The Players' Epilogue

SUPERFLUOUS CHARACTER X: That was all very well, of course; exceedingly tragic, you know, positively heart-wrenching—

SUPERFLUOUS CHARACTER Y: I wouldn’t go that far.

X: —But what about us? I mean, what are we, pond scum or something?

Y: I do believe we’re the comic relief.

X: No farewell speech, no rending cry of pain at the end of life—nothing but a snicker from that brat of a protagonist in celebration of his infinite cleverness at having our poor heads whacked off instead of his own. He, of course, gets two pages of script on which to elaborate. And what do we get? Diddly. As usual.

Y: I would have been happy with a short monologue. You know, earlier on.

X: (Sighing.) But, alas, it could only have been a dialogue of sorts. For we are but Siamese twins in this grand play of life. Where one goes, the other must follow closely on. What one says, the other must echo in due fashion.

Y: Siamese twins? But we’re—

X: I was being metaphorical. You know—figurative speech?

Y: Oh.

X: Ah, but what could we have spoken on anyhow? Our dearest playwright seems to have granted us no more depth than a pack of fleas. (Casting a surreptitious glance at his companion.) One of us, at least.

Y: (Utterly missing the last bit.) And, you know, the king never even paid us or anything—

X: (Completely ignoring Y.) And what did we ever do to deserve such a finish? To be thrust so rudely from out mortal envelopes, with no pathos, no parting recompense? We are the true tragedy of the play! Death and deprivation.

Y: Isn’t that kind of the same thing?

X: (Repeats plaintively.) And what did we ever do? That wretched what’s-his-face spends half his time trying to kill our good lord and master, and the other half acting like an utter fool. And yet we are the ones dumped into an ignominious demise, while he receives his glory and revenge all in one blow, with a nice helping of eulogy on the side

Y: *ahem* Elegy, perhaps?

X: Eulogy.

Y: Elegy. (Pauses upon inspection of X’s expression.) And there was that whole business of spying and intended assassination…

X: What are you saying?

Y: (Staring with contrived innocence at the sky.) Oh, nothing.

X: What right has any playwright to do that? Not so much as a by-your-leave, and then WHAM. Clean out of the picture.

Y; “I’m afraid, sir, that X and Y have inadvertently died.”

X: And then some pathetic, slip-shod job of an explanation thrown in a dozen lines later. Do you suppose, with that sort of poor characterization, anyone is even going to remember us when we take our final bows?

Y: No tears for poor X and Y. None at all.

X: Yet all shall weep and wail that good ol’ Protagonist Boy managed to off himself so brilliantly in mortal combat. “How noble his end! How tragic his demise!” Stayed alive just long enough to spout out some bloody beautiful farewell, as if he had the time, bleeding all over like that…

Y: All bloody-like. Like a stuck frog.

X: (Pauses) A stuck…? Never mind.

(Brief silence.)

Y: It’s like life, you know?

X: (Long, slow stare.)

Y: I mean, what right has God to deprive any human of life? About as much as a playwright has to manipulate the lives of his own creations. But you must concede, it did fit into the general scheme of things.

X: (Long, slow stare.)

Y: Just a thought.

X: (Disregarding previous comment.) I demand compensation! I demand a more equal part in this production! Why should we be relegated to the sidelines while our entirely melodramatic hero sips away the attention span of the audience? It is we who prevent this play from growing too dull, and yet you kill us off with as little regard as a farm-boy hacking off the head of his least favorite chicken! You are inhuman, Almighty Playwright! You, who delight in dashing our lives with vengeance upon the parquet floor of insanity! (Emits a piercing wail.) You make me ill…

Y: ‘Cause that wasn’t melodramatic at all…

X: …playing with our lives as so many shiny baubles, only of interest to you so long as we amuse. And we amused, did we not? We trampled our very souls for you upon that stage!

Y: Well now, that’s overdoing it a bit, isn’t it?

X: And how did you reveal your gratitude? By slicing our heads off! GAH! I had such hopes! (Crumples dramatically to the floor.)

Y: (Tentatively.) Erm… Hopes as to what?

X: (Glancing up slightly.) Didn’t you see how the female love interest winked at me in Act Three?

Y: Oh. (Pauses.) I thought her contacts were bothering her…

X: (Glares venomously.)

Y: Just saying.

( A silence. Y shuffles uncomfortably.)

Y: Um, X… Are you going to get up any time soon?

X: (Sighing.) Yeah, yeah. Lend me a hand, will ya?

(Y raises X to standing position.)

(A hush of some seconds as X tidies himself up.)

X: (Resuming previous delivery and diction.) And what are we to do now, having lost all life and hope? And what are we to do, poor wisps that we are?

(Pause)

Y: Join the Monty Python troupe?

X: I’m game if you are.

(Exeunt, concealing knives behind each other’s backs.)