A Particularly Miserable Event in the Mediocre
Life of Irving Puttapaun
- a play in one big, incoherent act -
(Setting: A small suburban residence. Irving Puttapaun is sitting in his easy chair, reading the paper. The television blares unnoticed in the background.
(knock, knock)
Irving: Who is it?
(knock, knock)
Irving: WHO IS IT? And why don't you use the damn bell...
(ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong...Irving leaps up and opens the door. A small, morose looking man in a dirty brown robe is standing on the porch.)
Misery: G'day. Are you a Mr. Irving Puttapaun?
Irving: Yeah. What do you want?
Misery: Let me introduce myself. I'm Misery. And I'll be staying with you for, let's see, the next ten years. Excuse me. (barges past Irving and settles himself in the easy chair.)
Irving: Hey! What the hell are you doing!
Misery: I told you. I'm Misery. I'll be here for the next ten years, and let me tell you, you're not going to be enjoying one moment of it. Nor will I, in fact. Actually, it'll be a thoroughly rotten experience for all concerned. It's no picnic being the corporeal manifestation of misery, you know. Of course a loser like yourself would - (knock, knock) Oh, that should be some of my colleagues.
(Irving stomps over and opens the door, and is confronted by a trio of small, fidgeting men also attired in drab brown robes.)
Misery: Oh, yes, there they are. On the left, that's Suffering, then Gluttony, and Obfuscation over on the right.
(Irving's cries of protest are ignored as the three march in and settle themselves around the room.)
Suffering: G'day, Irving. How's that ulcer doing? Oh, sorry about your car. Gluttony here was driving, and he's a bit soused.
Gluttony: Gemme a beer.
Irving: This has gone far enough! Out of here! All of you! Now! Or I'm calling the police!
Suffering: Naw, phone's busted, least now it is. Like the tely there. (Dan Rather suddenly takes on a distinctively greenish pallor.) Oh, here's your mail. Looks like you got turned down for that loan. Somethin' here from the IRS, too. And this looks like a summons. Oh! Hey, here's the results of your tests from the lab. You know you've got-
Irving: What the bloody hell are you all doing here?!?
Obfuscation: Why, I believe I can clear that up, Irving. You see, due to perfunctory ministrations of ineffable mulfoosery, an enunscible perfundatory umfrage of nullishable proportions has emerged regarding your-
Suffering: He means you screwed up. And we're what you get. New law, you see.
Irving: Huh? What the hell did I do?
Misery: Well, let's see. (ruffles through thick stack of forms) Metaphysical beauracracy is such a pain. Ah, here it is. Were you the one parked in the handicapped space at K-Mart?
Irving: No!
Misery: Hmm...well, are you using only Panasonic batteries in your battery charger? The instructions were quite explicit about that, you know.
Irving: Certainly! I-
Misery: Oh, here it is. I see. Come on now, Irving, you just HAD to go and waste ten years of your life over something SILLY like this, didn't you? That pack of Wrigley's in your pocket. It's been opened from the wrong end. What do you think they put the little red strip on the end for, decoration?
Obfuscation: Perfectly scrumulous!
Irving: Well what the hell does - (knock, knock)
Suffering: Ah! That'll be Denegration, to rub things in.
(Irving stomps over again and opens the door.)
Denegration: So you're Irving, huh? The moron who can't even open a pack of gum right? Figures you live in miserable hole like this.
Suffering: With busted pipes.
(Several loud cracks and hissing noise echo up from the basement.)
Gluttony: I SAID I wanted a BEER!
Suffering: Don't bother, it's all flat...now.
Misery: Just take the roast he was saving in the fridge. It'll only make him fatter anyway.
Denegration: How? Hey, Irving buddy, you thinkin' of sellin' advertising space on yourself? And how about that overbite? Course you'd look worse if your hair hadn't grown back after the operation.
Irving: (leaps to his feet, exasperated) Stop! Stop it! This is all some sort of deep movie, right? Like, I'm supposed to play chess with Death, and then you'll all go away, right?
Gluttony: Freezer's downstairs, right?
Misery: As a matter of fact, he should be stopping by any minute now to top off the evening. (knock, knock)
Suffering: Figures. Too damn punctual. Always comes by to spoil my fun.
Gluttony: (hollers up from the basement stairwell) Getting right damp down here, Irving. Better call someone.
Denegration: He can't, idiot, the phone's out.
Suffering: Not to mention the power. (the lights flicker and wink out.) Say, you going to answer that door, Irving?
(Irving dazedly stumbles over and opens the door. A repulsive toadlike man is standing picking his rather prominent nose, and a tall, silent figure wielding a gleaming scythe is standing behind him.)
Nausea: 'lo there, Irving. Name's Nausea, and this here's Death. He'll be giving you the exact time of your demise, and I'll be expounding upon the circumstances in great detail.
Misery: Well, it's not like he's got a lot of time.
Death: (the bony talons of one hand fingering the handle of the scythe eagerly) No. Irving here'll cash in his chips at 1:37 am, Nov. 13, 1998.
Suffering: We'll barely be gone! Hey Irving, better live up those 5 days of freedom. Shame that you'll have lost the remains of your house then, though.
Irving: Stop! I don't want to hear this -
Denegration: Serves you right, chump. Anybody stupid enough to try changing a tire on the left side on the freeway...or I guess I mean, going to be stupid enough.
Nausea: It'll be truly incredible. He's going to be struck by a bus and splattered over an entire half mile of interstate. Got some nice pictures of you here, Irving, if you care to take a gander.
Misery: Why bother? He only made page 13 of the paper, right after the article about the PTA bake sale.
Gluttony: I STILL want a BEER.
Irving: NO! STOP!
Nausea: Hmm...lot of people seem a bit queasy about this sort of thing. Well, there are lots of other things we can talk about. Personally, I'm very big on jungle parasites. Take the Indonesian grot beetle for instance - it gestates in a person's eyballs, causing progressive blindness, and upon maturity burrows its way-
Irving: (falling to his knees, gasping and whimpering) Please, please stop!
(BAM, BAM. The door shakes violently and then splinters inwards. A figure wearing chains and leather clomps into the room.)
Strife: HEY! STRIFE IS HERE!
Irving: How many of you ARE there?!
Strife: HEY, YOU! SHUTUP!
Gluttony: (burrowing in pantry) Better hit the grocery, Irving, all that's left is some old graham crackers. And don't forget the beer.
Strife: YOU SHUTUP TOO!
(Irving, noticing the packed RV pulling into his driveway, realizes suddenly that this entire sorry episode needs to be brought to a swift conclusion. Being a resourceful individual and having taken in a great deal of A-Team and MacGyver episodes, he manages to swiftly assemble a Regent terminal from a toothpick, two inches of fishing line, and an acetylene torch that happened to be lying on the end table. Irving logs in and runs the vi editor on the file "guests")
Irving: Ah! Here we go. Here's the line where I say "Ah! Here we go." I'll just tack a little something onto the end of that.
Suffering: Hey! No fair!
Denegration: Figures the rotten little pustule would have to cheat.
Strife: SHUTUP!
(The whole crew packs up and runs out the door in a great hurry. They are conveniently sucked into the Schwarzschild radius of a passing black hole, and are never heard from again. In fact, Irving is transformed into a striking, virile young 20 year old, and a Maseratti materializes in-
(A great rumbling fills the air as the clouds above part and a great hand reaches down to point accusingly at Irving.)
Powers that Be: Hold it, Irving, don't get carried away. We'll fix your pipes and then call it even.
(Irving decides that, compared with his recent state of events, this seems a rather attractive prospect, and concurs. He settles back into his chair and resumes reading the paper. With a crackling and a whif of ozone, the lights flick back on, and a noticably green Dan Rather wraps up the evening news.)
THE THOROUGHLY ABRUPT AND CONTRIVED END.