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BACK TO NEXUS CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY CHESTER VON GOLDENBERRY, acting prodigy turned amateur playwright BELLA BLACKWOOD THE PROP-MASTER, long-suffering friend and colleague of CHESTER AYALA, the loving city THE AUDIENCE, the metric by which all is judged THE VON-WHATEVERS, upper class denizens of AYALA THE WHOEVER-THE-THIRDS, upper class denizens of AYALA ESTELLE VON-WHATEVER, long term patron of CHESTER THE TOAD, a beast from the stars yearning for homes past EDGAR HITHERS, a cheap yet loyal servant of CHESTER MALLIA BACKSWORTH THE MAID, one of dozens among THE PROP-MASTER’s staff FADE IN EXT. LINDEL STREET - NIGHT It took CHESTER three stops to find a pawn shop with a pistol on display that was still open and fifteen minutes of talk with the clerk behind the counter to get them to hand it on over. Paid far too much for the pistol, cherry-wood grip worn smooth from years of previous use and a barking snout burnished upon the edge of his winter coat, and five bullets. Three for whatever staff might be lingering around the home so late at night, one for THE PROP-MASTER, and one for just in case. He’d never carried out a murder before, didn’t know just what precautions he should take. The fog was thick that night. Its light struggled to piece through, barely dribbled upon the back of CHESTER’s neck as he passed by. Poorly painted walls and hedges in need of a good trimming. Sounds drifted down from the high windows as CHESTER stalked past, the murmur of the good folk of AYALA bedding down. Day-to-day existences up there, mundane and insignificant. A whole lot of culturally starved, spiritually starved idiots. Dock workers and seamstresses, accountants and doctors. The common-folk, THE AUDIENCE. Two wives and a stunted, potted basil which neither knew how to take care of. One a butcher, the other a professional flatterer for richer folk. They’d gone and seen the last showing of Bleak Portrait sixty-three days ago. The butcher had thought poor Tobias- played by darling of the stage CHESTER VON GOLDBERRY, of course- was sympathetic to a degree that you just didn’t get in media anymore. A damn awful man with many a reason for his actions. The flatterer thought he sounded like most of her clientele. A copy of yesterday’s AYALA Daily rested upon the kitchen table. A page into the front story of the gossip rag, there was a misprint. A ‘Q’ was missing its leg, the line reading as ‘ ...Oestionable practices are VON GOLDBERRY’s bread and butter- no amount of brilliance can justify his mistreatment of the crew ’. Not the main road, but close enough that those quaint apartments were crowded out in favor of far more austere homes. The sort that the flatterer would pay visits to and spend hours at a time smiling perfectly and nodding along to everything that was said to her. Where the VON-WHATEVERs and the WHOEVER-THE THIRDs lived. Pretty flower arrangements and family heirlooms. Cabinets full of fine porcelain. The thought of those people made CHESTER want to chew on something. People with far too much confidence in the idea that others wanted to hear their opinions, the sort to put out their cute little opinion pieces and reviews. Talkative folk. The first time his name had gotten into the papers had been because of one of them and CHESTER had loved the attention. Made a point of chasing down that VON-WHATEVER at the next showing- a penny-house play where he had nothing but a side role and a whole lot of resentment for the lead- and thanking them for those kind words. CHESTER knew where they lived, even after all those years. Had become something of a family friend, a charming fellow who'd breeze by ever so often, a cute little peek down a few rings of the social ladder. A jester, if he wished to be particularly bitter. CHESTER wished he’d bought just one more bullet so he could kill them too. They’d followed VON GOLDBERRY’s career quite closely ever since he’d first caught their eye. A dashing young man, so polite and proper on top of his brilliant performances. The sort who could really make a character come to life . A real tale of struggling through adversity and coming out on the other side all the better for it, if one was inclined to believe the rumors. A touch of paperwork and a small name change meant he sounded like proper folk, a study-up on manners and the weekly gossip completing that little act. ESTELLE was not stupid enough to fall for such stage-tricks brought out onto the streets, but they liked him. VON GOLDBERRY was cute in the sort of way that fat house-lizards were, something in his stance that made them want to scoop him on up and hold him close to their chest Of course they’d been disappointed by the news of his sudden career shift. The boy was already such a perfect actor, why did he have to set his eyes on playwright as well? Traded in endless leading roles for the sort of slop that penny-houses would laugh over, his reputation and the seemingly undying loyalty of THE PROP-MASTER which had glued herself to his side the only things keeping those jokes onstage. A Deconstruction was cliche to the point of tears, No Seats Left edging on the sort of heretical that was suspect, rather than the traditional AYALA-heathen funny- ESTELLE dreaded to take a peek at yesterday’s copy of AYALA Daily , the header which promised ‘ GREAT GOSSIP, STARTLING INSIDER TRUTHS! ’ stirring up nothing but fear of embarrassment in the gut of VON GOLDBERRY’s longest sponsor. Underneath the street, something breathed. A slow draw and pull which gripped at what night breeze drifted down to the gutter and dragged it away, deeper and deeper into the sewers. Wrung it of all life and freshness, then sent the remains out in a gentle puff of breath. Such a distance that there was no way to notice at the mouth of the gutter, such a change in temperature impossible to feel- but that breath travelled with a companion. There were rumors of some poor beast wandering about those damp tunnels for a reason. A wailing wretch, sobs rattling the pipes and slipping out into the stillness of night. Perhaps, a cause for some mugginess of the sewers- tears condensed upon chiseled out tunnels and rusted pipe. Deeper, past where any man had walked, where the tunnels twisted in organic loops and dead birds sang, THE TOAD mourned for a home that no longer existed. It sat in a pool of its own tears, the soft skin of its belly lost to millenia-maceration, and it could never take in a full breath. The grief was too heavy. Still, it loved AYALA as much as it could. Loved HER and HER people, shallow mimicries of what once was. There would be no return, but the tears of a starry beast were potent things. Enough to smudge the lines and work at reality- as if AYALA were making a poor attempt at comfort, twisting upon HERSELF and presenting the best mirror SHE could come up with. THE TOAD could spare some eyes the great task of weeping to keep watch of CHESTER. It had loved the drama of what once was. Had loved the playwrights and the actors more than anyone else. The city was hungry for a good scandal. The buildings crowded in, the streetlights glimmered with anticipation. Trees stilled their rustling upon CHESTER’s passing, his footsteps upon the cobble pronounced in the sort of way he’d always wanted from the stage. Deliberate and undeniable. Wind at his back, the hem of his winter coat fluttering about his ankles. Clouds over the moon. Cold enough for his breath to feather out in front of him, for the last of the afternoon rain to begin to ice over. Not a whisper from the homes, not a single lit window. A city-wide shared conspiracy, a stage perfectly built which cradled its star with love. CHESTER, for that night, was AYALA’s dearest actor. If anyone thought to ask HER what SHE would title this play, it would be simple. THE STAGE ANEW. Of course CHESTER did not notice. He was too busy palming a pistol and keeping his breath steady. A particularly fine detail. CHESTER’s stretched far in front of him, drenched his approach in cold blackness. He hesitated. Just a half-step, a barely there stutter, but he hesitated. CHESTER hadn’t ever killed someone before. He’d spent an entire lifetime building up the person that all in AYALA knew him as: friendly, a bit snobbish, always expecting the best of those around him and always working to reach further and further. Ambitious and prideful. All admirable traits in a young star, not the sort of attitude one would expect of a murderer. He’d be breaking from the blacked-out lines upon the flaky paper of the coloring book, a sudden and unexpected going-off of the script. The thought was as frightening as it was intoxicating. As a child, that had meant a ruined night. More, if his father was in a particularly foul mood. CHESTER hadn’t ever been able to master the ugly anger in his heart the same way his father had, always struggled between keeping it neatly tucked away and letting it out to bite and slaver at the worst of times. There was a reason THE PROP-MASTER thought him a useless director and playwright both. Too emotional, too prone to outbursts when everything wasn’t just so . She called him abusive, a hollow man who could only act because of such- CHESTER just wanted to be respected. Wanted to show AYALA what he was capable of- how the hell was he supposed to do that when all he had to work with were incompetent actors and traitorous back-crew? A clenched hand upon the grip of the pistol. A strengthening of resolve, a shiver throughout the surrounding trees at his glare cast out to the darkness. All good stories had a moment in which it felt as if all could work out okay. Another narrative beat passed by with ease. A bit formulaic, but CHESTER and AYALA both worked best with the familiar. (BEGIN FLASHBACK INT. VON GOLDBERRY HOME - AFTERNOON Good wood that was marred by an antsy man’s fiddling. Gouges on the top from where he’d dug in a pen, stains from cups without coasters. A clutter of all sorts of things- books with dogeared corners and loose sheets all fluttered about, the occasional chewed-at pencil breaking through the paper mess. Messy notes and scribbled out plot points. The center was the sole cleared out space, a cleanliness made only by shoving everything else aside. In the middle of that, impossible to ignore in its horridness, was that day’s copy of AYALA Daily. Printed just that morning, delivered by a nervous EDGAR. Seemed like he had read through it before setting it down in front of CHESTER- he wondered if the smudged ink of the front page’s title was from the man’s hands. “… AND WHAT do you think of VON GOLDBERRY’s recent career change?
Oh, it's been positively nightmarish . I’d’ve jumped ship months ago if we weren’t practically joined at the hip. Can’t have VON GOLDBERRY without BLACKWOOD, you know. Our good names draw in at least a few crowds, despite the questionable quality of what I’ve got to work with.
That’s been a common take on this whole situation- that your reputation has been the only thing to carry him through this rough period. Audiences still hold out hope for a good performance despite the material VON GOLDBERRY's been giving himself to work with.
That isn’t the only thing reputation has been doing for him.
Would you care to elaborate on that?
Why do you think he’s been able to keep pulling in actors? Everyone’s hoping this madness is going to break, thinking their sticking around despite it will get them in his good graces. VON GOLDBERRY used to be the sort of fellow that could get you a career if he liked you.
Is that the case with you?
Of course not. He’s my friend, as strange and unpredictable as he is. I just wish he was a better man so I could say that without cringing.
What do you mean?
I’m sure you’ve heard the rumor. It isn’t just sudden career changes. Oestionable practices are VON GOLDBERRY’s bread and butter- no amount of brilliance can justify his mistreatment of the crew. He’s always demanding more than what’s possible, losing his mind over the smallest of mistakes. He’s a volatile director, and insisting he takes on every other big role doesn’t help- playwright and lead actor as well, always elbowing away any suggestion at splitting up the duties. Not that there’s a lot with the guts to do that anymore.
That demand for perfection has been a staple his entire time in theater, hasn’t it?
It’s what makes him such a good actor. The lead, as important as they are, just doesn't have the sort of power that VON GOLDBERRY is abusing now. He works best when he’s got nothing but a script and stage directions to worry about- seeing the effort he puts into his work inspires the other actors, you know? How hard he works to really embody the role. You’ve seen Bleak Portrait , haven’t you?
Of course I have. Real excellent work there.
VON GOLDBERRY’s been like that the entire time I’ve known him. No matter how small the role, he does his best to bring it to life and convince THE AUDIENCE of it for just a few nights. Even the first play I’d ever worked on with him- a slapshod production of No Rain Until Sunset at the penny-house down by Walnut and Queens. I just think it's a bit sad to remember that man and then have to go to work every single day and get met with someone who’s practically a stranger. VON GOLDBERRY’s losing his touch.
I imagine it's hard to watch.
A little saddening, but hard? Not so much. He’s a big boy, he can make his own mistakes. I just miss the connection we had before- everyone knows us as a pair, a two-in-one sort of deal, and I miss that sort of relationship. The acting chops of VON GOLDBERRY and the distinct style of BLACKWOOD. We used to make good things, and now my name’s getting associated with the likes of A Deconstruction just because I care about him too much to leave him floundering. It’s a bit tragic, but not hard.
Has his acting been suffering at all, splitting his attention between so many responsibilities?
That’s a funny question. VON GOLDBERRY’s a good actor because he’s got a talent for bringing a spot of life to his roles that most folk don’t have the skill for. It's a bit of an innate thing- have you ever seen him outside of the playhouse? He’s all pretty smiles and parroted out niceties, but there isn’t much substance in his person. Vapid, I suppose you could say.
It's that lack of substance, of personality, combined with the playwright’s own bit of humanity that they cannot help but inject into all their characters, that brings about VON GOLDBERRY’s talent. A simple equation. Of course his acting is suffering- his own scripts lack that vital other half. There’s no life in his characters to fill up the empty spot in his chest. I mean this kindly, of course. CHESTER is my friend.” END FLASHBACK) FADE IN EXT. THE HOME OF BELLA BLACKWOOD - NIGHT So late at night, it was no wonder the door was locked tight. The moon hung above CHESTER as he crouched down and pawed about underneath the welcome mat- such a simple hiding spot, so cliche , but THE PROP-MASTER had never claimed to be clever with those sorts of things. She’d shown him where the spare key was kept after a night of celebration following the first showing of some play or another, when she’d opened up her home to him and let him stay the night in the guest bedroom. It was a long walk from her home to his own. His winter coat brushed against the steps as he grabbed at the key, silhouette reduced to a vague shape with all the darkness about him. A crouching animal, a pair of eyes in the night. There upon the doorstep, it was rather small. A nest of sleepy chicks in the tree to the left of him, a single lizard huddled up on the wall to the right. THE TOAD, the city. CHESTER did not have a clue just what sort of attention was set upon him. There was room for nothing else in his mind but murder, the sensation of eyes familiar as breathing. He would’ve made a terrible killer if his plot didn’t make for such an interesting act. He stood up and unlocked the door, moving slowly to keep the click of the lock as quiet as possible, and slipped the key into his pocket with the same motion that he opened up the door and slipped inside. One smooth, easy motion, and then he was tucked out of sight of any curious eyes upon the street. Dark. The curtains were drawn tight against what moonlight struggled through the clouds, lights long snuffed out. Thick carpet dampened his footsteps, a co-conspirator that he hadn’t even thought of. CHESTER withdrew the pistol from his pocket and held it close to his face, both hands braced upon the grip. He’d learned that hold from a role a few months back- the director had brought in a man more knowledgeable than any of the crew on the handling of guns to make sure the props looked real as real in their hands. His breath was the only hint that there was an intruder, a soft sliver of wrongness in the otherwise motionless home. On the wall opposite of him, three portraits watched. A younger PROP-MASTER done up in a fashion that had been out of style for years, and two grandparents cast in dull oils and moody stares. Good oak frames for all three of them, golden detail painted directly upon the wood. CHESTER did not grow up surrounded by such pieces of art- THE PROP-MASTER was a WHOEVER-THE-THIRD, after all. There were to be differences between the two that no similar tastes could bridge. Despite that, CHESTER had thought they were friends. The hurt was as bitter as it had been when he first read the interview. Still, this was not personal business. This was a matter of work- THE PROP-MASTER had insulted his work, had all but called him a shell of a man. CHESTER could not abide such words. It was not personal, he repeated to himself as slinked up the stairs, one at a time and always with a hesitating step in case one began to creak under his weight. He kept his proper grip upon the gun even as his arms began to ache with the tenseness. Up to the landing, around the turn, and his eyes lighted upon THE MAID stood at the very top. The only reason MALLIA BACKSWORTH did not see VON GOLDBERRY, one of her favorite actors, creeping up the stairs like some hungry dog, was because she was occupied with the strap of her purse. The old thing was practically an heirloom- had started with her grandmother and trickled on down from there to mother, older sister, then her- and spiteful to a degree she hadn’t thought possible. Her mother had said the purse had purse-onality - the wink that followed erased all doubts about that just being an accidental play on words. The clasp had a tendency to give out, the familiarity of the routine and her quick hands the only thing which kept THE MAID’s things from spilling all down the stairs. She was in the middle of fiddling with the clasp, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips and eyes heavy after a full shift on-call, when CHESTER levelled the gun between her eyes and pulled the trigger. It was more difficult to pull than what CHESTER had expected. A great weight hauled by a single finger. It howled in the close confines. The muzzle flashed and cast the scene into stark blacks and whites. Silhouettes and shadows. There was a lot of it. Blood and brains, a beginner's luck clean shot. The body fell without ceremony and CHESTER stared at it. There had been no confrontation there, no final monologue or clean end to a narrative. He’d just ended a life and it was unlike the dozens he’d mimed his way through upon the stage. The air stank of blood and gunpowder, suddenly too thick to draw a single breath from. Blood upon the stairs, little rivulets which dribbled closer and closer, blood upon the banister, the wall, the pretty, pale clothing of THE MAID, a few drops flecked up onto the ceiling. It stood out bright upon the flowered wallpaper. Crimson gnats upon the petals. His arm ached. The kickback had been more severe than he had expected. A cry of surprise rose up from deeper within the second floor. CHESTER blinked, jerked his head away from the morbid sight, and forced his body to move. Rushed up the stairs, nearly tripped over the left arm of THE MAID, and had to grab at the bannister to keep steady. Too bad- he’d broken from the proper grip upon the pistol. Second door down the hall and on the right was flung open, a sharp knock as the knob hit against the wall, and there she was. Loose hair and a pale green dressing gown, mouth open without sound and shock in her eyes. One second without action from either- CHESTER did not fault her for it because, really, what the hell was she supposed to do when confronted with such a sight- and then CHESTER took aim and pulled the trigger. He’d been aiming with just one hand. A shoulder-shot was a hit, but it wasn’t lethal. He released his stranglehold upon the bannister, stepped forward to compensate for the stumble back of THE PROP-MASTER, and shot once more. That one landed true. More of it. The stench became thicker. Two gunshots and two screams, the second cut off in its peak. The murder weapon, still loaded with three bullets, dropped upon the floor once CHESTER pried his fingers off of it. Fingerprints perhaps, if the guardsmen were clever enough to dust the banister CHESTER gripped at and slumped against. They wouldn’t, though. He might be able to get away with murder yet if he forced himself to move, to stop staring at the slow-pooling of blood from BELLA’s body. So he did. Let go of the banister and stumbled his way down the stairs, and out through the way he’d come in. Even slipped the key back underneath the welcome mat. Out onto the street and a right upon AYEM STREET, a slither into the next dark alleyway and a slump against the nearest dumpster. He considered, with lagging thoughts and a distinct detachment from the world as a whole, what evidence he carried upon his person. Would have to get rid of the winter coat just in case any blood got on it. His shoes, new leather loafers he was still in the process of breaking in. Would just have to hope that the pawnshop worker didn’t remember his face.
Holy shit.
Nobody answered.
Holy shit.
CHESTER fell to his knees and vomited upon the damp cobbles. It splattered on his hands, where they were braced upon the ground and trembling away, the stench burning worse than the acid in his throat. He hadn’t eaten properly in days, had nothing to force up but those paltry few coughs. It hurt. Hurt worse than the weight he put upon his left hand- he’d forgotten that he’d sprained just two days before until he was pressing all of his weight in on it. Had taken a bad fall during fight choreography. BELLA had been the one to bully him off the stage after he’d finished spitting and hissing at his co-lead for stopping the scene just because of one little stumble. He’d killed her. Her and some MAID he didn’t even know. Reached out and grabbed at the greatest sort of power any man could hold and used it to shoot them dead. All because of an unpleasant truth. CHESTER shuddered, heaved up nothing but a hard cough. He’d do it again. God, he would. That thought scared him worse than anything else. He’d kill BELLA again if he got a chance to redo that night, just because of how much it had hurt to read her words in that interview. His father’s cruelty, well learned in childhood, mutated into something far more toxic. The thought of becoming that man was worse than the thought of his actions. More pity for himself than the victims. (CHESTER was not very familiar with death. He hadn’t had any pets which died in childhood, never knew his grandparents. His own parents lived yet, out of country and no longer in touch with him. Rationally, he understood what death meant- emotionally, though, he was a child. The full weight of his actions would not settle upon his shoulders as a hungry vulture might for quite a few months more.) CHESTER could have very easily been caught that night. The guardsmen were known to put two and two together on occasion- but THE TOAD had watched the entire affair from the belly of the sewers with interest. It had paid attention during even the slow parts, and AYALA could feel the great affection the beast harbored for the crook. As if he reminded it of someone long gone- if THE TOAD loved CHESTER, then AYALA would too. Would hold him close and set stage for a play unlike other, guide his every step and keep him safe until the grand conclusion. The city curled close upon CHESTER when he finally began the slow walk back to his home. Stray lizards trotted after him, far enough to not be noticed yet close enough to watch him with interest. Streetlights brightened by the slightest degree with his passage and the wind pulled every banner and flag his direction. AYALA had no arms to embrace, but SHE had a great, sprawling body nonetheless, a serpent-city to coil about. It would be a good performance. |