.

XWARPO

(Waving hands.)

Construction. Noisy voisins. Tidal flow of moon fluid. Womaninity. Aunt Flo’s in town? V’là tout. I don’t know. Ada, my ktar.

ADA

(Stands, hands ktar, a sort of oud, to XWARPO, and hums major triads.)

La la la LA, la LA la la LA. La LA la, la la la LA la.

XWARPO

(Tuning, murmuring.)

Just a pair of grimacing goblins to hold at bay. Ada?

ADA

(Displays cautious palms in a gracious Fukari allusion.)

Pandora.

(XWARPO plays a long slow arrhythmic introductory alap that lasts about a ninth of an hour. Against this rhythm, ADA chirps out an aria that sounds suspiciously similar to that classic anti-war hymn, ‘It’s A Fucking Fabulous Day, Ain’t It?’ [Possibly also, owing to its historical worth, ‘It Don’t Signify Nothing If It Ain’t Got No Playswing’ — scriptgirl’s scholium.])

ADA

(Chants a loping, swinging, lilting motif that starts off on a sharp sixth.)

That girl in a box isn’t crying.
That girl in a box isn’t sitting.
That girl in a box isn’t dancing.
That girl in a box isn’t pacing.
That girl in a box isn’t

(Rubato.)

saying anything at all.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Shoot out a gigantic hairy villainous mutually jump-clutching fist that claws at, grabs, and pulls ADA onto couch.)

Divushkaya nasha! Fstayushi rakom, Adadadita!

(XWARPO plays a short improvisational ktar-frill with abundant minor thirds and major ninths.)

BABUR

(Again with startling lucidity.)

But I said that it’s way past my lunch hour.

TRON

(Murmurs histrionically.)

Ada’s singing. Intrussyans. Sssh!

ADA

(On OSNAK and UBAG’s symbiotic lap, with hairy hands pawing up skirt, harshly now, in staccato minor fifths.)

Arms hanging down, fists dripping blood.

(XWARPO pulls off a long soaring ktar-riff that follows from main stanza, mimicking ADA’s liquid chanting.)

BABUR

(Making a fatidic point.)

But I’m hungry!

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Crawling back to bar, scans room for farcical gnats.)

Who — ?

SAIAN

(Holding sinistral salutaris against lips, points with right ditto.)

Sssh! Intwussyans. Ada’s singing.

ADA

(Harsh staccato minor fifths again.)

Mama can’t hug, Mama can’t cry, Mama can’t do anything but shout.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Bouncing that floppy ragdoll playtoyfully lap- and skyward, impishly guffaw.)

Ya vas lyublyuu, my vas lyubim, yamy vas lyublyubim, Ada!

DARKBLOOM

(Poking his bald crown through yon yawning larboard door slightly ajar — do consult a dictionary, dramaturg, if you don’t mind.)

What — ?

SAIAN

(Mouths asurdically from bar.)

Intwussyans! Sssh! Ada’s singing.

ADA

(Softly sways with a rhythmic up and down motion, jaw bobbing, palms displaying a gracious, cautious Intrussyan allusion.)

That girl in a box isn’t crying.
That girl stands still and looks.
That girl in a box isn’t sitting.
That girl stands still and waits.
That girl in a box isn’t dancing.
That girl stands still and

(XWARPO chops in a vibrato chordal fill.)

That girl in a box isn’t pacing.
That girl in a box wants

(Rubato.)

nothing at all.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Vigorously groping, drooling, fondling, cuddling, shout.)

Yamy vas lyuublyuubim, mumtazilicious divushchiki!

BABUR

(Again with a fatidic point.)

I’m still hungry.

TRON

(Losing his cool.)

I say Aunt Smag, couldn’t you possibly dish my starving paranymph up with a supply of nosh or victual or whatnot? Arroz con pollo? Mutton curry? Butifarra? Pho bo kho? Tulpuyauor? Cimitomba?

AUNT SMARAGDINA

(Watching out for fictitious fig wasps, shrugs.)

Xwarpo’s our cook. Gotta wait.

ADA

(Displays cautious palms in a gracious Tixputo allusion.)

Arms hanging down, fists dripping blood.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Flinging Ada rostrally, caudally, dorsally, fulcrully.)

Biz zib, fpizdu zib! Biz zib, fpizdu zib! Shalava shalava shalava pizdaditya, Ada!

ADA

(Lands on a lap or two with a splay of thighs and a splash of blood.)

Mama can’t hug, Mama can’t cry, Mama can’t do anything but shout.

NIRUSA, ORIA, NORLIA

(Duck-duck-moon-walking back into room to join SAIAN, who also joins in, for that famous chorus known to all womaninity: soprano, alto, contralto, coloratura.)

You stupid fucking bitch always doing things wrong
Why can’t put things back in that box?
You stupid fucking bitch always flaunting your ass
Why did you suck your vulgar guvnor’s cock?
You stupid fucking bitch always primping your hair
I’m pulling it now, I’m dragging you back to your box so you stay.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Dump limp Ada onto floor.)

Yamy VAS lyuublyuubim pravdaciously, divyushkayafirkations moya! In fact, yamy lyublyubim TIBYA!

ADA

(On back on floor in a pool of blood, saffron skirt torn to nothing, an aura of total cramp forms a fatal pact with gravidity.)

That girl in a box isn’t crying.
That girl in a box isn’t sitting.
That girl in a box isn’t dancing.
That girl in a box isn’t pacing.
That girl in a box isn’t

(Rubato flourish.)

saying anything at all.

OSNAK and UBAG

(Standing, applauding, button shut bloody fronts of goatskin jodhpurs.)

Bravo! Bis! Molti xoroshaya! Adadaditya!

DARKBLOOM

(Limps across room, kicks ADA’s stiff cringing slightly shaking body on floor, turns, sits in club chair, lights a cigarillo.)

Our first tryst, too, was a flop.

ADA

(Wincing from DARKBLOOM's kick, starts wriggling, writhing spastically on floor, a prodigious horrid tagmic quality of pulsating pangs transforms that working girl’s bloody doxyish limbs into a monstrous worm throbbing with continuous coils of agony.)

A fantastic horrid tagmic quality of pulsating pangs is transforming my thin girlish limbs into a monstrous worm throbbing with continuous coils of agony. Ahi, mi pobrito zhupashti!

TRON

(Slams his highball glass on bar with an icy splash of jumping glaçons.)

Smaragdina, ma’am, I think this situation calls for your Parandrus!

BABUR

(Sprays out his own highball and drops glass.)

But I’m still — that’s no ass, man! This child’s giving birth!

XWARPO

(Drops ktar and clicks into action.)

Wads of stuff, cottony fluffy albino stuff, tarlatan, possibly, or, in a word, wadding, or as you might say, swaddling cloth, is what this situation calls for, and quick!

DARKBLOOM

(Stabs out cigarillo on thigh, stands, limps across room and gawks.)

Chingadios mio! It’s my bloody play!

OSNAK and UBAG

(Bolt out yon starboard door which bangs shut with a bang.)

Sayonara, folks!

(Lights down and/or curtain drop or draw. Ha finito il acto.)


Fourth Act

LOCATION:
A bucolic parlor in a lupanar of Old Owlstain. Sound off throughout is continuous as said and so on and so forth.

AT CURTAIN/LIGHTS:
AUNT SMARAGDINA, looking mighty lascivious, is at bar au coin, doing various, you know, bar things. NIRUSA, ORIA and NORLIA moon brassily, buxomly, vivaciously on couch. SAIAN, pacing bibulously, sucks liquid candy from a clay jug. BABUR, on barstool, manfully mishandling his chopsticks tyronically, slurps shyly, or slyly, though noisily, from a bowl of tulpuyauor. TRON gulps golpas of scotch and soda knowingly from his damp vaso of highball. DARKBLOOM, in club chair, lights a cigarillo. XWARPO, his gold-inlaid tray of glinting platinum glinting, kowtows and waits.

ADA

(Wincingly balancing on a bloody cushion on DARKBLOOM’s thigh and limply flashing a dog whip back and forth, back and forth to shoo clipping and clopping AUNT SMARAGDINA’s PARANDRUS back and forth, back and forth puckishly across this agon’s sibilant boards, sultrily croons to DARKBLOOM’s PLAY which is bound tightly — in fluffy cottony tarlatan wadding or swaddling cloth, as light in color as any dun buck’s albino incisor — to that mythic hart’s fluctuating carcass of a back.)

From what among all my fair parts I lack. From what among all my fair parts I lack. From what among all my fair parts I lack. From what among all my fair parts I lack.

(Mouth on provokingly till passion flags, actor — or until scriptgirl shouts, Cut!)

BIBLIOGRAPHY

(Puffing on a Havana, limps across room — war wound, and all that — stops, with a grip grown cool and firm through solo lucubration grabs that vagrant stag PARANDRUS by its horns, stoops groaning down to chuck DARKBLOOM’s BABY’s chubby chin with a stubby, tobacco-sallow thumb, billows out his plaid plus-fours abaft with a rippling fart, and with a flick of an inch-thick chunk of iron-gray ash abandons AUNT SMARAGDINA’s capricious PARANDRUS to its vain frolics, coming and going, dilating and contracting, clipping and clopping across this agon’s hollow boards; limps on again towards bar.)

Darkbloom, V. On location in artificial moonlight. Minxburgh: Random Library, 1962.

—— . Luminous things through which no light can show. Moscow, India: Laugh Riot, 1972.

—— . Lath. Portrait of a budding playwright lost in a minor park of London circa 1926. Lynx Hat: Farah, Stravinsky, Girodias and Sons, 1974.

Lath, L. Aunt Smaragdina’s Parandrus. London: Lost, 1926.

Plynchton, P. Gravidity’s rainbow blood. Iagip: Black Yurt, 1973.

Quilty, C. H. An apology for stuprations past. Black Yurt: Intrussyan Military Prison Publishing Assn., 1958.

Galvari, G. and M. Ravigiallo. Skipping stunts for cunning aficionados. Sixty-six improvs (with a bonus trio of dialogs!) for actors just starting out in porn. Owlstain and Paris: Urdostoist Publishing Company, 2002.

Gargantua, R. How my profound phallus was born from out my mama’s big fat ass following upon consumption of way too much saucisson (butifarra). Paris: Diasporama, 1534.

Gorgias, B. La disparition. Paris: Plon, 1969.

Saliba, G. “H.” Apropos of Dolly. London: Hamish Hamiltonian, 1938.

Vilano-Bodkin, M. Typological dictionary of schizo-mythic mammals. Oxford: Oxford, 1934.

Villon, F. (1498). Dans ludict panoyausx où nous vivonz à nostr’oisifvs. Facing translation by Ray Oakbark. Paris: Gallimard, 1942.

Viridian, G. P. Towards a futurity for any sort of sociophysiology. Mitau: Journal of Racist and Transformational Biology, 1912.

Wright, A. V. Gadsby. Romano scritto con piu di 50,000 bons mots sin utilizar una digrapha particulara qui forma una ronda quasi chiusa con una piccola ligna. Tradutto d’idioma appalacciano por Gloria Galvari y Maryam Ravigiallo. Owlstain and Paris: Urdostoist Publishing Company, 2003.

(Lights, curtains, choughs jacking harshly, flying in flocks to roost, away, away, bringing us round, at last, to a goodly vain conclusion of our play.)

CUT!


A chum of such high-falutin’ Bloomsbury sporologists, uranists, tribadists, tragalists, sophists, spiritualists, anthropologists, avant-gardists and whatnot as Ronald Firbank, William Clissold, Virginia Woolf, Paul Laris, O. X. Goldbarg, R. Briffault, Vivian Darkbloom, Hugo “Gals” Saliba, Ray Rayburn, A. McNab, Maud Vilano-Bodkin, Clarissa Quilty-Couch, Arnold V. Wright and so on, Larry Lath was a minor Albionian playwright of Oxonian proclivity and prolixity. In addition to his dramatic work, his fictional output corrals within its signal bosom two longish fluvial romans d’abris, Along shadowy footpaths and Within a budding orchard, in both of which his pals, as in his plays, play quīdam.