CLOWNWORLD SHAKESPEARE - Another Episode Drops
Time moves forward, backward, sideways and upside-down, but never in a straight line.
Ah, thank you for joining me for Chapter Eight…
So how did William come into possession of a time machine in 1594? While he takes a sick day or two recuperating from a harrowing street race (see Chapter 7), let’s delve into things, shall we?
EXT. LONDON, THE FUTURE
It’s 2134. We’re in London. Looks the same, except there are hover cars and hover buses and no paved streets. Grass is everywhere!
Still a fair number of pedestrians out and about. Hmm, styles have gotten, uh, interesting. Many women wear see-through Lululemon style tight outfits with screens (where the boobs and crotch would be) displaying funny gifs.
The girls with the laughiest gifs are often the most sought after for dates, marriage and Substacking in the 22nd Century.
Typical men’s fashion consists of professional baseball uniform pants, socks and cleats (remember, there is a lot of grass). Their torsos adorned with multi-pocketed camouflage military vests and matching baseball hats. Women will often swoon and say things such as: “Did you see how sharp his cleats are? He can view my gifs anytime!”
INT. LONDON FLAT, 2134
Air raid sirens blare.
THREE YOUNG MEN sit on a couch watching a television that’s as thin as a piece of paper, affixed to a wall by duct tape.
These men emphatically do not adhere to the day’s fashion. Their clothes are best described as mid-1990s super slacker.
And their flat, of course, is pretty much what you would expect from three single slackers. Messy, grubby, but with lots of electronic gadgets and trash strewn about the place.
We’ll come to know these men as ROGER, DAVE and SILENT DAVE. Yes, there are two Daves, but one Dave doesn’t speak, aka, Silent Dave or simply SD.
On the TV, an old, tired-looking MAN speaks.
UK PRIME MINISTER: “...Nuclear World War Six has begun.”
Roger and the Daves gape slack-jawed and unresponsive, staring at the screen.
UK PRIME MINISTER: “We ask everyone to go to their nearest Irradiation Zone Headquarters. Any citizens caught using temporal displacements or other time transfer equipment will be prosecuted under the Electron Safety Act of 2101...”
Roger turns off the TV.
ROGER: “Right, gents. Let’s move. We got some girls from the 1950s to meet.”
DAVE: “Yep.”
Roger and Dave spring up. Silent Dave sulks on the couch.
DAVE: “He don’t wanna go back in time. He’s not gonna like the food, he says.”
SD shakes his head.
DAVE: “And he doesn’t like black and white TV.”
SD shakes his head even more vigorously.
DAVE: “And I’m still not sold on 1954. What about the 1970s or 2053?”
ROGER: “I did my research.”
DAVE: “Historicalhotasses.com?”
ROGER: “Among others. And I’ve determined that 1954 is when London’s hottest babes were the easiest.”
Both Daves shake their heads.
ROGER: “Okay, fine. I paid for the machine, and I found us the storage for it. What have you two clowns brought?”
Both Daves realize he’s right, and they relent.
Roger walks over to no-talk Dave and gets down on his knees. He puts his hands on SD’s knees.
ROGER: “Look, Davey old boy, I feel ya. I don’t like change neither. But we could get killed staying here.”
Roger gives talking Dave a knowing glance.
DAVE: “Think of the music, Davey. Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Elvis. We can see those guys live.”
SD perks up a little bit.
ROGER: “Yeah, mate, we’re gonna have a good time and then come back when all this war nonsense blows over.”
Talking Dave immediately starts humming the ‘50s classic “Sh Boom” by the Chords. Roger frowns and turns to Dave.
ROGER: “We get it, numbskull.”
Roger turns back to SD on the couch and fakes a smile:
ROGER: “Now we’re going, and that’s bloody it.”
He motions to talking Dave, who rolls up his sleeves and lets out a big sigh. Roger and Dave grab SD by the arms and yank.
YE OLDE CUT TO:
EXT. LONDON STREETS
Sirens blaring. People running everywhere. Everyone dashes toward the Irradiation Zone HQ.
Roger spots a girl with some nice gifs. He checks out her animated goodies and laughs as he runs along with her, until...
Dave grabs him by the shoulder and turns his friend around.
DAVE: “Come on, you!”
The three run headlong into the panicked mob.
YE OLDE CUT TO:
INT. ABANDONED WAREHOUSE
Grimy abandoned warehouse, mostly empty. But what’s that under a tarp?
The three lads throw off the tarp. Why, it’s the time machine!
It’s a sleek metal contraption with tons of cool electronic displays and buttons and levers inside. It’s as roomy as the driver area of a typical American-made lemon SUV. And as we’ll see, it’s fit for really one or maybe one-and-a-half adult-sized bodies.
Oh, and it’s made by Pfizer. The logo is clearly there on the side. Pfizer Time Products, a division of Pfizer Galaxy Universal.
ROGER: “Hurry up!”
Roger jumps inside, into the machine’s only seat. SD jumps on top of the machine and straddles the roof for dear life. Talking Dave isn’t sure where to go. He’s puzzled… er, well, more so than usual.
Then ba-boom! A massive explosion! Lots of screaming outside the warehouse (inside too!). Bombs are falling. The war has begun!
ROGER: “1954 now!”
Roger mashes a keypad. Dave jumps into Roger’s lap. Roger pushes him away. Arms and legs flail. A left hook from Roger. Dave lands a left kick.
ROGER: “Get off me! Get on top with Davey!”
DAVE: “It’s my turn inside. You had the last two turns inside.”
The pair jockey and punch for position. Arms, legs and torsos writhe and twist. A kick, a few punches. Feet, ankles, throats, necks, knees— it’s all just a big jumble.
ROGER: “I bought this. I drive!”
Then finally, the pair of friends come face-to-face, straddling one another like interlocking jigsaw puzzle pieces. They squirm some more, a few screams. Punches, kicks, hair grabs, more punches, an elbow to the temple!
SD just shakes his head and sighs as he can hear the two idiots fighting below him. SD pounds his fist against the roof.
ROGER: “Move!”
Roger gives Taking Dave a huge shove. Well, tries to anyway. It’s such a cramped compartment. Dave’s flabby ass rubs against the machine’s controls and butt-changes the number on the keypad from 1954 to 1594.
TWHOOOOOP!
YE OLDE CUT TO:
EXT. WOODS
We’re in a deep thicket of woods.
FLASSSHHHHH! BOOM! Roger and the Daves materialize... in a tree. Well, three different trees.
Roger and SD are okay, hanging onto their trees for dear life, but generally okay, smiling even.
Luckily, talking Dave’s tree is strong. And he landed on one of the lower branches too, which is real good. Because he’s puking his tiny brains out.
Then WHOOSH! The time machine itself reappears safely resting at a full stop on the ground.
Roger groans as he and SD begin climbing down their respective trees. They help the very nauseous Dave down from his tree.
A brief and uneventful passage of time and...
The three time travelers throw leaves and branches over the time machine in hopes of concealing it. They cover the machine with one final large branch.
Roger lets out a big sigh and puts his hands on his hips, surveying the land with confidence.
ROGER: “Right. Let’s get a move on.”
The two Daves look apprehensively around.
YE OLDE CUT TO:
EXT. VILLAGE
Whew! The woods finally end for our triumvirate. They come to a clearing and... there’s signs of life!
Ah, that’s more like it. A city? No. Town? No. Village? Yes. Feels like 1954 already. Right? No.
This is clearly a place that has never seen indoor plumbing. Nor have any citizens ever cursed the electric company, because it doesn’t exist. This village needs Super Double Extreme Makeover-level work before it can even begin aspiring to third world status.
ROGER: “Where the bloody fuck are we?”
Both Daves shake their heads.
Roger approaches a MAN, who’s dressed in a robe made out of sheepskin, carrying a dead calf.
ROGER: “Hey, yo, dude. Whoa, nice, uh, pet. Can you help us out? We’re a tad lost.”
MAN: “Pleasant tidings on the ‘morrow. Had a whiff of the dark air for a fortnight. But milady’s soft countenance and sweet victuals restored my soul. To the fields, anon, lest the chaff take root! No time now, perhaps when the nightingale whoops?”
And the man quickly walks off. Roger just shakes his head. WTF was that about?
Dave looks up and sees a sign: TAVERN. He points it out to his friends.
ROGER: “Thank God. I need a drink.”
Both Daves agree.
INT. TAVERN
There’s a LONG HAIRED, ROUGH-LOOKING MAN and A BUSTY BLONDE WENCH tending bar. They’re both wearing those plague doctor, long-nosed masks.
MAN: “Oi! Sorry, gents, gotta have a mask indoors. King’s decree.”
WOMAN: “I’m gonna have to ask to see your plague vaccine passports. King’s decree.”
ROGER: “What? No, no. We just want to know where the ever-loving fuck we are.”
Silent Dave sees something on a nearby table. It’s a newspaper. His eyes grow wide as he picks it up.
Talking Dave quickly snatches the paper from SD. Talking Dave furrows his brow as he scans it:
DAVE: “Wow, that sucks. Some dude in the village has been stealing goats and is suspected of having relat-- ewww!”
SD slaps his own forehead in disbelief and grabs the paper back from Dave. SD frantically points at something on the front page and shows it to Roger.
Roger’s eyes grow wide, and his mouth turns down into a serious frown.
YE OLDE CUT TO:
EXT. THE VILLAGE
The three are slumped on a rickety wooden bench, each eating some sort of greasy animal leg. Congealed fat is slathered around their grateful mouths.
Roger takes a bite and swallows. He glares at Talking Dave:
ROGER: “1594?! I’m blaming you, you wanker. You musta hit the keypad with your fat ass, you stupid bastard.”
DAVE: “I hate riding outside. Messes up my hair.”
ROGER: “Can’t change it now. Idiot. Okay, okay, let me think. We gotta give the machine time to reset.”
DAVE: “Perchance, ‘tis time to bid adieu to this rill and decamp for a dewy fortnight--”
Roger punches his friend in the arm.
ROGER: “What are you on about?”
DAVE: “Two weeks, a fortnight. When in Rome. We’re in the Middle Ages, act and speak like it. Hey, maybe we can get a reward for catching this goat thief.”
Roger rolls his eyes.
ROGER: “What was going on in the world in 1594?”
Roger sits back and rolls his chin as if something intelligent will eventually spew forth.
DAVE: “Hmm, there were lots of damsels looking for rides from upright squires on white horses, you know? Rides? Upright? Get it?”
Roger ignores his friend. SD frowns at Dave’s dumb joke.
Still deep in thought:
ROGER: “Oh, fuck. I remember. That Shakespeare arsehole. He’s alive now. I almost flunked out of school because I could never understand what that twat was on about.”
Now the Daves are paying attention.
ROGER: “If it wasn’t for him and his fucking stupid ‘to be’ this and ‘to be’ that, flowers here, flowers there bollocks, I could have made something of meself. I would have gotten into college, maybe been in Parliament. I coulda been a Pfizer man!”
The Daves heartily concur.
DAVE: “You know what we should do? We should kill him and then go back to when we were born, and we’d be kings ‘cause no one would ever have even heard of the guy.”
Roger rolls his eyes. Mutters: “Kill him. Right. Can’t even work a time mach--”
Roger snaps his fingers. An idea perhaps. He presses his fingers to his temples. Squints really hard. It’s coming. It’s forming. Almost there and... bam!
ROGER: “That’s exactly what we should do!”
DAVE: “Huh?!”
Roger springs up.
ROGER: “Come on, no time to waste. We’ll get rid of this Shakespeare dipshit once and for all. Then we go back to the present and live like fucking kings.”
YE OLDE CUT TO:
EXT. DARK ALLEYWAY - NIGHT
The three fools are carting their time machine on a rickety wooden cart.
ROGER: “Good job, Davey.”
Silent Dave smiles weakly.
DAVE: “Yeah, Davey. That washerwoman had no bleedin’ clue we nicked her cart.”
Roger sneezes and quickly recovers. But he sees that SD is sullen and droopy.
ROGER: “Ahh. We’ll bring it back to her. Don’t you worry, Davey old boy.”
SD suddenly beams with delight.
Roger holds a scrap of paper. Looks like a crude map. Peers at it under a small candlelight. He pats the top of the time machine like it’s a dear friend.
ROGER: “Now we store this in that Globe Theatre-- what?”
Roger notices Talking Dave glaring at him.
ROGER: “I told you. We’re not gonna kill Shakespeare. We’re gonna send him back to prehistoric ages, you know, fucking dinos and shit.”
Dave still isn’t convinced that Roger isn’t going to kill the Bard.
ROGER: “You think I’m lugging this piece of machinery all this way for nothing? Look, if I was gonna kill him, I’d just march right up to him and whammo, with me knife.”
Roger imitates a gutting motion. He then turns his pockets inside out, pats himself down.
ROGER: “See, Dave, huh? Nothing. Just good ole sweet Roger and his time machine.”
Dave seems convinced. He’s about to talk, but then he goes into a bit of a sneezing fit.
In fact, all three begin to sneeze and cough a little. Allergies. Yeah, that’s it. Allergies. Maybe some medieval Zicam. Are our three heroes coming down with something?
Roger throat scrapes some phlegm from his mouth and splooffftt! He expectorates, aka, hawks a loogie in the air. Gross!
YE OLDE CUT TO:
INT. GLOBE THEATRE
It’s a medium-sized dusty, musty storage room for costumes, extra playbills, chairs as well as other theatre stuff.
The guys are beat. They’re feverish and greenish-blue as they slump on the floor next to the time machine, which is now covered up by a bunch of costumes.
ROGER: “Okay... we’ll leave it here and... come back... when the Bard, what a... stupid (cough** cough**) fucking nickname, is... around.”
Roger pauses a sec. He’s running out of breath. He goes into a coughing fit. He bangs a closed fist against his chest. His head droops a little.
The Daves are similarly afflicted with respiratory issues.
Roger sighs and exhales, trying to summon his last remaining strength.
ROGER: “The plan. Stuff him... inside. Send him back... caveman times... Go back... our time... be bloody... kings.”
Roger faints he’s so tired.
Both Daves smile weakly.
The three heroes don’t look well at all, not at all.
YE OLDE CUT TO:
EXT. LONDON, 1594
Ah, we’re looking up at a sign. MEN’S WHOREHOUSE. Okay, well, the three lads are probably satisfying their carnal desires as we speak.
Oh, wait, sorry. Damn cameraman. Focus, Glenn, focus! The other building. Ah, there it is:
LONG BLACK PLAGUE CLINIC
Oh, no, we’re looking up at the LBPC. This can’t be good.
A DOCTOR wearing a long-nosed plague mask exits the building.
DOCTOR: “Okay, clear the way.”
ORDERLIES with stretchers appear at the doorway behind the doctor. The first three bloated, horribly deformed bodies to exit the clinic are none other than Roger, Dave and Silent Dave.
DOCTOR: “Just dump ‘em out back for now. We burn ‘em all in one big pile later.”
YE OLDE CUT TO:
INT. GLOBE THEATRE
SHAKESPEARE and a crew of ACTORS are on stage. The Bard, with his index finger vertically pressed against his lips, watches as an actor, HENRY, reads his lines:
HENRY: “‘No, no, milady, I... I...’”
The actor balls his fists and grits his teeth in anger.
HENRY: “Damn, I can’t think straight. I’m supposed to be a merchant. I look like a bloody beggar with this filthy nightgown on. Christ, William, can’t you get some decent wardrobe? I need to be in character at all times.”
Shakespeare rolls his eyes.
SHAKESPEARE: “It’s just a rehearsal, Henry. Can’t you, you know, fake it? You know, act?”
Henry frowns and puts his hands on his hips. Like a petulant child.
SHAKESPEARE: “Okay, Henry, hold on. Let me see what we got. We must have some clean merchant garb around here.”
Shakespeare walks backstage. Looks around. Is that some clean merchant garb? No. Just some sheets. He opens up an old trunk. Nope, nothing. Then...
He sees a bunch of clothes in a pile that he hadn’t noticed before. In fact, how could he not notice it? The pile’s huge.
Wait a minute. Some of the piled-high costumes are among the theatre’s best weeds, which are usually stored on hangers in closets. Never just piled up. Something isn’t right.
He quickly walks over and picks up a few of the outfits to reveal... the time machine!
Click below for Chapter 9…
