Absurdia, or The Grand Cockerel (Dave's bloody play)

© 2011 David Jasmin-Green.

Absurdia is a rather classy play in three or four acts, and it is strictly for well-bred audiences. Or maybe it's five acts, I don't really know because I got a bit carried away. Oh all right then, it's several acts. Probably.
I don't know why I decided to write a namby-pamby play, so don't bother asking. “Wot's this?” my dear, departed dad might have said. “I'm getting a bit worried about you, sunshine – everybody knows that theatre is strictly for jessies and pooftahs.....” I disagree with that statement, because a lot of my writing is rather theatrical, and if you're in a theatrical frame of mind it doesn't necessarily mean that you're camp – and, furthermore, if you're writing fiction it doesn't mean that you wholeheartedly agree with the opinions of any of your characters. For everyone who thinks that theatre is purely for pooftahs all I can say in my defence is that I desperately wanted to dabble in a genre that was new to me, to tell a story from a slightly different perspective and hopefully play my favourite game in another dimension (and for heavens' sake, don't automatically conclude from my ramblings that I'm homophobic, because I'm not – I'm just trying to make a point). I thoroughly enjoyed writing this script, and if my readers enjoy it even a fraction as much it was worth every minute I spent on it - and this bloody play took up an awful lot of precious minutes, believe me.

Act One:-
The Kingdom on the Other Side of the Cosmos

The sun is shining brightly through the open windows of a spacious, well-lit art studio-cum conservatory backing onto the scrupulously well-manicured gardens of the palace of King Gordon the nineteenth of the royal house of Achtunga. Gordon is the ruler of the Fairly Democratic Kingdom of Absurdia, a large nation in the northern hemisphere of an alternative Earth on the other side of the cosmos, and though the planet mysteriously bears the same name as ours things are not quite the same as they are here.....
The sprawling, unashamedly opulent palace is unusually quiet, because apart from the head chef the king has given his servants the afternoon off. He does that once a year or so because, he claims, he's a nice sort of a guy, though he suspects that the ungrateful bastards think he's pandering to the whims of the commoners so that they'll think he's a nice guy. Gordon is taking the opportunity to enjoy the peace and quiet and dabble in his favourite pastime, which is currently landscape painting, without every Tom, Dick and Harry disturbing him with endless inanities. He is busy overworking oil paint into a monotonous, sickly looking sludge on a large canvas; apparently it's supposed to be a seascape, but no one would dare to tell their king that it looks more like a muddy field - apart perhaps from Geoff, his dog, who says more or less what he likes and usually gets away with it.
It is a Tuesday afternoon a while after lunch but not quite teatime, and his majesty's stomach is rumbling ominously. As a king (and he is a particularly powerful king) Gordon can eat whenever and whatever takes his fancy. He could dine on dormouse thighs and baby larks sprinkled with fresh saffron and thyme and lightly fried in sesame seed oil at four am if he wanted; he could munch on foetal gazelle and malarial mosquitoes steamed with petit pois and spinach at noon or gnaw on a particularly large spit-roasted crocodile wrapped in garlic and bacon and stuffed with white truffles at midnight if such was his desire. Shit, he could devour the Prime Minister's poodle alive in the middle of a cabinet meeting without anyone raising an eyebrow if he so wished, because he's the fucking king - but as he considers himself a suave, sporty and rather sexy monarch he likes to watch his waistline for the benefit of the ladies in his kingdom and beyond (except of course when he's pissed off, in which case he gorges on junk food just like everyone else).

Gordon:- That bleeding Prime Minister has got to go. I don't like him - I don't like him one tiny bit. I don't like his name, for a start. What sort of a name is Frabjous Vertigo Codpiece? And I definitely don't like his attitude. Who does he think he is - God Almighty? The Archangel Susan? The frigging king? I guess I'll have to call in my advisers and see if we can get the ridiculous popinjay executed ASAP, preferably in a horribly extended, utterly agonising manner; we haven't had a decent execution for, oh, it must be well over a fortnight.
We have to deal with this situation properly, though - we have to come up with a series of trumped-up yet convincing sounding charges to throw at the aggravating little tosser, or my subjects will regard me as a monster. Hell, the unwashed scum might even consider starting an uprising, and we don't want that, do we? What do you reckon, Geoff? How can I get my just desire and emerge from the ensuing pickle looking squeaky clean and smelling of roses?

Geoff is a large, scruffy talking dog of pedigree unknown, and he speaks unusually fluently – approximately one in ten thousand animals on the planet are born with the power of speech, but the majority of them only manage to attain a basic grasp of human language. There's a local legend stating that some seven hundred years ago a lover of king Dick, who occupied the throne at the time, owned a talking slug who could quote the entire medieval Encyclopaedia Absurdia, but it was probably just a story..... Geoff however is frighteningly intelligent, which is why the king often confides in him, but some of the senior staff think that he has ideas way above his station. Geoff is lying on a red velvet cushion beside the king gnawing on a juicy bone.

Geoff:- I quite like Frabjous, actually. I know he comes across as a loud, opinionated git when he's working, but that's his job, isn't it? You should hear you shouting orders when you want something doing pronto. Frabjous is a nice bloke when he isn't administering to his duties; he plays a fantastic round of golf, he's a right laugh down the pub and unlike most folk around here he treats everyone as if he really cares. He keeps expensive imported Koi carp, did you now that, your maj? They're much better than yours. And his missus, Lady Nicky, is delightful company as well as appearing near the top of the wanted list of every hot-blooded male in the kingdom. I think you'll agree that she's a real show stopper, a proper shag-piece in fact, but maybe I shouldn't have said that because I think I love her..... Have you seen the titties on her? They're unbelievable – they're bloody massive. Her delicious bazongas are like two overripe, slightly conical melons, they're like a couple of barrage balloons, they're like two highly dangerous nuclear missiles about to burst from their twin bunker, soar across the sky at unprecedented speed and wreak havoc on the enemy. Lady Nicky can declare war on my piddling country whenever she likes, and I wouldn't put up much of a fight, I'm telling you. And she isn't frightened of showing off her arsenal; I bet those pretty, half-cut under-wired bras she wears cost a small fortune.

Gordon:- You misogynistic little twat! Why can't you show a little respect when you're talking about women, especially the upper class variety? I don't know what I'm going to do with you, Geoff, you misguided pervert. Nicky is a lady, you stinking mutt - she has more class in her little finger than you have in your entire flea-bitten body. Lady Nicky has pedigree, something which is clearly a mystery to a chance bred cur like you, and that won't change however many arty-farty books you read in an attempt to impress her. She doesn't dig holes in the lawn, chase cats, smell strangers' crotches or piss on the house plants when she thinks no one's looking; she doesn't clean her arse and wedding tackle with her tongue when people obviously are looking either, and I doubt if she does it in private - I hope not, anyway.....

Geoff:- I'm no misogynist, Mr. high and mighty king, and you know it. Although I'm just a low down pooch I like women in all the variety and splendour that God granted them, but maybe that's because you over-humanised me when I was a puppy. Though you might think it unforgivable or unnatural for a mere doggie to regard women as sex objects, personally I don't see any harm in indulging in a little wishful thinking now and then. Males of most intelligent species can't be emotionally complete without an occasional helping of sexual fantasy to bide them by, and maybe females are just as dependant on it, I don't pretend to know. What exactly is wrong with expressing my innermost desires as graphically as I wish as long as what's said is said privately between friends and it goes no further? Where's the harm in that? Shit, I thought you and I trusted each other enough to speak freely.
I struggle to understand you sometimes, boss - you're a tangle of irreconcilable opposites. You see nothing wrong in shafting well-stacked courtiers in every corner of your kingdom and beyond and never seeing them again once you've slaked your royal lust, but you're worried that a lady of breeding might somehow be upset or belittled by my comments about her eye-popping norks, a subject that every male that's ever beheld them jiggling and wobbling around in their lacy hammocks like a sack of sexually excited ferrets must get hot under the collar about. And I should stress that they're comments that she's never going to hear - not from me, anyway. Have you ever heard me speaking sexually or in any other manner that could even vaguely be interpreted as derogatory or disrespectful about any woman in her presence beside what's said in the height of passion to my bitches in the privacy of my own kennel? I thought not.

Gordon:- But -

Geoff:- I haven't bloody finished, buddy, not by a long shot..... You consider yourself a paragon of virtue, but you're secretly considering executing Lady Nicky's husband in the most brutal, vicious way you can think of, apparently for no stronger reason than because you don't bloody like him. But maybe you have an ulterior motive - maybe you fancy getting your sweaty, undeserving hands on his good woman's highly desirable mammaries and other physical delights. Even a monarch couldn't shag someone else's wife without being frowned upon, but having a go on someone's widow after a decent period of mourning – let's say a week - is an entirely different thing, isn't it? Kill the poor bastard, see if I care, you knoblet. You are the king, after all, and you're considered a god incarnate by many folk in this festering hole - heaven knows why..... The toast always lands butter side up for you, doesn't it, my liege? You can do exactly what you bloody well like. Bravo! Long live the fucking king, however warped, egoistical and tyrannical he is.

Gordon:- Right, that's it. I'm sick of your shaggy dog stories, Geoffrey, you absolute tart. You can't resist raining on my parade, can you? You're always picking flies in my admittedly not quite perfect character, but have you taken a peek at your own twisted psyche recently? I hate you.....
You're the wasp buggering up an otherwise enjoyable picnic, you're the mould on the surface of the last jar of a hungry man's strawberry jam, you're the syphilitic sores on the beef curtains of a king's supposedly virginal bride, you utter ring-piece. I ought to take you on an impromptu trip to the vet's, a trip from which only one of us will return, and if I was more spiteful I'd do it right now, but maybe I should think about it for a little while; I wouldn't want to make a rash decision, would I? I'm storming off to my bedchamber in an almighty huff, and I'll see you at teatime, perhaps..... We're having a variety of steamed vegetables, a continental salad and a little skinless chicken – unlike a certain fat bastard I could mention who hides behind the nearest sofa whenever he hears a dog lead rattling I like to watch my weight.

Geoff:- (Studying the king's painting). Prick..... Hmmm, an extreme close-up of rotting turds, used condoms and dismembered corpses floating in an open sewer. Very artistic, I'm sure.

Act two:-
The Royal Gardens

The king didn't go to his bedchamber after all. Well he did for a minute or two, but apart from sitting on the bed moping there wasn't much to do in there. He wandered onto the patio and played swing-ball for a while, but he kept beating himself and if he didn't stop he would probably have ordered his own execution in a fit of pique, so he did stop. He went for a walk around the extensive grounds of the palace, an activity that bored him to tears unless he was showing off the gardens, his rare plants and over-numerous follies to guests (especially visiting dignitaries from poorer countries so that he could really rub his wealth in), but he was terribly upset about his argument with Geoff and he needed to cool off.

Gordon:- Bloody mongrel - I ought to have him executed instead of Codpiece, even though I've had him since he was a pup. I can't do it though, and he knows it.....
Geoff is the only living creature in my entire realm who has the balls to talk to me honestly instead of wittering on inanely about what nice or nasty weather we're having or congratulating me about the latest statue or pagoda I've had erected, but he could at least be a little more sensitive. I'm sick of mindless idiots complimenting my good looks or telling me what a brilliant ruler I am; I'm sick of gouty old men and ridiculously fat, ugly women introducing their monstrously deformed minger daughters to me on the off-chance that I might be myopic enough to make them my queen, and I'm fed up of just about every fucker expressing bland commiserations about the blight that's devastated the peach crop in the southern half of the country. I guess I should be grateful that I have at least one soul who treats me as a friend and an equal rather than a master, but anger is the most illogical, unforgiving of emotions and the hairy git really pisses me off sometimes.
Maybe I should slaughter both of the fuckers. I could have them covered in honey and staked over an ants' nest, but I suppose that would get a bit tedious after a while; I could have their legs broken and sling them into a pit with a few starving badgers, which would ensure a sufficiently slow but still thoroughly entertaining demise; I could make them fight to the death with razor blades to prolong the agony that they surely deserve, or maybe drown them delightfully slowly in cat diarrhoea; I could have them buggered senseless by warthogs and baboons and then fry them alive over a slow fire and force their close family to dine on their flesh; I could -
who are you, and what are you doing in my private gardens? How did you get past the guards? GUARDS! Oh, I forgot, I gave them all the afternoon off along with the rest of the staff. Silly me..... Hang on, I ordered a national census last month, and I wasn't informed of any giant chickens residing in my kingdom, especially a particularly huge, muscle-bound, Persil white giant chicken wearing shocking green Lycra cycling shorts, custom made fluffy carpet slippers and wraparound sunglasses. I demand to know your name, you foul, albino fowl - I demand to know what you bloody well want, and I demand that you take off those stupid, outdated shades so that the security cameras can pick you up and my top of the range computer system can check your features against a list of known malefactors and undesirables.

Phil:- My name is Phil, as you would know if you paid attention to your priests while you attend services at Eastminster Abbey instead of dozing off in the royal pew, which is exquisitely padded with a built-in recliner instead of being stark and bare and downright uncomfortable like pews are supposed to be. I am your God, little man – and I'm not just any god, I'm THE God, and I have come to judge you. There are a number of heinous sins to consider, namely the way you treat your servants and subjects like shit and your love of brutal executions for no good reason, but I'm also concerned about your immoral dietary habits.....
It has come to My attention that you frequently order a range of chicken dishes to be prepared in the royal kitchen, which according to book forty six of the Fowl Bible, chapter eighteen, section twelve, subsection four, paragraph seven hundred and ninety seven is a very serious offence indeed. The consumption of chicken by Fowlians has been forbidden for several thousand years, ever since yours truly, Phil Bannister, otherwise known as the Grand Cockerel, came down to this planet, thwarted the puny platypus god who formerly ruled supreme, did a bit of preaching and then offered up His only begotten son as a fast food dish to save the shitty souls of the masses. As your Lord and Master I will not have chicken Tikka prepared from the carcasses of My illegally slaughtered relatives - I will not have My holy brethren turned into Kievs and Macnuggets, into Madras and Balti dishes, not to mention fucking Vindaloo! I don't know what this world's coming to, I really don't. Even twenty, thirty years back the demon Colonel Sanders was feared in this place, but now you blithely allow the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise to deal openly in your kingdom. Shame on you, sinner - the time has come to pay the price of blasphemy!

Gordon:- But-but- but I didn't know that the Supreme Deity was a ten foot tall chicken in fluffy carpet slippers, sickening green cycling shorts and sunglasses - I genuinely thought He was a bald, overweight hamster holding His breath in a methane filled microwave or a partly cooked halibut in an all in one crocheted body suit and a kiss me quick hat. No, He's a crippled, half-soaked balaclava wearing camel on a surfboard or a cross-dressing drunken duck on roller skates, isn't He? Is He a pair of chain-smoking conjoined twin spider monkeys driving a minibus? A closet homosexual Conservative voting dragonfly sporting a flower adorned bowler hat and carrying an umbrella? A two-headed, paisley patterned free Maoist bison? I've had enough of this..... Listen, mush, I'm the king, for fuck's sake; I have a bloody country to run, and I don't have time to fill my head with such inanities as what manner of deity we're supposed to be worshipping – it could be a one legged lesbian frog on a pink skateboard or a goat with Alzheimer's disease in a luminous tutu and worn out Wellington boots for all I know.

Phil:- Ignorance is no excuse for ungodliness and downright disobedience, and the pretence of ignorance is even worse - don't you know that Fowlians aren't supposed to tell lies, you total dick? I think I'm going to strike you down with a thunderbolt immediately, m'boy; there's no redemption for the likes of you, so prepare to be frazzled to a fucking crisp, you rotten swine, you cancerous ball bag, you lowly globule of walrus phlegm.

Gordon:- Forgive me, Lord! I repent my sins – all of them, every last one. I'll stop executing people unless there's a cracking good, church patronised reason, honestly I will, and I'll never eat chicken again, I promise. Spare me, my most exalted deity, and I'll be Your faithful servant for the rest of my days. Don't kill me, pleeeeease.....

Phil:- Hmmmmm..... Oh, all right then, your pathetic pleading sounds reasonably genuine, I suppose. I'll tell you what, this time I'm prepared to let you off with a severe pecking, but mark My words - if you disobey My holy laws again you're fucking history. Got it?

Gordon:- Yes Lord, yes Lord, yes Lord, good golly yes! You can count on me, my God. Hosanna in the highest! Hallelujah! Amen! Hang on, what do you mean, a severe pecking?

Phil:- I mean like-a-dis - Peck peck peck peck peck peck peck!

Gordon:- Oh shit. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Nooooo – not my wedding tackle, I bloody need it!

Phil:- Peck peck peck. Peck peck peck peck peck peck peck peck peck. Peck peck. Peck..... Peck peck peck peck peck. There! I believe you've been sufficiently chastened, you feeble, lily-livered worm, so toddle off back to your fancy palace and get cleaned up. Bloody well behave yourself in future, you stupid looking shit, and don't forget to sing My praises at every available opportunity, because I'll be listening - you bet. Cheeriooooo!

Gordon:- Mnnnnnhh!

Act three:-
The Royal Bathroom

King Gordon is standing bare naked before a full length mirror, and Geoff is rubbing TCP on his numerous lacerations with a ball of cotton wool as gently as possible. Gordon is in a great deal of pain, and he's decidedly unhappy, especially about the state of his cock.....

Gordon:- Be careful, you clumsy bastard! That fucking hurts – yes, there!

Geoff:- I'm sorry, your maj, but you have to be cruel to be kind, everybody knows that. You never know, this bloke in a pantomime chicken costume with certain, er, non-standard additions that attacked you might have had a diseased beak - if we don't clean your wounds properly septicaemia or even gangrene might set in and bits of you will start dropping off, and if we allow that to happen you'll never sire a heir to your throne. Oh, don't be such a big girl's blouse! Shit, I'm only putting a few stitches into your micro-penis..... Would you like your subjects and your hierarchy of politicians and floozies to know that you're a screaming great Jessie?

Gordon:- Watch what you're doing with my royal sceptre, you vicious dolt! What's the matter with you, are you deaf? Have you forgotten what I've just told you? It was no man in a chicken costume that assaulted me – it was a bona_fide, ten foot, twenty five stone cockerel. As unlikely as it sounds He was wearing lurid green cycle shorts, fluffy carpet slippers and wraparound sunglasses. He claimed that His name was Phil Bannister; He said He was a god or the God or something, and that I was being punished for my sins, which include treating folk badly, executing people for lame reasons and eating chicken, which is forbidden by the Fowl Bible. That's bollocks – everyone eats bloody chicken, but I'm not eating it again just to be on the safe side.....

Geoff:- And you insist that you haven't had a bang on the head? You haven't been on the rum cocktails, have you, or maybe smoked a little of the whacky baccy that that diplomat from the Far East gave you?

Gordon:- No I have not! And before you ask I haven't been munching on magic mushrooms, and neither have I ingested angel dust or mescaline or LS-fucking-D. Look, why can't you just believe me, you furry-faced bum?

Geoff:- Because your claims are so outlandish that they take some believing, buddy.

Gordon:- Look, I want the guards back right now; in fact I want extra guards calling in and soldiers from the best units available - the cream of the crop, bloody hundreds of them. I need all of my servants back immediately, and I want the head of security and a couple of army bigwigs here as soon as my wounds are dressed and I look half tidy. I want that fucking bird caught as soon as possible – no, sooner - I want to savour the aroma of the cheeky bastard roasting alive on my barbecue by tonight at the very latest. Oh, and later today when we've got the more important issues sorted out I need to talk to some senior official from the church to discuss the religious mumbo-jumbo that the chicken was blathering on about. I might even ask the Pussycat Dolls what they think about the situation, seeing as they're so mentally sophisticated in this version of the Earth. Finally, instruct the chef to throw tonight's dinner in the bin; I think I'll have an egg sandwich instead. No, forget that, maybe I'll stick to salad.....

Geoff:- Can I have your chicken, then?

Gordon:- No, you fucking well can't.

Geoff:- Oh, I forgot to tell you, what with all the excitement of you running in bleeding and battered with the remains of your trousers and girlie pants hanging off your arse, squealing like a particularly childish toddler with a lightly grazed knee - Lady Nicky left a message on the answer-phone while I was out taking a shit, or perhaps when I was chasing next door's cat. She said to tell you that she's popping round some time this afternoon, she didn't say exactly when. Apparently her hubby is otherwise engaged and he can't come himself, but he's jotted down a few urgent points that he wants her to discuss with you about the peach blight or something, I dunno.

Gordon:- Oh fuck. Quick, run me a bath, then rub me down with that nice sandalwood talc and apply a liberal dose of my Rock Hard Shaft aftershave – and then put some plasters on the cuts that'll still be visible when I'm dressed. Lay my new suit and that gorgeous red silk shirt on the bed, and see if you can find my Daffy Duck tie; I like to look my best when unexpected visitors call, male or female, young or old, pig-ugly or absolutely stunning, immeasurably captivating or mind-bogglingly boring, crucially important or utterly trivial - it doesn't make the slightest bit of difference to me, because I treat everyone equally.....

Geoff:- Yeah, right.

Act four
The Royal Study (and later the corridor outside)

Gordon is sitting in his study in his best suit, a red silk shirt and his favourite Daffy Duck tie. He's smoking an infeasibly large Cuban cigar, sipping a glass of his finest brandy and nibbling from a plate of salmon voul-au-vents and salad that the head chef has prepared in lieu of chicken. The only lighting is from an expensive Tiffany lamp in the corner which casts a muted, multicoloured glow over the snug, book-lined room. The king's face is covered in small, flesh coloured plasters that he sincerely believes will be completely invisible to his guests. There is a light knock at the door that makes him jump out of his skin.

Butler:- Lady Nicky is here to see you on behalf of the Prime Minister, your majesty. Oh, good Fowl, what's happened to your face, Sir, if you don't mind me asking?

Gordon:- I do mind you asking, butler, so shut your cake hole and mind your own bloody business. Kindly show Lady Nicky in. Oh, before you do that do you mind if I ask you a personal question that I've never bothered asking you before because you're so insignificant that I barely even register your existence and if you died I probably wouldn't notice? It'll only take a minute.

Butler:- Fire away, Sir. You're my king and I am your servant, and in honour of that relationship it's my duty to answer any question or questions that you choose to aim at me. I would prefer not to answer questions regarding my sexual orientation if you don't mind, an aspect of my character that I wish to remain strictly private.....

Gordon:- Oh no, it's nothing that personal. What's you real name, butler? I've been pondering the subject for the last thirty seconds or so, and I can't recall anyone referring to you as anything other than 'butler'.

Butler:- My name, Sir? As far as I'm aware my name is Butler, as was my father's, my grandfather's and my great grandfather's before me. If I was given a more personal title during my childhood I'm afraid I've forgotten it through disuse, but please bear in mind that I'm almost seventy five years of age and my memory isn't quite what it used to be. Before many more years pass I'll be taken out onto the yard and shot or perhaps clubbed to death to save wasting ammunition, and then my oldest son Butler junior will rise in the ranks to replace me – at the moment he's a humble scullery maid.

Gordon:- I see..... Fair enough. Off you go, man; show the good woman in and get on with your duties, whatever they are. Oh, I have to ask you one final question before you scuttle away or it'll niggle me all day..... Are you a pooftah?

Butler:- If you mean am I a homosexual, Sir, yes, I am.

Gordon:- Fine. Fuck off, then.

Butler:- Certainly, your majesty.

**************************************************

Gordon:- Aah, Lady Nicky, do come in. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. May I get you a drink, and maybe something to eat? (He ogles the tantalising motion of Lady Nicky's uncommonly large bosoms as she sits down).

Nicky:- No thank you, your majesty, I've just eaten. Shit, what happened to your lovely face? Please forgive my French – though my parents were loaded I'm just a simple country girl at heart, and sometimes I forget myself.

Gordon:- Oh, it's nothing serious, I assure you. I was wandering through the gardens this afternoon idly daydreaming and enjoying the sunshine, and I tripped over a rake that some prannet left lying around. I fell into a particularly thorny rose bush – it was a foolish accident, no more, no less.

Nicky:- But those little round plasters look like they might be covering slightly larger punctures than thorn wounds - peck marks, perhaps, such as the Grand Cockerel might inflict upon a lowly sinner. I'm not the most religious of people, but apparently our Lord is cracking down on transgressors of His holy law.....

Gordon:- No no, no. Goodness me no, definitely not. They're simple thorn wounds, really they are, and I have nothing whatsoever to hide. Can we get down to business now? (He looks directly at Lady Nicky's ample cleavage and dribbles uncontrollably). Pray tell - what did your dear husband wish you to discuss with me?

Nicky:- Nothing even remotely interesting, your majesty. He's a dried up, practically fossilised old bore, and he just wants your permission to torch another few hundred thousand acres of peach orchards to prevent the blight from travelling any further north. Here, he's sent a document for you to sign and stamp, but it's so dull that I couldn't be bothered to read it. Oh I wish I hadn't married so young, and I wish I'd married a more virile man – someone like you, perhaps.

Gordon:- Aah..... Ooo..... Er..... Fine, consider it done. I mean the paperwork, not our marriage. No no. Ha ha ha! There, it is done. I detest paperwork, but when you're the king it's your duty to keep abreast – ahead of every situation that arises. I'm always relieved when all of the tits – I mean bits and pieces of red tape are out of the way. Oh, shit and bollocks! Lady Nicky, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, because all of a sudden I feel a trifle ill. Perhaps I'm coming down with a chest infection or something. No, it's not my chest, it's my groin. No, my throat. I made a boobie or two – I mean a boo-boo. I feel all wobbly all of a sudden..... It's as if a series of nipples – ripples have upset my usually calm inner waters and started a swiftly growing, unstoppable tidal wave that threatens to sweep away my last traces of good behaviour. Oh Nicky, you're so damned beautiful, but you belong to another and I can't stand that situation any longer. Waaaaah! Please go. Now!

Nicky:- Very well, your majesty, if that's what you truly want. It doesn't have to end like this, though; I'm sure if we calmed down and got our heads together we could come up with some sort of, erm, arrangement.....

Gordon:- I, er, no, I really can't, Lady Nicky; I'd love to, believe me – you're by far the finest filly I've ever seen, goddamnit, but it's just not possible at this moment in time. I'm undergoing a spiritual crisis that I don't fully understand..... I'm all flustered, and I really don't want any unnecessary complications. I do hope that your offer remains open for the foreseeable future, though, in case I suddenly find myself in a position to change my mind.

Nicky:- Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't. Goodbye, your majesty.

Gordon:- Fuck.....

**************************************************

Geoff:- (Sitting forty yards or so down the corridor, well out of the king's earshot). What's the matter, Lady Nicky? You look like you're about to burst into tears.

Nicky:- It's nothing you should trouble yourself with, my favourite doggie in the whole wide world.

Geoff:- As you no doubt appreciate, I'm no run of the mill mutt, my lady – I'm an excellent listener. Come on, out with it; a problem shared is a problem halved.

Nicky:- Well..... All right, I'll tell the truth, but if you open your big mouth I'll deny every word. I might as well tell you about my woes, because I've got no one else to talk to. It's like this, Geoff. As you know, I'm married to a man over twice my age. He's nice enough, but I'm not, erm, fulfilled, if you know what I mean; I'm a young, hot, sexually demanding woman and I have needs that an old man has no hope of satisfying, not even nearly. Divorce or separation is out of the question unless a really wealthy suitor comes along, because as the Prime Minister's wife I've grown accustomed to a rather extravagant lifestyle, so for a while now I've been thinking of taking a lover. Foolishly I just made the king an offer I thought no man could possibly refuse, but the daft bastard did refuse it. He gave me a cock and bull story about suffering some sort of spiritual crisis, damn him. I can't understand it - no man has ever turned me down before..... Oh, the shame. It would have been ideal, having a dabble with the king. Nowhere else but in the royal palace could I find such privacy, such discretion. What am I to do, fluffy ears?

Geoff:- You could still have an affair in the royal palace without actually involving king Gordon. I bet you haven't thought about that possibility.....

Nicky:- What, you're insinuating that I allow a common servant to roger me?

Geoff:- No, silly; I'm insinuating that you let me stuff your turkey, you delightful, heavily breasted minx. I bathe at least once a fortnight, so you don't have to worry about unpleasant doggie odours. I know what I'm doing, believe me – I've had loads of women, and I'm hung like a particularly well-endowed buffalo. And I know the value of discretion..... Mum's the word, luvvy.

Nicky:- You despicable, malodorous, thoroughly disgusting creature. Do you really believe that a lady of my breeding would allow a filthy dog to service me? Are you mad? If anyone found out we'd both be burned at the stake! I ought to report you for this, you hairy freak, and maybe I will. Good day! (Lady Nicky hurries down the corridor in a right old tizzy).

Geoff:- Stuck-up bitch.....Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe she'll come round to my way of thinking when she's had time to turn it over in her unbearably sexually frustrated mind – she is a cuntry girl at heart, after all.

**************************************************

Gordon:- Come in and sit down, Bint. Where are the army bigwigs I asked for?

Canute Bint:- (head of security). Thank you, your majesty. No senior army personnel are available right now, I'm afraid; as we are at war with Bimikia they're all on the front line, hopefully slaughtering large numbers of our enemies. I see you've ordered your security to be dramatically increased. What seems to be the problem - and why, pray, are you covered in plasters?

Gordon:- Because unfortunately I was attacked in my own grounds this very afternoon by a giant chicken, a chicken who claimed to be Phil Bannister, the Grand Cockerel. I'm covered in little perforations that hurt like hell, but fortunately the said chicken didn't quite peck me to death. Unfortunately though He made a bit of a mess of my cock, but fortunately Geoff stitched up the damage for me. Unfortunately I gave my entire staff the afternoon off, or maybe it wouldn't have happened..... Fortunately Geoff cleaned my wounds with TCP as soon as I managed to stagger home, but unfortunately he makes a crap nurse and his amateurish ministrations hurt a damned sight more than the original assault. Fortunately I'm a hard bastard and I somehow managed to handle the pain, but unfortunately I'll never forgive the bloody mutt and I'm thinking of having him executed.

Bint:- I see. I am an agnostic, so personally I don't believe in the Grand Cockerel, but my wife is a devout Fowlian and I have tremendous respect for religious folk of all creeds. As you probably know, my oldest daughter is married to an Amphibian, a devotee of Nicey-nicey Norman, the Franciscan Newt. I didn't realise that you consider yourself one of the anointed, Sire.....

Gordon:- I fucking don't – I do my best to keep away from church services of all descriptions because I can't take them seriously, and when I'm compelled to attend some supposedly important ceremonial occasion I tend to sleep through most of it. Actually I know nothing at all about our state religion; I've asked for some senior member of the priesthood to come and see me later on to discuss what happened, but I can't see any sense coming out of that..... I have a distinct feeling that a real, flesh and blood giant chicken is responsible for this assault, and I want Him caught and punished! I've never been so humiliated in my life - amongst other things the insolent creature actually called me a stupid looking shit, can you believe it? He's going to pay for his crimes a thousandfold when I get my hands on Him.

Bint:- Your majesty, there are no giant chickens in this land that I know of, not even in our zoos or arena menageries; as far as I'm aware the nearest wild population of such creatures is in Akkira, which lies over three thousand miles across the Parcedian ocean. I would like a rational explanation for this mystery as much as you would, but perhaps there isn't one..... The idea of such a creature travelling so far across the roughest stretch of open sea on the planet, traversing our vast, well protected nation, wandering through one of the most heavily populated regions in the world and entering the grounds of the palace unseen is almost as ridiculous as the notion of you being attacked by a vindictive celestial being. Also, giant chickens of a non-religious persuasion are almost invariably mute, but you claim that this - this apparition actually conversed with you. I really don't know what to make of it; all I can do is increase security in the immediate vicinity and send out patrols into the surrounding countryside and see what they can find, if anything.

Gordon:- I understand. Do what you can, my good man; I trust you implicitly to handle this situation in the wisest possible way. I don't know what else to say..... I suppose all I can say is that I had a genuine experience – I was certainly attacked by something, and it looked like a giant bloody chicken to me.

**************************************************

Archbishop Perve:- What the fuck happened to your once fine phizzog, your majesty? (The king didn't hesitate to tell him, and he gave a reasonably accurate account, though understandably he whitewashed over his cowardly reaction).

Gordon:- That's about it, Archbishop; I've told you what I saw and heard, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts on the subject. Please bear in mind that I know practically nothing about our state religion – call me a heathen if you must, but I couldn't take it in as a kid and I've blithely ignored it ever since. Just consider me a particularly stupid child or an unschooled barbarian and don't assume that I know anything, and I don't think you'll go far wrong. Of course, if you can prove me wrong about all religion being a crock of shit and convince me that I was assaulted by the one and only true God I'm prepared to repent and throw myself on my knees before His Holiness along with the rest of the flock – I might look a bit of a retard, but I assure you I'm no fool.

Perve:- Young man, every child in the country knows that the Grand Cockerel came down from heaven in person several thousand years ago and defeated Colin the platypus, the previous deity. He wandered around preaching for thirty odd years or so, barbecued His only son to rid the world of sin and then He went back to heaven expecting us all to follow His teaching without question, but over the years most people seem to have forgotten the Fowlian message. You are a prime example of such backsliding, your majesty, if you'll forgive me for being so outspoken. In your infinite wisdom you have allowed various cults and quasi-religious bodies to practise without molestation in your realm and build pagan temples and mosques and whatnot. I particularly detest the Amphibians and their horrid deity, because Nicey-nicey Norman is obviously a false god and a fucking newt into the bargain – how ridiculous is that? Shit, I drove past a Kentucky Fried Chicken joint on the way here, and there were people in there actually obeying the demon Colonel Sanders and eating chicken. Sinners! Forgive them, Grand Cockerel, for they know not what they do.....
Everything you've told me about your experience suggests that you were indeed visited by the one and only true God – you'd have to be a proper wanker to deny it. I reckon it's a sign that we as a nation have to mend our wicked ways and turn back to the Holy Word, to wholeheartedly embrace the undeniable scriptural truth and bow down before His Heavenly majesty, a majesty far, far above that of any terrestrial monarch. The Fowl Bible reference stating that the consumption of chicken is a heinous sin is a hundred percent accurate, and between you and me (this isn't common knowledge, you understand, so please don't spread it around) His Immaculate Holiness Phil Bannister does indeed wear fluffy custom made carpet slippers, bright green Lycra cycling shorts and wraparound sunglasses. We don't allow that information to be generally broadcast because it helps us to sort the wheat from the chaff - it gives us some idea of the genuineness or otherwise of supposed Holy visions, which are ten a penny.
You have been blessed by a manifestation of our one and only Lord, and you should feel highly honoured, you ungrateful fucker. I've been a devout member of the church since I was a little boy, and I've never had a single, paltry spiritual experience – not a sausage. But has that lack of celestial intervention and violation of my privacy dulled my faith? No, not one bit. Does the injustice make me feel jealous of lifelong infidels like you who receive visions out of the blue? Well that's a different story – too bloody right it does. I wish I could be pecked to within an inch of my life and warned to behave by the Grand Cockerel Himself, you jammy bastard. Don't get saying anything, your majesty, or I'm for it, but when I was a mere cardinal I buggered numerous choirboys in the hope that God would rush down from heaven in His fiery chariot, chasten me most severely (hopefully ignoring the fact that I had a massive stiffie) and swiftly put me back on the right track, but did it ever happen? Did it bollocks. I've ravished loads of innocent boys since and damaged many of the little shits irreparably, both physically and mentally, and the Grand Cockerel still hasn't bothered punishing me; oh no - I'm not worthy of righteous castigation.....

Gordon:- So where does that leave me? What happens next?

Perve:- I would have thought that was obvious, your majesty - you have to do as you're bloody well told, or you're doomed to burn in hell forever..... Phil's instructions were simple enough even for a complete thicko to understand, weren't they? Stop treating people like shit, refrain from conducting executions unless a very serious offence has been committed and the church implicitly agrees with the sentence, kick all of the foreign cults and so-called religions out of our once strictly Fowlian nation and refrain from eating chicken – in fact make the consumption of chicken illegal, and release all domestic fowl into the wild where they belong. Simple!

Gordon:- I'm not sure if I can do that, Archbishop, because I'm afraid that your manic rantings have failed to make me see the light. First of all I didn't like the bit about the Grand Cockerel being above all other kings – that can't be right, can it? And your self-serving monologue sounds a bit..... Well, it sounds a bit whacky to me, more than a little insane, in fact. You're an utter nutter, aren't you, lovey? As far as I'm concerned you religious folk are all the bloody same, especially the upper hierarchy – you're all holier-than-thou hypocrites with souls as crappy as the driven slush, but you think that your faith renders you exempt from damnation however badly you behave privately. To make matters worse you look down on all non-believers as lowly scum destined to burn in hell.....
You see that golden leopard statue in the corner? In its eye socket is a hidden camera and microphone. What you've just told me about your obsessive choirboy bothering is ample evidence to have you burned at the stake – Perve by name and perv by nature - but I'm prepared to confiscate the evidence and keep your sickening secret to myself if you do exactly as you're told. I require the church's blessing for as many executions as I bloody well please, starting this very evening with the slaughter of one Frabjous Vertigo Codpiece, the Prime Minister, and possibly a naughty doggie, I haven't quite decided yet..... I intend to have our esteemed Prime Minister devoured by wild beasts, probably tootsies first – I'm not sure which wild beasts will be involved yet, it depends which ones in the menagerie are the hungriest, I suppose. And despite your suspicions I don't have people horribly killed for nothing, you know; it's come to my attention that Codpiece is committing fraud of a very serious nature – he's been torching millions of acres of peach orchards under false pretences in the southern half of the nation because of an entirely fictional blight purely to raise the price of peaches and make him a very rich man indeed – he owns several million acres in the north of the country. What do you say to my little business arrangement, you ancient, despicable pederast?

Perve:- You sly, conniving git – you sewed me up like a fucking kipper! Aaaaaargh!!!!!

**************************************************

Geoff:- Whasamatter? Grrrrr! Grr-grrrrr! Woof bark growl! Oh, it's you, Lady Nicky. I'm sorry, you startled me - I must have drifted off. I thought you'd gone home ages ago. Is there a problem? Do you need to see the king again? I believe that Archbishop Perve is with him at the moment, but you're welcome to wait until he's available – I'm sure he won't be long.

Nicky:- No, I don't want to see the bloody king. I did go home ages ago, Geoff. Well, almost. I wandered around the streets for a while thinking about your offer, and then I went for a little drinkie-poohs and thought about it a little more. And do you know what? The more I thought about it the wetter my pussy became. It's your lucky day, kiddo, because I've changed my mind. I'm absolutely gagging for it, and I want you to shag me until I'm blue in the face..... You've copped off, doggie, but if you speak a word of your triumph to another living soul you're dead meat, do you understand?

Geoff:- Ooh yes. Oh yes-yes-yes, ma'am. Grrrrr! GROWL! WOOF! BARK ! Oh Nicky, my sweet, you've made me so happy! Wanna take a nice, leisurely stroll in the furthermost reaches of the palace gardens, my love? I know some really, really thick stands of Rhododendron and a snug, forgotten old tool shed that hasn't been used for donkeys' years. Wanna make sweet music and play hide the sausage, sugar plum?

Nicky:- Oh, go on then, you smooth talking, silver tongued bastard. Let's go walkabouts, you big, hunky pooch – and stop wagging your tail, for fuck's sake.

Act Five
The Royal Stadium of Penalization

Any sensible king faced with such worrying circumstances would be keeping a low profile, hiding in his counting house counting out his money perhaps while the queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey and the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes, blissfully unaware of the fact that a blackbird was about to peck off her nose. Gordon wasn't a particularly sensible king, however, and he didn't have a queen to keep him in line. Despite his nasty experience he couldn't bring himself to believe that something a whole lot more hazardous to his health than a mere blackbird might be homing in on its prey at that very moment, so he sat on his throne being bolshier than ever. The throne wasn't in the throne room, though – it had been transported several miles on a low-loader to the royal box in the Stadium of Penalization, a huge arena that stood on the outskirts of the city. A hundred or more heavily armed guards surrounded the royal box and Canute Bint sat at the king's side, so he felt reassuringly safe..... A massive crowd had gathered; in fact the stadium was full to bursting point, because it didn't take long for news of an important execution to spread.

Gordon:- So, Bint, my good man, what manner of wild beasties have the menagerie staff rounded up for our entertainment this fine evening?

Bint:- Apparently there's a shortage of dangerous animals due to a virus or something, so it's a toss up between half a dozen elderly, rather over-tame hyenas, an occasionally belligerent tapir and a blind, flea-bitten but decidedly hostile bear. The tapir is as daft as a brush most of the time. and the hyenas aren't particularly hungry seeing as they've been gorging on captured Bimikians, but apparently the bear is rather peckish; as far as I'm concerned it's no contest, but the decision is up to you, Sir.....Oh, hang on, there's Crappe, the senior animal handler, talking to the guards. Guards! Let him through.

Atrocious Crappe:- I would like to make a suggestion, your majesty. Oh shit - may I ask what happened to your face?

Gordon:- No, you may not. Speak freely, but don't stand any closer because you absolutely reek.

Crappe:- I know – I'm sorry, your highness, but I had a slight accident with a pack of irate skunks that I'm attempting to attack train and I didn't have time to change my clothes.

Gordon:- Stop beating around the bush, man. What is it you want to say? Ooh look, the soldiers are bringing Codpiece into the arena. I sure hope he puts up a good show..... Hey! Don't chain him up – I want to see him running for his life and squealing for his mummy. Perhaps you could give him a blunt sword or something so that he can attempt to defend himself against the grumpy old bear and prolong his humiliation. What's your suggestion then, smelly?

Crappe:- A consignment of a dozen highly dangerous exotic beasties from a faraway land has just arrived at the menagerie. I've been expecting them for several weeks, but they were delayed for a number of reasons beyond my control. Sir, these creatures are completely different from anything ever seen before in Absurdia, and they haven't been fed for days – I'm sure they'll put on a cracking performance if you'll give me your permission to use them.

Gordon:- What manner of beasts are you speaking of?

Crappe:- I'd rather not say if you don't mind; I'd prefer that it was a complete surprise. I promise you a truly spectacular execution, your majesty, a bleeding extravaganza – there'll be spilled guts and severed limbs flying all over the joint.

Gordon:- Very well - feel free to release the mystery predators at your leisure, Crappe..... Bint, be a good chappie and order the servants to bring me some fried chicken, I'm absolutely ravenous all of a sudden; executions always make me hungry – I guess it's the adrenalin. Oh shit, what does that grubby little guard want, the one who's waving his arms and jumping up and down? I suppose you'd better call him through.

Guard:- I'm afraid I have some bad news, your majesty, and I need to speak to you privately as it's a rather delicate matter. Why have you got plasters all over your face?

Gordon:- Forget that, man, or I'll have you executed quicker than you can 'Frabjous Codpiece is a fucking wanker'. Say what you have to say - I'm far from shy.

Guard:- Well..... It's like this, Sir. On Mr. Bint's orders we've just made a full search of the palace grounds, and we stumbled across a rather embarrassing scene in an old, isolated tool shed. I don't know if I can bring myself to tell you what we witnessed.....

Gordon:- Come on - out with it!

Guard:- Very well. We came across Lady Nicky, Sir, stark bollock naked on all fours. A fabulous sight, it was – her ginormous thruppenies were swinging to and fro, their frantic motion threatening to throw the planet out of orbit and her cigar butt nipples scraping deep, roughly parallel furrows in the dirt floor as Geoff, your naughty pooch, gave it to her good and hard from back-a-hind - doggie style, I believe they call it, and now I know why.
We didn't even know that the old shed was there - it was hidden away in the middle of an impossibly dense rhododendron thicket, but Lady Nicky's cries of ecstasy gave the game away. 'Fuck me harder, Geoffy,' she cried. 'Show me who's the gaffer, you excitingly unhygienic dog. Sock it to me, big boy. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oooooh yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees! Say you love me, you hairy mutt. Talk dirty to me – call me a sluttish, diseased crack whore. Tell me I've got the best tiddies in the northern hemisphere and I'm the most desirable bitch in the world. Split my cervix, rupture my spleen and fill my busted innards with baby gravy. God, you're so big; I'd forgotten what it was like to be filled and fulfilled – Frabjous's permanently limp excuse for a dick barely even touches the sides. I'm coming. I'm coming. Oh Lordy, for the love of God, I'm fucking coming! Take me to a faraway land where interspecies marriages are legal, Geoff, and I'll grant you access to a wedding ring I promise you'll never forget. Ride me like a wild mare, cowboy. Yeeeee-haaaaaaar!'

Gordon:- Aaah..... Who would have thought it? There are more secrets under the sun than even the wisest of us can imagine, it seems. Bint, I believe we have three felons to execute rather than just the one. Get Archbishop Perve to sign the necessary paperwork immediately, and inform Crappe that we have a couple of unexpected additions to the menu of his new arrivals. It would have been apt to see Lady Nicky having the living shit raped out of her by a hoard of vicious, stinking animals before she was killed, methinks, but she'd probably thoroughly enjoy it and beg for more..... Tell the crowd exactly what's happened – they have a right to know the depths of depravity that the criminals we are about to castigate have sunken to. In fact why not ask the people to pass sentence on Geoff and Lady Nicky? Surely I don't have to make all of the decisions.

Bint:- (Over the intercom a few minutes later after a brief summary of Geoff and Lady Nicky's crime). So that's about that, citizens - as sickening a case as I've ever come across. Our good King Gordon has granted you, the people, the right to pass judgement on these foul, obviously guilty felons. So what's it to be? There are four options - death, freedom, lifelong banishment or being forced to attend a Jedward concert.

The crowd:- DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!

**************************************************

Frabjous:- This is an outrage! My wife would never lie with an unwashed animal. We have a very full sex life, I'll have you know – or at least I thought we did. Nicky, I thought you were happy.....

Nicky:- I'm sorry, Frabjous. It's not your fault; you just couldn't give me what I want, what I ache for, what I need. I've been terribly depressed for the last few years, I'm sorry to say. You gave me everything I ever desired, except of course for the most important things on my wish list, which are love and kisses, emotional security and rampant, boiling hot rumpy-pumpy – apart from an occasional swift, embarrassing fumble you were always too busy for the assorted elements of togetherness, and though I should probably leave it unsaid your little dicky is completely inadequate, I'm afraid. All of a sudden I found Geoff, the love of my life, and it was as if all of my prayers were answered in one go. I can't believe that we could fall in love, consummate our relationship so beautifully and lose each other all in the same day..... Life's a bugger when you come to think of it, isn't it?

Frabjous:- And what have you got to say for yourself, Geoff? I thought we were friends, but it appears that that was a rather premature judgement. We've drank and laughed and played golf together for over two years now; I've even had you as a guest at my dinner parties on several occasions, but all the time your camaraderie was false – all the time you were just waiting for a chance to get your lipstick in my missus, you slimy little turd.

Geoff:- I don't expect you to believe me, Frabjous, but it's not like that at all. I've always valued our friendship, though when it came to the crunch it didn't stop me from doing the inevitable. I've fantasised about Nicky on more occasions than I can count - shit, she's more beautiful than all the flowers in a summer meadow and all the stars in the sky, so who could blame me? But I never planned to take her away from you. It just happened..... She was there, she wanted something that her life desperately lacked and I offered to fill the gap, so to speak. She turned me down at first, but she changed her mind once she had a chance to think about it.
Believe it or not I tried my best to persuade the king not to execute you when he was planning it this afternoon, but that jumped up little prick always gets his own way, doesn't he? The silly bastard experienced a major religious revelation this afternoon, but even that hasn't changed his tune - he was back to his obnoxious old self within a couple of hours once he'd stopped bloody shitting himself. I have a feeling that it was the Grand Cockerel that attacked him and insisted that he change his ways, and if so I guess the king will get his comeuppance eventually, but I think it's too late for us..... I just hope that the demon Sanders has mercy and doesn't insist upon Gordon and I sharing the same bonfire in hell for the rest of eternity, because I'm thoroughly sick of the bastard.

Crappe:- Prepare to release the animals!

Frabjous:- Oh shit..... That's all water under the bridge now, folks, and in the grand scheme of things I guess it doesn't matter - whatever will be will be. We're about to die in a particularly horrible way, so I guess we might as well part company on good terms. Nicky, I'm sorry that you were unhappy with me; I just wish I could have given you what you wanted. I forgive you for doing what you did, and I forgive you too, Geoff. I think I'd probably have done the same thing if I was in your shoes; you're right – Nicky is an almost impossibly beautiful woman, and I feel honoured that she was my wife even though it was destined to end like this.

Nicky:- You don't have to say all this, Frabjous, but as you had the courage to start the ball rolling I suppose I should somehow find the courage to say my bit, if I have time. I loved you very much indeed when we first married, but gradually that love grew less and less potent. I didn't choose to stop loving you - as Geoff has already hinted, we didn't plan this, it just happened; the whole thing evolved so quickly, and we I guess we lost control. Forgive me, Frabjous, I'm truly sorry.

Geoff:- I'm ashamed to say that I'm frightened. No, that's not a strong enough word - I'm bloody cacking myself. I'm terrified of pain and death and all the other unknown quantities that might or might not follow, but mostly it's the pain that worries me. Perhaps death is final; perhaps it's just blackness and oblivion when the last spark of life snuffs out, but perhaps not. If there is an afterlife of some sort I hope we can all recompense for our sins, if they are sins. And I sincerely hope we can still be friends..... That's about it, I think. Goodbye Nicky – I wanted to say 'Nicky my love,' but I don't think it's wise in the circumstances. And goodbye Frabjous – in an ideal world that should be followed by the word 'buddy', but I omitted it for the same reason. Do you think we should hold each other or just run like fuck and scream our heads off like even the bravest folk do when it's bye-bye forever time?

Frabjous:- Whatever happens when those damned gates open, I think a quick hug would make us all feel a little better; not much, mind, but it seems a fitting final act, don't you think? There..... Grit your teeth, both of you, and try to die as bravely and gracefully as possible - I think our time's almost up now. Don't give the rabble the pleasure of hearing you plead for mercy, especially the evil tosser surrounded by guards in the royal box. Scream if you must, but try to refrain from grovelling; surely we owe ourselves that much..... It'll all be over soon, I promise.

**************************************************

Around the edge of the arena were half a dozen sets of huge, iron studded gates capping the tunnels leading to the subterranean chambers where condemned criminals, gladiators and wild animals were held until show time. One set of gates began to slide into a recess in the wall, and a very large reddish-brown chicken cautiously poked its head out of the darkness. The creature cocked its skull to one side and watched the roaring crowd with one beady orange eye for a few moments, and then it plodded confidently into the arena, followed by another and another and another.

Gordon:- (Dropping a greasy chicken drumstick onto his gold and purple execution robes in shock). Aaaaaaargh! Fuck! Fuck! What are those bloody things doing here?

Bint:- Obviously they're the senior animal handler's mysterious new acquisitions, Sire. Please calm down – I can understand your trepidation, but I assure you that these are mere animals and I'm confident that they have nothing to do with your, er, vision. There are only a dozen of them, and I'm sure Crappe has had the sense to have their flight feathers clipped, so we're in no danger; you're surrounded by armed guards if the worst comes to the worst, for Fowl's sake. I can't say the same for the criminals, though - look, the chickens have spotted them!

Two of the gigantic fowl stepped forward, circled the terrified trio huddled together in the centre of the arena, clucked loudly and then turned away as if they were unworthy of attention. The rest of the chickens followed suit, and they began to parade around the edge of the arena eyeing the excited crowd in the tiered seats above them, a crowd that uttered a low mutter of fear and wonder and excitement.

Gordon:- There were only supposed to be a dozen of those king size cockerels, but I see at least twice that many in the arena already, and they're still coming in.

Bint:- So there are, but I'm sure there's nothing to worry about..... Crappe's not exactly the world's finest mathematician, and knowing him it's a simple administrative error.

Just then the steady flow of chickens emerging from the open gate erupted into a flood. Literally hundreds of the creatures poured into the arena kicking up a dense cloud of dust, and the crowd erupted in panic.....

Gordon:- This is beyond a joke! Those creatures are supposed to be viciously clawing and pecking the enemies of the state to bits and dining on their still twitching innards for our entertainment, but instead they're scanning the crowd as if they're looking for someone else to dine on – someone in particular..... Guards, open fire! I want those animals dead, every last one - they're a bloody liability. Oh bollocks! Do you see what I see, Bint? Bint, where do you think you're going? Get your arse back here, man; don't you dare to abandon me now, you yellow-bellied coward. Guards, shoot the big white fucker, the one wearing sunglasses. And if Bint travels another step away from me shoot him too – that's a bloody order.

Bint:- This business is getting too unpredictable for my liking, Gordon, so I'm fucking off a bit sharpish, and I suggest that you do the same. If the worst possible scenario comes to pass look at it this way – form, order and beauty spontaneously emerged from the chaotic primordial dust cloud some four and a half billion years ago, so however disorganized things get some good is sure to emerge from the debris. 'It'll all come out in the wash,' as my old mum used to say. You know, you shouldn't worry about dying, your majesty. Ultimately there is no death, because every single molecule making up your worthless, shitty whole will eventually be recycled; tiny fragments of your ruined carcass might one day become part of a bird, a flower, a star..... None of this crap is in the script, by the way - I'm making it up as I go along, and I reckon I'm doing tremendously well seeing as I've got about ten thousand terrified simians screaming in my ears.

Gordon:- What script? What the hell is going on? You mean this horror story is some sort of predetermined scenario? If not, then what do you mean?

Bint:- There's no time to explain properly, mate. All you need to know is that this is all a grand deception; none of it is real, and it's not even turning out as it was written – everything's tumbling out of control and turning inside out. I have no idea who's in control of this fiasco or who's hiding behind your mask - all along I thought you were a bit iffy..... I'm just an actor out to earn a few crusts for my wife and kids and keep a roof over our heads. My real name is Angus Copperfield, and I'm a simple man with simple needs. I'm sorry, but I don't do genuinely life threatening situations. I'm no hero, OK? Bye-bye, sport – I'll see you at the screening, perhaps.

Gordon:- Damn you to hell!

Bint:- Ditto.....

The guards fired repeatedly at the chickens, and though they dropped a considerable number there were too many of them to make much difference and the guards were huddled too closely together to use their rifles effectively – during the panic at least one unfortunate individual had the top of his head blown off by one of the men behind him. A number of the cockerels took to the air and landed in the midst of the guards, pecking and kicking out with their wickedly sharp spurs, and once the blood and brains started flowing even the bravest of the men began to scatter.
The giant fowl – there must have been almost a thousand of them by now, and they were still rushing out of the gateway thick and fast – flew en masse into the crowd and pecked choice members of the audience to death, but curiously they completely ignored others. Amongst the monsters still in the arena was a slower moving one a good head and shoulders above his comrades. He was pure white, and he was wearing bright green cycling shorts, fluffy carpet slippers and wraparound sunglasses. A bloody faced man in the crowd climbed over the balustrade and jumped thirty feet or so into the arena, shattering both of his ankles in the process. Undaunted he dragged himself through the dust until he was at the feet of the enormous white chicken, who calmly waited for him, but it was only when the man spoke that his identity became clear.

Crappe:- Hail the Grand Cockerel! Hail Phil Bannister, my one and only Lord! Forgive me for my sins, Master, and accept me as your servant.

Phil:- Rise, faithful disciple. You are healed, and rest assured, your formerly disgustingly soiled soul is fully cleansed.

Crappe:- (Dragging himself to his feet). Thank you, Lord - thank you so much! Bless your ethereal cotton socks!

Phil:- Oh, it was nothing.....

The Grand Cockerel took to the air on His mighty wings. He circled the arena several times, diligently studying the terrified rabble below, and when He spotted His prey scrambling through the crowd he began to descend in a graceful arc, deftly landing in front of the fleeing king.

Phil:- So we meet again, king Gordon.

Gordon:- I haven't done anything wrong, great Holy one! The church ordered these executions, honestly. It was Archbishop Perve - if you can find Bint he has the paperwork to prove it. And I haven't eaten any chicken since we last met; apart from an occasional portion of fish and deep-fried Franciscan newt I've decided to become a vegetarian.

Phil:- So what are those slivers of white meat and breadcrumbs around your greasy chops?

Gordon:- Erm..... Tofu?

Phil:- Wrong answer. Prepare to die, infidel - and don't say I didn't warn you!

Gordon:- Mumsie!

Act six
The Brand, Spanking New Royal Palace

Geoff:- Aah, this is the life, my love. Unlike the old palace, this place is fit for a bloody king.

Nicky:- I'm glad you like it, my spouse. You know, I expected you to hang onto the old place despite your plans – I never thought you'd really turn the old palace into a home for orphaned children and unwanted pups, but I underestimated the goodness in your heart. I expected the power to go to your head once you got used to the idea of being king, but it hasn't, praise the Grand Cockerel.

Geoff:- No, my queen, it hasn't. To tell the truth I expected you to want to hold onto the old palace too, but it seems we were both wrong – we're as happy as bugs in a rug in this modest country residence, which is plenty big enough for our needs. The people of Absurdia are happy too, methinks; our promises have turned out to be not nearly as hollow as everyone expected. Do pass the sausage rolls, dear, I'm absolutely famished. How about a quick dabble after lunch before we see the Prime Minister about the national tax reductions I promised at my inauguration?

Nicky:- How about we see Frabjous first, and then take a walk through the old palace grounds in the general direction of a certain dilapidated tool shed for old times sake? We could really take our time in there with little fear of disturbance..... I have some good news that I want to share with you, lover, but I prefer to do it in my own time. (She unconsciously pats her belly).

Geoff:- That's a grand idea, honey; I'd like that very much. Hang about, what's that swiftly spinning, multi-coloured spiral of light melting its way through the chimney breast and heading directly towards us? Whatever it is, I sure hope it isn't about to tear us apart just as we were starting to get used to one another. What do you think it could be, Nicky? Quick – check the fucking script!

Nicky:- It says in the script – which seems to have mysteriously changed since I last scrutinised it - that's it's a warp in the time-space continuum that's just realised that neither of us truly belong in this dimension, and it's programmed by the Grand Cockerel Himself to relocate us in our original worlds. I hope we both sprang from the same world, my love, wherever it is – and I hope we can find one another once we get there. I love you with all my heart, Geoff.....

Geoff:- I love you too, Nicky. Oh no. Ooh, dearie me, no. No! Fowl save us! Please don't part us, Phil Bannister – I love Nicky more than anything in the multi-verse, you utter, complete twannock! Oh bollocks – ouuuwwwww myyyyy, that frigging hurts!

Both:- Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh, shit!

Act seven
The Rear Bedroom of a Scruffy Two up,
Two Down Council House in the
Suburbs of Wolverhampton, England

Geoff:- My head hurts sooooo bad. My arms and legs hurt too, and my back really hurts. Shit, even my tongue hurts. Whaddafuck's going on? I can't see properly. Is that you, Gordie? My mum isn't back yet, is she? I don't want her to see me like this – I think I might have shit myself. There are no big fucking chickens in here, are there?

Gordon:- No, thankfully not. I've been conscious for a while now. It'll take you a few minutes to come down to Earth completely, spaceman, but you'll touch down eventually and you'll feel a bit better in a while. So you saw big chickens too. Interesting - very interesting..... It's just a coincidence, though. It has to be - we can't possibly have shared the same trip, man; that's unheard of however potent the dope is. My my, we sampled a right weird chemical cocktail last night..... Think yourself lucky, pal - I bet you weren't a doomed king in your trip.

Geoff:- No. But you were, though, and the Grand Cockerel pecked fuck out of you – he ate your tiny cock and balls before your unbelieving eyes. Ha! Serves you bloody right, you wicked tyrant. I was a hairy arsed talking dog, believe it or not. Shit, it was so bloody real..... Now we're back to being a couple of dole dogs living off the good old Department of 'ealth and Social Security and selling various types of mind-warping candy in an effort to make ends meet.

Gordon:- You were my pet and best buddy rolled into one, but I ordered your execution 'cos you shafted the delightful Lady Nicky, you jammy bastard, while I was incapable due to the fact that I was recovering from a religious revelation that I foolishly chose to ignore, plus I was suffering from a very sore knob indeed. What a woman, A? Phwooar.....

Geoff:- Oh yes. Oh God, what am I going to do without my lovely Nicky? I've never seen a woman anywhere near as beautiful, Gordie. She was stunning – she looked like some perfect example of womanhood in the centrefold of a fancy jazz mag, except that she didn't have any staple marks across her belly. But it was more than that – I loved her, for Fowl's sake, I mean for Christ's sake..... I have to go back, I have to find her. How can I get back to - to whatymacallit, to bloody Absurdia?

Gordon:- You can't go back, bud. Not ever. There is no going back, you total divvy - you know that as well as I do. And even if you could go back, you could search and search for the rest of your pitiful life and you'd probably never find her. None of the experience was real, not in the normal sense of the word, anyway - it's sad, but it's true, so maybe it's best not to question it too much. If you believe in God thank Him for giving you a good time and then do your best to forget about it.

Geoff:- It's a bit of a cop out though, isn't it? I can't accept that it didn't actually happen.

Gordon:- Geoff, as far as I'm concerned these things do happen and they are real, only in a completely different way from everyday shit – a bit like decent fiction and dreams. Get over it, let Nicky go or it'll eat at you for the rest of your life..... Come on, let's go down the precinct and sell a bit of gear so that we can raise some cash to spend at the Ruptured Duck. You don't wanna miss happy hour, do you? You never know, those two cracking foreign birds might be there, the ones we almost hit it off with last time. What were their names?

Geoff:- Oh, you mean those scrawny, manipulative but admittedly rather fetching Polish girls. They couldn't understand a bloody word we were saying, or they pretended not to understand, but as long as we didn't get too fruity they were happy enough for us to buy their drinks all night until they mysteriously vanished just before closing time. I dunno, Gordie, their names totally escape me, and to tell the truth I have no desire to remember, because I wants my little Nicky!

Gordon:- Twat.....

A Jack Russell terrier sized rat appears in the doorway; it fearlessly scurries across the threadbare carpet and sits on its hind legs looking up at the two men.

Gordon:- I didn't know that you had a pet rat, Geoff. Surely that's no ordinary sewer rat – it's bloody huge! Is it one of those giant Jungle rats that everyone into the exotic pet scene's going mad for?

Geoff:- I don't own a rat of any description – this place isn't clean enough for rats. All we've got is Tiddles, my mum's scabby old cat, and she'll probably pack her bags and fuck off when she sees that thing.

Gordon:- Then it's an unusually large Rattus Norwegicus, the common brown rat, so I'll have to kick the crap out of it and disinfect the carpet. Rats are dirty, verminous, disease spreading little bastards – they're nearly as bad as pigeons and traffic wardens and Tory fucking politicians.

Rat:- Squeak squeak squeeeeeeeak! (The rat deftly jumps onto Geoff's lap, frantically licks his hands and then looks longingly into his eyes and rather fearfully at Gordon).

Geoff:- Wait! Look at her eyes - they're as blue as a bloody blackbird's egg. Fuck me, it's Lady Nicky..... Nicky, my love, you've found me! Joy to the world! Gordie, I'm not coming out today, mate. You go – enjoy yourself. I think I'll just stay in and, erm, you know, listen to some tunes, chill out, that sort of thing. (He plants a sly kiss on the rat's ear when he thinks Gordon isn't looking, but Gordon clocks the action).

Gordon:- They look like normal beady rat eyes to me, pal. And if I'm not mistaken that rat's fucking preggers – look at the size of its dugs! If you haven't got the balls to whack it on the head call in Rentokil, for Christ's sake, or you'll be overrun with the damned things in a few weeks.

Geoff:- That means that I'm going to be a daddy! I can't wait to tell my mum..... I've never been so happy - I'm over the moon! I have to clean this place up, decorate the spare room and put up some shelves, and then I've got to go to Mothercare and buy a cot and a pushchair and a Moses basket. And I need to ask my grandma to knit me loads of miniature blue and pink booties and bonnets and romper suits.

Gordon:- So let's get this straight – and before we start I can't help saying that it sounds a tiny bit unlikely..... A giant rat that was formerly a beautiful, well-stacked woman walks into your bedroom. It's clear that she's up the stick, and you, the supposed father, are a dog-cum-drug dealer. How are you going to raise a litter of dog/man/woman/rat hybrids, Geoff – and where are you going to find clothes to fit them and a school willing to educate them? I'm not trying to be a killjoy or anything, but even if that is Nicky I can't see how your little arrangement is going to work – she can't even bloody talk.

Geoff:- Her squeaks are enough for me – they're music to my ears.....

Finito.