Vladimir McKnight, the Unholy Son, groomed since childhood to unleash evil upon the world and bring about the utter downfall of mankind, chuckled to himself as his BMW roared through the darkness.

His entire life had been building to this moment. Tonight, at precisely midnight on the sixth day of the sixth month of 2006, he would perform the ritual that would invoke the author of humanity's doom. He would command an entire legion of wicked demons. He would watch civilization burn, and cavort in opulent decadence along with the few humans allowed to witness Armageddon. He would ... he would ....

What was that sound?

It can't be. Please, Father of Lies, Prince of Darkness, don't let this be happening to me.

He had been trained in assassination and was fluent in numerous ancient tongues, but Vladimir McKnight, He Who was Destined to Awaken the Beast, had never learned how to change a flat tire.

The hospital was miles away, and midnight was approaching.

He had failed.

***

Quentin Greene, the night janitor at Winston Memorial Hospital, sang to himself as he mopped the laboratory floor. He had his headphones on, and it was impossible to listen to the Pointer Sisters without singing along.

"I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it," he announced, shaking his hips. "I'm about to lose control, and I think I like it."

He lost control of the mop handle and it flew out of his hands. He watched in dismay as a test tube was swept off the counter and smashed on the floor.

Quentin said a bad word. He wasn't supposed to curse, but he couldn't help it. He grimaced with distaste as he examined the crimson splatter.

"A blood sample," he muttered to himself. "Nice going, butterfingers."

He dipped his mop in the bucket, and was about to wipe up the mess when a thunderous noise filled the laboratory. He heard it even over the raucous din of the Pointer Sisters, who were advising him to jump, jump for their love.

Black smoke began to issue from the floor where the vial had shattered. Before Quentin could react, a hideous creature was standing before him.

The monster was eight feet tall, with enormous wings and gleaming horns. Its yellow eyes seemed to stare straight into Quentin's soul.

Quentin hadn't peed himself in months, and promised himself he wouldn't do it now. The monster was between him and the door. There was no escape, so he didn't really see any point in screaming. He just stood and waited for it to eat him.

The creature opened its massive jaws, as if to speak.

"I'm so happy, doing the neutron dance," the monster sang.

Quentin blushed, realizing that he still had his headphones on. "Sorry," he said, removing them. "All I could hear was the Pointer Sisters. You'll have to repeat whatever you just said."

"I am Asmogoth," the thing repeated. "Unclean Bringer of Sorrow and Despair. You, the Unholy Son, have brought me into the world, where I shall feast upon the flesh of infants and raze the cities of man to the ground. Command me, that my depraved armies might attack the unsuspecting mortals."

"What?" Quentin Greene replied.

"You have completed the ritual," Asmogoth said. "On this unholy site, where centuries ago dark sacrifices were performed in my name, you have spilled the blood of a virgin at the stroke of midnight on the sixth day of the sixth month whilst uttering a sacrilegious word. The prophecy is complete. You are my master. Command me, that I might slaughter mankind as though they were sheep."

Quentin said nothing, just scratched his head.

Asmogoth frowned. It shifted its position, its cloven hooves scratching against the tile floor.

"You are the prophesied one?" it asked. "He Who is Destined to Awaken the Beast? Raised since birth to perform the blasphemous ceremony that would summon me from the netherworld and usher in the apocalypse? Command me!"

"You mean you have to do whatever I say?" Quentin asked.

"Of course," Asmogoth replied. "The ancient scrolls say that you shall unleash my hordes upon humanity."

"I don't know anything about that," Quentin said, "but I'd be obliged if you would stand on one leg."

Asmogoth hesitated, then lifted one massive leg. It held its muscular arms out for balance.

"Gosh," Quentin said. "It worked! Sing the Alphabet Song."

"I am a lord of the infernal abyss," Asmogoth protested, still tottering on one hoof. "I devour the tortured souls of unrepentant sinners."

"You said I'm yours to command," Quentin reminded it. "Well? Let's hear the Alphabet Song."

"A, B, C, D, E, F, G," the demon began, its deep voice slightly off-key. Quentin watched with delight, and applauded when the profane beast finished its performance.

"Look," Asmogoth said, looking weary. "I don't know how you managed to complete the ritual, but you clearly aren't the chosen one. If you don't mind, I'd like to return to he[nf]ll for the next thousand years."

"No way," Quentin replied, handing the demon his mop. "I've been washing this floor for the past hour, and I'm in the mood for a Dr. Pepper. Get busy, and make sure you don't miss the corners."

***

Eight miles away, as Vladimir McKnight struggled to wrest the spare tire from his trunk, a passing van drove through a puddle and sprayed mud all over his leather jacket.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

HELMSLEY…..........................................a tall, dour old servant
DR. BUTANE.........................................a middle-aged, dapper doctor
MRS. VANDERHORN….......................a thin Dutch woman in her fifties
MRS. WINKELMEIER………………..a large German woman in her fifties
MRS. URINETTI……………………an attractive Italian woman in her fifties

SETTING: An ornate Victorian household. At far stage right is a foyer with a door that leads into a sitting room full of anachronistic furniture and outré objet. The strange room comprises stage center, stage left, and a portion of stage right.

AT RISE: DR. BUTANE is seated at a child’s school desk in the sitting room working diligently. HELMSLEY is in the foyer attending to a non-existent front door.

HELMSLEY
Do come in, Mrs. uhh… Ms. Vanderhorn.

MRS. VANDERHORN
Why, thank you, Helmsley.

HELMSLEY
May I take your parka, Madam… oiselle?

MRS. VANDERHORN
Why, thank you, Helmsley. Strange weather we’re having. Will Dr. Butane be long?

HELMSLEY
He will be with you shortly, Ma’am… oiselle.

MRS. VANDERHORN
Oh good. Thank you, Helmsley.

(HELMSLEY departs through the foyer door. MRS. VANDERHORN fidgets about.)

DR. BUTANE
Hello, Mrs. er… uh… MS. Vanderhorn, how good of you to come.

MRS. VANDERHORN
Why thank you Dr. Butane. How good of you to see me at your home.

DR. BUTANE
Why, it is no trouble at all. I’m sure we can settle this matter most earnestly.

MRS. VANDERHORN
I do hope so. I really do.

DR. BUTANE
Then come this way, uh, Ms. Bladderworn.

(DR. BUTANE exits through the same door. MRS. VANDERHORN follows, entering the strange sitting room.)

MRS. VANDERHORN
(Coquettishly) Is this where you work your magic, Dr. Butane?

DR. BUTANE
Why, yes, Mrs. uh, Ms. Danderprone.

MRS. VANDERHORN
I thought it might.

DR. BUTANE
Well you were quite right. Would you care for some anchovy paste?

MRS. VANDERHORN
No thank you, I finished painting this morning. Dr. Butane, if we might get down to the matter at hand?

DR. BUTANE
Yes?

MRS. VANDERHORN
Well?

DR. BUTANE
Oh yes!

(DR. BUTANE approaches an ornate bureau. He extracts a strange jar filled with a grotesque substance. MRS. VANDERHORN eyes it greedily. HELMSLEY enters the room.)

HELMSLEY
Pardon me sir, but there is a Mrs., I mean, a Ms. Winkelmeier here to see you.

DR. BUTANE
So soon?

HELMSLEY
I’m afraid so, sir.

DR. BUTANE
Well, send her in.

(HELMSLEY exits the room.)

MRS. VANDERHORN
Dr. Butane!

DR. BUTANE
Yes?

MRS. VANDERHORN
I daresay I find it rather rude that you would be so bold as to entertain two women at once!

DR. BUTANE
Oh, yes, I’m so sorry about that Ms. Scandalborn – it’s just that I am simply overwhelmed these days with… requests.

(MRS. WINKELMEIER bursts into the room, her thick German accent preceding her.)

MRS. WINKELMEIER
I simply must… Ah, Heir Doktor Butane, I have arrived for my… but who is this?

MRS. VANDERHORN
(Indignantly) I am Mrs… Ms. Nandi Palmira Vanderhorn of the Flammarden Vanderhorns… and you are?

MRS. WINKELMEIER
I am none other than Gretchen Dorfschlepp Winkelmeier of the Freiburg Winkelmeiers.

(They stare one another down.)

DR. BUTANE
Ladies, ladies, can’t we settle this with fisticuffs?

(Helmsley enters the room.)

HELMSLEY
Sir, there is a Mrs., erm, Ms. Urinetti here to see you.

DR. BUTANE
Ah, yes, send her in!

(MRS. VANDERHORN and MRS. WINKELMEIER sigh in unison. MRS. URINETTI enters the room. She is wailing dramatically. DR. BUTANE runs to comfort her.)

DR. BUTANE
My dear Ms. Urinetti whatever is the matter?

MRS. URINETTI
The treatment! The treatment! I must have the treatment!

MRS. VANDERHORN
Pardon me, Prima Donna, but Frau Sauerkraut and I were here first!

MRS. URINETTI
How dare you! Can you not see that I am in mourning? (resumes wailing)

DR. BUTANE
(Placing an arm around her) There, there, Ms. Manicotti, everything will be all right, or all wrong, depending on which end is up, but then again I never ended up on the up end of end, so I’m not one to talk.”

(MRS. URINETTI resumes her shrill wailing.)

MRS. VANDERHORN
Would you kindly shut up?

(With a shriek, MRS. URINETTI lunges at MRS. VANDERHORN and begins choking her. DR. BUTANE attempts to intervene. MRS. WINKELMEIER grabs the jar from him and waddles hurriedly toward the door.)

DR. BUTANE
Stop! Ye foul beast of a woman! Helmsley! She has my most sacred implement!

(MRS. VANDERHORN and MRS. URINETTI stop fighting and chase after MRS. WINKELMEIER. HELMSLEY appears at the doorway blocking MRS. WINKELMEIER.)

MRS. WINKELMEIER
Alright! Everyone! Stand back! I am not afraid to use this thing!

(The others turn to the audience, looking comically puzzled for a beat.)

DR. BUTANE
Now, now, let’s all calm down... Ms. Wrinklebuyer, just calm down. If you would be so good as to hand over my most sacred implement we can proceed with your treatment post haste!

(MRS. VANDERHORN and MRS. URINETTI emit guttural cries of protest, jump atop MRS. WINKELMEIER and attempt to wrestle the jar from her. DR. BUTANE joins in, knocking everyone on top of HELMSLEY. All are screaming madly, arms flailing. The sound of glass breaking prompts an immediate silence and stillness.

DR. BUTANE
(Shocked) That was my entire supply!

(They remain motionless for a beat, before picking themselves up. HELMSLEY emerges last, now a devastatingly beautiful buxom blonde woman.)

DR. BUTANE
(Romantically) Oh, Helmsley.

(DR. BUTANE grabs HELMSLEY, kissing him passionately, as the three women face the audience and issue a collective sigh.)

(Curtain)

Fanatic woke up groggily. He remembered walking home, hearing footsteps from behind then... nothing. He viewed his surroundings. It looked like a cross between a motel 6 and a flophouse, and housecleaning was way behind schedule. Just then the door to the room opened, and a couple of thugs dressed in clown suits marched in.

“The boss wants to see youse now,” bozo #1 said as he and his partner grabbed Fanatic under the arms and dragged him out of the room.

He was placed in a chair at a dining room table, and told to sit. He did not have long to wait. A third clown in a pinstripe jumpsuit, wearing curly toed shoes, and an obviously fake flower in his lapel came in and sat down across from him.

“Remember me Fanatic?”

“No, Ronald McDonald on mushrooms?” Fanatic guessed.

“Remember all those contests when you banned clowns?”

“I vaguely remember a series of them.”

“Well now it's the clown's turn to laugh.”

“You could always stand on your head and frown, it looks much the same,” Fanatic suggested.

“Enough,” the clown roared.

“You wouldn't happen to be the joker from the Batman movie?” Fanatic asked.

“I will ask the questions around here.”

“Okay, ask away.”

“I, um... wait, I am in charge here,” the clown said, confused.

“While we are waiting, could I have a vodka martini, shaken not stirred.”

The clown reached into his back pocket and pulled out a script. “No, Fanatic, to win your freedom you will need to perform three tasks. Take him away boys.”

Clowns #1 and 2 grabbed Fanatic and shoved him through a door. “I don't suppose we couldn't just shoot him?” Clown #2 asked.

“One, it isn't in the script. Two, the boss would not like it. And three, shoot him with what? You got a gun on you?”

Clown #2 shrugged as he locked the door.

Fanatic looked around. The room seemed to be a pie factory. Banana cream to be precise. He had a feeling he knew what task #1 would be. A speaker came to life.
“This is the first task you must perform: You must fight your way out of the room. The only way you can do that is to throw a pie in the I.”

“You realize that doesn't make any sense,” Fanatic pointed out.

“Oh yeah, and in completing the tasks there are three words you cannot use.”

“Which are?”

“It would be a lot fairer if I told you, wouldn't it?” the clown said with a sinister laugh.

There was the sound of machinery coming to life, and suddenly the room was filled with pie-throwing clowns. Fanatic grabbed a pie himself, and bobbed and weaved through the incoming projectiles.

Just then a guy with a hook for a hand, an eye-patch, and a parrot stood up.

Fanatic thought quickly. “Avast, matey,” he said.

“Aye?,” the man said, and Fanatic heaved his pie which caught him square in the face.

The pies stopped flying, and a door on the opposite side of the room opened. Fanatic went through it.

The second room was full of seltzer bottles.

“Very good Fanatic, but you will face a real test here. You must defeat all the clowns, and it will take a fire-hose to do it.

The lights went on, and 20 clowns were sitting in dunking booths. They immediately started firing their seltzer bottles at Fanatic, who was beaten back by the stream. Then Fanatic noticed the large gray animal drinking from a trough through its nose. He fired his seltzer bottle for cover, and made his way to the pachyderm. The animal lifted its head, Fanatic grabbed its trunk, and tickled its... well, he tickled the animal. All the pent out water came out as Fanatic played the trunk across the dunking booths knocking off all the clowns. A door opened.

The third room was vacant with the exception of a clown car.

“Last test Fanatic,” a hidden speaker chirped. “All you have to do is get on that clown car and drive it over the finish line. Oh, and there will be other passengers...”

A door opened and 24 zombie clowns marched towards the car. Fanatic knew he would not have enough time to reach it first, so he stood waiting to see what would happen. One-by-one all 24 zombies piled in the vehicle, then started it up, on a path straight to Fanatic. At the last minute Fanatic jumped on the roof of the car, and covered the windshield with his hands.

The car immediately was out of control. Clown claws came out the windows but could not reach him. The car careened a crazy pattern that carried it across the finish line. Fanatic climbed off. The head clown was facing him.

“Anything else?” Fanatic asked, patting down the wrinkles in his suit.
“You win this time Fanatic, but I will be back,” the clown said taking off his mask.

“You!” Fanatic said., “I should have known. But I can't tell anybody can I? It is the final forbidden word!”

The clown just roared in laughter as he made his escape. Anther story awaited to be written.

The sun was shining, birds were singing, and the dwarves were arising, all except Sleepy of course. Park Benches did not make for the best of accommodations.. Doc scratched where it itched, and noticed Dopey was trying to catch a squirrel for breakfast. Doc's money was on the squirrel.

Sneezy wiped his nose on the newspaper he was using as a blanket, the started reading. “Hey Doc, some dame is looking for live-in help. She can accommodate up to seven, but everybody has to be less that 4 feet tall.”

“Does it give an address?” Doc asked, interested.

“Yeah, a cottage in the forest. The woman's name is S. White.”

“She probably is a fruitcake,” Grumpy grumbled.

“She can be one of the three bears for all I care. I am getting sick of park benches,” Doc said.

He made everybody take a bath in a nearby stream, and wash their clothes. He imagined Ms. White would not enjoy the smell of seven walking cesspools.

One problem was Dopey – nobody could find him. A couple of squirrels eventually brought him to camp, hog tied and laid over the dwarve's donkey, with a mouth full of nuts. They shook their tiny fists at Doc, and scurried off. The other problem was Sleepy. Four dwarves carried him to the stream and threw him in, clothes and all, to either wash up or drown – his choice. Dopey was untied and washed.

Later they arrived at Snow White's cottage. The cottage itself had clearly seen better days. Apparently Snow had been running a home for wayward female elves, and making a good living at it until the forest decency squad shut her operation down.

Doc knocked, and Snow White answered the door. She looked down at them and said “well, you certainly are short enough, but can you do home repair? And what is with the donkey anyway?”

“It was a gift from the king,” Doc replied, a half-truth, “and we are miners,” which was a total lie.

“Well come in and let me show you the place,” Snow said.

As they passed through the door Sneezy hissed at Doc, “miners? We are street mimes!”

“Yeah, I'm sure she would go for that, just like the king did before he gave us that fool donkey and told us to ride out of his sight before he had us beheaded.”

Their accommodations where not much to look at: communal bedroom with seven small beds, one quickly occupied by Sleepy.

Snow told them to go about fixing the place up while she went to town for supplies, and mentioned that deer had been eating all her apples.

“I can take care of that,” Doc said.

After Snow left, Doc started mixing a concoction, and Sneezy stopped pretending to work to watch him.

“It smells sweet, what is it?”

“Sleeping potion. It will put the deer right out, and we can have apples and venison for dinner,” Doc replied.

“What if Snow is into organic gardening?”

“See that brown bottle over in the cupboard?”

“Yeah.”

“It is a gallon of DDT. Some how I don't think Snow is worried about pesticides.”

Doc placed the tainted apple outside, and went to check on the others. As usual, they were making a bad situation worse. Doc quickly told Dopey to go outside and harvest the garden. Then he got the others to work.

“Shouldn't we wake sleeping beauty up to do his share?” Grumpy grumbled.

“Considering I am feeding him horse tranquillizers to get him to sleep, no,” Doc replied.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Underneath that Rip Van Winkle beard lies Dopey's twin brother.”

“'Nuff said,” Grumpy replied.

They were just finishing up when they heard a thud from outside.

They rushed out to find Dopey, Bashful, and a very comatose Snow.

“WHAT HAPPENED?” Doc yelled.

“Well Dopey picked all the vegetables as you asked, and when Snow returned he gave her the biggest, shiniest apple.”

Doc said a string of very bad words. “It is going to take CPR to wake her up.”

“Don't look at me, I don't like her that much,” Grumpy said.

Sneezy blew his nose in Sleepy's beard. “There is an alternative you know.”

“Yes?” asked Doc.

“We tell everybody Snow White was put under a spell by an evil hag, and only the kiss of true love can awaken her. We hint that she is royalty. We build a pavilion, and charge $5 a smooch for a chance to awaken her.”

“I knew I brought you along for something,” Doc beamed, “it's foolproof. A simple kiss will never awaken her. We could make a fortune.”

All went well until one day...

“She's awake, she's awake!” Happy announced excitedly.

“What, how?” stammered Doc.

“Some prince guy. It must have been true love!”

“He would have to get pretty passionate to do it, and it would almost be like making out with a corpse. No wait, I don't want to know.”

In the end Snow White gave the dwarves the cottage in gratitude. And everybody lived happily ever after. After the prince bought a 20 year supply of Doc's apples anyway.

Mitch cracked the door slightly. “What?” he hissed.

Arnie came barging right in, through the door and Mitch, stalking around the room, waving his hands. “Mitch, where did you go? I thought we agreed to stay at the hotel bar until the airport called us back! You didn't lose the briefcase, did you? You're hopeless! And also...” he suddenly realized, “you're wearing just underwear. Why are you wearing just underwear? Why,” he turned around, “is she wearing just underwear?” The woman on the bed waved cheerily. “Also, who is she?”

“You can call me Sienna, sweetheart,” the woman said, blowing him a kiss.

“She's a flight attendant,” Mitch said defensively. “You know, from the plane. See the uniform? Well, actually, there's her uniform. And over there. And over...”

“Excuse us,” Arnie told the woman, and hustled his friend over to the side. “What exactly is going on here?”

“She thinks I'm an international financier,” Mitch explained in a whisper.

“Why does she think...oh my god, did you show her the money in the briefcase?”

“Well...”

“That's not our money, Mitch! It's not even our briefcase! And you're not an international financier! And our shark could be in St. Petersburg for all we know! Don't you care about the shark, Mitch? What kind of marine biologist are you?”

“Who cares about the shark, Arnie? This is an actual woman, who actually cares about what I do, who likes me for who I am!”

“Because she has no idea who you are!”

“Exactly!”

“It's extra if he's staying, honey,” Sienna called to them from the bed. Arnie frowned at her as Mitch grabbed him by the arms and propelled him toward the door.

“See you later, Arnie,” he told his friend. “Much later.”

He opened the door and pushed Arnie out, right into the arms of a dark-suited man. The door slammed shut.

“This your room?” the man growled. “You got my case? Airport said you was here, front desk said you was in this room. Mitchell Anderson? I want my case back.”

“My room?” Arnie swallowed. “Your case? I...I don't...”

“Don't be cute,” the man said, opening his jacket to reveal the butt of a gun.

“I'm not cute,” Arnie said, desperately. “And I'm not Mitch. I mean Mitchell. Whatever his name was. I'm Arnie. What room are you looking for?”

“Room 602.”

“Oh, well, you see,” Arnie said, inching to his left to make sure he was right in front of the '602' plate, “this is room 206. You must have gotten mixed up.”

“Yeah?” the man looked around, squinting. “I gotta admit, I can't read these numbers. Doctor says I need glasses, but what do those quacks know? Sit tight while I check upstairs. We might want to chat again.”

“Sure, my door is always open,” Arnie said, turning the doorknob behind him. It refused to budge. He laughed nervously. “My door isn't open,” he explained. “Guess I must have LOCKED IT. Even though I REALLY NEED TO GET IN NOW.”

The door opened and Arnie slipped inside with a weak grin.

“What?” Mitch demanded.

“We gotta go, Mitch,” Arnie said in a barely audible whisper.

“What? I can barely hear you.”

“Me neither,” Sienna added from the bed.

Arnie raised his voice slightly. “We gotta get out of here. We thought a briefcase full of money mistakenly picked up at the airport would lead to no problems whatsoever, but we were way off base, Mitch. Way off base!”

“Third base is extra,” Sienna advised.

“Also, I'm pretty sure she's not really a flight attendant,” Arnie continued. “And our shark is still missing!”

“Can you stop being a marine biologist for two minutes?” Mitch looked down. “Even one minute would do at this point.”

“This is urgent!” Arnie lowered his voice again. “There's a nearsighted mobster with a gun out there!”

“What kind of lobster? Enough with the marine biology!”

“Lobster in a bun? Extra, but it's worth it,” Sienna told them.

“Look, just get in the bathroom and get your clothes on.”

Sienna sauntered up to Arnie as Mitch closed the bathroom door. “You a financier, too?”

“Marine biologist, ma'am,” Arnie said.

“Well, is that chum in your pocket or are you happy to see me?”

“Sorry, that is chum.”

“Oh, gross!”

There was a knock at the door. “I'll get it!” Sienna said brightly, and opened the door.

The man blinked and squinted. “Arnie? Anybody ever tell you in the right light you look exactly like a woman in her nothing much?”

Arnie closed the door in his face. “Get in the bathroom, Sienna!”

“That's extra.”

Mitch emerged from the bathroom. “Sorry, I grabbed Sienna's clothes by mistake. This skirt is more comfortable than it looks, though.”

There was yet another knock at the door. The thee of them grabbed each other as a muffled voice came through the door. “Mitchell Anderson? I'm from the airport. I got a shark here? He bit me on the way over. Am I gonna be okay?”

Pierrot looked despondent. Of course, that wasn’t necessarily how he felt, however Pierrot had no choice: all his moods were dictated by the strings connected to the crossbar above his head, ultimately controlled by the deft hand of puppeteer Monsieur Claude Janek. And although Pierrot felt no more or less tired after a morning of gambolling about the old town for the entertainment of tourists, Claude’s energy was flagging – it was time for a well-earned coffee break.

Pierrot and Claude left the slow-moving crowd in the square and turned down the hidden side streets towards a little café with the best espresso in town. They dodged the tearaway gaggles of local children revelling in the summer sun and they dodged the angry, batting paw of Madame Gravois’ tomcat, a fearsome beast that held a particular vendetta against the small clown and his strings. Claude tipped his hat as he dodged the postman on his bicycle, Pierrot bowing deeply as the spokes passed by his elongated nose, and puppet and puppeteer both hopped down the little game of hopscotch chalked on the road to the amusement of three little girls playing nearby.

The gauntlet from the old town now run, Pierrot and Claude arrived at their destination: Café Italiano, the best-kept secret in town. Hardly bigger than a corridor with fittings not updated since the 1970s, it was seldom discovered by tourists and often overlooked by locals, but Claude had been a regular for years. The familiar little bell rang as he pushed the door open, ushering his little charge through, and they settled themselves at the bar.

“Bon jour, bon jour! Monsieur Janek and little Pierrot, how lovely to see you both!” cried Marta Camilleri, the strain in her voice barely concealed by her greeting. “The usual for you today?”

“Now, now,” Claude tutted, “something is the matter, I can tell. What’s troubling you, my friend?” For as long as he had known her, Marta was always a nervous and flighty woman however today she was in a dreadful state. Wringing her hands and chewing her lip, she made her way along the counter and leaned over.

“It’s Stefano,” she sobbed, nodding her head towards her husband down in the kitchen, “he has another woman! I know it!”

“My goodness, dear Marta! What makes you suspect such a thing?” Claude asked.

Marta leaned in closer, whispering: “Well, just look at him! He’s so . . . so . . . respectable! He must have a younger woman!” And indeed, Claude could see he was looking respectable: peering down through the doorway, he saw Stefano was clean shaven and had cut his long, greying ponytail (another relic from the 1970s). “He even made me buy him new shirts, and he is being polite and neat and considerate! And you will not believe it . . .” her voice dropped to a dramatic low, “he is even trying to sell his motorcycle!”

Claude raised his eyebrows, mirroring the painted expression of his little sidekick slumped on the chair beside him, oblivious to the drama. “Well now, that is out of character. But tell me, Marta, how old is Stefano now?”

“Why, he was fifty last birthday. You think he’s having an affair, don’t you?” she squealed, close to tears.

“No, I think he’s having a midlife crisis. What does a man with a Harley Davidson and a ponytail do when he turns fifty? He can’t exactly go wild and buy a motorcycle if he already has one, and besides, if he were having an affair he would dye the grey out of his hair. Just relax and enjoy it while it lasts,” he smiled. “Now, how about that coffee?”

“Of course!” Trembling and far from reassured, Marta went to fetch his drink. She was shaking so much the little glass rattled against the saucer and as she tried to place it down on the counter the coffee went skittering across the laminate top, falling straight into poor Pierrot’s lap. His black and white satin harlequin suit turned brown as espresso bled across it and Marta screamed and grabbed the spilt cup. “Oh, what have I done? I’ve ruined him! Quick, give me his clothes!”

“But he’ll be naked!” cried Claude, fetching up Pierrot’s strings. Marta removed the now-standing puppet’s clothes anyway, leaving Pierrot to protect his wooden segmented body with his hands in shame. Marta ran off into the kitchen with the harlequin suit, calling: “Stefano! Fetch Adèle the dollmaker from down the street! Tell her we need clothes for a marionette!”

There was a flurry as Stefano dashed off and Marta started washing, and within minutes a little face appeared from within the kitchen. Adèle was a tiny woman, only a few years younger than Claude, but he had never seen such captivating brown eyes or a face so pretty. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but my poor puppet is now immodest,” he blushed.

“I usually make clothing only for dolls, however this is all I have that would fit,” she replied and held up an outfit . . .

*****

Later, the three of them sat on Adèle’s balcony in the sunshine, watching life unfold on the streets below as the now-clean harlequin suit fluttered on the washing line. Claude smiled over at Adèle as Pierrot sat between them looking as sad as always, now resplendent in a beautiful red ball gown.

The auditorium was a beehive of activity, scaffolding was everywhere, and lights were being set up for the show. There was a whole lot of strange equipment, and a number of people were working on the stage. A man with a beard, headphones, and a clipboard stood in the center of the room looking like he was in charge.

The School Principal walked up to him. “Hi, I am Principal Belding,” he said, offering his hand.

The bearded man shook his hand and replied “Roland the Crew Chief here. Worked my way up through the ranks. Started off as a roadie many moons ago.”

“Well I am certainly excited by this. Imagine, Marilyn Manson playing at our High School prom. Does she sing any gospel songs by any chance?”

“Well I suppose one might call them that, in a way,” Roland replied, “I take it you know nothing about the band.”

“I am afraid I don't. Goat Dancer said they were coming.”

Roland raised an eyebrow. Goat Dancer?”

“Henry Wolf. He is part Navajo, he says it is a translation of his Indian name.”

“I'm sure,” Roland said, “tell me, does he wear a lot of black?”

“Well yes, do you know him?”

“Lucky guess.”

Just then a large spotlight came crashing down about ten feet from them.

“George, who the heck is up there?”

“Coyote.”

“How high is he?”

“About eight miles high”

“But the ceiling is only 30 feet high,” Belding protested. Roland ignored him.

“Coyote, get down here, I have another job for you,” he shouted, then muttered at Belding “If he is going to get anybody killed, it might as well be himself.”

There was the sound of something falling and a thud. Belding ducked this time. When he looked up, he saw that a person had fallen from the ceiling.

“Someone call 911!” he shouted.

“Don't bother, it's Coyote. That kind of fall can't hurt him.”

Coyote got up and brushed himself off.

“Go over and help them patch in the power,” Roland said.

Coyote stumbled off. “Is it my imagination or were both his pupils in the same socket?” Belding asked.

“Side effect,” Roland said, not explaining.

They walked to the back of the room where the sound man was setting up his equipment. “We are all set to begin level checks as soon as power is hooked up.”

Just then there was a flash of light and a sizzling noise from the back of the stage, and the mixing board lights went on.

Roland got on the phone. “Everything OK up there?”

“Yeah boss, Coyote just hooked the board up. He is singed less than usual this time. You might want to have the amperage checked.”

Roland turned to Belding with a set of headphones. “You might want to put these on.”

“Why?” Belding asked, then doubled over and put his hands over his ears as an ear-splitting noise emanated from the stage. “What in Heaven's name was that?”

“Chord of D minor from the sounds of it. Want the earphones now?”

Belding took them and jammed them over his ears for the rest of the sound check. When it was over, Roland motioned for him to take them off.

“That was quite an experience,” Belding remarked, “say, do you think I can get my picture taken with Marilyn?”

Behind them the sound man snickered.

“Boss, we will ask. By the way, you suffering from high blood pressure, ulcers, anything like that?”

“They come with the job, why?”

“Here, take these,” Roland said, offering him a handful of pills.

“What are they?” Belding asked, looking at them dubiously.

“Blood pressure medication, stuff for your ulcer, that sort of thing. Oh, and a tranquillizer.”

“Thanks, but I have prescriptions,” Belding said.

“Remember the headphones?” Roland asked.
Belding thought about it, nodded, and stuck the pills in his pocket.

“They are here,” said the sound man.

Roland turned towards the door.

Belding turned white as a sheet. “Who the hell is that?”

“That's the band, man.”

“And the extremely weird looking one in the middle?”

“That's the lead singer.”

“THAT'S MARILYN?” Belding about screamed, “is that a guy or a girl?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Got a glass of water?”

Roland handed it over and Belding took all the pills at once. “You know, I should cancel this concert or have the marching band perform.”

“And be lynched by the students,” Roland suggested.

“Or let it go on and have the school board demanding my head in the morning.”

“Life is full of difficult choices,” Roland observed sadly.

Belding thought for a moment, and came to a decision. “Got any more of the stuff you gave Coyote?”

“That can be arraigned.”

“How about a job on your crew?”

Roland patted Belding on the back. “That can be arraigned too. Welcome aboard.”

Note: Very loosely based on a Bloom County episode wherein The Rolling Stones performed a concert in the Meadow.