Virgin Three
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The following is a play in the style of Samuel Beckett.
Characters:
MIGUEL: An amplifier, a megaphone over the campgrounds at night, an advocate of reverse dominance hierarchy.
KEEFY: An English minimalist artist.
PROFESSOR: A boomer, a linguistic determinist and secret plotter.
FRANCES ARMSTRONG: A survivor.
THE PACK: A chorus of low, throaty chuckles.
Setting: A bare stage, the low hum of a distant generator. A low, rhythmic sound begins, growing imperceptibly.
(Lights up. MIGUEL stands stiffly, facing the audience, a large, black megaphone held at his mouth. KEEFY sits on the floor, meticulously cleaning a single, small stone. PROFESSOR paces slowly, muttering to himself. FRANCES ARMSTRONG is a little apart, staring blankly.)
MIGUEL: (Voice booming, slightly distorted by the megaphone) THE REVERSE DOMINANCE HIERARCHY! I SAY IT IS A BASTION! A BASTION AGAINST THE CORROSIVE PROVINCIALISM THAT SEEKS TO DIVIDE… THE REVERSE DOMINANCE HIERARCHY! WE MUST STAND FIRM! UNITED! AGAINST THE INSIDIOUS CURRENTS OF… INSULAR THINKING!
(The low rhythmic sound becomes distinct. It is the sound of many hyaenas, a collective, rhythmic cackle. It seems to come from all directions.)
KEEFY: (Without looking up from his stone) They’re here.
PROFESSOR: (Stopping abruptly, his face a sudden mask of fear) The noise… the cacophony. It’s… unstructured. Without form. A linguistic void.
FRANCES ARMSTRONG: (Softly, almost a whisper) The giggle. It came before the tears. Before the silence.
(A figure, then another, then a dozen, emerge from the shadows. They are indistinct but their movements are purposeful. They circle the stage, their low giggling rising and falling in waves. A Homing Hyena Pack )
MIGUEL: (The megaphone trembles in his hand) WE MUST RETURN TO THE FUNDAMENTALS! TO THE UNASSAILABLE REVERSE DOMINANCE HIERARCHY! AS THE COMMUNARDS UNDERSTOOD! AS THE PARIS COMMUNE PROVED!
(The Pack’s laughter intensifies, a sharp, collective primeval giggle.)
PROFESSOR: (Waving a hand dismissively at Miguel) What good are your words now? Your signifiers are meaningless to them. They operate on pure… sound. On pure… aural aggression. A complete collapse of the semantic order.
FRANCES ARMSTRONG: (A little louder, but still distant) The patterns were broken. They chewed them. They gnawed on the fragments.
MIGUEL: (Pounding a fist lightly on his other palm, the megaphone silent for a moment) REVERSE DOMINANCE HIERARCHY! THAT IS WHAT IS LACKING! A FIRM HAND! A CLEAR DIRECTION!
(One of the pack members breaks from the circle, shambling toward Miguel.)
KEEFY: (Without looking at the hyena, he holds up his small, cleaned stone) This is the point. This is all there is. It’s not about what you say, it’s about what you do.
PROFESSOR: (His voice a panicked whisper) To be in the presence of pure instinct… pure, unfiltered will… I have no words for this. The tools of my trade are useless. My system of thought, my entire life’s work… it’s a castle of sand.
FRANCES ARMSTRONG: (Her eyes moving, briefly, to the advancing hyena, then back to nothing) The patterns. They were beautiful. Before. Now, just fragments. Sharp.
MIGUEL: (Stepping forward slightly, raising the megaphone) LET US NOT BE SWAYED BY SOPHISTRY! BY CLEVER WORDPLAY! THE REVERSE DOMINANCE HIERARCHY IS PLAIN! IT IS SELF-EVIDENT! IT REQUIRES NO… NO ENDLESS DEBATE! ONLY ACCEPTANCE! ONLY… OBEDIENCE! FOR THE REVERSE DOMINANCE HIERARCHY!
(The hyena stops, cocks its head, and emits a single, sharp laugh directly at Miguel. The rest of the pack laughs in chorus. Miguel lowers the megaphone slowly.)
KEEFY: (Having finished with his third stone, he places it beside the others, forming a small, perfect line.) Three. That’s enough.
PROFESSOR: (Shaking his head slowly, his voice dropping to a low, defeated tone) To close the mind to dialogue… to reason… is to invite… (He gestures vaguely at the pack, a sense of absolute finality in his voice) …the collapse of everything.
FRANCES ARMSTRONG: (Standing, slowly, her voice gaining a fragile strength) And the void came. It swallowed everything. Everything but the memory of it. And the sound of the wind. And the giggle.
(MIGUEL stands immobile. PROFESSOR sinks to the floor, muttering incoherently about the end of logic. FRANCES ARMSTRONG walks towards KEEFY. She stops beside him, looking down at his three small stones. KEEFY looks up at her.)
FRANCES ARMSTRONG: (To Keefy, a ghost of a question in her voice) Do they remember?
KEEFY: (After a long pause, looking at his stones) No. But I do. And that is a point.
(The Pack continues to circle, their laughter a constant, menacing presence. Lights fade slowly to black.)
