BLACK ODDER
I wrote this with GPT. Now it won’t make an image of itself shouting “WOOF!” — but it won’t stop shouting “WOOF!” either.
Episode: A Pie of Two Halves
A short and deeply unauthorised Tudor absurdity
Dramatis Personae
- Lord Edmund Black Odder — Courtier, schemer, and a man who considers a conscience an unfortunate clerical error.
- Rick the Follically Challenged — His assistant, blessed with a generous forehead and a mind that occasionally arrives somewhere interesting by accident.
- Lord Belchett — A nobleman of enormous appetite and unfortunate internal acoustics.
Scene I — The Royal Kitchens
A magnificent Tudor kitchen. Upon a silver platter sits a single square of puff pastry, visibly bursting with spiced Christmas mincemeat.
BLACK ODDER enters, followed by RICK, who is carrying a comb for reasons nobody has successfully established.
BLACK ODDER: Rick, what is that?
RICK: A mince pie, my lord.
BLACK ODDER: It’s square.
RICK: Yes, my lord. Apparently the cook puts a layer of pastry down, spreads mincemeat upon it, places another layer on top and cuts it into squares.
BLACK ODDER: How long does that take?
RICK: About a minute, my lord.
BLACK ODDER: Good heavens. We appear to have discovered industrialisation three centuries early. Don’t tell the peasants.
LORD BELCHETT enters with the magnificent confidence of a man whose trousers have never survived Christmas.
BELCHETT: AHA! THERE YOU ARE! Splendid news! The Queen orders that nobody take the whole pie for themselves.
BLACK ODDER: How enchanting.
BELCHETT: It is to be shared among those present. No individual is to polish it off beforehand.
BLACK ODDER: Naturally. One must never permit personal appetite to interfere with the wishes of the Crown.
BELCHETT: Capital! I’m off to supervise the wine cellar.
RICK: By drinking it, my lord?
BELCHETT: SOMEONE MUST ENSURE IT’S SAFE!
Belchett departs, accompanied by a noise suggesting a trumpet has been swallowed by a cow.
Scene II — A Matter of Classification
Black Odder studies the pie.
BLACK ODDER: Rick.
RICK: My lord?
BLACK ODDER: What precisely constitutes a pie?
RICK: Pastry and filling, my lord.
BLACK ODDER: Too broad. By that definition, half the French aristocracy are pies.
RICK: Well, generally they’re round.
BLACK ODDER: Excellent. And is this round?
RICK: No, my lord.
BLACK ODDER: Then it cannot be a pie.
RICK: I suppose not.
BLACK ODDER: What is it, then?
RICK: A mince sandwich?
BLACK ODDER: Precisely! And Lord Belchett specifically forbade us from eating the whole mince pie.
RICK: He did, my lord.
BLACK ODDER: Which leaves us entirely at liberty to eat this sandwich.
Black Odder produces a knife.
RICK: Shall I fetch a plate?
BLACK ODDER: An excellent idea.
Rick fetches two.
BLACK ODDER: Why two?
RICK: Well, I thought if we were sharing —
BLACK ODDER: Sharing? Good God, Rick, have you contracted Christianity?
RICK: No, my lord. I just thought —
BLACK ODDER: A dangerous hobby. Best abandoned before it becomes habitual.
Black Odder reaches for the pastry.
He stops.
Looks at the knife.
Looks at the plate.
Looks at the pie.
BLACK ODDER: Rick.
RICK: My lord?
BLACK ODDER: Why have I spent five minutes establishing that this pie isn’t a pie?
RICK: Because you want to eat it, my lord.
BLACK ODDER: That is not an explanation.
RICK: It’s the same explanation as before, my lord.
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Black Odder looks at the knife. Then the plate. Then the square of pastry.
BLACK ODDER: …Damn.
RICK: Shall I put the knife away, my lord?
BLACK ODDER: Certainly not. I haven’t decided what to do with it.
Scene III — An Unexpected Division
Lord Belchett returns, carrying a wine jug suspiciously lighter than when he left.
BELCHETT: WHAT’S THIS?! KNIVES! PLATES! PASTRY! WHAT’S GOING ON?!
BLACK ODDER: We have been discussing the ontological status of a square mince pie.
BELCHETT: THE WHAT?!
RICK: Whether it’s really a pie, my lord.
BELCHETT: OF COURSE IT’S A BLOODY PIE!
BLACK ODDER: Despite being square?
BELCHETT: IF IT’S CHRISTMAS AND IT’S FULL OF MINCEMEAT, IT’S A MINCE PIE! I DON’T CARE IF IT’S SHAPED LIKE THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY!
BLACK ODDER: A refreshingly pragmatic definition.
BELCHETT: NOW PUT IT DOWN!
Black Odder looks at the knife.
BLACK ODDER: Why?
BELCHETT: BECAUSE IT’S FOR SHARING!
BLACK ODDER: Precisely. And how, Belchett, do you propose we divide a pie without first picking it up?
Belchett opens his mouth. Nothing emerges. This is believed to be the first recorded instance.
BELCHETT: …WELL, CARRY ON, THEN.
Black Odder cuts the pie into three portions..
They each take a portion.
A tremendous crash. The kitchen door flies off its hinges.
LORD FLESHHEART: “WOOF! Who’s got a hot little tart for me?!”
BLACK ODDER: “Belchett, apparently. Although I wouldn’t advise it.”
FLESHHEART: “HAH! Still got your wit, Edmund! Shame about the rest of you!”
Fleshheart spots the pastry.
FLESHHEART: “What’s this, then?”
RICK: “A mince pie, my lord.”
FLESHHEART: “Looks like a sandwich to me!”
Black Odder slowly closes his eyes.
FLESHHEART: “WOOF! Haven’t eaten a mince pie in years. Promised Her Majesty I’d leave them alone.”
He reaches for Black Odder’s portion.
BLACK ODDER: “You do realise — “
FLESHHEART: “Never let a promise come between a man and a decent sandwich, old boy!”
He stuffs the pastry into his mouth and leaps through the window.
FLESHHEART, DISTANTLY: “WOOOOOOF!”
Silence.
RICK: “He seems to have had the same cunning plan as you, my lord.”
BLACK ODDER: “Yes, Rick. Thank you. I noticed.”
Black Odder takes Rick’s portion
A moment of peaceful chewing.
BLACK ODDER: I’m tasting yours for you, Rick. You’re enjoying it enormously.
RICK: Awww but I had a cunning plan.
BLACK ODDER: Oh not another, please enlighten us…
RICK: What if it was turnip shaped…?
*SLAP!!*
BELCHETT: MMMMPH! HOT! HOT! GOOD GOD, IT’S HOT!
He knocks over the wine jug, sending it cascading across the table.
RICK: Shall I fetch some water, my lord?
BELCHETT: YES! QUICKLY!
Rick leaves.
BLACK ODDER: Interesting.
BELCHETT: WHAT?!
BLACK ODDER: You knew the pie had only just come from the oven.
BELCHETT: YES!
BLACK ODDER: You knew hot mincemeat was likely to burn your mouth.
BELCHETT: YES!
BLACK ODDER: And you ate it anyway.
BELCHETT: YES!
Black Odder raises an eyebrow.
BELCHETT: …OH, BUGGER.
A pause.
BELCHETT: STILL WORTH IT!
Blackout.
