| THE OUTPOST - a play by Fido MacDogski (TWO YOUNG MEN WITH PACKS ON THEIR BACKS ARE STANDING AT A CROSSROADS, HITCHHIKING. THERE ARE FOUR LARGE SIGNS AT THE CORNERS OF THE STAGE, EACH POINTING IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION). THE FIRST SIGN READS: La Sovereignty de Quebec THE SECOND SIGN READS: L'acadia THE THIRD SIGN READS: L'ouest THE FOURTH SIGN READS: A l'ouest (THE TWO MEN PUT DOWN THEIR PACKS, AND STAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROSSROADS, MYSTIFIED). FIRST: So, wha's all dis, wha? SECOND: Dunno, bye. Sign back there says, you're now leavin' Canada, enterin' the new country of Quebec. Wha's dat mean, wha? Leavin' Canada... FIRST: Shoulda stayed home, buddy, das wha she means, shoulda stayed home. No work up here anyways. Coulda tole ya dat. SECOND: There's another sign over in the field, look. Over there, by the angel, see? Wassat say? You read French, Angus? FIRST: Don't need no French. Sign says Export something. Cigarette ad, probably. Them French are changing all the laws now. Heard it on teevee, whole place turnin' into a big gamblin' casino. Open all night, just like Johhny Mac's back 'ome, only they went and made it legal. Fadder says it's the French mafia takin' over. SECOND: So, what the hell do we do now? Which way do we go? FIRST: OOOUUUWest, two signs say OOOUUUWest, one with a "A" in fronta her, maybe short for "at". SECOND: Jeez, I thought "ouest" meant "eggs" or somethin. What's "at West" mean? FIRST: Dunno, bye. There's somethin' fishy goin' on here. Wait til I gets me map out... (HE RUMMAGES THROUGH ONE OF THE PACKS, REMOVING A CASE OF BEER IN THE PROCESS. LOOKS AT THE MAP FOR A FEW SECONDS, WHILE THE FIRST MAN TAKES A LOOK UP EACH OF THE ROADS). FIRST: I dunno where these roads go, they all look the same. SECOND: We lost, or wha? Must be time for a beer. (HE PULLS OUT A COUPLE OF BOTTLES AND OPENS THEM, HANDS ONE TO HIS BUDDY). ENTER, STAGE RIGHT OR LEFT; OR PERHAPS HE COULD DROP FROM THE SKY - AN OFFICIAL LOOKING FELLOW WEARING A SHEET WITH A FLEUR DE LIS IMPRINTED ON IT, AND CARRYING A HOCKEY STICK OVER HIS SHOULDER, LIKE A RIFLE. BORDER GUARD: Comment sa va au'jourd hui? Present your passports, s'il vous plait. HE PUTS HIS HAND OUT. FIRST MARITIMER: Eh? SECOND MARITIMER: Wha? FIRST: Wha's goin' on here? What passports? BORDER GUARD: You mus' 'ave 'eard - the Franch Canadian wan the referendam and you mus' pass tru our borders to get a job in the big cities to the wes'. You 'ave passports, you mus' show dem. SECOND: You nuts or wha? We don't need no passport. I bin through here a hunerd times, never had no trouble before. FIRST: Wanna beer? BORDER GUARD: Pardonnez-moi, but I cannot accept bribes. I mus' see the passports. THE FIRST MARITIMER OPENS A FRESH BEER AND GIVES IT TO THE BORDER GUARD, WHOSE HAND IS STILL STRETCHED OUT, WAITING FOR THE PASSPORTS. FIRST: Ain't no bribe. It's a beer. What's the matter, you don't like Alexander Keets? S'a good brew, bud. Best of the best. Better than that stinky old Laundrytide or whatever's dat stuff they got up to Montreal. MOTIONING WITH BOTH THUMBS, THE SECOND MARITIMER ASKS: Yeah, and speakin' of French, what's the story on these here signs? How come there ain't nothing in English? BORDER GUARD, STARING AT THE BEER, TURNING IT ROUND AND ROUND IN HIS HAND: Don' mention dat word dis side of Canada. Dere his a large fine. I warn you once. If you 'ave passports an' I permit you entry, you will no longer be on foreign soil an' I will be forced to harrest you for breaking the national law of Quebec. You mus' speak the Franch in Quebec. FIRST: You mean people don't speak English there anymore? BORDER GUARD: Mais oui, and the penalty, she is tres severe. SECOND: Tray severe, huh? Like, we gotta polish buddy's boots or somethin' - what's-his-name? - Partyzoo? BORDER GUARD: Mais non, you mus' pay the fine or go to prison. BORDER GUARD CAUTIOUSLY SNIFFS THE BEER, TASTES IT. BORDER GUARD: You know, I do dis because I mus' see what you are bringing into the country. Certain t'ings, we do not allow. I first hexamine the bottle, mak sure everyt'ing is printed en francais, den I test for illegal contents. FIRST, TO SECOND: He say "taste" or "test"? SECOND: It's a taste-test. Hey, buddy, you gotta chug it proper, you wanna find out what's in it, eh. BORDER GUARD, SIPPING SLOWLY: Chug? I don' hunnerstand dat word. Me, I 'ate Hinglish. FIRST: Watch, lookit this. FIRST CHUGS HIS BOTTLE DOWN, OPENS ANOTHER. SECOND: Yeah, like this. Chug. (POINTS TO FIRST, RUBS HIS BELLY, SMILES). Tray bean, see? Now I'll do it. Watch. HE CHUGS HIS BOTTLE DOWN, TOO, THEN RUBS HIS BELLY AGAIN, SMILES AND SAYS: Tray, tray bean, see? Good. Chug. Dat's what chug means. Drink fast. Hey, Angus, how d'ya say "drink fast" in French? FIRST: Jeez, I dunno. Ask him. SECOND: D'you know? You know what we're talking about? Chug? Drink fast? You saw what we did. Your turn. You chug. (HE POINTS AT THE BEER, THEN TO THE BORDER GUARD'S MOUTH). Go ahead. It's the only way you'll know what the contents are. Could be Eau d'Englishman down at the bottom, eh. We could be smugglers, see. Better chug her down. THE BORDER GUARD LOOKS PUZZLED, THEN, AS THE TWO MARITIMERS START TO CHUG THEIR SECOND BOTTLES, A GREAT LIGHT SEEMS TO BREAK SOMEWHERE INSIDE HIS MIND. HE LIFTS THE BOTTLE TO HIS LIPS AND DRINKS THE WHOLE THING DOWN AS QUICKLY AS HE CAN. THE SECOND MARITIMER PULLS ANOTHER BOTTLE FROM HIS PACK AND HANDS IT TO HIM. SECOND: Go ahead, buddy. Try another. Could be different stuff in this one. FIRST: Yeah, s'all right. We got plenty. Loaded up in Fredericton, eh. Got another two-four in the udder pack. How's she goin' down? BORDER GUARD: Comment? SECOND: Maybe common, but she's good beer. Chug her down. We wouldn't wanna bring no illegal stuff into Quebec, it bein' a new country an' all. Wouldn't wanna corrupt anyone with east coast beer. SECOND MARITIMER REMOVES ALL THE BEER FROM HIS PACK AND LINES UP THE BOTTLES IN FRONT OF THE BORDER GUARD. HE SITS DOWN, AND SO DOES THE FIRST. FIRST: Yeah, we gotta test 'em all, eh. We'll help you. Maybe you can teach us some French. SECOND: I just wanna know what all them signs mean and which way we gotta go to get back on the road to Calgary. You know Calgary, buddy? (BORDER GUARD HAS CHUGGED THE SECOND BEER AND IS HANDED ANOTHER). Calgary Stampede, cowboys, cowgirls, Ralph Klein, the Flames... BORDER GUARD: You know, I t'ink you are right. It is a vary quiet posting here. Jus' a back road, nevair no traffic coming in. Used only by tobacco smugglers, eh. No-wan else, hardly evair... FIRST: So, what're you, part of the Quebec Foreign Legion or wha? Wha? THE BORDER GUARD LAYS HIS HOCKEY STICK DOWN ON THE ROAD AND SITS BESIDE THE OTHERS, AS THE LIGHTS SLOWLY BEGIN TO DIM FIRST: She's gettin' dark, eh. SECOND: Yeah. Time to call it a day. May's well stay here t'night. We're on the wrong road anyways... THE LIGHTS GO COMPLETELY OUT AND THE ONLY SOUND TO BE HEARD IS THAT OF SOMEONE SNORING... FIRST MARITIMER: Hey, buds, you still awake? SECOND: Yeah. You? FIRST: No, bye, I must be talkin' in me sleep. Lissen now - Frenchie's crashed, right? Know where his hockey stick's to? THE SECOND MARITIMER LIGHTS A MATCH AND LOOKS AROUND. SECOND: Yeah, I see it. So what? FIRST: So, grab 'er and hang onto 'er. I got an idea. First, we'll tie buddy up and lissen, look, this is what we're gonna do... THE AUDIENCE HEARS A SERIES OF LOUD WHISPERS, AND THEN THE SOUND OF A SCUFFLE. LIGHTS BEGIN TO COME ON GRADUALLY, TO REVEAL THE TWO MARITIMERS DRESSED IN SHEETS, WITH RED MAPLE LEAVES PRINTED ON THEM. ONE HOLDS THE HOCKEY STICK OVER HIS SHOULDER. THE FRENCH BORDER GUARD IS NOT IN SIGHT. THE SIGNS HAVE BEEN REARRANGED, WITH THEIR PREVIOUS WORDS Xed OUT AND THE WORDS "North", "South", "East" and "West" PAINTED ON THEM. SINGING IS HEARD FROM OFFSTAGE, AND A GROUP OF FIVE OR SIX PEOPLE, ALL CARRYING BOXES, ENTER THE CROSSROADS. FIRST MARITIMER: Halt! Who goes there? THE SINGING STOPS. SECOND MARITIMER: Yeah. And whatcha got in them there boxes? FIRST SMUGGLER: Nothing. Cigarettes. FIRST MARITIMER: Where ya goin'? FIRST SMUGGLER: Halifax. FIRST MARITIMER, EXTENDING HIS HAND: That'll be, uh, ten bucks each, fellas. THE FIRST SMUGGLER SHRUGS AND PAYS, AND THE OTHER SMUGGLERS FOLLOW SUIT, DIGGING INTO THEIR POCKETS AND PASSING MONEY TO THE FIRST MARITIMER. THEY EXIT, PICKING UP THEIR SONG AGAIN UNTIL IT FADES IN THE DISTANCE. SECOND MARITIMER, WAVING: Mercy Buttercups, eh. FIRST MARITIMER: Holy Jeez! Lookit all that cash. SECOND: Buddy awake yet? FIRST: Yeah. I untied him eh and gave him a beer. He ain't feelin' too good this mornin'. Hung over, I guess. SECOND: Y'know, if he charges 'em to get back in, we could make our own jobs, right here... we wouldn't have to go out to Calgary. FIRST (LOOKING AROUND): Well, I don't think we know how to get there anymore, anyway. SECOND: We can take turns, like share the hockey stick... FIRST: And the admission fees. SECOND: We'll all get rich. Closer to home, too. Frenchie'll go for it. Do better'n he's doin' now, dat's sure, wha? FIRST (YELLS): Hey, Pierre, c'mere! Hell with 'em all, bye - we're gonna start up our own country! That a good idea or what, wha? C'mon over and have breakfast. Got some nice cold Kraft Dinner here for ya - want another beer...?  |
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