Jewtah is 4 H.O.V.A.

Through ancient, eldritch googles, lensed with rubies frozen from the blood of martyrs by a long-forgotten deity, Harry and Hudson survey the landscape, blighted with salt by a fleeing Creator who clearly learned a thing or two ^[1] from the Russians. Their gaze lingers upon a flock of bighorn sheep, frolicking like they don't live in the most fucked place on earth.

HARRY: This truly is God's country

[ed. note: There is no God]

HUDSON: Yessir! You got that right! This is the place!

[ed. note: Seriously, no God]

HARRY: And to think we were so close to not even applying to Birthright For Cocksuckers.

HUDSON: You have to admit the uh, "verification process" was prett-ay yuckk-ay.

HARRY: Word to that!

A synthetic, otherworldly whine goes from invisible to "yeah, I totally hear that too" and towering plumes of dust appear on the horizon. Harry squints hard into his stupid goggles.

HARRY: Is it- could it? Has our absent Lord returned?

HUDSON: Naw, dawg.

A stripped-down Toyota Tacoma, converted to run on conquered souls and fundamentals, squeals onto the cracked earth, guided by a Nugent-suited Karl Malone. He leaps from his rig, katana in hand, and begins filleting the sheep with a deft viciousness.

HARRY: Holy shit!

The scene continues like a careful ballet, that is if anyone ever wrote a ballet about tearing fucking ovines haunch by greasy haunch into a slurry of blood and bowels.

HUDSON: Jee-ZAHS!

Ayo, a gypsy curse comes true and a child, blinded by tears runs onto the scene from the highway. His fat-faced parents argue at the side of the road about a coupon.

HARRY: Oh god [ed.], we have to help her.

Harry and Hudson literally haul balls onto the salt flats, scooping up the suddenly aware and frightened child. Just as they grab her, Karl Malone recognizes their presence and give chase.

HUDSON: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

Our trio dives into a crevice cleaved from the stupid earth, finally out of the furious Karl Malone's considerable reach.

CHILD *sobbing*

HARRY, wheespering: Shh, shhhh. You're safe now.

Time passes, everything we've ever known hurdles through time. Empires rise and fall. The world stays the same mostly while becoming a bit shittier. Our heroes decay from young men to their new sexless, superfluous form. They have become old. The sit at a cafe and Harry reads from a book of lateral logic puzzles^[2]. Clearly these two only become more insufferable in their age.

HARRY: How about this one, "The music stops, she dies"?

HUDSON: Simple! Or should I say, obvious! Or rather...um, I mean, shall I guess?

HARRY: Go on.

HUDSON: The woman, she is a tight-rope walker. In the circus, rather. She walks the rope.

HARRY: Yes, and?

HUDSON: And it's her husband, you must understand, he um, he is not faithful. Or should I say, he does not love her. And so, and yes, and so he has decided that she is to die, that is, he is to kill her.

HARRY: A-ha, yes, continue!

HUDSON: Well her act, you must understand, her act involves a tied cloth, a bandana, if you will, or rather, a uh blindfold, she is blindfolded. And she knows she has crossed the length of the tightrope when her conspirator, that is, her husband, turns the music off. But tonight, or should I say, the night she dies, or rather, perishes, her husband he ceases the music early, so that she will be mistaken, so that she will fall.

HARRY: That's it!

HUDSON: But she, or as one might say, the tightrope walker, she is no fool. She has walked this rope thousands of nights. She knows, in her very, um her toes, her foot, her spine, she knows how long the rope is and how long it takes to walk. The music, you see, is a vestige, a crutch she once needed but has long since outgrown. Also, or rather, however, she knows that it is her husband who runs her music, a man she has known for 30 years and is not one to be careless, to make a mistake.

HARRY: No, wait, you already had it. That was it.

HUDSON: So when she hears the music, that is, her music, stop, she knows it has stopped early, and with purpose, by her husband, and that we wants her to fall, or rather, to die.

HARRY: The book, the book doesn't have any of this.

HUDSON: The tragedy, or should I say, the tragedy, though, is of course she still loves him. Loves him dearly. She has a tenderness for her husband that is beyond passion. Like every love in her life she has channeled this out-pouring of feeling into a determination, a practice of will. Through patience, through persistence, she has defeated the gravity that governs every mass in the universe other than herself. Through this same persistence, she believed, foolishly it seems, that she might perform that most ancient of alchemy: to produce love in a heart where there was none.

HARRY: Are we- is this still the puzzle?

HUDSON: So when the music stops, she knows she has failed. She, that is, herself, can never make this man content. Instead, or rather, instead, she gives him the only thing that might ever make him happy. She steps out onto air, that is, she falls, that is, she dies.

A middle-aged woman approaches their table

WOMAN: I'm sorry, are you- are you Harry and Hudson?

HARRY: Who's asking, sister?

WOMAN: Well, if you are who think you are, you once saved my life. I was attacked in the Utah desert by Karl Malone wielding a bitchslicer and two mysterious strangers intervened.

HUDSON: My memory isn't what it ever was, but yeah, that sounds like the kind of thing that would happen to us.

WOMAN: I just wanted to thank you. I owe you two everything. I didn't even know what was happening, what you two were. You looked so strange, I thought you were fallen angels, or perhaps, assholes.

HARRY: Well, I may have lost some of my wits in my advanced age, but I still think you might benefit from these ancient words, first spoke by Ovid over two billion years ago: sister, go fuck yourself.

WOMAN: Wait, are you guys drunk?

HARRY: Extremely.

HUDSON: WAWAWAWAWA

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scorched_earth

2. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lateral_thinking_puzzle

Bong Me Once...

Chad, Hudson, and Hazard sit around a campfire. They are dressed like Nez Perce warriors on horses, except without the horses[1]. The position of the sun suggests that it is either mid morning or late afternoon. The quality of the light suggests the latter. The scenery suggests a desert. Sagebrush, sunburnt rocks, and dust abound. The boys appear to be positioned near the edge of something, a Cliff. In the distance we can see a river valley, deep and full of power. The scene has no suggestion of human influence, save for our three heroes, their modest canvas tents, and their massive, massive bong.

Sang is also on the stage. He is, however, quite separate. The lighting reflects this distance, what with the use of spotlights and all. A great darkness exists between Sang and the others. He stands stage left, before a microphone. He is dressed exactly like this guy: [2]. It is clear that he belongs to the same world as you, the viewer of this play which is of course distinct from the scene which we are about to enjoy, el delito que quizás venga. He is a modern day Urraca, a trataconventos, only without all the yucky sexual liaison business. Let's call him an interpreter or framer, either works as long as it is to be at work.

SANG: Welcome precious viewers. I am pleased to speak a few words to you this evening. I am preamble, introduction. So let us commence with fulfilling that role. What should serve as adequate introduction? How, in the few moments we have together, can I summarize what it is I know about these young men? I must cut and select while leaving you, the viewer, with the sense that I've introduced comprehensively, even though you're aware of the impossibility of such perfect communication. We know it is an untruth, and that's fine. We're limited, you and I, by time, by attention, by speech. Bounded by the fact that even this speech, this speech I'm in the act of delivering now, is formed and bounded in language, and received in a similar but non identical language.

Hmmm... fuck it, let's give it a try. These are some of my friends. They're in the desert. They're boned, on account of their damper origins. They've been here for exactly 5 days, of this much I'm certain. For evidence of temporal distance from a civilized world, look no further than Hudson's wandering facial hairs. Look to their attire. I must warn you, tender audience, that what you are about to witness is a carefully crafted thing. Pay attention to the words. Listen to each of them. Each thing is full of meaning. It is all semiotically chalk fuckin' full so listen up. All of the clues are clues and all of the numbers are maths.

CHAD: BONG!

HUDSON: Uhhhh....Bret here!

HAZARD: WEEEEEEEEED!

CHAD: SOOOOO HIIIIIGHHHHIIIIEEEE!!

HUDSON: Dude, nice.

HAZARD: I know I asked this before, but why are we STILL in this desert, it's been like three weeks?

HUDSON: Forrealz. This is the worst fortnight of my life. I'm more comfortable with deserts when they're actually just vidjas. Like Las Venturas, that desert was DOPE! Who would ever suggest coming to this place?

CHAD: Dude.

HAZARD: Dude.

HUDSON: ?

Hazard and Chad can only shake their heads in the face of Hudson's forgetfulness.

SANG: The trip to the desert, you see, was Hudson's idea. His special little victim works at the local poncho, feathers, and western sundries emporium. Recently, they'd received a large shipment of "traditional" "native american" "clothing." She, being kind and in possession of clear mental faculties, offered to bring an assortment of the haul home to huddy huddy hungums. He, being an opportunist, saw this as a means to convince his buddies to take a visit to the desert to work on being more of a Shamano urbano as opposed to his natural tendency towards the obverse. His buddies, being drunk, were easily convinced.

HUDSON: DUDE! I've barely accrued any Shamano points on this trip.

CHAD: In all fairness, we have been pretty high the whole time.

HAZARD: Who's idea was it to bring this bong anyway??

SANG: It was not only Hazard's idea to bring the bong, it was he who created the torture device.

HUDSON: No clue. But seriously, girls, let's get down to max crass and handle our bidness.

CHAD: I could get down on said business.

HAZARD: Fuck yes.

They all smoke hella weed.

CHAD: Dudes, I've been...like, thinking?

HAZARD: Nice.

CHAD: What if, like, we all like the same beer but like your Rainier is my Rolling Rock?

HAZARD: Or your Yuengling is my Boundary Bay IPA?

HUDSON: Whoa, what the fuck is you-eng-ling? Is that like a Chinese beer?

CHAD: Totally.

HUDSON: Or dude, what if your Goodwill were like my Salivation Army?

CHAD: (sp?)

HAZARD: Or like, what if y'alls Flannel Panel were really my Plaid Pantry???

HUDSON: Dude, you're spooking me out [3].

CHAD: WAHWAHWAHWAHWAH.

From behind the cliff appears Some Boner. He is out of breath, as if he's being pursued. He is wearing the things that boners wear and you can tell that whatever is about to come out of his mouth is gonna be unspeakably shitty.

El Boner takes a massive ripicito off the bongota.

SOME BONER: Dudes, but like, what if writing was an evil thing because my definition isn't your definition of things, so like, my writing is raping your idea??

HAZARD: Whooooaaaa.

CHAD: That should be an SVU episode.

Brian appears at full tilt. He's huffin' and puffin' like a wolf or something. He's looking pissed off something fierce.

BRIAN: Nope, wrong. Writing is fine. Writing something doesn't make it so, it just makes it written. Things are what they are and that's it. I'm talking so that makes me a talker, I am what I do. When I'm not talking, I'm not. Readers can read and writers can write and neither one is absolutely rigid. Don't listen to this boner's crazy bullshit.

CHAD: Dude.

HUDSON: Dude.

HAZARD: Seriously, dude.

BRIAN: Fine.

Hazard sparks up the bong for his wretched homegirl. The rips are fatty. Everyone looks like Bret for a second. Also, always.

BRIAN: Whoa, what if my Miller High Life were like your MGD?

ALL: Hooray! [4]

Hypalink(z)

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nez_Perce_warrior_on_horse.jpg

2. Penultimate row, right hand column "Speaking into a radio microphone, c. 1940's?": http://www.lubitsch.com/images.html

3. http://yoisthisracist.com/

4. It's always the right time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oeknvFmopk

So, Like, What Do You Guys Talk About?

Characters

Bret, unspeakably, also Chad and Cliff. [1]

Sang, human. [2]

Hudson, human [3]

Brian, abiyoyo [iii]

Hazard, feeling fast? [4]

A director must choose between three scenes. 1) Exterior, a backyard. Wine bottle ball arena. The light is bright, brighter than it ought to be, so much so that the audience cannot ignore its artificial nature. 2) Interior, a living room. Mattresses. Brought 'em on in. TV on, probably NBA. 3) Volcano. Very hot. Hottest it's ever been anywhere ever? Probably.

BRIAN:

I was shot in the foot

in a bar in Tacoma

and removed the slug

with care and tweezers,

glowing!

molten hot

I grew

at least a foot.

HUDSON: What do you guys know about Rococo writers?

SANG:

I ate a giant sandwich

and drank a dog's beer

I read things

verosímiles

and scored a goal

top shelf!

one time!

HUDSON: Hallucinated environments it seems. Escapism and inebriation. Sueños rompiendo las reglas del razón. Cosas que uno no pudiera decir en realidad, cosas literalmente inexprimables, o quizás cosas que dicen más que el personaje pueda saber.

HAZARD:

It was on the verge

some summer

of lemonades,

kicked heads in.

I vomited

all sixteen kicks

burning upwards

to grow at least a foot.

HUDSON: They were intimate writings, a free and irrational thing, to be shared.

CHAD: Late Baroque?

BRET: Obama.

CLIFF: YES SIR!

ALL: Hooray!

References

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mutism

2. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human

3. Ibid

4. http://www.peligrosoracing.com/

Drunk is a Reflecting Surface

Skipping through a hall of mirrors, one must take care not to skip into oneself. For in a hall of mirrors, to meet oneself is to shatter the hall, to destroy the serenity to which we all of us must finally return.

Chad and Sang skip arm and arm in a hall of mirrors. They are attempting to sing "Might As Well Be Walkin' On The Sun," by Smash Mouth, one of history's greatest inventions. They are taking little care not to skip into themselves. They've been drinking again. At least one of them drools.

CHAD & SANG: It aints no jokes whens mommas hankerchiff is stoked, with the tears because the babies lifes are been reng-vokes. It's just the jokes, come and smoke up and focus on the smokes up it's a wizard can reform. NO GOD LIKE HOCUS POCUS!

The hall is cavernous, and images of the skipping drunkards reflect from unlikely angles. Skipping, the boys advance in all directions - they climb walls, they transcend surfaces, they descend to eternal depths. Skipping, skipping. But will the boys skip into themselves?

Lights go up on a balcony that overlooks the stage. Here we see Hazard and Mr. President Mudson Mongo standing side by side, hands behind their backs, besuited and bespectacled, observing the drunken skippers through a glass floor above the hall of mirrors.

MPMM: Our experiment is going according to plan, wouldn't you say, Mr. Stefans?

HAZARD: Indeed sir. I believe it is time to release the bats.

A solemn moment passes as Mr. President Mudson Mongo considers the bats. The audience, too, considers the bats. We must all of us consider the bats.

MPMM: Mr. Stefans, release the bats.

Hazard pulls a massive lever made from the humerus of some forgotten victim. Trap doors open in the ceiling of the hall of mirrors, and swarms of shrieking mammals pour into the room. The mirrored angles of the cavernous hall only exaggerate the sense that there are bats like all over the damn place. Terrified and wide-eyed, their jowls dripping with drool, our arm-locked heroes cease their skipping.

SANG: Jesus tits McGee!

CHAD: We must fight these winged monsters to the death.

SANG: But they're everywhere!

CHAD: Fear not, brave Sangwise! We will not merely endure, we will prevail!

SANG: Aye! Bonk 'em on the head.

The two drunken warriors begin to bonk the bats in the brains! Blood and bat brains are flying everywhere, and the walls soon resemble the work of some deranged Jackson Pollock imitator. The battle rages for several days, perhaps weeks. Time in the hall ceases to exist. The two heroes fight on, and neither fatigue nor fear nor pain can weaken their iron resolve. Finally, all the bats are dead.

CHAD: We did it!

SANG: We killed all the bats!

CHAD: Fuck bats!

SANG: We fucked up all the bats!

The lights come up on Hazard and Mr. President Mudson Mongo, above the stage, observing the rejoicing heroes.

HAZARD: Well, sir?

MPMM: It appears, Mr. Stefans, that we've found our men.

Nodding in assent, Hazard pushes a button to speak into a PA which projects his voice into the mirrored hall.

HAZARD: Well done, gentlemen. You've passed the test.

CHAD & SANG: We did?

HAZARD: Yes. Welcome to the Men In Black.

CHAd & SANG: Hooray!

The Piss That Wouldn't Freeze

In a urine testing lab at a place where people who are ordered by judges go to pee in cups. Unspeakably Bret is seated at a desk, goading a breathalyzer back to zero. His raised eyebrows convey he is much more drunk than he thought he was. Case Manager Kenniths approaches.

Kenniths: What's up Brother?

UB: Nothing. How's it going?

Kenniths: Good! Hey, Kelly left a job for you.

UB: Sure, what do you need?

Kenniths: Well, it was Kelly who wanted it, but when you get a chance can you take out all the cups from the 2 months ago box in the freezer and pour them down the sink?

UB: Yeah, I can do that for you.

Kenniths: Thanks brother! Kelly really wanted that done.

UB: Actually, can you call me something else? I know you might call everyone that but I don't think it's very appropriate.

Kenniths: Really?

UB: Yeah. I don't think you would call me that if I was black so you probably shouldn't say it at all. And, I don't really know you that well. I'll drain the piss in a minute, though.

Kenniths nods confidently and walks away with a jaunty, bowlegged gait. He figures he might need a younger girlfriend still. Unspeakably Bret removes a bunch of cups of frozen urine from a freezer and sets them on the desk. One catches his eye, for it is not frozen.

UB: Hudson?

Unspeakably Bret unwraps a piece of paper from the cup and begins reading aloud.

UB: Client Statement, October 8th, In Which Hudson Drinks All The Vodka. At a birthday party. Hudson: Is this somebody's vodka? B-day Biddy Bitch: Yeah, that's my birthday fifth. Hudson: Good, I'm gonna drink some. B-day Biddy Bitch: You can have a sip but that's it. Hudson: Sure. Hudson drinks all the vodka. B-day Biddy Bitch: Hudson, did you just drink all my vodka? What's wrong with you? Kristin fucking bought that for me and I barely had any. The next morning Hudson rides a bus and pees in a cup.

Kelly: At least he's original. Most people say "oh I just used mouthwash right before I came in". Anyways, Bret, Kenniths said he thought he smelled alcohol on you. I really want you to be honest with me, are you drunk right now?

Kenniths enters the lab with a Recently Released Federal Inmate.

Kenniths: What's up brother?

RRFI: Dude, you can't be saying that. If you was white and said that while you was locked up, you'd be in some shit.

Kelly: Nevermind, Bret. I'll have Kenniths take care of these cups once they thaw.

Kenniths and Kelly leave the lab. Unspeakably Bret puts on some silicone gloves.

RRFI: That dude's a trip.

UB: Yeah, the double-breasted shoulder strap thing kind of makes him look like an SS officer too.

RRFI: What's that now?

UB: Nothing, just his shirts are always kinda weird. Ok, lets do it. You drink some water beforehand this time?

RRFI: Yeah I chugged like two big cups before I came in.

UB: Good, gimme the piss.

Got It!

Characters

HUDSON, gaucho

SAM, not

Act I

Act I is hardly an act, though some action occurs. There is to be no dialogue. Many actors stand on a darkened stage. They write and never labor. They drink and never brew. They toss in beds that others built. They never look out the windows. They cry, they fuck, they drink until they are hoarse. The building shrinks in around them. They sense that they've only ever had each other. They drink until they are whorse.

Act II

Hudson stands at center stage. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His revolver is safely secured in his holster. He leans over a sink.

Enter Sam, looking like the brokest of Pampas kids, what with the tattered condition of his clothing and all.

SAM: Oh hey, Hudson. What's for dinner tonight?

HUDSON: Rabbits.

SAM: Pardon?

HUDSON: Just cleaning some rabbits for dinner.

SAM: Oh. Icy.

HUDSON: Wow that's a silly phrasing. Come over here, you may as well learn something about this world.

SAM: Okay!

Sam shuffles towards the sink. He places his hands on a counter and lightly lifts himself upon it. Hudson mouths words and Sam listens closely. Music swells to overwhelm the discussion. It is a hopeful symphony. Sam listens intently. He desperately wishes to learn a trade that's suited to this place. A suggestion of time passing. Both end up terribly bloodied. Dried rabbit skins decorate the home.

HUDSON: And that's how it's done.

SAM: Bing bang blooie!

HUDSON: Did you just think of that yourself?

SAM: I did.

HUDSON: Wowza son, that's pretty good.

SAM: Thanks, Gauchy Huddy.

HUDSON: Don't call me that.

Act III

Act III is basically like Act I, except there are no whorses and many of the actors have gone missing. A man lays down and never gets back up. Two figures walk through an eternal cemetery, a few pelts slung over their shoulders. The music is VERY spooky.

No Poncho's a Serrana

Characters

BRIAN, man, yeti?

WHISKEY, main character

THE MAN

A MAN

A FRIEND

Mostly Stage Directions

Brian sits on the plywood floor of his mountain hut. He is wrapped in ponchos. A fire, bounded by stone, burns in the center of the hut. Brian erupts in another coughing fit. This man is one of the unwell. He stands.

BRIAN: It's that time of the month.

The man pulls the cloth tight to his body and shudders in anticipation of a cold to come. Snow pads the footsteps and eases the pain in his knees as they fall to the earth. Hands itch and recoil from the heat transfer.

BRIAN: God damned heat transfer. Where'd I put those gloves?

He left the gloves in the hut, along with the bottles of whiskey. He calls it bourbon, which is wrong; this hut and still fall within the borders of North Carolina.

BRIAN: Oh, fuck this, I'm getting the bourbon. You wait right here.

The man, half formed, sits patiently. Brian walks inside and approaches a stack of whiskey bottles, which number 256. Brian removes one, 255 remain. His gloves, which were left atop the stack, flutter to the floor like leaves from that former world.

BRIAN: Aha! I knew I'd find you. I fuckin' knew it. I'm gonna use you to cover up these hand foot-fingers. It'll work. He'll see.

The man walks outside to meet his waiting friend. Brian labors in the snow. He frames his work, like a photographer, with elements polite and corporal bounded.

BRIAN: Almost, almost. One final touch!

Brian walks inside and grabs a poncho from a pile. He slugs the whiskey, puts all its molecules into an approximate center of his face. He stumbles, not from the alcohol which is not yet to his veins, his brain, but from the sheer olfactory force of the act. He slips and the poncho escapes his grasp. It flies, for a moment, and sets down over the shoulders of that new formed friend.

BRIAN: Perfecto! Que ilusión!

Both men sit atop the snow, smiling. After a time, Brian returns inside. He sleeps. He walks in his sleep. He dreams of murder. Brian wakes, weeping. The stack has 254 bottles.

BRIAN: Oh no, not again.

He walks outside. A bottle of whiskey lies atop a poncho, set against the white. Brian is the only man around for miles.

BRIAN: Oh no, not again.

The audience files out.