CLOWNWORLD SHAKESPEARE - The Journey Crashes into the Next Installment
"The Dane explains. William's got pains, and he escapes with the help of Vicky's brains."
As we continue with El Chapterooni Cinco, yes, it would help to read previous installments of this journey. I mean, don’t you already feel lost enough in the real world? Why be lost here on Substack?
The previous installment of The Journey (Chapter 4) can be unearthed by clicking this sentence.
EXT. STREETS OF BEVERLY HILLS
A LARGE SCANDINAVIAN MAN who we’ll come to know as THE DANE towers over a prone Shakespeare.
THE DANE: “Let me helping*** you up.”
***This is how The Dane speaks. Must have gotten one of those cheap Romanian-made English for Dummies knockoffs.***
The Dane extends a massive hand to the Bard, who’s quite shaken.
SHAKESPEARE: “Are you a protestor?”
THE DANE: “No, no, a walking. To clearing my head.”
SHAKESPEARE: “Oh, okay.”
THE DANE: “Sorry. My father dying, I am fuzzying in my brain.”
SHAKESPEARE: “Yeah, there’s a lot of fuzzying going around lately.”
Shakespeare rubs his temples and eyes and legs and stomach and shin, trying to soothe his aching body.
He looks up and slowly takes note of the Dane’s rather sizable frame. The Dane has been nothing but kind, so William asks for a favor.
SHAKESPEARE: “Hey, listen, I don’t live too far from here. Mind walking me back home? You can tell me about your father.”
AND AWAY WE GO…
EXT. SHAKESPEARE’S APARTMENT
Shakespeare and the Dane speak outside his front door. We notice the yellow police caution tape crisscrossing the balcony. You know, to mark the spot where Vicky fell.
SHAKESPEARE: “Hmm, that is quite a tale about your father. Dead on a pickleball court, alone, playing figuratively by himself in the wee hours. Odd.”
THE DANE: “Not one, not even my family caring so much.”
SHAKESPEARE: “Listen, I must get some rest. I had a terrible day. Death has paid me a terrible visit too.”
THE DANE: “I will coming visiting you at the bank.”
INT. APARTMENT
Shakespeare enters the apartment and slumps down onto the couch right next to the infamous Bud Light beer stain (from part 3). He caresses the spot where Vicky spilled that blighted brew.
SHAKESPEARE: “Oh, Vicky.”
A few tears escape those soulful English eyes. He’s blubbering, really.
Shakespeare quickly falls asleep on the couch. With his mouth slightly open, he begins to drool. Oh, goody. He’s snoring too. Loudly.
But there’s this strange image hovering, darting around the apartment. Space distorts, but yet there is no sound. Some kind of strong wind maybe.
It’s like Paranormal Activity, but with a drooling playwright.
It’s Vicky! She’s now a ghost, hovering over him.
She’s about 20% more transparent than when we last saw her, but the afterlife is obviously treating her well. Looks like her hair and nails just got done. Nice.
Vicky silently clings near the ceiling. She shakes her head as she flits over Shakespeare’s kitchen sink full of dirty dishes.
VICKY: “The living are such slobs.”
Shakespeare lets out a huge snore, and she turns her attention to the poet.
VICKY: “That accent just does something nasty to me.”
She smirks on “nasty.”
VICKY: “So funny and intelligent.”
Though she is a ghost, Vicky is able to interact with the physical world. She picks up a small blanket nearby and approaches the sleeping poet. He stirs. She moves in closer hoping that he’d awake, but he starts snoring again. So she holds the blanket over William and lets it drift gently down on him.
She smiles sweetly as she watches him rest. The smirk quickly turns to a knowing chuckle.
VICKY: “Speaking of nasty, I need to get my ‘ghost’ on here.”
She grunts as she walks on the walls and ceiling trying to imprint footprints in odd angles. Success!
VICKY: “Gonna love that. Now let me unscrew the light bulbs. I’ll use ketchup to write on mirrors and I’ll put mustard on...”
So Vicky’s been watching over him the whole time. Hmm. Will she watch him shower? Do ghosts need to shower? Will we watch her shower?
YE OLDE CUT TO:
EXT. FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF BEVERLY HILLS
Looks like some sort of minor protest outside the bank here.
Ah, yes. CAP. Citizens Against Pennies. A small but growing crowd of people have turned their skin sparkling bronze (like brand-new pennies) and are holding placards.
I must say, the penmanship on the signs is first rate: “Defund the Pennies!” “Know Pennies, No Peace; No Pennies, Know Peace!”
INT. THE BANK - NOON
We notice a large cardboard poster of Vicky sitting on an easel in the bank lobby. There’s purple flowers draped over the poster. WE MISS YOU, VICKY!
The clock ticks over to noon, high noon.
A FEMALE EMPLOYEE locks the glass front door and hands the keys to THOMAS, the bank’s manager.
He’s a burly man with a crew cut and oversized horn-rimmed glasses standing beside the easel. A dozen or so bored employees, including William, face Thomas.
THOMAS: “Sorry to do this over lunch hour, folks. We’ve had some losses recently, which I wanted to address, quite frankly.”
Thomas points toward Vicky’s poster on the easel. Most of the other employees aren’t even really paying attention.
Thomas then walks behind the easel and rummages through a stack of posters sitting on the floor.
THOMAS: “But moving on.”
He picks up a poster and places it over Vicky’s picture. The new one reads: “Handicapped Indigenous People’s Week.”
Shakespeare looks around dismayed that Thomas glossed over Vicky’s death so quickly. But the other employees mostly shrug. The Bard wants to say something, but Thomas continues.
THOMAS: “First, we got handi-capable Native Americans or Indians. There’s talk of an Indian Casino coming to the area so we wanna capitalize on that, quite frankly.”
The manager picks up another poster. It’s a man and woman holding up their left arms into the air while their right arms are duct taped to their bodies.
THOMAS: “Then of course, Left-Handed Person Awareness Week. As a southpaw, this one’s my favorite, quite frankly.”
As Thomas grabs yet another poster, a peeved Shakespeare interjects:
SHAKESPEARE: “Well, who cares about people when there’s money at stake?”
ONE EMPLOYEE, TED, big big Ted, interrupts. But it’s more out of self-regard.
TED: “I need to grab a bite.”
Several other employees also second Ted’s motion to eat.
Shakespeare scans the employees narrowly and scoffs to himself.
SHAKESPEARE: “Let’s all have a bite! So we can all grow rotund and rub our fat bellies and have an Obese Employees Day at the bank!”
The poet realizes he’s not making much sense.
Ted just looks around haplessly. He just wants a sandwich.
THOMAS: “Well, quite frankly, I don’t think that’s really necessary to honor oversized people. We do have our large-sized teller window.”
The manager points to the super-extremo size Plexiglas teller window at the far end of the bank, much bigger than the puny regular-size teller windows.
SHAKESPEARE: “Maybe honor murderous English kings? Or, uh, a tribute to all the Scots that we hate? Or Kill an Irishman day?”
Then suddenly, a gargantuan rumble shakes the place. Shakespeare nearly jolts upright. The other employees don’t seem to notice anything as they’re mostly daydreaming.
A deafening sound! A shadow appears and spreads darkness over William. Only William.
He cowers. Looks around for help, but Thomas keeps droning on, and the other employees don’t seem to notice. Or care.
Shakespeare’s arms cover his head. The rumbling doesn’t stop. He dares to look up and squints with one eye and sees...
It’s Vicky! But partially transparent and wearing some sort of glowing workout suit. She’s hovering over the poet.
VICKY: “I gotta shake things up down there. This meeting is so boring I think I’m gonna die again.”
Vicky’s ghostly form darts from one corner of the building to the other. Even does a kamikaze into a window or two. Shoots so fast around the bank that desks, chairs and flower pots tip, wobble and fall.
Everyone’s fully alert now as alarms blare, and the overhead sprinklers turn on.
Shouts of “Earthquake!” “Run for cover!” and “Let’s go clear out the vault!” are heard. Okay, the last one was from me.
Thomas and the employees scatter. Some hide under desks or chairs. Thomas runs into his office and locks the door. One employee does in fact head toward a door marked VAULT.
Shakespeare, having never been in an earthquake, is transfixed. He can’t move. He’s frozen with terror.
VICKY: “Psst! Yo, 007, up here. It’s me.”
The poet looks up. His eyes grow wide. He shrieks and gets down on his knees. With hands against his forehead, he starts praying. Well, sort of.
He mumbles some of his famous lines like in fervent prayer.
SHAKESPEARE: “To be or not to be, that is the question, whether ‘tis nobler... out, out, brief, candle, life is but a walking shadow... Life is stage, we are merely players...”
He stops muttering and slowly looks up. Yep, Vicky’s still there, grinning ear-to-ear. She very much enjoys seeing William so out of sorts.
The only sound we hear is Shakespeare panting. And some random muffled yelling from the protest outside.
Vicky decides to have a little fun and swoops down like an airplane doing a series of touch-and-goes using the poet’s face. She does this a few times before she abruptly stops only a few inches from William’s nose. She stares at him.
Shakespeare rapidly moves his arms like a frenzied madman swatting away a bee swarm. He fearfully grunts and writhes.
Vicky continues flying about the room as the Bard shrieks and hides his face with his hands as he goes back to mumbling:
SHAKESPEARE: “Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Tybalt, Cymbeline...”
Just then, CRASH!
Some of the We Hate Pennies protesters smash through the bank’s glass front door.
The employees remain hidden under chairs and desks.
Thomas the manager pokes his head out the office door. He doesn’t like what he sees, so he withdraws like a scared turtle and slams the door shut.
Vicky flies toward Shakespeare, waving hello and grinning.
VICKY: “Up here!”
Shakespeare peeks out from his hands and squints, hesitantly.
SHAKESPEARE: “Vicky?!”
VICKY: “Come on, Haley Joel Osment. I know you can see dead people. Me!”
Shakespeare’s attention, however, is drawn to the mob of protestors as they quickly stream into the bank lobby.
VICKY: “Follow me. I know a back way out of here.”
UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN for Chapter Six….er, uh, enjoy a few sonnets in the meantime.
[P.S. - The home page map was drawn by renowned atlas creator Abraham Ortelius in 1564. Anything else significant happen that year? Like the birth of any famous writers? Nah, I think some French royal stubbed a toe, but that was pretty much the big news for 1564.]
They're gonna catch hell for that Handicapped Indigenous People's Week sign. Headdresses are sacred ornaments to be worn only by those who have brought honor to the tribe...