[Shortly after the election, I started writing a three act play, a mashup loosely inspired by Ubu Roi and King Lear. Now, a month into the new regime, I think I saw what had happened and what was coming fairly clearly. So, rather than obsess over the outrage du jour, I am posting the play here, a scene at a time.]
A stall in a horse barn in Vermont. It's night. A single, bare, incandescent bulb hanging on a wire from the ceiling provides light. Lear and Cordelia are sitting in the straw.
Lear:
I am loath to credit what I learnt by word of mouth at the general store.
Cordelia:
You see how full of changes his age is. The observation we have made of it hath not been little. Shit, I'm talking like you.
Lear:
It comes from long propinquity in adversity. 'Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.
Cordelia:
I will not call him anywhere near the best and soundest of his time, and he hath been but rash; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-ingrained condition, but wherewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.
Lear:
You've got that right, sister. See? It rubs both ways. In truth, such inconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of the press conference and SCROTUM's demise. And when those who presume to benefit from what they like to pretend are his services, deem him past his best by date, what then? Shall they, seeking to quaff yet again that ill-got sweetness to which use hath accustomed them, raise the cup and find its contents abruptly soured, unwholesome? Shall they spew it from their lips? Upon whom shall the gob land, and to what harm? Shall he fly back in their faces, as is his wont, fighting to shove himself down their heretofore so willingly open throats? Or does another providence direct these affairs, to which we all, partisan and partisan alike, are less than spittle in the wind? I prefer to credit the latter. What's left to trust, but that another day will follow this? Good night, Cordelia.
Cordelia:
Good night, you prince of a man.
