Post by Deleted on Aug 18, 2016 1:18:54 GMT -5
I. Construction, Part II (March 22, 2016)
[Open to Lester Parish dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans amidst a conversation with an urban planner. This visitor’s blue pinstriped shirt and a prudish hardhat had shown him sore amongst those constriction workers onsite. A brass nametag read JASON COLLINS, ASST. PLANNER in bold. They reviewed forms hanging off a plastic clipboard. Parish read pages upon pages while signing sections intermittently with its attached fountain pen. They kept to professional terms despite that latex mask covering Lester’s face.]
“Okay, that’s looks up to date, Mr. Parish. Your farm can hold a place of worship. However, I’m not with whom to discuss tax exemptions. There’s IRS forms you can request from city hall.”
“We don’t expect to have any kind worship here. Only a safe haven from worldly pressures.”
“Well Mr. Parish, I’ll hand these over to your builders and let them have it. Thank you for being so understanding. We’ve had a few problems with sewage lines in town. My phone nearly rang off my desk. This matter just crossed it last Friday.”
“A city runs on its keepers. Thank you for your time, Mr. Collins.”
“Yes, and have a good day sir.”
[The construction manager smoked by his Ford 350. Jason and he exchanged forms, sending another government official on his way behind the wheel of a Honda Civic. Parish met with the manager, Roger Darby, to discuss blueprints and future efforts for Lester’s dream.]
“So uh, what exactly are you building here?”
“I know it’s hard to fathom while looking at mounds of dirt and onion grass. But this will a testament to decades of good fortune. We’re not a Zen Krishna tribe. Nor some polygamist cult that work farms via brainwash. We’re autonomous and my brethren will share these woods with me.”
“Like in uh… Oh, like in Conan the Barbarian?”
“Sorry, no fiction and magic here. We’re realists, Roger.”
[Parish laughed while the manager dawned his cheater glasses. Ashes dribbled off that orange nub onto graveled driveway. Roger signed off the same sections of paperwork. Arriving at the penultimate page, he looked up to Lester with his lips in rictus.]
“Funny or not. This isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve built.”
“Do tell—I love a good tale.”
“So we were in Allentown. About forty minutes south of here. There was this place, used to be an Arby’s or something like that. This Russian looking dude bought the place. Sleazy and always wearing one of those striped tracksuits. He turned that old restaurant into a bar. Well, he also included some weird features that never got properly signed off on. Turns out he had them forged. Yeah, then the cops bust up the makings of a heroin distributor and maybe even human trafficking. Crazy stuff, let me tell ya buddy. This cult stuff doesn’t bother me a bit. So long as you worship God.”
“There are more lords than one can worship in a lifetime. Roger, what else do you see from these blueprints? Do they seem reclusive? Or do you see providence?”
[Roger flicked his cigarette, burnt past its filter, into the grass. His eyes peaked from under a furrowing brow. Hellenistic genes gave him that thick hairline and those dark, bushy brows over dull, olive tones.]
“The mask is creepy. Seriously, you should lose the thing. I don’t want to know what sort of hanky-panky will go on here. Forty people wearing masks or not.
“Forget about me. What do you see in the project?”
“That’s different … you look like uh, what’s that word for the south leaving the Union?”
“You see secession in our work?”
“Yeah, secession—that’s what it looks like. You aren’t like a militia or something. Are ya?”
“No, we’re peaceful unless disturbed. A helicoptering bee with strength to sting if provoked. Wild strength from our natural fists. There’s a wicked nature in us all, Roger, but you’re not the kind to awaken it.”
“Thank goodness for that. I’ve still got two kids to put through college. Besides, I got a bit of protection. You know, for those tough cities—South Philly and all that.”
[Roger unveiled his glove compartment. A Glock sat there, out of his holster, presumably loaded if things got hairy. He called it his “peacemaker” but closed the door without showing it off. Roger signed the last section and threw the clipboard onto his passenger seat.]
“I got the boys hard at work. They’re a good crew with one of my better foremen. Well, I should say supervisor. Don’t let her girly face distract you—she knows her stuff, Lester.”
“Excellent choice. I speak for an inclusive group. We enjoy diversity here, or at least, we will upon completion. What’s her name?”
“Guys used to call her Lucy, like form the TV show. But her name’s Alana. So if you need to talk to someone when I’m offsite. Look for her somewhere. Only girl I’ve got—won’t be hard to find. Listen, I need to check on another property and deliver these forms. You take care, Lester.”
“The Brotherhood will cherish this land. Your work is invaluable to our growth. I’d like to name the cafeteria after you, with your blessing of course.”
“Why the hell not. You and your masked buddies have a ball. Just don’t call my cell anymore. Talk to Alana if you need anything—anything, all right.”
*****
II. The Morrow (present day)
[Parish rises from his bed of his famed “bunker.” This ’90s time capsule has a waterbed and clapper lights although their batteries died months ago. He dresses in jeans and a T-shirt, yet leaves his mask behind. The ground floor of that old farmhouse has room for a few to dine and converse. This morning, only Zander and Sean Craven sit there with separate breakfasts. Maureen, a probationary member, cooks flapjacks by the gas stove. Zander holds his cellphone in front of a massive serving of pancakes.]
“Hey look, a Jigglypuff is stealing my breakfast.”
[Sean slaps him forehead before confiscating the device.]
“Get that stupid game out of my face. How can play this all day?”
“Well, it helps me get exercise. And it’s fun to catch Pokémon in real wilds.”
“Jesus, just stop already.”
[Craven looks up from a bowl of Cheerios, a toxic grin across his face. Parish joins the table without a plate albeit Maureen’s willingness to serve him a platter.]
“You need to settle your impurities, Zander. I remember the days when I found myself bedridden and sprawled over a couch like some jobless barnacle. Your fluids coagulate and your circulation closes off. A doctor will one day warn you that diabetes is your future—if you proceed down this path, unabashed or obstinate, they will saw off your legs.”
“Stop it Lester, he’s trying to have some breakfast. Look, a cartoon cat is hovering over it.”
“Interacting—”
“Keep out of this, Hoss. Lester, where did you Kevin go last night? His car left the grounds at some point after dark. I know what it sounds like. And when I checked garage, it wasn’t there. You two went out for some reason—what happened?”
[Parish motions towards the basement. Zander dives back into game while Sean follows downstairs. He impressively balances his cereal at chin level while on the steps. They head over to his good couch for a chat. Blood drops still stain that concrete floor from their last tussle. Craven glowers at a security camera panning across the floor.]
“Are you a reality star or something? Can’t you switch off your cameras for a minute?”
“We aren’t in the business of total disclosure. Sean, these only run to our archives—not the general public. CCTV can still be hacked. Although it’d be a massive waste of time. I cycle the saved files between multiple servers to protect them from tampering. Its standard encryption these days, Sean, not space technology. And why would you be worried about tapes anyways?”
“Just because the Brotherhood is inclusive. That doesn’t mean we don’t have secrets, idiot.”
“Well, would you like to see the control room?”
[Craven produces a stick drive labeled between the dates of their systematic arrival.]
“I found what I wanted. Why were you trying to keep this hidden on file?”
“I wasn’t planning to blackmail you or anything nefarious. I had plans to erase most of those videos. In fact, I deleted over 97% of its total runtime. Those files remained for nostalgic purposes—perhaps even as teaching models for the future. Don’t you value the grains of history? Or would you rather live a world with no past, and only its troublesome future?”
“You should be more concerned of your own future. We all saw the card. This is just another main event for Kev. You’re just riding his coattails. How do you expect to talk out of another defeat? You don’t have some psychotic partner to abuse like an angry toddler. Kevin Bishop is our leader and I support him. If you can’t keep him safe from a horde of rejects—what good are you even to the Brotherhood? We have goals that require more than a piano sonata.”
[Craven launches from the couch while Lester temples his fingers.]
“We aren’t just a group of chatty friends, Parish. The Brotherhood stands together. Get in line.”
“If you think the tribulation of Zero Tolerance will break our alliance, you’re betting on the wrong mare. Yes, they’ve risen from obscurity to an alarming presence. However, you should know that when trials surpass our deeds, something must give. It’s a painted menace masquerading as a rabid, dangerous thing. They paint their faces like warriors and elicit images of fear by claiming psychosis. Delusions are a powerful weapon against those scared of the dark, or susceptible to gullible tricks.”
[Sean slams his plastic bowl down. Milk covers the floor in a sticky lake. The bowl rolled under a side table, spilling its contents in a fluid line.]
“Parish, if you can’t deliver for the Brotherhood. What’ll be left for you in our mission? You’ve practiced weeks alongside Kevin, and you’ve worked out most of the kinks. And maybe you’ve built a working system between you two. But those guys have had years to perfect their stuff. Kev said we need to work together, but I’m telling you now—I’m not convinced.”
“That’s your choice—”
“Don’t accept it. Do something about it.”
[Sean Craven stomps up the steps. His voice carries from the ground floor. He seems to be ordering someone to clean up “Some **** downstairs” amidst his heavy footsteps. Parish taps the table, thinking as that security camera watches back and forth.]
*****
III. The Bishop of Reading
[Views open to an empty stage filmed by a shaking camera operator somewhere in the audience. Nervous breathing comes through at points. A spotlight illuminates an empty throne. Grumbling and animal moans echo from all around. Rattling chains resound in a tinny cadence. A second spotlight then shines upon the figure of Lester Parish cloaked in black. Underneath, a white plague doctor’s mask protrudes from his hood with a proboscis of several inches. He walks to center stage as a dulling red light encompasses the empty throne.]
“The Brotherhood—now off the Bunker—presents our newest script of The Bishop of Reading for the very first time. When the Plague arrived, physicians needed a way to protect their delicate senses. Putrid aromas of disease and rot can render one violently ill. They perfumed these masks thereby blocking hazardous vapors. We are here to spread an awareness, but we do so in an atmosphere poisoned by a dangerous phage. One that knowledge alone cannot repel. My senses require a buffer between here and a sickening air the WCF has been infected with. But now, noble listeners, I present our show.
Enter the prions cell of the betrayed Bishop of Reading. He’s fallen before a licentious king whose immoderate ways caught the ire of both his people and the Church. In an act of revenge for his politicking, the King had the bishop arrested behind their cardinal’s back. Now he waits for either an execution, or the day this condemning cell finally usurps his will, his faith, and most paramount of all, his soul. Watch or jeer—the choice is yours. But he suffers nonetheless.”
[Parish steps out of the scene into the darkened corner. Maniacal cries blare as four chained figures emerge, crawling out from the trap door and begin to encircle the empty throne. Three have their faces painted wearing sack tunics, while the last covers itself in a cowboy poncho and wrangler’s hat. They make two revolutions, moaning and rattling their chains, before the first stops at the throne’s feet. He is the smallest of the group, hunching to one knee.]
“Suicide commands you give in. Hear my voice and be alarmed. You see a pathway without an end. My sword could kill you now. Slit your throat from your chin to your nethers. Bishop, be alarmed, this is the reaper’s tale. You mission is doomed to fail. You’re afraid—I can taste it!”
[His voice modulates into a deeper tone, one that hardly carries beyond the stage.]
“A monster speaks, be alarmed. A shadow creeps behind your ear waiting to bite. Blood flows from your neck, lest you desire to be destroyed. Fear us—be frightened by what we can do. You will not win this week. Bishop, be alarmed!”
[Their group circles thrice more before a second figure, taller and with considerable girth, gestures to the throne with a butcher’s knife.]
“Bishop, you can’t pry a weapon from the warrior’s hand. Nor can faith shield your heart from a dagger’s length. It’s no aegis—no angelic rune. Hear my voices calling your cowardly spirit out! Attune alas, for this is the mind at war. You cannot go alone in this world. Follow me into the shadows. I live there. Regality has made you weak. Gold has turned you into a folly of fame.”
[The second madman thrusts his knife near but never reaching the reddened throne, but to no noticeable effect. He then reaches for the empty chair as if to pull its occupant away.]
“Don’t sit there confused. Be with me. I’ll guide into the darkness. You cannot resist the pull of what you cannot control. Your failures will rue this day. Your faith cannot persuade. Come with me. Let me be your freedom and your shepherd. For that throne will not last forever.”
[After a half rotation, the third and largest of this group screams at the empty throne.]
“Where are you, Bishop? There’s a new order in place, yet you sit there with hands over your face! Let me save you from the others and their unstable ways. Let me show you why resistance has failed time after time. You can fight for what you believe, but you’ll never win. You see us in a demon’s light. Our challenge stands—if you think you’re manly enough. None are strong enough to best us. Sit there in your gilded chair. Sit there, Bishop, we know you’re scared.”
[Their group rotates several times, even changing directions twice, before the last approaches the throne’s red shadow. He tips his cowboy hat—from a less threatening distance than the rest.]
“I am not a specter. I’m not a monster. My message is clear and concise. If you trifle with us, expect to lose, Bishop. We appealed to the fear, and yet you situate—even laugh us away. That was good fun. Another attacked your faith, yet you ward off any attempt to turn this plague around. You aren’t tempted so easily—I like that. Your tolerance for assault is commendable. Words bequeath the soul, it grows and grows without shattering. Its form takes a hard shape and refuses to buckle under enormous pressure. Sadly, you’re still trapped in this cell for as long as your mortal breaths bellow. We’ll be here until that day. Hexes exist in the heart, the mind and the soul. Nothing can ward our presence away. Try, go on and pray, you’ll find there’s no escape.”
[The others gather at the throne’s feet. They cry a simple phrase, “submit!” multiple times in unison. At last, the gaucho signals for them to cease.]
“Be afraid. Lose your faith. Know that you’re nothing, Bishop. This crusade of “eye-opening” has come to its fated end. Dreams have a fatal spree. They arise of delusions and lies, the segments of memory that protect us from the truth. Bishop, you’ve defied this land. Defiled your place as the people’s champion—the hero they never asked for nor ever required. Deified this gathering you claim as brotherhood, and yet you forgot everything that damned you into this abysmal cell. Your faith, mind and soul are not in tune. Attune to our words and beware. You shall not win this week nor ever again. Tolerance has its limits, Bishop. Now submit!”
[The lighting blinks four times before returning to normal. All four have gathered at the throne to jeer its presence. They switch into incoherent tongues; meanwhile, the lights strobe wildly. Their curses hail until the all but that pruce light goes dark. A chorus of “submit” resonates four times; abruptly then, they cease. Each figure then crosses through that red light, exiting via the trap door from whence they came. Cowboy exits last and slams the latch. A sound effect of a thunderclap punctuates their departure from the scene. Now barren—except the unlit figure of Lester Parish still standing out of scene—that ominous red light dims until the whole theater has been rendered to darkness. Speakers relay a medley of pearling thunderstorms during this blackness.]
“Tempests can rattle a ship from its route. Harbors withstand the typhoon’s wrath. At the end of tumult, scarred land returns by glowing sunlight. But … is it still the same wharf sailors knew?”
[Spotlights pinpoint on the throne, now occupied by a bearded man wearing a cardinal’s red galero. The man throws off this wide-brimmed hat to unveil himself as the Plague, and current People’s Champion, Kevin Bishop. He steps out from the throne stark and observant.]
“I am Kevin Bishop still. No man can censor my message. No fiend will ever take my voice away. I will always be the Plague, and this ring is mine to rule. Run or be destroyed!”
[Kevin Bishop sits in the chair. Lester Parish returns to center stage behind his plague mask.]
“We are tolerant of all things, but there comes a time when harmony falls to predation. The Brotherhoood has its purposes, its valued precepts to pass from brother to sister and henceforth. Our presence may be elusive at times, yet we are always watching. This disease has tried to render the WCF helpless. It asserts a heightened place because their enemies fall into apathetic spells. We follow our bishop into the fray, and he anoints our fealty with strength and promise. Few groups have come this far at such rapid pace; today, earth-altering forces will gather.
One more has yet to join us, and he too brings a fearsome reputation. Gemini in the sky, send us strength and reveries. Let the courses sway beyond epic beast. Charybdis loves drowning fellows and destroying hapless vessels. Be this final clap of mighty earth, a bolt of angered pantheon has awakened to your sins. We are not afraid of you. We will never retreat into the shadows. There may be a place for a freak show; however, it has no bearings here. The Brotherhood will move forward with clarions raised in victory. We shall emulsify you into your simplest pieces. The power of a group relies in its congruent thought. We see now that madness has no root other than its delusions. And those ungrounded in both reality and faculty can never obtain lasting success. An inevitable schism will break this powerful team apart. Kevin Bishop has not faltered. Gemini will not break to your dangerous minds. You cannot poison those immune to erratic behavior. I am myself, forever and more, and we are never going away!”
[Open to Lester Parish dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans amidst a conversation with an urban planner. This visitor’s blue pinstriped shirt and a prudish hardhat had shown him sore amongst those constriction workers onsite. A brass nametag read JASON COLLINS, ASST. PLANNER in bold. They reviewed forms hanging off a plastic clipboard. Parish read pages upon pages while signing sections intermittently with its attached fountain pen. They kept to professional terms despite that latex mask covering Lester’s face.]
“Okay, that’s looks up to date, Mr. Parish. Your farm can hold a place of worship. However, I’m not with whom to discuss tax exemptions. There’s IRS forms you can request from city hall.”
“We don’t expect to have any kind worship here. Only a safe haven from worldly pressures.”
“Well Mr. Parish, I’ll hand these over to your builders and let them have it. Thank you for being so understanding. We’ve had a few problems with sewage lines in town. My phone nearly rang off my desk. This matter just crossed it last Friday.”
“A city runs on its keepers. Thank you for your time, Mr. Collins.”
“Yes, and have a good day sir.”
[The construction manager smoked by his Ford 350. Jason and he exchanged forms, sending another government official on his way behind the wheel of a Honda Civic. Parish met with the manager, Roger Darby, to discuss blueprints and future efforts for Lester’s dream.]
“So uh, what exactly are you building here?”
“I know it’s hard to fathom while looking at mounds of dirt and onion grass. But this will a testament to decades of good fortune. We’re not a Zen Krishna tribe. Nor some polygamist cult that work farms via brainwash. We’re autonomous and my brethren will share these woods with me.”
“Like in uh… Oh, like in Conan the Barbarian?”
“Sorry, no fiction and magic here. We’re realists, Roger.”
[Parish laughed while the manager dawned his cheater glasses. Ashes dribbled off that orange nub onto graveled driveway. Roger signed off the same sections of paperwork. Arriving at the penultimate page, he looked up to Lester with his lips in rictus.]
“Funny or not. This isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve built.”
“Do tell—I love a good tale.”
“So we were in Allentown. About forty minutes south of here. There was this place, used to be an Arby’s or something like that. This Russian looking dude bought the place. Sleazy and always wearing one of those striped tracksuits. He turned that old restaurant into a bar. Well, he also included some weird features that never got properly signed off on. Turns out he had them forged. Yeah, then the cops bust up the makings of a heroin distributor and maybe even human trafficking. Crazy stuff, let me tell ya buddy. This cult stuff doesn’t bother me a bit. So long as you worship God.”
“There are more lords than one can worship in a lifetime. Roger, what else do you see from these blueprints? Do they seem reclusive? Or do you see providence?”
[Roger flicked his cigarette, burnt past its filter, into the grass. His eyes peaked from under a furrowing brow. Hellenistic genes gave him that thick hairline and those dark, bushy brows over dull, olive tones.]
“The mask is creepy. Seriously, you should lose the thing. I don’t want to know what sort of hanky-panky will go on here. Forty people wearing masks or not.
“Forget about me. What do you see in the project?”
“That’s different … you look like uh, what’s that word for the south leaving the Union?”
“You see secession in our work?”
“Yeah, secession—that’s what it looks like. You aren’t like a militia or something. Are ya?”
“No, we’re peaceful unless disturbed. A helicoptering bee with strength to sting if provoked. Wild strength from our natural fists. There’s a wicked nature in us all, Roger, but you’re not the kind to awaken it.”
“Thank goodness for that. I’ve still got two kids to put through college. Besides, I got a bit of protection. You know, for those tough cities—South Philly and all that.”
[Roger unveiled his glove compartment. A Glock sat there, out of his holster, presumably loaded if things got hairy. He called it his “peacemaker” but closed the door without showing it off. Roger signed the last section and threw the clipboard onto his passenger seat.]
“I got the boys hard at work. They’re a good crew with one of my better foremen. Well, I should say supervisor. Don’t let her girly face distract you—she knows her stuff, Lester.”
“Excellent choice. I speak for an inclusive group. We enjoy diversity here, or at least, we will upon completion. What’s her name?”
“Guys used to call her Lucy, like form the TV show. But her name’s Alana. So if you need to talk to someone when I’m offsite. Look for her somewhere. Only girl I’ve got—won’t be hard to find. Listen, I need to check on another property and deliver these forms. You take care, Lester.”
“The Brotherhood will cherish this land. Your work is invaluable to our growth. I’d like to name the cafeteria after you, with your blessing of course.”
“Why the hell not. You and your masked buddies have a ball. Just don’t call my cell anymore. Talk to Alana if you need anything—anything, all right.”
*****
II. The Morrow (present day)
[Parish rises from his bed of his famed “bunker.” This ’90s time capsule has a waterbed and clapper lights although their batteries died months ago. He dresses in jeans and a T-shirt, yet leaves his mask behind. The ground floor of that old farmhouse has room for a few to dine and converse. This morning, only Zander and Sean Craven sit there with separate breakfasts. Maureen, a probationary member, cooks flapjacks by the gas stove. Zander holds his cellphone in front of a massive serving of pancakes.]
“Hey look, a Jigglypuff is stealing my breakfast.”
[Sean slaps him forehead before confiscating the device.]
“Get that stupid game out of my face. How can play this all day?”
“Well, it helps me get exercise. And it’s fun to catch Pokémon in real wilds.”
“Jesus, just stop already.”
[Craven looks up from a bowl of Cheerios, a toxic grin across his face. Parish joins the table without a plate albeit Maureen’s willingness to serve him a platter.]
“You need to settle your impurities, Zander. I remember the days when I found myself bedridden and sprawled over a couch like some jobless barnacle. Your fluids coagulate and your circulation closes off. A doctor will one day warn you that diabetes is your future—if you proceed down this path, unabashed or obstinate, they will saw off your legs.”
“Stop it Lester, he’s trying to have some breakfast. Look, a cartoon cat is hovering over it.”
“Interacting—”
“Keep out of this, Hoss. Lester, where did you Kevin go last night? His car left the grounds at some point after dark. I know what it sounds like. And when I checked garage, it wasn’t there. You two went out for some reason—what happened?”
[Parish motions towards the basement. Zander dives back into game while Sean follows downstairs. He impressively balances his cereal at chin level while on the steps. They head over to his good couch for a chat. Blood drops still stain that concrete floor from their last tussle. Craven glowers at a security camera panning across the floor.]
“Are you a reality star or something? Can’t you switch off your cameras for a minute?”
“We aren’t in the business of total disclosure. Sean, these only run to our archives—not the general public. CCTV can still be hacked. Although it’d be a massive waste of time. I cycle the saved files between multiple servers to protect them from tampering. Its standard encryption these days, Sean, not space technology. And why would you be worried about tapes anyways?”
“Just because the Brotherhood is inclusive. That doesn’t mean we don’t have secrets, idiot.”
“Well, would you like to see the control room?”
[Craven produces a stick drive labeled between the dates of their systematic arrival.]
“I found what I wanted. Why were you trying to keep this hidden on file?”
“I wasn’t planning to blackmail you or anything nefarious. I had plans to erase most of those videos. In fact, I deleted over 97% of its total runtime. Those files remained for nostalgic purposes—perhaps even as teaching models for the future. Don’t you value the grains of history? Or would you rather live a world with no past, and only its troublesome future?”
“You should be more concerned of your own future. We all saw the card. This is just another main event for Kev. You’re just riding his coattails. How do you expect to talk out of another defeat? You don’t have some psychotic partner to abuse like an angry toddler. Kevin Bishop is our leader and I support him. If you can’t keep him safe from a horde of rejects—what good are you even to the Brotherhood? We have goals that require more than a piano sonata.”
[Craven launches from the couch while Lester temples his fingers.]
“We aren’t just a group of chatty friends, Parish. The Brotherhood stands together. Get in line.”
“If you think the tribulation of Zero Tolerance will break our alliance, you’re betting on the wrong mare. Yes, they’ve risen from obscurity to an alarming presence. However, you should know that when trials surpass our deeds, something must give. It’s a painted menace masquerading as a rabid, dangerous thing. They paint their faces like warriors and elicit images of fear by claiming psychosis. Delusions are a powerful weapon against those scared of the dark, or susceptible to gullible tricks.”
[Sean slams his plastic bowl down. Milk covers the floor in a sticky lake. The bowl rolled under a side table, spilling its contents in a fluid line.]
“Parish, if you can’t deliver for the Brotherhood. What’ll be left for you in our mission? You’ve practiced weeks alongside Kevin, and you’ve worked out most of the kinks. And maybe you’ve built a working system between you two. But those guys have had years to perfect their stuff. Kev said we need to work together, but I’m telling you now—I’m not convinced.”
“That’s your choice—”
“Don’t accept it. Do something about it.”
[Sean Craven stomps up the steps. His voice carries from the ground floor. He seems to be ordering someone to clean up “Some **** downstairs” amidst his heavy footsteps. Parish taps the table, thinking as that security camera watches back and forth.]
*****
III. The Bishop of Reading
[Views open to an empty stage filmed by a shaking camera operator somewhere in the audience. Nervous breathing comes through at points. A spotlight illuminates an empty throne. Grumbling and animal moans echo from all around. Rattling chains resound in a tinny cadence. A second spotlight then shines upon the figure of Lester Parish cloaked in black. Underneath, a white plague doctor’s mask protrudes from his hood with a proboscis of several inches. He walks to center stage as a dulling red light encompasses the empty throne.]
“The Brotherhood—now off the Bunker—presents our newest script of The Bishop of Reading for the very first time. When the Plague arrived, physicians needed a way to protect their delicate senses. Putrid aromas of disease and rot can render one violently ill. They perfumed these masks thereby blocking hazardous vapors. We are here to spread an awareness, but we do so in an atmosphere poisoned by a dangerous phage. One that knowledge alone cannot repel. My senses require a buffer between here and a sickening air the WCF has been infected with. But now, noble listeners, I present our show.
Enter the prions cell of the betrayed Bishop of Reading. He’s fallen before a licentious king whose immoderate ways caught the ire of both his people and the Church. In an act of revenge for his politicking, the King had the bishop arrested behind their cardinal’s back. Now he waits for either an execution, or the day this condemning cell finally usurps his will, his faith, and most paramount of all, his soul. Watch or jeer—the choice is yours. But he suffers nonetheless.”
[Parish steps out of the scene into the darkened corner. Maniacal cries blare as four chained figures emerge, crawling out from the trap door and begin to encircle the empty throne. Three have their faces painted wearing sack tunics, while the last covers itself in a cowboy poncho and wrangler’s hat. They make two revolutions, moaning and rattling their chains, before the first stops at the throne’s feet. He is the smallest of the group, hunching to one knee.]
“Suicide commands you give in. Hear my voice and be alarmed. You see a pathway without an end. My sword could kill you now. Slit your throat from your chin to your nethers. Bishop, be alarmed, this is the reaper’s tale. You mission is doomed to fail. You’re afraid—I can taste it!”
[His voice modulates into a deeper tone, one that hardly carries beyond the stage.]
“A monster speaks, be alarmed. A shadow creeps behind your ear waiting to bite. Blood flows from your neck, lest you desire to be destroyed. Fear us—be frightened by what we can do. You will not win this week. Bishop, be alarmed!”
[Their group circles thrice more before a second figure, taller and with considerable girth, gestures to the throne with a butcher’s knife.]
“Bishop, you can’t pry a weapon from the warrior’s hand. Nor can faith shield your heart from a dagger’s length. It’s no aegis—no angelic rune. Hear my voices calling your cowardly spirit out! Attune alas, for this is the mind at war. You cannot go alone in this world. Follow me into the shadows. I live there. Regality has made you weak. Gold has turned you into a folly of fame.”
[The second madman thrusts his knife near but never reaching the reddened throne, but to no noticeable effect. He then reaches for the empty chair as if to pull its occupant away.]
“Don’t sit there confused. Be with me. I’ll guide into the darkness. You cannot resist the pull of what you cannot control. Your failures will rue this day. Your faith cannot persuade. Come with me. Let me be your freedom and your shepherd. For that throne will not last forever.”
[After a half rotation, the third and largest of this group screams at the empty throne.]
“Where are you, Bishop? There’s a new order in place, yet you sit there with hands over your face! Let me save you from the others and their unstable ways. Let me show you why resistance has failed time after time. You can fight for what you believe, but you’ll never win. You see us in a demon’s light. Our challenge stands—if you think you’re manly enough. None are strong enough to best us. Sit there in your gilded chair. Sit there, Bishop, we know you’re scared.”
[Their group rotates several times, even changing directions twice, before the last approaches the throne’s red shadow. He tips his cowboy hat—from a less threatening distance than the rest.]
“I am not a specter. I’m not a monster. My message is clear and concise. If you trifle with us, expect to lose, Bishop. We appealed to the fear, and yet you situate—even laugh us away. That was good fun. Another attacked your faith, yet you ward off any attempt to turn this plague around. You aren’t tempted so easily—I like that. Your tolerance for assault is commendable. Words bequeath the soul, it grows and grows without shattering. Its form takes a hard shape and refuses to buckle under enormous pressure. Sadly, you’re still trapped in this cell for as long as your mortal breaths bellow. We’ll be here until that day. Hexes exist in the heart, the mind and the soul. Nothing can ward our presence away. Try, go on and pray, you’ll find there’s no escape.”
[The others gather at the throne’s feet. They cry a simple phrase, “submit!” multiple times in unison. At last, the gaucho signals for them to cease.]
“Be afraid. Lose your faith. Know that you’re nothing, Bishop. This crusade of “eye-opening” has come to its fated end. Dreams have a fatal spree. They arise of delusions and lies, the segments of memory that protect us from the truth. Bishop, you’ve defied this land. Defiled your place as the people’s champion—the hero they never asked for nor ever required. Deified this gathering you claim as brotherhood, and yet you forgot everything that damned you into this abysmal cell. Your faith, mind and soul are not in tune. Attune to our words and beware. You shall not win this week nor ever again. Tolerance has its limits, Bishop. Now submit!”
[The lighting blinks four times before returning to normal. All four have gathered at the throne to jeer its presence. They switch into incoherent tongues; meanwhile, the lights strobe wildly. Their curses hail until the all but that pruce light goes dark. A chorus of “submit” resonates four times; abruptly then, they cease. Each figure then crosses through that red light, exiting via the trap door from whence they came. Cowboy exits last and slams the latch. A sound effect of a thunderclap punctuates their departure from the scene. Now barren—except the unlit figure of Lester Parish still standing out of scene—that ominous red light dims until the whole theater has been rendered to darkness. Speakers relay a medley of pearling thunderstorms during this blackness.]
“Tempests can rattle a ship from its route. Harbors withstand the typhoon’s wrath. At the end of tumult, scarred land returns by glowing sunlight. But … is it still the same wharf sailors knew?”
[Spotlights pinpoint on the throne, now occupied by a bearded man wearing a cardinal’s red galero. The man throws off this wide-brimmed hat to unveil himself as the Plague, and current People’s Champion, Kevin Bishop. He steps out from the throne stark and observant.]
“I am Kevin Bishop still. No man can censor my message. No fiend will ever take my voice away. I will always be the Plague, and this ring is mine to rule. Run or be destroyed!”
[Kevin Bishop sits in the chair. Lester Parish returns to center stage behind his plague mask.]
“We are tolerant of all things, but there comes a time when harmony falls to predation. The Brotherhoood has its purposes, its valued precepts to pass from brother to sister and henceforth. Our presence may be elusive at times, yet we are always watching. This disease has tried to render the WCF helpless. It asserts a heightened place because their enemies fall into apathetic spells. We follow our bishop into the fray, and he anoints our fealty with strength and promise. Few groups have come this far at such rapid pace; today, earth-altering forces will gather.
One more has yet to join us, and he too brings a fearsome reputation. Gemini in the sky, send us strength and reveries. Let the courses sway beyond epic beast. Charybdis loves drowning fellows and destroying hapless vessels. Be this final clap of mighty earth, a bolt of angered pantheon has awakened to your sins. We are not afraid of you. We will never retreat into the shadows. There may be a place for a freak show; however, it has no bearings here. The Brotherhood will move forward with clarions raised in victory. We shall emulsify you into your simplest pieces. The power of a group relies in its congruent thought. We see now that madness has no root other than its delusions. And those ungrounded in both reality and faculty can never obtain lasting success. An inevitable schism will break this powerful team apart. Kevin Bishop has not faltered. Gemini will not break to your dangerous minds. You cannot poison those immune to erratic behavior. I am myself, forever and more, and we are never going away!”
