1

CHOOSE YOUR OWN

Sean Hendrickson
A game.

Characters:
WARDEN
A host.
PROTO
Muted. Deafened. Dumbed.
THE BAND
Multiple meanings of the term.

A theatre. Probably a small one.

The audience close to the space, or
in it. A single bunk sits center,
on which PROTO is lying. An IV drip
stands behind the bunk, attached to
PROTOs arm. PROTO is also blinded,
gagged, deafened, and bound. A
heart monitor or a drumbeat can be
heard in the near-distance.
Darkness.

A single, clear-cut light

illuminates an empty space between
the bunk and the audience. Into
this light, a hanging microphone
descends, swinging a little from
the drop and maybe giving off some
feedback. WARDEN amicably marches
up to the mic, testing it. He
coughs, looking at the band nearby.
They strike up an off-key but
boisterous carnivalesque tune, like
if a jazz jam band got drunk and
played circus music. The heartbeat
fades as the music swells. WARDEN
encourages them, conducting for a
bit, before turning back to the
audience while they continue to
play, following the rhythm of his
speech.

WARDEN: Good evening and Welcome, my fine, fine friends! Is that too
forward of me? (runs right up to the front row) Is this too forward of
 2

me? I digress, and we havent even begun. To the point! Tonight we

have, for you, a tale for the ages! Probably not for under twelve,
though, and definitely after the Classical. Its a story youve all
heard before, which begs the question, which I wont wait for you to
pose, why tell it again? Ill tell you why Im telling you why Ill
tell it again. Its

Shit. Tell you why...tell you...tell...

Ah! Yes. Because were not telling you. Youre going to tell us! Not
only is it a play, were playing a game. An old one, one you might
notve played for years. A game of chance, a game of choice, a game of
change. A GAME OF CHOOSE YOUR OWN. You, my lovely lovely audience,
hold in your hands the fate of another Being:

Another clearly-defined light

appears, this one over PROTO on its
bunk.

WARDEN: Yes, that one. The prototypical human, unremarkable in all

respects save that it is gifted with the opportunity to live through
you.

The cruel (and somewhat lazy) hands of fate have deigned that you
voice your opinions in our little evening diversion through a
reductive and all-around poorly designed system, namely:

Two placards, one reading A and

the other B fold down from above
on either side of the stage.

WARDEN: Our patented Decision-Enforcing-Signage! At moments, which Im

sure well all find thematically appropriate, you will be offered a
Choice. You always have a Choice, we just feel like giving you two
more from time to time. When that time comes you will all agree, no
doubt in a very civilized manner, which path you all wish to traipse
merrily along. Which event you wish to trigger, and who you wish it
triggered upon. Or whom. That Being, which for lack of a better name
well call...What will we call it? Any ideas?

WARDEN takes ideas from the crowd

until he chooses one thats
suitably entertaining. In all
places where PROTO is referred to
 3

as PROTO, sub out with the name the

audience supplied.

WARDEN: Yes! Proto will do as you bid, whether you guide it to

salvation or an excruciatingly entertaining demise. And I, as your
friendly neighborhood narrator, your corroborator, your partner-in-
crime, your ringmaster, your raconteur, and your dear, dear friend
will be here to hold your hand and whisper you sweet nothings the
whole way. Hell, I might even toss in a few sweet somethings. Depends
on how the night goes. But now I sense were back full-circle to what
our story is.

Maybe it would be simpler to describe what our story isnt. Start from
the infinitive and digress our way downwards into the expletive. This
is not a myth, theres a start. No Heros Journey, and Joseph Campbell
be damned. Proto will not encounter a sage to guide him on his way,
nor a threshold he must cross. No ring-bearing, no stones impregnated
with medieval weaponry. All that it knows is you. Or, from you. An
empty slate, polluted with your good intentions. And we all know where
those lead.

A comfortable 2-bed 1-bath somewhere, I hope.

Speaking of decisions, which we werent, but I was, how about the

first one. Any takers?

A, or B. The first crossroads in a night populated with intersections.

A railroad crossing, a track switch. Come one, come all! Who will be
the first to dictate the will of their neighbor, or will you all
miraculously cling together for survival?

A new question, which I shall preempt. Premonisce. Promise? Maybe

later. But I hear you, all the same. What Choice, you wonder? What of
these two symbols, this alpha and beta, Grecian letters pressed into
English service? Let us ask.

WARDEN looks up. The band lets

loose a short fanfare. A slip of
paper lowers from the works on a
fishing line. Warden plucks it off,
and reads.

WARDEN: Sight, or sound.

 4

Aural or ocular, it appears. Which agency will you render our captive
Proto anew? Which sense, most sensual, shall you select? A, the first,
for sight: first sight. Love at, potentially. And B for sound.
Surround, even. Consider, but not too closely. Distance aids
determination. Quickly now, A or B?

WARDEN goads the audience until he

receives an answer.

If you chose A, advance to page 5.

If you chose B, advance to page 8.
 5

WARDEN: Yes yes yes Yes! Who gives them sight, is it not thee? We? In
a sense. Innocence, maybe. Shall we, then?

WARDEN moves to PROTOs bunkside,

and shakes them awake. The
heartbeat drone seeps back in.
PROTO spasms softly, WARDEN shushes
them and lifts them to a seated
position, facing the audience.
PROTO sways slightly. WARDEN ever
so carefully removes the blinding
from around PROTOs eyes. PROTO
opens them slowly, glazed eyes
roving over the room. They land on
the audience and burst open. PROTO
tries to jump off the bunk, but
WARDEN catches them, shushing them
all the way. The heartbeat fades.
PROTO resumes swaying, but now
their eyes dance across the room,
never resting.

WARDEN: Welcome to the show, little one. Do you remember your part?

PROTO stares blankly.

WARDEN: Oh right. Of course. They didnt give you that this time.

As WARDEN continues he gestures

broadly, obscenely, to convey his
speech to PROTOs eyes rather than
their ears.

WARDEN: Id like to introduce you to a few new friends, would you like
that? These are our guests!

WARDEN aims PROTOs head towards

the audience.

WARDEN: They have something very special for you, my sweet. For you,
they have a name. Would you like to know your name tonight?

PROTOs eyes widen. They nod.

WARDEN: Whats their name, everybody?

 6

WARDEN encourages the audience to

tell PROTO its name. WARDEN turns
PROTOs head to him and mouths the
name broadly. Upon seeing it, PROTO
reacts, maybe approvingly, maybe
not. Either way, WARDEN whispers
into PROTOs ear:

WARDEN: Say thank you.

and he bows PROTOs head to the

audience, then vaults back to the
microphone.

WARDEN: Well! Now were all acquainted. Acquitted, not yet. One step
at a time, folks. And our next step! Im eager as well.

Youre not disappointed, I hope, with this first leap of faith? Was
it..is anticlimactic appropriate here? Maybe not. Ill save it. Was
it...cathartic? I mean for me. Maybe for you, depending on your
emotional baggage related to railroaded options and their physical
manifestations as literal signposts. Or not, if youre a fan of
cliched structure and simplified narrative form, or run-on sentences.
Of which, I am. Fragments too.

PROTOs eyes shoot up into the

rafters. A second fishing line
descends with another slip of paper
attached. PROTO follows it down.
They tremor slightly.

WARDEN: And our new road presents itself! Less traveled, perhaps, or
are the woods not so yellow in these parts? Irrelevant, scratch it
from the record.

The band scratches a record.

WARDEN: Thank you. To the task!

WARDEN reads the note.

WARDEN: Oooh. Oh youre going to like this. You might too.

WARDEN shows the note to PROTO.

 7

WARDEN: Speech, or silence.

Reduction as a choice! Not merely addition, but subtraction. You, my

ever-patient audience, now hold power not simply over Creation, but
Destruction! This alpha and beta now Alpha and Omega. A for speech, B
for silence. Which would you prefer?

WARDEN lets the audience work it

out amongst themselves.

If you chose A, advance to page 11.

If you chose B, advance to page 18.
 8

WARDEN: Ahhhh, ha ha ha HA! Sound, a realm all its own! A world of

experience. Experiments, as our musical entourage knows well. Ears
without hands or eyes. Well. Shall we?

WARDEN moves to PROTOs bunkside,

and gently shakes them awake. The
heartbeat drone seeps back in.
PROTO spasms softly, WARDEN shushes
them and lifts them to a seated
position, facing the audience.
PROTO sways slightly. WARDEN ever
so carefully removes the deafening
from around PROTOs ears. PROTO
leans back into WARDEN.

WARDEN: Boo!

PROTO jumps, then tries to rush off

the bunk, but WARDEN catches them,
shushing them all the way. The
heartbeat fades. PROTO resumes
swaying, now in time to the band.
Their head tilts, orienting their
hearing on any new sound or
experience.

WARDEN: Sorry for the surprise, little one. Couldnt help myself.
Couldnt self-help. Ive read the books but they only do so much.
Welcome to the show, do you remember your part?

PROTO shakes their head.

WARDEN: Would you like to?

PROTO shakes again.

WARDEN: Now that I understand. Another offering then: Id like to

introduce you to a few new friends, would you like that? These are our
guests!

WARDEN aims PROTOs head towards

the audience.

WARDEN: They have something very special for you, my sweet. For you,
they have a name. Would you like to know your name tonight?
 9

PROTO stiffens, then nods.

WARDEN: Whats their name, everybody?

WARDEN encourages the audience to

tell PROTO its name. Upon hearing
it, PROTO reacts, maybe
approvingly, maybe not. Either way,
WARDEN whispers into PROTOs ear:

WARDEN: Say thank you.

and he bows PROTOs head to the

audience, then vaults back to the
microphone.

WARDEN: Well! Now were all acquainted. Acquitted, not yet. One step
at a time, folks. And our next step! Im eager as well.

Youre not disappointed, I hope, with this first leap of faith? Was
it..is anticlimactic appropriate here? Maybe not. Ill save it. Was
it...cathartic? I mean for me. Maybe for you, depending on your
emotional baggage related to railroaded options and their physical
manifestations as literal signposts. Or not, if youre a fan of
cliched structure and simplified narrative form, or run-on sentences.
Of which, I am. Fragments too.

PROTOs attention shoots up into

the rafters. A second fishing line
descends with another slip of paper
attached. PROTO follows it down.
They tremor slightly.

WARDEN: And our new road presents itself! Less traveled, perhaps, or
are the woods not so yellow in these parts? Irrelevant, scratch it
from the record.

The band scratches a record.

WARDEN: Thank you. To the task!

WARDEN reads the note.

WARDEN: Oooh. Oh youre going to like this. You might too.

 10

Speech, or silence.

Reduction as a choice! Not merely addition, but subtraction. You, my

ever-patient audience, now hold power not simply over Creation, but
Destruction! This alpha and beta now Alpha and Omega. A for sound, B
for silence. Shall we remove that which was just gifted? Return to
sender?

WARDEN lets the audience work it

out amongst themselves.

If you chose A, advance to page 15.

If you chose B, advance to page 20.
 11

WARDEN: What a gift, the gift of speech! Transmission of knowledge,

that which nailed Prometheus to a mountain and got us all into this
mess. Lets trip a new tongue then.

WARDEN marches back to PROTO and

rips the gag from their mouth.
Heartbeat: loud. PROTOs eyes dart
between WARDEN, the audience, and
the band.

WARDEN: Got anything to say for yourself?

WARDEN pokes PROTO. Heartbeat

stops. WARDEN continues to gesture
gratuitously to communicate with
PROTO.

PROTO: ...ih...wh...whe

WARDEN: Dont be inconsiderate, now! These fine people came to be

entertained! They came to see great sights and hear grand speech!

PROTO: ...they...speech...came here

WARDEN: Yes. Yes yes yes go ON!

PROTO: ...came here...a theatre...two signs...

WARDEN: I know, hardly original, but still-

PROTO begins to speak in somewhat

hushed, not rushed, tones. They
recite this text throughout
underneath WARDEN and the band,
which transforms their previous
tune into a chaotic, syncopated,
and wild dance. WARDENs following
lines continue over PROTO. Note:
PROTO may very well not finish this
text. Thats totally fine. Even
preferable.

PROTO: -In so much as a theatrical performance may be viewed as a

sequence of signs or signifiers we find ourselves equating the act of
performance with the study of semiotics semiotic theory as a basis for
 12

theatrical event however appears to fall short as a singular principle

to contrive the entirety of a theatrical act as a sequence of semiotic
referencers leaves us with a form that is entirely based in the
referential a constant recycling of theme and sign with no new content
beyond a reorganization of mimetic objects from that deduction then
were left with the core question of where these recyclable signs
originated as a panacea to this otherwise unanswerable question we
turn our focus to the realm of phenomenology to study the theatrical
event as exactly that a series of events experienced both by observer
and observed we render our previous question of source less troubling
by pairing these two disparate but related fields of experiential
study we begin to source our understanding of events not in the
recitation of referentia but instead in a nearly-indiscernible act of
communal creation accounting for the singular act of experience
necessitated by an action being viewed by an other from this
perspective the practices of semiotic theory rather begin to reflect a
toolset or language unique to a singular performance rendering
signifiers a means of expression open to an observational experience
this phenomena of sign then extends beyond the copy-paste distortion
quality of semiotic substance to include shifting perceptions of
interrelated signs the body and form of an actor in space the musical
quality of speech and even the verbal quality of music music then
begins to signify and communicate to a tertiary or even quaternary
degree both in its singular expression which is itself fractured to
multiple degrees of perception and in its interrelation to the
established and coexistent phenomena of the theatrical event in
question this interrelation could perceivably extend not simply to the
performative action of the theatrical event and its structure but also
to the inculcated mechanisms of the audiencing experience we arrive
then at the question of the necessity of observer and what then truly
defines the theatrical event as separate from the phenomena of film or
even music could we ever truly exist without or beyond you

WARDEN: Proto. Proto. Proto! Hey, listen to-

Oh. Right. I always forget that part. To give one tool but not
another, to deprive and then reprieve. Communication breaks down when
one party is broken. Id say something about biting feeding hands, but
how is one to train the dog when you yourself remove the muzzle?

A third fishing line with note

descends. The band stops. PROTO
abruptly cuts off its speech.
WARDEN and PROTO both look at the
note.
 13

PROTO: You going to get that?

WARDEN stares at PROTO.

PROTO: Are you. Going. To get that.

WARDEN stares at the audience. Then

the band.

WARDEN: PLAY IT AGAIN, SAM.

They do. The song is now similar to

before, but closer to a ragtime
feel, syncopation and unresolved
cadences now flowing smoothly.

WARDEN: I call them Sam. Its a pet name. (pets one of the band) Stems
from a fondness for Bogart and pretension, the second of which you
were already aware of. But yes, music. For some reason, all games
happen to music. Couldnt do without. Something about the distraction
so you dont have to think too hard. Like the rhythm will keep you
from realizing what youre playing isnt going to impact you once you
stop. That your little excursion from reality will only leave you with
less time worth remembering. A blessing, really.

PROTO: Hello? Dont give me a tongue and then not listen to me.

WARDEN: But enough about me, about us, how about you? How are you
feeling? Had a long day? Was it good for you? Hows the food tasting?
Any thoughts? Any decisions?

PROTO: I can see hes boring you. Again. Philosophizing. Ranting.

Little logic and less sense.

WARDEN: Im sorry did I ask for your opinion? Did they? I suppose they
did, actually.

PROTO: I cant speak for all of you, but Id rather he just read the
damn card so we could all get home at a reasonable hour.

WARDEN: Is that what we want? No delay, no consideration? Fine then.

 14

WARDEN snatches the new note. He

reads. He passes it to PROTO. They
read.

PROTO: Body, or mind.

WARDEN: From the horses mouth, everybody.

PROTO: But I already have both.

WARDEN: A subject for debate.

PROTO: Must you choose?

WARDEN: They must.

PROTO: How can you choose if I myself cant? How can this slip of
paper, these signs, dictate my facility? My ability? Can I trust you?

WARDEN: You must.

PROTO: I cant go back there again. I cant not feel again. I cant
lose this again. Lose you again. Lose me-

WARDEN: -Almost makes you want them to go back to ranting, doesnt it?
Enough sentimentality, were in the middle of a game! Playing against
the odds! A coin flip! Whos to say what lies on the other side. Or
whose say? Either way! You know the rules. A for body, B for mind.

WARDEN cajoles an answer out of the

audience. PROTO tries to hear them,
reading their lips.

If you chose A, advance to page 22.

If you chose B, advance to page 22.
 15

WARDEN: What a gift, the gift of speech! Transmission of knowledge,

that which nailed Prometheus to a mountain and got us all into this
mess. Lets trip a new tongue then.

WARDEN marches back to PROTO and

rips the gag from their mouth.
Heartbeat: loud. The band winds
down. Heartbeat fades. PROTO
freezes, then tests their tongue.

WARDEN: Come then, our little friend. I know you can hear us. You must
have something on your mind.

PROTO: ...ih...wh...ho...

WARDEN: The articulate sort, I see.

PROTO: ...whos there?

WARDEN: Wrong. Start with knock knock.

PROTO: Theres more of you.

WARDEN: Close. More of them. Just two of us. And-

WARDEN points to the band. They hit

a short drum riff.

WARDEN: -but you already knew that.

PROTO: Why?

WARDEN: Not one for simple questions, are you? Relax. Its a game.

PROTO: Whos playing?

WARDEN: Another hard one. Easier to ask whos played.

PROTO: Do you hear that?

A third fishing line with note

descends. The band stops. PROTO
abruptly cuts off its speech.
WARDEN and PROTO both look to the
note.
 16

PROTO: You going to get that?

WARDEN stares at PROTO.

PROTO: Are you. Going. To get that.

WARDEN stares at the audience. Then

the band.

WARDEN: PLAY IT AGAIN, SAM.

They do. The song is now similar to

before, but closer to a ragtime
feel, syncopation and unresolved
cadences now flowing smoothly.

WARDEN: I call them Sam. Its a pet name. (pets one of the band) Stems
from a fondness for Bogart and pretension, the second of which you
were already aware of. But yes, music. For some reason, all games
happen to music. Couldnt do without. Something about the distraction
so you dont have to think too hard. Like the rhythm will keep you
from realizing what youre playing isnt going to impact you once you
stop. That your little excursion from reality will only leave you with
less time worth remembering. A blessing, really.

PROTO: Hello? Dont give me a tongue and then not listen to me.

WARDEN: But enough about me, about us, how about you? How are you
feeling? Had a long day? Was it good for you? Hows the food tasting?
Any thoughts? Any decisions?

PROTO: I think theyve decided to hear the next Choice. Youre

stalling.

WARDEN: I dont stall. I extemporize.

PROTO: You babble.

WARDEN: I dabble.

PROTO: Poor rhyme, poorer distraction. Dont keep us waiting.

WARDEN: Youre with them now?

 17

PROTO: Theyre with me.

WARDEN: At least I have Sam. Alright, Ill bite.

WARDEN snatches the note off the

line. He reads.

WARDEN: Body, or mind.

PROTO: I think I already have both.

WARDEN: Thats what thinking does to you. Mixes you up. You dont have
anything until they give it to you. Or take.

PROTO: You ask me to trust what I cant see?

WARDEN: Dont call them a what, they dont generally like that.

PROTO: I find myself in your hands. Please, think this through. Must
you play?

WARDEN: They must! And indeed, they shall! My lovely, much maligned
audience, what would you have? A, for body, B, for mind?

WARDEN and PROTO bicker until the

audience gives them an answer.

If you chose A, advance to page 22.

If you chose B, advance to page 22.
 18

WARDEN: Oooohohohoo. Well then!

WARDEN snaps his fingers. The band

continues to play, but now their
instruments are silent. The song is
slow, sensual. A dance ballad.
PROTO looks around, then smiles.
They stand and continue to sway,
then dance to the silent music,
their IV stand their partner.
WARDEN speaks his following lines
silently, a transcription of his
speech appears in time on the back
wall.

WARDEN: You fascinate me endlessly. Without end, beyond the close of

eternity. No hyperbole! Hyperactivity, certainly. But even still, my
gesticulations cannot articulate the excitement I hold for this: your
Choice. Your removal of sense, and in that retraction, freedom. A new
means of communication forged by a lack. Alack! Shall we dally here,
dancing to our inexpressible accompaniment?

A new fishing line descends with

another note attached.

WARDEN: My apologies, they have no patience up there. Patients, sure,

the whole lot of em are. But the virtue is decidedly lacking.

And we, it seems, are slacking. The final leg of our journey rises
before us, the tertiary narrative point. The rule, they call it, of
threes. Ive never been one for structure myself. For stricture. Not
one to be dictated to. Directed. Divorced of agency and cut adrift
upon the whims of those who do the cutting. But you, oh you glorious
burning souls, are above our petty squabbles. We mice and men turn in
our turns and you, ever watchful, keep time. But no more are you kept
silent! No more shackled with convention and convenience!

So dictate! Tyrannize! Lay us low with your wisdom, your sage advice
your final parting words whispered lovinglyburning woodsmoke traces
down tracks left emptyfree agents collapsing the atmosphereyour
fear-

Im getting ahead of myself. Ourselves. Shall we read?

 19

WARDEN approaches the note. He

reads.

WARDEN: Body, or mind.

PROTO stops its dance and reads the

wall. It turns to the audience. The
band slows down further.

WARDEN: The Choice rises before us. Which way shall we turn? A for
body, B for mind.

WARDEN waits for the audience to

give their answer. PROTO fidgets.
The band stops.

If you chose A, advance to page 22.

If you chose B, advance to page 22.
 20

WARDEN: Oooohohohoo. Well then!

WARDEN snaps his fingers. The band

continues to play, but now their
instruments are silent. The song is
slow, sensual. A dance ballad.
PROTO perks up, then smiles. They
stand and continue to sway, then
dance to the silent music, their IV
stand their partner. WARDEN speaks
his following lines silently, a
transcription of his speech appears
in time on the back wall.

WARDEN: You fascinate me endlessly. Without end, beyond the close of

eternity. No hyperbole! Hyperactivity, certainly. But even still, my
gesticulations cannot articulate the excitement I hold for this: your
Choice. Your removal of sense, and in that retraction, freedom. A new
means of communication forged by a lack. Alack! Shall we dally here,
dancing to our inexpressible accompaniment?

A new fishing line descends with

another note attached.

WARDEN: My apologies, they have no patience up there. Patients, sure,

the whole lot of em are. But the virtue is decidedly lacking.

And we, it seems, are slacking. The final leg of our journey rises
before us, the tertiary narrative point. The rule, they call it, of
threes. Ive never been one for structure myself. For stricture. Not
one to be dictated to. Directed. Divorced of agency and cut adrift
upon the whims of those who do the cutting. But you, oh you glorious
burning souls, are above our petty squabbles. We mice and men turn in
our turns and you, ever watchful, keep time. But no more are you kept
silent! No more shackled with convention and convenience!

So dictate! Tyrannize! Lay us low with your wisdom, your sage advice
your final parting words whispered lovinglyburning woodsmoke traces
down tracks left emptyfree agents collapsing the atmosphereyour
fear-

Im getting ahead of myself. Ourselves. Shall we read?

WARDEN approaches the note. He

reads.
 21

WARDEN: Body, or mind.

The band slows down. PROTO slows,

stops, then turns to the audience.

WARDEN: The Choice rises before us. Which way shall we turn? A for
body, B for mind.

WARDEN waits for the audience to

give their answer. PROTO fidgets.
The band stops.

If you chose A, advance to page 22.

If you chose B, advance to page 22.
 22

WARDEN: Ah. Of course.

WARDEN walks over to PROTO, kisses

its head, and either unbinds its
hands (for body) or removes the IV
(for mind). PROTO spasms, then
relaxes, smiling. Heartbeat.

The chosen sign lowers. A drum

roll. PROTO approaches the sign,
either walking with its IV drip or
its bound hands, then reaches up
and grasps what is hidden behind
the sign. Heartbeat: pumping. It
puts it to its head and pulls the
trigger. Blood and brain matter
explode outward, splashing WARDEN.
PROTO falls to the ground. Heart
monitor buzz. The band plays
furiously, eyes closed. The
gunshot, to them, another rimshot.
The tempo rises and the song
becomes less and less stable,
rhythms fluctuating and unsettled.
WARDEN absentmindedly wipes a bit
of gore off his cheek, eyes still
on PROTO.

WARDEN: Still not time for that word.

With a motion, WARDEN signals the

band to stop. They wind down.
WARDEN walks over to the other
sign, reaches behind it, and pulls
down another gun. He tosses it onto
PROTOs corpse.

WARDEN: There are few things I regret. Luckily, Im giving this one to
you. Maybe it isnt fair to give you two choices and expect you to
know what youre choosing. Maybe it isnt fair to, really at all
points of time, only have two choices. Do, or do not. Be, or not be.
Chicken or beef. Fornicate or explicate. Go. Stop.

Maybe you made the right call. PROTO seems satisfied. Released,
relaxed even. But you, how does it feel to watch yourself fall? Your
 23

facsimile annihilated, and by no hand other than your own? Empowering?

Disgusting? Or maybe a coquettish mixture of emotion and defense
mechanism charmingly referred to, in the language of love, as ennui?

Ennui. Even feels lazy to say it. No enunciation required. No hard

stops, no plosives. All loose jowls and open mouths. A truly abrasive
lack of roughness. Too many ideas crammed into two syllables. Im over
it. Rant complete.

Im not gonna clean that up. Youre welcome to, if you feel safe
standing up here. Alone. Covered in the gore of your cast mate. Wait,
sorry. If you feel safe up here, surrounded by your fellow audience
members, awkwardly being asked to violate the convention, our dearly
departed fourth wall, to make everyone else a little more comfortable.
No volunteers? Lovely. It stays.

WARDEN walks over to PROTO and

closes its eyes. WARDEN looks up
where PROTO was looking, gets
curious, and lays down next to them
looking up.

WARDEN: The view from here, wouldnt suggest it. Thought maybe it
would be interesting, the last thing someone saw. Not their life
flashing before their eyes, though Im sure PROTOs was rife with
excitement. The real things. The ceiling overhead, the rafters, the
light fixtures. Maybe an open sky. Wisps of cloud, a raindrop coming
closer. Tiny tastes of finality.(Sitting up) But you know, its still
just a ceiling. Just as much a ceiling as it was three minutes ago,
before a traumatic change had absolutely zero effect on it. The
ceiling continues, as do we, marching ever onward into the unknown,
the unknowable. Would that we could all stand so firm to the end. Much
like-

WARDEN stands, walking to PROTOs

bunk and looking at the light pool.

WARDEN: Well I suppose this is unnecessary now.

WARDEN turns the light off.

WARDEN: Hehe. (making finger guns at PROTO) Lights out!

Gotta make your own fun. Gotta find your own games, distractions, the
escapes from...something. Something scary, probably. Something like a,
 24

well, a decision. The Decision, being the prime example. The prime
directive, even. To explore strange new worlds, from whose bourne no
traveller returns. Can you imagine Kirk in Denmark?
The...plays...the thing...wherein well...catch...

Anyone up on their 1960s and 1590s pop culture? If not, that joke
was for the fatally bored among us. The fatally curious. Curious of
the fatal, the final. The pseudointellectuals and sotto voce
enthusiasts alike.

Can you tell Im talking because Im afraid to do anything else? I

cant even take It offstage, much less press on alone. Its gripping,
this fear. The constant murmur in the backplate of the skull; the
inescapable, hounding question. I dont have an answer for it. If you
do, please, drop me a letter. Stay in touch. Communicate. Only by
huddling for warmth can we keep out the chill.

Here it is. Anticlimactic. An extreme moment of violence, immediately

followed by...nothing, really. Words. Broken sentence structure.
Regression to infantilism. Survivors guilt, or pleasure. All the
empty things, me included.

Anticlimactic.

Thats nice. I wanted to use that word right.

Sam, can I hear it again?

The band lifts their instruments.

They play, maybe a variation on the
theme song from Big Break.

WARDEN basks in the comfortable

rhythm. He starts to warm up,
moving more and more in sync with
the music until he is gallivanting
across the space, a dance filled
with life. The theatre falls apart,
confetti and game show decorations
spewing. WARDEN frolics in the
carnage, dancing with the corpse,
and the microphone. As he spins,
the mic cord wraps itself around
his neck. He finishes the knot and
the band abruptly stops.
 25

WARDEN: Youve all been such wonderful players. Real gamesters,

betting against the odds. Backing the black horse.

Maybe if I keep congratulating you I can engender a similar joy in

myself. A spark of triumph. Triomphe, to stand above. No longer
beside, but bestride. A victory for primogenitors abroad, the first to
speak and the last to-

Maybe you won. I mean, look at you. All of you still here, still
breathing. Thats admirable. Impossible, for many. But you, youre
dedicated. You, like this ceiling, march on. Id mark that one your
point. Thats all I can really give you though, a point. Not a moral,
Im out of stock. But I have lots of points, bulk quantities of words,
and a few spare choices.

In thy orisons, be all my sins remembred.

The last pool of light cuts out.

END OF PLAY.