Maybe the Kids Aren't Alright

I rise from my symbolic grave like a zombie gunslinger. I’m here to take out all my enemies, all the haters. Each and everyone one.

My dedication to Hindy has been questioned. It need not be. The philosophy that powers this blog courses through my blood, not in a venereal disease kind of way but in a stuff that I live and die for kind of way. While writers have come and gone from our humble abode (don’t even get me started on Archibald, apparently the stupid fuck thinks Vancouver is cooler than America) I have been here from just about the beginning and I will not leave. Never.

Instead I will write you guys plays and short stories, because you see, that’s what has been taking up vast amounts of my time since the Super Bowl. These works of art (which they most definitely are) are going to revolutionize some literary shit.

So without further ado, here is the first of a number of Hindy exclusive plays and short stories. This first one is a play though. Enjoy. And if you not, you’re just a hater like everyone else.

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Horror Pops

Written and directed by Sergei T. S. W. Tortoise

Staring: _____ and _____

Featuring the voice of: _____

With appearances by: _____, _____, _____, _____

The stage is practically barren with the exception of a holy trinity of decrepit house hold furnishings and a row of lights just in front of the audience. There is a ripped to shreds brown leather recliner; a TV tray with a can of Hormel chili, a white towel and a can opener; and finally a rickety table seemingly seconds from toppling under the weight of a black rotary phone. Oh yeah there’s also a person in the middle of it all, the hero (well at least the main character) of our story. He looks like a bum, but obviously he isn’t this is his apartment after all. His name is Richie Sanders and he wears a sweat stained white t-shirt and purple corduroy pants whose frayed cuffs reveal orange flip-flops. He looks haggard for some reason, which is funny because he just spent the day playing hooky from work. What exciting things did he do on his day off, well nothing really, unless you consider watching old taped episodes of the Sally Jesse Raphael Show exciting. Seriously that’s all he’s done today, except now, because right now he’s walking over to the phone which just started ringing.

RICHIE

Yeah, this is Richie. Oh, it’s you Harry…No I didn’t go to work today. Why...The restaurant got robbed. You don’t say…No I took the day off, had more exciting things to do than go to work. Seems like an especially good day not to have gone in now…What’d I do? Oh exciting stuff, you know. I’m really not one to brag…no…Alright alright. I just stayed home, watched some TV…Like your life is so much better. Fuck you, you jerk!

He slams down the phone and the desk crumbles.

RICHIE

Just my luck. I ought to make him pay for this table. This would’ve never happened if he hadn’t of aggravated me.

He starts pacing, mumbling to himself, undoubtedly reviewing all of Harry’s trespasses in the utmost detail. The more he paces the more fidgety he gets, reaching a point of near trembles around the 42^nd minute. After another 8 more minutes of this he comes to a panting stop at the head of the stage trying to catching his breath.

RICHIE

That no good son of a bitch. I hate him I tell you…

He pauses as if about to go on about Harry, but the pause bears no fruition. Instead he starts pacing again. This fidgeting doesn’t come on this time, and after 36 minutes more of pacing, he makes his way over to the TV tray. He turns towards the crowd and begins to speak.

RICHIE

You know I haven’t eaten today. I think it’s why I’m so—so antsy. I don’t know. I’m probably wrong. It’s probably something else. But I am pretty hungry now. Hopefully this will hit the spot.

He picks up the can of chili and holds it like a model from The Price is Right. He wants everyone to see what he is about to eat. After doing this he puts it back down on the table and picks up the can opener. In an excruciatingly slow manner he opens the can. After opening the can he places the can opener back down and stares into the decapitated can.

RICHIE

May not be a meal fit for a king, but it’ll do for a jester like me.

He removes his shirt, gingerly folding it and then setting it aside. After two minutes of standing over the TV tray he grasps the can with both hands and lifts it up above his head. He lets his head fall back and proceeds to pour the chili into his mouth and upper torso. The entire can eventually drained, he sets it down and picks up the towel. He wipes off all the chili that now covers him, the same way someone else would dry off after a shower. Finally clean he throws the towel into the audience and picks up his shirt. While putting it on he starts speaking.

RICHIE

Look’s like I was right again. That definitely hit the spot. It’ll give me the energy I need to watch some more episodes of Sally.

He walks over to the recliner, but before sitting down he turns on the imaginary TV that sits a few feet in front of it. Then sitting down on the recliner, he pulls the lever and reclines as much as it will let him. He is ready for another two hour marathon. Over the next two hours he will occasionally sit up and pay particular attention to a segment, sometimes he will hoot and holler, but more often than not he will lie back and be about as passive a TV viewer as you can imagine. Around the two hour mark he will visibly hit a wall and fall asleep. Within seconds of drifting off he will start snoring. Not an obnoxious snore but a continual low hum of a snore.

After ten minutes of this, five figures appear on stage, one at each corner of the stage and the fifth (the obvious leader) at the head looking straight out on to the audience. They are all teenage boys, between the ages of 14 and 17. They are all short yet slightly tussled blonde hair, blue eyes, clear complexions and are wearing the same outfit, one that consists of: a white polo shirt, a brown leather belt with a golden buckle, white pleated shorts that end about three inches from the knee, and brown Sperrys that are worn without socks. Three of the boys are holding their hands in the shape of the guns, while the others have theirs balled into fists. After reaching their places, they stand impeccably still for a minute. Suddenly the one in front breaks into a crouch and sneers at the audience, softly chuckling to himself before yelling.

LEADER

Attack!

The other four boys all run at Richie and start punching, stabbing, and shooting, while the leader continues to stare out at the audience. The stage lights violent flash, filling the stage with green and red. The leader finally he turns towards Richie and starts to saunter over. The other boys have continued to attack Richie’s body relentlessly and his shirts has visibly started to become drenched with what looks like blood. The leader finally comes to a stop about a front of Richie, he pauses and then leaps onto the arm of the recliner. Richie still hasn’t stirred. The green and red flashes stop. The leader moves in clasps both of his hand together his index and middle finger extended on both hands, as if he is holding a gun and begins yelling.

LEADER

Pop…Pop. Pop Pop. Pop! Pop Pop Pop! POP!

His job done, he jumps off the recliner and walks off stage, the other four boys following behind him. Richie is still lying there, his shirt now red. There is no longer any snoring. Just silence. This is how things will be for eight solid minutes. Once those eight minutes pass Richie comes to with a gasp. He sits up and looks down at his shirt.

RICHIE

Oh god. I must’ve thrown up on myself while I was asleep. Maybe that Hormel chili didn’t hit the spot.

He gets up and immediately takes of his shirt. He wrings it out, sending blood/chili to the floor.

RICHIE

Gross…

Suddenly the green and red flashing lights return. A song starts playing, it’s “House Arrest” by Ariel Pink, except with out the cool(and redeeming) intro. In other words it is a truly horrible song. Richie looks up towards the heavens, a look of bewilderment on his face. This looks changes to one of complete horror when a disembodied voice booms out to him.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Richie…answer me, I know you are there.

RICHIE

Ummm…this is Richie.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Do you know why I am speaking to you?

RICHIE

Is this God?

The voice starts laughing. It’s almost a giggle, or as close to a giggle as a booming disembodied voice can muster.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

No it is not, but that is beside the point as that is not the question I asked you

RICHIE

Oh…I’m sorry. I just thought I should ask, I mean I just thought you might…

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Richie! That is not what I asked. Again, do you know why I am here.

RICHIE

No, I have no idea.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Your time has come Richard Matthew Sanders. It is time for me to take you to another place.

RICHIE

Where are we going?

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

You will see when we get there.

RICHIE

Am I going to hell.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

I said you will see when we get there…but just because of that I can guarantee it sure as hell won’t be Babylon. Oh and put on your shirt. I am tired of seeing you shirtless.

Richie walks over picks up his shirt, wrings it out once more, and puts it back on.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Hurry up, I haven’t got all day.

Richie slowly walks towards the head of the stage. He sadly looks out on the crowd and pitifully waves. The lights go out.

-THE END-