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                      Voyage of the Sausage

                        A Play in One Act

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   Copyright 1993, The Right Reverend Aural Hardly, MSK, DoC.
               A.K.A. Sean Puckett, A.K.A. CatBear

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                  Dramatis Personae:

                  Bob            Captain of the Sausage
                  Scum           First Mate of the Sausage
                  Whang          Knight Errant
                  Burt           Whiny Mope
                  Angela         Sexpot

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                          ------------
                            ACT  ONE
                          ------------


  Bob:      So here we are.

  Scum:     All of us.

  Bob:      Two of us, yes.

  Scum:     Yes.

  Bob:      Here on this ship.

  Scum:     The Sausage.

  Bob:      Right.


            A pause.


  Scum:     Who made that name up?

  Bob:      Check the byline.

  Scum:     Who the hell's Aural Hardly?

  Bob:      He's the assh-- whoops... generous... yes,
            generous creator of our universe, here.

  Scum:     Why the correction?

  Bob:      Even as I speak this, He's writing it.  I don't
            want to make him mad, or something Truly Horrific
            might happen to me.

  Scum:     I suppose that's rational enough.  Can you read
            ahead a little?

  Bob:      No.  He's writing in step with our speech.  We'll
            just have to take it as it comes.

  Scum:     So when will something interesting happen?


            At this point, a six-inch steel bolt falls onto
            the floor between them.


            A brief pause, as Bob and Scum look at each other.


  Bob:      Well, that was... interesting.

  Scum:     No, it was stup--

  Bob:      INTERESTING.

  Scum:     Ah.  Yes.  Well.

  Bob:      Do you understand?

  Scum:     No, but you're the Captain.

  Bob:      Right you are, Scum.


            Another pause, during which Bob and Scum look at
            the walls, the ceiling, the floor, each other:
            anything but that bolt.


  Scum:     So do you suppose that bolt is important?

  Bob:      I ahh...

  Scum:     Should I pick it up?

  Bob:      Well, uhh...

  Scum:     Indecision's a bad habit to be in, especially for
            a Captain.

  Bob:      You're absolutely right.  Go pick up that bolt.

  Scum:     Yessir, Captain, Sir!


            Scum reaches down for the bolt, but a dirty
            leather boot steps on his hand before he can reach
            it.


  Scum:     Ow, shit!

  Whang:    That's MY bolt.

  Scum:     Get off my hand, asshole!

  Bob:      Hey!

  Whang (putting more pressure on):
            I can't heaaaar yoooouuu!

  Scum (shouting):
            FUCK!  GET OFF!

  Bob:      Look, you--

  Whang (now balancing on one foot):
            I still can't heaaaaarrr yoooooouuu!

  Scum (screaming):
            GOD DAMN!  GET OFF MY---

  Bob (annoyed):
            Get off his hand, or I'll be forced to take
            Drastic Measures!

  Whang (stepping off Scum's foot):
            Like... what?


            With that, Whang nails a U-shaped staple to the
            deck, pinning Scum's wrist in place.


  Scum:     Jeezus!  What the hell is your problem, buddy?

  Whang:    You, scum, are in no position to ask questions.

  Scum and Bob (together):
            How'd you know his name?

  Whang:    What?

  Whang:    Listen.  This bolt is mine.  It is the famed
            Grecian Crossbolt.

  Bob:      Crossbolt?  No, it's a bolt for holding things
            together.

  Whang:    What?

  Bob:      I don't know.  Girders, beams... Maybe a couple
            two-by-fours.

  Whang:    What?!

  Bob:      Well, look at it.

  Whang (looking):
            My lord, so it is!


            A pause.


  Whang:    Who's writing this?

  Bob and Scum (together):
            Check the byline.

  Whang:    Who's Aural Hardly?

  Scum:     Don't ask.

  Whang:    Well, whoever he is, he can't write worth a hill
            o' beans.

  Scum:     Yeah.  He even resorted to a tired cliche just
            now.


            At this, Whang's previously dark brown hair turns
            grey, and Scum grows a third nostril.


  Whang (laughing at Scum):
            That, sir, is the most preposterous thing I have
            ever seen!

  Scum (laughing at Whang):
            You better get that Grecian Crossbolt in a hurry!


            Both stop laughing, and compare notes.


  Scum:     Okay, you hack writer--


            Another nostril grows, next to the new one.


  Whang:    What's the big idea, mister author sir?


            Whang loses all of his hair.


  Scum (gulping):
            I think I... like this... job.

  Whang (nodding, breathless):
            Yes.  Yes!  If this is our place in life, to be
            tortu-- I mean manipu-- I mean part of this "Aural
            Hardly" and his Grand Scheme, then So Shall It Be!


            Bob, up till now mostly just observing and nodding
            to himself, speaks up.


  Bob:      I think there's a very important lesson to be
            learned here.

  Scum:     What's that, sir?

  Bob:      We shouldn't hang around in the medulla oblongata
            after 11pm.

  Whang:    So that's how all this got started.  I was waiting
            for a bus.

  Scum:     Aaahhh... it all becomes apparent now.

  Bob:      Since the author is writing this now, perhaps by
            subtle cues and actions, we can make something
            beneficial happen?

  Whang:    Cues?

  Bob:      Sure.  Scum, you understand, right?

  Scum:     I'm not sure, sir.  Do you mean we should try to
            direct the author's mind as he is writing?

  Bob:      Exactly.

  Whang:    How are we supposed to do that?  We're totally at
            his mercy!

  Bob:      Precisely.

  Scum:     I'm afraid I've lost you, sir.

  Bob:      Allow me to explain.  Here we are, well into the
            second page of the story.  The author has each of
            our personas pretty well worked out by now.  In
            theory, this will enable us to write more and more
            of our own words as his preconceptions of what our
            personas would do in reaction to each situation.

  Whang:    Come again?

  Bob:      See?  He's typified you as a well meaning,
            adventurous, somewhat dim foot soldier.

  Scum:     I think I get it.  I'm being written to be a
            reasonably intelligent friend to the lead, who's
            main purpose is to offer up explanations, or to
            draw out conversation.

  Bob:      Right!  And I'm the most intelligent of us all,
            being drawn as a smart, decisive (mostly), alert
            but not overreacting ship captain.

  Whang:    I believe I understand.  But what does this mean
            to me?

  Bob:      It means, my dear man, that all you have to do is
            be... yourself.  The author will take care of
            everything from there.

  Whang:    How can I be myself with no hair?

  Scum:     And I've got four nostrils!

  Bob:      I think you may have to get used to it.


            The door opens, and a large fellow in leather
            walks in.


  Bob:      So!  The author has contrived a surprise for us!
            Who're you?

  Burt:     I, dear Captain, am Burt.

  Bob:      And what is your part in this?

  Burt:     I play your brother-in-law, the defeatist.

  Bob:      Excellent!  We have a wonderful quartet!  The
            smart leader, the able assistant, the bold
            soldier, and the gloomy sidekick!

  Scum:     All we need is a babe.

  Whang:    Yes!  Indeed!  A maiden fair!


            Through the open doorway walks what they expect.


  Angela:   Hello, boys.


            The men whistle at her figure, which is fully
            revealed beneath a fine silken blouse by a
            conveniently placed spotlight behind her.


  Bob (aside to Scum):
            That's an awfully convenient place for a
            spotlight, Scum.

  Scum (to Bob):
            Yes sir.  Make the best of it, I always say.


            She turns, and poses a moment, licking her lips
            and puckering.  The men gape and stare.  A
            noticeable bulge begins to grow in the appropriate
            area on each man.


  Bob (leaning over to hide his erection):
            Hello, miss.  What might your name be?

  Angela (purring, and not fooled for a moment):
            Angela.  Is there a place I may sit?


            Whang gestures to his loins, but Burt smacks him.

            Bob offers Scum's chair to Angela.


  Scum (still uncomfortably pinned to the floor):
            Hey, you hack writer!  Let me up!


            The staple holding him down disappears.


  Scum (amazed):
            Thanks!

  Bob:      I think we're on his good side, now.  Freedom,
            beautiful women.  What's next?


            Angela peels all her clothes off.


  The Men:  SEX!


            Angela nods.

  Burt (morosely):
            Ooohh maan.  There's fouuur of us, and only one of
            her...

  Bob:      Careful, you fool, you'll make him mad!

  Burt (whining):
            Someone's going to be left oooouuuut.  I hate this
            story, and I haaate this wri--


            Burt looks up with a vastly stunned expression.


  Burt (in shock):
            My dick just fell off.

  Scum:     Jeez!


            Burt wanders out of the room, clinching the cuff
            of his right pant leg, mumbling about some triple-
            0 thread.


  Angela (pouting):
            What about me, boys?  I feel cold.  I need to be
            warmed up.


            A grand clunking of heads is heard as the three
            men collide in their mad rush towards her.

            Suddenly, a steel cage crashes down over their
            heads.


  Whang:    My lord!

  Scum:     Jeeez!

  Bob:      I might have known this was going too smoothly.

  Angela:   That's right, boys.  This story's gone on long
            enough.  I'm tired of it, and I'm going to put an
            end to it.

  Bob:      Can you DO that?

  Angela:   Easily, you poser.  All I have to do is say


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                            THE  END
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