PLAYGE - EXCERPT 

In a medieval orphanage, in plague infested London, the king looks for a new heir - but everyone keeps getting sick and dying! At this point in the play there are few kids left and Roland, The Kid Knight, is about to leave of his own volition (as opposed to dying of the plague) and the other remaining children (Blaster who they have strapped to a bedframe because of his wild antics) deal with this in the following ways:

Blaster - Evil beastly boy, about thirteen. Brutish and carries a bag of rocks to chuck at the other orphan boys. Ogreish in nature, he doesn’t speak. Just grunts.

Roland - Knightly. Stoic. Proud. He is a good fighter and perceives himself as very very very virtuous. He carries a sword made of scrap. Often goes on long rambling rants. 

Bliot - The oldest orphan, in fact, he is about thirty-five. Dirty, but adult looking. He doesn’t quite match. A little dumb.

Cramdore - Germaphobe. 

Charlemagne - Almost the youngest orphan. Sad and heavyset. Bliot is his main bully.

Curtains rise. It’s morning. Blaster's bed is propped up against the wall. He hangs like Jesus, or like some other poor victim of some cruel punishment on a rack. He’s dying, but not quite dead. All the other boys are in bed except for Roland who stumbles through the door loudly waking everyone up. In his hand he holds a small piece of parchment paper. He clasps it tightly. He struts back and forth across the empty space between Blaster's lone bed and the rest of them. 

Roland: Rise! Rise! The morning won’t eat you like some hungry troll. The morning won't swallow you whole like the plague. 

Bliot groans. Charlemagne rolls from his bed onto the floor, blanket attached. Cramdore is up, has been, he rises like dracula. 

Cramdore: The day eats just as the night! 

Cramdore steps slowly, rigidly out of bed. He steps closer to Roland. 

Cramdore: But nothing’s as pure as the day! (Laughs) There has to be some way into the rafters. Off this floor. It’s filthy. 

Cramdore starts to pace along the outside of the room and tries several possible routes into the rafters but doesn’t fully commit to any of them yet. Charlemagne gets up. He walks half way across the room, looks at Blaster. 

Charlemagne: he dead yet? 

Roland: He’s breathing. 

Charlemagne squirmes. 

Charlemagne: I don’t like it. 

Charlemagne steps closer to blaster. Nearly in touching range. 

Charlemagne: It’s like watching my cat die again. 

Roland: If you want to talk about the reality of the punishment with me… I would not know what to say to a young one. I think your reasoning is correct. He’s gone feral. But it is not my responsibility to take care of these things anymore. I have decided this. Yes, I have decided. Whatever happens to him is up to you and Cramdore and Bliot. 

Charlemagne: You’re leaving too? 

Roland: … (Big Pause, sad look) 

Bliot: for once in his life he’s got nothing to say. (wipes his eyes. He is configured in a way where he still looks to be sleeping but can be heard clearly) One less kid in the orphanage. I’m still here. Always will be. (Gets up. He’s in nothing but his underwear. He walks up to Roland, gets in his face.) The one thing that has been certain this whole time, ever since the steward showed up is this: I’ve always been here and I will always remain. So this plague business. I ward it off. It’s null, void. Doesn’t matter. It’ll get me carted out the door and into the street. This is my purgatory you fucking knight. This is it for me. So it's not that it's any competition at all. Really. That’s how I've started to think about it. I already know I’m going to live. 

Roland: I’m going to fight in the tournament. And I’m not coming back.

Roland walks towards his bed. 

Bliot: Talk! You’re always talking! Tell me I’m wrong! 

Roland starts to gather his things into an absolutely gigantic backpack. Mount Everest sherpa type backpack. 

Bliot: Talk about anything. Call me rabble. Call me a nag. A bleeding nag. Tell me my age. Just one more speech out of you. Just say something. Make a noise. 

Blasters: NAAAAAAAAG! 

Roland finishes packing and heaves the gigantic bag onto his back. 

Roland: You’re a parasite Bliot. That’s all I’ll say. 

Roland heads through the door but his backpack is too big to squeeze through the frame. He bumps it once on the way out, going full speed, and falls. He tries again, this time a slower and more consistent effort but he can’t seem to get through. Cramdore has found a route that will successfully get him into the rafters. He commits and makes it. Roland is still trying to get through the door. Charlemagne goes over to help push. 

Bliot: Pull on him, don’t help him. 

Charlemagne, struck with the threat of violence, starts to pull. The backpack breaks. Hundreds of swords and books of chivalry burst out and clatter to the floor. Roland scrambles to pick some of them up with Charlemagne who is promptly slapped on the back of the head by Bliot. 

Roland: (Annoyed) slap the kid again. 

Bliot: Alright. (slaps charlemagne)  

Roland stands. 

Roland: … 

Bliot: … 

Roland: So far in my life I have learned much about knighthood. I’ve learned that a knight must always have a lady in mind. I’ve learned that a knight must not fight, hand to hand, sword to sword, fist to fist, body to body, with wrestling technique, or kicking, a man born lower than his own station. I’ve learned that there is a line. Sir, you have just crossed that line. You are a nave. You are a filanderer with the skin of a frog. A giant shits you out and eats you. You are older than the cobblestones you pee-pipe runs off on, where your chamber pipe splashes down on. You are nothing but a parasitic pretender. You can leave. You can leave anytime you want. But it is as if your underpants is so full of the shit of donkeys, mules, horses, oxen, male cows, female cow, goats, humans, chimera, giants, dragons, wenches, wenches broken, wenches fresh, wenches deeply saddened, wenches severely hurt by the world, the shit of worms, lengthy dirty earth worms - by the kings name - your underwear must weigh the weight of a five and twenty thousand skunk sprayed chambermaids. I have trained in the ways of swordsmanship every night for hundreds of days. I split my days into several days, I awake and sleep, the Muses love my dreams, my muscles, and my days become multiple. It is as if I’ve been training for a thousand years to harm you with mightier blows than king Arthur mustered to slay foes as large as the mountain of shit you drag around with you. My sword, due to constant diligence and sharpening, even though it is below my class and below my station to do so, will saw you apart for how many times you hit one as small and large-boned as he! I will rend you limb-from-limb and then go to my lady and kiss her! I will cleave your head from your torso and return to my lady with only it in a bag because showing it to her without it would be shocking for a lady as high born and fine as she! And I will show it to her and kiss her on the mouth - hard! And we will be wanton. We will want to give each other kisses on parts you’ve never even removed your sticky linens from! But we won't! We will not! We will not have intercourse! Because that is not Christian! We will abstain from the DEVIL urges and I will go out and she will be FAITHFUL. I am a knight and if you threaten the child again you will regret it to the UTMOST! 

Roland leaves. 

Bliot: It’s not true that I shit my pants. 

Charlemagne: … 

Cramdore: … 

Blaster: … 

Bliot: we should all talk. 

All are quiet.