CLOWNWORLD SHAKESPEARE - The Journey Slams into an Impossible Mission

William visits a library, while Tom Cruise becomes one with the universe...

EXT. ROOFTOP, LA CENTRAL LIBRARY

We’re thousands of feet above Los Angeles, the dusky, crusty crown jewel of the Aztecs, I mean America.

William doesn’t notice the unclothed, unwashed city down below. He’s slightly damp, too tired and a bit nauseous after last chapter’s violent and chaotic pool party.

On their way from the hotel soiree to here at the Central Library rooftop, Security Expert Jim revealed to Shakespeare and Monique what he believed would be Thor’s exact location within the famed book joint.

Jim said that “they” first need to find a computer password. Then “they” will use that password to infiltrate the bowels of the library as “they” bypass a series of deadly traps. Then “they” will traverse pools of murky poison, while “they” eventually sidestep hordes of Uzi-carrying killers. Or some such pish-posh. And by “they,” Jim means “the Bard.”

Now we join William, Jim and Monique (girlfriend of Thor, aka the Dane) on this glorious sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky, unless you count that six-mile band of brown smog over the city as a cloud.

William mutters to himself. He’s slightly peeved as he tries to keep his damp California casual attire from sticking to his alabaster English skin:

SHAKESPEARE: “Anything for the Dane. Just keep telling myself: ‘Anything for the goddamn Dane.’”

Shakespeare’s mood darkens a bit more as Monique ties a thick rope, connected to a massive industrial spooling winch, around his midsection.

MONIQUE: “It’s tight. We’re good!”

Shakespeare grimaces with discomfort, both mental and physical, as he’s about to be lowered through a rather tight construction hole, down, way down, way way down, into the building’s interior.

Monique looks up, squints her beautiful brown eyes and notices a helicopter curiously hovering directly overhead. Is that a man exiting the helicopter? Hmm. Anyway, back to the task at hand.

Shakespeare intensely ponders his upcoming descent and continues his breathy chant: “Anything for the Dane...”

JIM: “We’ll lower you into the computer room. You get the password for the security door in the main hall, and we’ll get you back up here. Stay away from the walls! Hear me? No walls! Go!”

SHAKESPEARE: “What’s with the walls?”

JIM: “Er, uh, well, they were made by, uh, the Irish. And I know how much we Brits, well, everyone really, um, hates those guys, uh, so… you know… don’t touch the Irish walls.”

Shakespeare glares sideways at the old security expert. He considers Jim’s words for a second. Then William grunts and shakes his head, muttering something about senility and too much scented aftershave lotion.

MONIQUE: “Good luck, William. Remember, it’s all for Thor.”

The poet nods solemnly. “Remember the Dane,” he silently and repeatedly incants, bracing himself for yet another possible limb-altering adventure. He slowly inhales. Ready, set and… and… and…

And… he can’t do it just yet.

The Bard looks down through the hole again. If he falls, he’s dead… if he’s lucky.

He looks toward Monique, who smiles at the poet, hoping to quell his apprehension.

MONIQUE: “I got ya, big guy. I won’t let you drop. I can handle it. I’ve done tougher stuff.”

That’s true. She has. William’s fears pull back, and he smiles weakly.

Despite any reassurances, however, he can’t stop quivering. So he does what he does best when he’s got stage fright. He goes into soliloquy mode:

SHAKESPEARE: As a member of good standing in the King Henry VIII Royal Orgy and Theater Club, I won’t stand for this wanton treatment! Fie upon thine quickness of action! O just a bit of rest, I beseech thee! My strength wanes as I contemplate war against these… computers. Those wretched digital dastards! I want for quill and paper, and these passwords are bloody remnants of an unpronounceable tongue. Oh, I endeavor a rhyme or two. My muses, bereaved and aghast—”

Jim harrumphs loudly. Then shouts:

JIM: “Stiff upper lip! Go!”

Shakespeare trembles at the sight of the hole he’s dropping into.

Jim gives Monique the “go” sign.

Monique nods and commences the unspooling, using all her strength to crank the winch.

SHAKESPEARE: “Are you sure my descent into this unknown landscape shall have the desirous effect on the lamentable situation we…”

The Bard’s words trail off as Monique deftly works the device.

Monique grunts and grunts and heaves and grunts, slowly-but-surely lowering Shakespeare into the bowels of the Central Library.

The lowering takes several minutes. Monique gives it her all. Luckily, her lithe frame needs only a few breaks from all the exertion.

As she cranks, her taut thighs, smooth tummy and ample bosom bounce rhythmically. Her biceps bulge and flatten, bulge and flatten. Tiny moans escape her dewy lips as her toes clench and unclench with the clutch of each wheel turn.

Sweat glistens on her brow, her neck, her cheek. She manipulates the crank just a bit more… a bit more until the moaning release… er, the task is finally complete. Monique wails a momentous sigh as her moist eyes roll back into her head. Monique’s achieved completion.

Shakespeare, now in the computer room, has calmed down a little since he’s no longer dangling several hundred feet above the ground. But he still looks unsure of what he’s doing here in this sleek, antiseptic workspace. White panels for walls. Stainless steel floors. There’s a glass desk, Italian design, with a computer monitor and keyboard resting on top. And nothing else in the room. Nada.

Having a heckuva hard time controlling his body and avoiding those damnable Irish-made walls, the Bard carefully reaches into a pocket for his crib notes when…

Thwockkk! A fully body slam.

Why, it’s Mission Impossible’s Ethan Hunt (portrayed of course by actor Tom Cruise, best known for the 2024 Paris Olympics Opening Ceremony… or whatever that thing was.)

Shakespeare swings wildly to and fro, narrowly avoiding the walls, thrashing about his harness, arms and legs akimbo.

Shakespeare and Ethan slam into each other several more times as their harness cables nearly intertwine. Eventually, both men achieve airborne stability with no entanglements.

Oh, that’s what that helicopter was doing. Ethan shimmied down from the ‘copter via a very thin but very strong wire, right past Monique and Jim into the construction hole. Nice and totally believable stunt!

Ethan taps his cheap Chinese-made earpiece as he shoots Shakespeare an angry look. Shakespeare’s too busy to notice the angry look as he rubs some soon-to-be bruises in his shoulders and lower back.

ETHAN HUNT: “Pal, this is my op. You tell MI6 or Interpol or whatever European shitbag is paying you, if they want Falstaff, they’re gonna have to wait until we have a crack at him first.”

The movie star dusts off his iconic tight black T-shirt with his fitted black gloves and intensely scans the Bard like he’s a faded barcode. Hmm, wait a second.

ETHAN HUNT: “You’re not from MI6, are you? What, is this a prank? Did Titus in tech-ops put you up to this?”

SHAKESPEARE: “No, I just need some secret word.“

ETHAN HUNT: “Welcome to the party. We’re all here for secrets. Any interest in trading? Putin’s nuclear codes for anything on, say, Sydney Sweeney? Like her secret LinkedIn page?”

Shakespeare shakes his head no.

SHAKESPEARE: “I need the secret word for the security portal in the main hall here at the library. Some gobbledygook about a ‘logging’ screen. Then…”

Shakespeare reaches into his pants pocket to reveal a crinkled scrap of paper. He squints and mutters. Brows furrowed.

Aha! He perks up.

SHAKESPEARE: “Yes, here it is! ‘Click on… Advanced Option… ta…b. Check…box marked Admini…strator… and then scroll…. down to Hidden Files…’ It’s all so dreary. (huge sigh!) ‘Then left…click the Ent...er User…na —’”

Ethan can’t take anymore. He rolls his eyes. Scoffing:

ETHAN HUNT: “Pfllt! Security door, main hall, library. Amateurs. I’ll got ya, pal.”

Monique yells from above.

MONIQUE: “What’s going on, William?”

Ethan looks up through the ceiling hole. Double takes!

ETHAN HUNT: “Monique?!”

Monique double takes.

MONIQUE: “Ethan?! What the hell! I thought I felt something whoosh past me. Nice trick! We need help!”

Monique turns to Jim, as an aside:

MONIQUE: “We used to date.” (to Ethan, loudly): “Can you help us get a password?”

ETHAN HUNT: “For you? Of course! I assume this dork here is with you.”

Monique shouts in the affirmative. Shakespeare beams with pride at “dork.” He thinks it’s a compliment. What a dork!

Ethan shoots Monique a thumbs up as he wrangles and twists himself over to the room’s lone computer. He types a few keystrokes and grins. He then types a few more strokes, then a few more, then a few more. He grins, then types some more. He does this seven more times before addressing the Bard:

ETHAN HUNT: “Paper and pen?”

SHAKESPEARE: “Uh, yeah, my good dork.”

Ethan bristles, but quickly shakes off the remark.

ETHAN: “All lowercase, except for the first and last letters: R-e-a-d-i-n-g-i-s-o-b-s-o-l-e-a-T.”

Shakespeare squints in disbelief as he pens the password to paper.

ETHAN HUNT: “Hey, that’s what it says. ‘ReadingisobsoleaT.’”

Looking up toward the ceiling/rooftop, Shakespeare calls out.

SHAKESPEARE: “To the Heavens! Posthaste!”

Monique hesitates, slightly confused.

SHAKESPEARE: “Lift me the fuck outta here!”

Monique steels herself and commences winching and grunting and grunting and heaving and so on…

A few minutes of intense struggling for Monique enables William to land safely back up on the roof.

Shakespeare keels over nauseous and drained, but so happy to be free of his restraints and away from computers.

As for Jim, well, it’s almost nap time for the oldster. His eyelids grow heavy as the white noise from the helicopter blades drones on and on.

Monique is, pardon the expression, balls deep into some seriously intense leg and back stretches. She’s like the Energizer Bunny this gal.

Truth be told: neither Shakespeare nor Monique nor Jim give the airship much thought… for now. But they will. Soon.

Finishing her after-winching workout, Monique jogs over to the hole in the roof and looks down. She’ll never fully rest until Thor is safe.

MONIQUE : “Hey, Ethan, my boyfriend’s been kidnapped by Obsidian. Any advice?”

ETHAN HUNT: “Boyfriend, huh? Obsidian? They’re bad mama-jamas. You gotta go fast and hard, and then hit ‘em in the soft underbelly. They’re centrally organized and like to delegate...”

Ethan pretends he’s in hand-to-hand combat with an Obsidian foe, and he comes dangerously close to touching a wall due to his many gesticulations.

ETHAN HUNT: “...big jobs to their low-level grunts. One time I faced off with two-- no, three Obsids, that’s what we call those bastards, in Barcelona. I was cornered so I whipped out my—”

Ethan pantomimes so vehemently he rams a finger into one of the sleek walls. Normally, something like that might cause minor knuckle pain. But this time...

Thwooop! A thin green laser beam comes outta nowhere and vaporizes Ethan Hunt. Poof! All gone! Nothing left but a moist, grayish, Tropic Thunder-killing it, Oprah couch-jumping, Nicole Kidman-banging mist.

Shakespeare, Monique and Jim gasp in horror. Under his breath, William mutters: “Fucking Irish!”

But the trio quickly turn their six eyeballs skyward. The helicopter’s engines thud and whine like a diseased hellhound.

The electrical charge that went through Ethan traveled up the wire and bricked the airship. It’s kaput.

Blgggghshhhh! The helicopter’s engine explodes into a molten metallic miasma.

Flwanng! The blades careen into space (and will eventually fall onto the 101 Freeway during rush hour).

The aircraft violently jerks left… and then right…. then left…now a nosedive…then upside-down! Then a few loop de loops, then an Immelmann. It’s outta control!

Black smoke billows. The ‘copter spins and spins, hurtling down and down, end over end. It’s falls right smack dab…. toward Shakespeare, Monique and Jim!

Until we meet again…

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