CLOWNWORLD SHAKESPEARE - Another Edition of The Journey Burrows Its Way to the Surface...and Takes Root

Shakespeare doesn't get angry, but he does get "Mad Men"...

Sep 30, 2023

EXT. OFFICE TOWERS - BEVERLY HILLS, 2023

We last left Shakespeare in a 1594 flashback here. But now we’re back to the present.

The Bard has had a few days to recover from his incredibly dangerous and harrowing motorcycle ride with Monique in this chapter. But he still doesn’t feel well, so he decides to see a doctor.

The Bard looks a little ashen, a tad sickly, but overall okay. Sure, modern medicine, give it a try, William. It’s gotta be better than leeches. Although, Pfizer = more than a billion dollars in fines. Leeches = still free!

Shakespeare holds a sheet of paper in his hand. Looks like some official letterhead type thing. “DR. EDWARD COOPER, 10 CENTURY PARK TOWER NORTHEAST, CONCOURSE Q, LEVEL BLUE, SECTION ALPHA, OFFICE GROUP 24, MIDDLE FLOOR, ROOM 1034 C.”

The famed poet scrutinizes the paper and looks up. Whoa! Four huge office towers rising 30 stories, with clean rectangular opaque glass windows covering all sides of the buildings.

This dude is still a bit freaked out by modern architecture. I am too. It’s cold, calculating, and those types of buildings never offer free parking!

Today, it’s even worse. The skies are overcast and a slight drizzle drizzles.

Shakespeare walks toward the huge glass entry doors, but stops for a second in wide-eyed apprehension... as the doors open by themselves. He hesitantly looks up at the dark menacing sky before going inside.

Curiously, there’s one drone mixed in with a few birds circling near the rooftops of the imposing office towers. Hmm?

INT. OFFICE TOWER, LOWER FLOOR

Shakespeare cautiously approaches the guard area.

SHAKESPEARE: “I’m looking for Dr. Cooper.”

The GUARD, a middle-aged MAN, who does not give a bleep about his job, barely shrugs. Sitting with bad posture, the guard glances up from his cellphone only for a nanosecond.

GUARD: “All medical except for oncology, gender reassignment and robotic physical therapy is on Concourse Q.”

Nonchalantly, the guard points to a bank of about a dozen elevators. Elevators, the modern currency system, goop.com-- Shakespeare is still a teensy weensy bit afraid of these things.

Shakespeare wants to speak but nothing comes out, and he just stares blankly at that raft of metal doors.

The guard goes back to his phone and whoosh!

A throng of expensive-suited professionals enter through the building’s glass front doors. And then:

CHIME! CHIME! CHIME! The bank of sleek metal elevator doors flies open. The Bard is now thrust into a throng of humanity from both sides. He’s jostled and bumped and braised and bruised and... finally he finds himself in an elevator, squished together with a bunch of other sardines, I mean, people.

The car travels up a few flights. Shakespeare checks his paperwork. Yep, seems like the correct floor. The elevator bell dings…

Shakespeare shoves and pushes and floosh! He finally manages to exit the contraption.

He’s now walking down a narrow corridor. Checks his paper. Looks closer at it, checks a wall sign. Damn, wrong floor. Idiot!

The Bard apprehensively stumbles into another elevator compartment like he’s wading into alien ectoplasm. He waits for the interminable journey to end. Eventually...

Ding! The elevator doors open.

William walks down another corridor. Holding his paperwork in hand, he confronts a well-dressed MAN and WOMAN. They’re both carrying briefcases and talking excitedly. They ignore the Bard.

Shakespeare enters another office. Nope. Wrong one.

Back on another elevator. Another floor.

Ah, the Bard spots a MEDICAL MAN OR WOMAN in a white lab coat masked up to their eyeballs. The Bard approaches the individual with his paperwork in hand.

Shakespeare points to the now very crumpled paper. The medical person nods his or her head knowingly and speaks...

MEDICAL PERSON: “Mghgedf afafmndhj alrfdef, mcceudqp. Dadoaft mmph nnb.”

...and then quickly walks off. Cannot understand a word of what anyone says with a goddamn mask on! Ugh!

MONTAGE TIME…

Now Shakespeare’s jogging through a parking lot. He’s up on a roof. He’s in some sort of boiler room area. He’s in a kitchen! Watch out, hot soup! He’s jogging in the parking lot again.

He’s in the midst of a will-reading in a lawyer’s office. Obviously, not the right place.

He’s in a gift shop. No, he doesn’t want a key chain. He’s back in the parking lot... again.

Finally! What a long strange trip it’s been. He stands in front of Room 1034 C. He’s reached his destination. Shakespeare composes himself and gets ready to enter.

But hold on. This isn’t right. What Shakespeare doesn’t notice is a sign on the wall. He’s supposed to be on BLUE ALPHA level. This is RED BETA level. Though the suite’s number is correct.

There’s another sign next to the RED BETA level sign. This one reads: STERLING COOPER AD AGENCY, ROOMS 1001 - 1042.

As has been noted previously, the modern world and Shakespeare haven’t quite come to terms yet.

The poet is about to open the majestic and polished wooden front doors of the office when...

Whoosh! The doors open for him. And this time, they’re not electronic. There’s an outstretched hand waiting for him.

INT. STERLING COOPER AD AGENCY

Shakespeare looks in wonderment at the sumptuous lobby. Leather everywhere. And gold-plated everything. And the thick carpets are a delight to walk upon. He’s enchanted. There’s something about this place. It’s magical. There’s poetry (ad copy) on posters lining the walls.

With an outstretched hand and wearing a 5K suit:

DON DRAPER: “Don Draper. You must be the ringer from overseas.”

Don firmly shakes Shakespeare’s hand.

SHAKESPEARE: “Dr. Cooper?”

The dapper Draper looks over at his colleague ROGER STERLING, who’s smirking as he runs his hand through his head of thick silver hair.

Roger and Don share a brief chuckle over “doctor.”

ROGER S.: “We usually don’t call the old man ‘doctor’ until we’ve had a few. I’m Roger, the Sterling of Sterling Cooper.”

Roger and William shake.

Shakespeare’s a bit speechless. He can sense something. These two guys-- something’s up with them. He’s gotta be honest with himself. Most humans are blockheads when it comes to any sort of literary pursuit.

But his hackles and his curiosity are both heightened. This can’t be a doctor’s office, can it? These guys are wordsmiths. He can grok it, and he’s intrigued.

DON DRAPER: “Our boss, the aforementioned doctor, uh, Bert Cooper is actually in Palm Beach this week, which is part of the reason we needed to see you. Today.”

Don walks over to a cabinet, pulls out a bottle of scotch.

DON DRAPER: "Everything we discuss is on the down low.”

ROGER S.: “Which is all the more reason to get high first.”

YE OLDE CUT TO:

INT. DON’S OFFICE

William, Don and Roger sit sipping scotch. Shakespeare looks uneasy:

SHAKESPEARE: “I’m still feel a mite sore and queasy. But hate to bore you with a case too easy--”

ROGER S.: “Oh, shit. I know this.”

Roger snaps his fingers.

ROGER S.: “It’s that Irish aspirin, Dooley’s or something. That campaign was poetry.”

DON DRAPER: “We. Loved. That. Campaign.”

ROGER S.: “So let’s see what you got, Macbeth.”

Shakespeare seems stunned at “Macbeth,” but he begins to unrobe, somewhat still thinking this might be a medical thing. But he continues to be intrigued by the two men.

DON DRAPER: “Great. Make yourself comfortable.”

ROGER S.: “Can you come up with a poem, something that rhymes?”

Shakespeare was about to take his shoes off. He stops. He’s sure of it. He’s definitely not among barbers, aka doctors, but fellow scribes. A warmth that he hasn’t felt in ages rises up in him. It’s like a vitaminy antibiotic with a hint of CBD.

He hasn’t written in so long. Oh, how he misses it. He feels so much better now. No need for a doctor, really. His mind is racing with literary thoughts, no longer bogged down with feeling ill.

DON DRAPER: “But sexy. Like if Shakespeare was trying to nail Taylor Swift.”

ROGER S.: “But while he was inside her ‘cardigan,’ so to speak, he was really thinking about Michelin Tires.”

Something about the word “Michelin” gives Shakespeare a memory boost…

FLASHBACK…

We’re back at the RAMSHACKLE HOUSE SCENE from Chapter 7, when Monique borrows the Beemer bike from the gnarly biker gang.

Monique and the bikers go on and on about the tires.

BIKER BOSS: “Now, this criss-cross tread grinds into the asphalt moisture like it’s pounding virgin pussy!”

BIKER: “Yeah, pound that pussy, boss!”

MONIQUE: “These sidewalls are reinforced with Kevlar like the M490s...”

BACK TO THE PRESENT…

DON DRAPER: “I envision how Michelins and the road become interchangeable.”

ROGER S. “What was that fucking line? A rose isn’t a rose unless you call it a rose?”

DON DRAPER: “You mangled it.”

ROGER S.: “I’m not the writer. You guys are. But something like that.”

Shakespeare beams. He’s so proud of himself. Immortality Achievement unlocked! A burst of inspiration befalls him.

SHAKESPEARE: “If you want to drive in your own skin. Take to the streets in Michelin. Our tread is smooth and criss-cross. The road is your liege as you are the boss!”

ROGER S.: “Good! Much better than that incomprehensible Shakespeare shit.”

William deflates. But Don throws the Bard a lifeline, even if the famed ad-man doesn’t know it.

DON DRAPER: “Shut up, Roger. You’re just too drunk to understand anything. Shakespeare’s over your head.”

Roger drains a glass full of booze.

ROGER S.: “You say something, milord?”

YE OLDE CUT TO:

INT. OFFICE - LATER

Holy cow-a-fucking-bunga! There are mock-up ad posters everywhere. There’s, like, 50 of ‘em.

Shakespeare is in a corner. Scrap of yellow workbook paper and pen in hand. He keeps scrutinizing one of the mock-ups and looks down at the paper. Mutters. Frowns. Mutters. Frowns.

SHAKESPEARE: “Toaster...bread...crumbs...”

Mutters. SMILES! Whispers and chuckles self-satisfied to himself.

SHAKESPEARE: “Sundrenched...morsels.”"

Don and Roger are absolutely enthralled. They walk from mock-up to mock-up and laugh. They are amazed. Shakespeare literally just rewrote the copy for every single account.

DON DRAPER: “I read one. I think it’s better than the one before it. I finish ‘em. I start on the very first one again. I think that first one is better than the last time I read it.“

Shakespeare smiles.

DON DRAPER: “‘Live blingy like a Kardashian with Jeldwen Windows that won’t smash in.’ Simply. Genius.”

Shakespeare blushes.

DON DRAPER: “And this one. ‘You can call a rose by any name you want. But anything other than Spring’s Day Feminine Products is just a douche.’”

Roger, swaying from scotch, pulls out a cheque and hands it to William, who barely looks at it. He stuffs it in his jacket front pocket. He’s too busy composing poetry again to bother with such trifles as money.

ROGER: “Hey, don’t lose that, pal. There’s enough there to buy every hooker on Wilshire. Twice!”

Don looks at his watch. Rolls his eyes.

DON DRAPER: “I gotta go. Betty’s making a casserole. My son needs help with his homework. My daughter is waiting for a ride home from soccer. But first, my secretary is naked in the break room.”

YE OLDE CUT TO:

EXT. OFFICE TOWERS

William exits the building and twirls around like Mary Tyler Moore in the iconic MTM Show. He casts off his beret and throws it up into the air and sings:

SHAKESPEARE: ♪ I’m gonna make it after all! ♪

But he’s never seen the show. So none of that happened. But what does happen is that William uneventfully exits the tall modern building complex.

The weather is still a bit drizzly, but William is too high to care. He’s dizzy from scotch and poetic ad copy to give a crapola about anything.

As the poet approaches the street, he encounters a commotion. Flashing lights, paramedics, cops blocking traffic. A small crowd gathers around a body in the street, close to the sidewalk, covered over by a white sheet.

PARAMEDIC: “Poor bastard stepped into a puddle right next to a charging Tesla. Fried that Macbeth guy to a crisp.”

Shakespeare walks by the grisly scene. He’s not paying much attention, but he perks up when he hears “Macbeth.” Second time today hearing that name.

But the Bard’s soul nearly catches fire when the paramedic quotes Macbeth:

PARAMEDIC: “‘Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow.’”

The pair of paramedics silently lift the charred body onto a stretcher. As they do, a singed business card pops out of the corpse’s pocket and wafts to the ground. It just lays by the side of puddle, and no one notices, except for Shakespeare. He can’t stop staring at it, for some reason.

Shakespeare waits a few brief moments for the paramedics to drive off with the dead body and for the crowd to disperse. He’s by himself now on the street. Just the Bard and some distant ambient traffic noise.

William’s vision begins to blur as he focuses intently on the charred business card. He bends down, picks it up and mutters to himself: “ANGUS MACBETH, FREELANCE AD COPYWRITER.”

Wait, Roger Sterling called Shakespeare “Macbeth.” Could it be? Was there really a Macbeth copywriter and William took his place today by some cosmic mishap or cosmic, er, good thing?

Ah, the circle of life... and death. Up contrasted with down; yin and yang; day begats night, Zach Wilson or Tom Brady; Salma Hayek over Rita Morena; the UK’s 9 million unmolested school-aged children vs. Jimmy Savile!

Muttering to himself, borrowing a line from 20th Century British-American writer Henry James:

SHAKESPEARE: “‘Life is a predicament which precedes death.’ Wait, what the...?! I’m not doing Henry James. He blows!”

Blech! Shakespeare spits like he swallowed a bug.

YE OLDE CUT TO:

EXT. STREETS OF BEVERLY HILLS - NIGHT

Ah, what a pleasant evening. William strolls along casually. All that writing, it was like sucking down a million kratom pills or doses… or whatever units kratom comes in!

He feels 100% recovered from his bout with Fast and Furiousitis. Good writing does wonders for the spirit.

At the end of a chapter, William is usually being chased or escaping from strange Netflix parodies.

But not tonight. Nothing but safety.

There’s only the sounds of William humming his favorite 16th Century ditty, the occasional auto passing by and that drone that’s been following him all day. Uh, what?!

Remember Chapter 8? In 2134, during Nuke War 6, the triumvirate of idiots (Roger, Dave and Silent Dave) used their time machine, even though on TV, we saw this:

UK PRIME MINISTER: “Any citizens caught using temporal displacements or other time transfer equipment will be prosecuted under the Electron Safety Act of 2101...”

You don’t think these time machines have digital footprints? Time machines are like Bigfoot. Now imagine Bigfoot running through a muddy marsh. That’s how big the footprint is.

At first, Shakespeare is too drunk on expensive booze and the glow of a writing job well done to notice that the drone is closing in on him. It hovers behind him and darts toward the back of his head.

He can’t help but hear the extremely loud whine. He whirls around and faces the drone. Maybe it’s Vicky, he thinks to himself and then shouts:

SHAKESPEARE: “Vicky?!”

No, definitely not Vicky. The poet seems a little alarmed at first, not having too much drone experience. But quickly finds his mettle. I mean, it’s just a little machine. Looks like some cheap child’s toy.

The drone hovers a few feet over Shakespeare’s head before making another attempt at a facial closeup. Shakespeare ducks and bobs like a prize fighter, and he holds his hands near his face in a crouched stance, ready to strike if necessary. But the device zooms off into the distance.

YE OLDE CUT TO:

INT. SMALL ROOM, LONDON, 2134

On a small black and white monitor, we see Shakespeare walking home, but from the drone’s point of view.

The monitor view zooms close. Shakespeare turns around. The video feed stops exactly as Shakespeare’s face is in full view. We hear a voice, a deep, gruff MAN’S VOICE, from within this small brightly lit, but empty room.

MAN: “Got him!”