Freeing Quigley
Quigley there, a skull tentacle careening over his sweaty brow—which brow threatens to trap it in its sticky embrace. Would be a pity as this particular lock, longer and more adventurous than any other, is his most lively appurtenance, physical or mental—his thin body being uninspiringly limp, hardly more than a prop for the large nose and angular ears, and his demeanour only as animated as required to produce the banalities of a primetime TV host. Let’s not bother exploring the inner mental wardrobe, no more (and probably less) attractively kitted out. So, the hair flits and his mouth pops an inquiry of familiar enterprise.
“Any new songs for us, Shaun?”
Shaun says nothing. Quigley sits still. The studio lights shine in their eyes. Shaun doesn’t look at Quigley. Shaun seems to be looking into the lights. He isn’t blinking. Quigley wonders if Shaun is conscious.
No natural at the interview game, our Shaun—mouth farts crawl forth fitfully and only with effort is meaning to be had. The most captivating bit never the sounds but the thing producing them—Shaun, the waxen mug sweaty and pale; skin, a muddled cheese of creamy pocks; nose, a formless pudge; shriveled lips round black teeth. A sight to embarrass a coffin. Time is not Shaun’s friend. Time has puked all over Shaun, digested him, and now leers over about to suck up the remains. Quigley fears that any pause may be permanent. And a part of him hopes it is.
Shaun turns and stares at Quigley. His mouth hangs immobile. Eyes, an empty question. Quigley’s stiff frame wobbles in the bright, wobbles a smile, breaks the air that way, softly wobbling silent groans of inadequacy. Fidgeting, he almost scratches his balls, and the awareness squeezes a flush of embarrassment. He jerks his stray hand from his crotch.
Shaun sees and gives his hissy laugh. Quixotic Shaun, jester Shaun, helpless, seething, child-monster, Shaun. The laugh pisses out of him, a vicious mirth sprinkling its stink—whiskey, cigarettes, beans. Now, under the lights, Quigley is afraid. The audience smell it, smell him—the child in the man—sweating in silence.
“Were ye lookin’ for yer balls, Quigley?” says Shaun with delight.
The audience roar raucously, and Quigley fixes a strained grin.
Shaun, animated now, pushes himself towards the other.
“That reminds me of a story of when I had a wank onstage. It was to help me hit a high note”.
“Well now, Shaun…”
“But I’m not sayin’ you were tryin’ to have a wank, hsssss.”
Shaun collapses in fits of mirth.
Quigley hears himself asking desperately.
“So, what happened then, Shaun?”
“I hit the fookin’ note didn’t I, hssssss.”
“Very good, very good, Shaun.”
“Yeah, a wank is great when all you want is a wank as me old da used to say. The wanker….”
Shaun trails off.
The audience’s titters are subsiding. Quigley notices owl eyes of disapproval among some. He wonders whether cutting to ads would help, but Shaun stands up and announces.
“I have a new song for ye.”
The audience applaud obligingly.
“Well, Shaun, that, that’s…” Quigley begins, terrified.
“Yes, it fookin’ is! Now listen!” Shaun takes a deep breath and looks as if he’s about to sing then breaks off suddenly.
“I forgot to tell ye. It’s about yer man here,” he says pointing to Quigley. “Hssss.”
Quigley. Reflexive grin. Bowels roping themselves into nooses.
Shaun sings in a clearly improvised melody:
“A wanker like me da
called me for a chat
on his wanker’s show
How about dat?
I did it for the money
as everybody does
but swore I’d fuck it up
Just for the lolz
He helped me along
when he tried to scratch his balls….”
Half the audience are laughing uproariously, while a growing number are murmuring their distaste. Quigley, in a panic, signals to the producer to cut to ads.
Shaun sits down, arranges himself deftly, and stares at Quigley.
“Why’d ye cut me off.”
“Well, Shaun…”
“Your show is shit. I was trying to liven it up.”
Shaun’s newfound perspicacity takes Quigley off guard.
“There’s guidelines on language and eh, well, I was thinking when we resume—we’ve got two and a half minutes—if we could just..”
“It’s not for them, ya fuckwitt. It’s for you. I came here to save you. I’m your Jesus. You’ve been dying all these years. I’ve come down from the cross to bring ya back to life.”
The disconnect between this mad clarity and Shaun’s ruined doughy features is so disconcerting, Quigley considers he may be hallucinating. Mics off, the audience can’t hear a thing, but they watch quizzically.
“D’ya want to be a patsy all yer life, Quigley?”
Before he can reply, a woman runs onto the stage and grabs Shaun’s leg.
“Get off me ya feckin’ eejit… Ach, listen Quigley, time’s running out and fuck yer guidelines. You can have compos mentis me and a few bad words or compost mental me, and I’ll take a shit right here on the stage the second the cameras come back.”
“Compos mentis!”
“One more thing. From now on, I take the lead. You just sit back and go with the flow, buddy.”
“It’s not… That’s not…”
Shaun stands up and starts to take his belt off.
“1 minute to live”, a voice shouts.
“Keep the pants on. Jesus. Fuck. OK!”
The woman clinging onto Shaun’s leg looks up at Quigley reproachfully.
“Mind your language. Show some respect.”
“I told you to get off”, says Shaun, shaking his leg from her grip, tying his belt, and sitting down.
“30 seconds!” someone calls.
The woman scrambles back to her seat.
“Just follow me, Quigley. I’ll make you a star. Hssss.”
The show resumes with Shaun addressing the cameras.
“Things are going to be a little different tonight, folks, ladies and gentleman, respected viewing audience, TV lovers, scum. I’m the guest but I’ll be asking the questions. Quigley here, your beloved host of many years, absolute gentleman, all round good egg, and disgusting capitalist tool has agreed to humour me in this endeavour and for that let’s all give him a big round of applause.”
A scatter of confused claps ensues.
“Diving straight in: Quigley, why did you invite me on this show?”
“Shaun, everyone loves you and…”
“Bollocks. You know what, don’t worry, Quigley, I’ll do the answers as well. You invited me on this show because despite the fact that I’ve been an apparent catatonic wreck for years, a human fungus on the verge of terminal disintegration, I make good TV, yes? The freak makes good TV, right? The carefully packaged commodified dirtbag celebrity fuck-up presented for the pleasurable dissection and consumption of the ignoramuses who spend their precious non-working hours watching el idiot boxo, correct?”
“Shaun…”
“Shut up, Quigley, you worm. If you were even half a man, you’d have kicked me in the nuts before I even started this speech. The only people worse than you are your audience. I’ve a mind to take a shit right in front of them in contravention of our previous agreement as my comment on your collective intellect. I’ve spent years playin’ the zoned-out drug-addled celebrity to get you fuckers out of my head and something better in it. And while you’ve been slobbering over my apparently rotten barely-living corpse, I found it. I’ve read history, I’ve read politics, I’ve read philosophy, I’ve read literature, and I’ve come to the conclusion that ye’re a shower of pricks, the whole lot of ye! A bunch of zombies incapable of believing anything other than the satisfaction of your animal needs can make you happy. You’re insects and parasites and the world would be a better place if none of ye ever existed! Death to consumerism! Death to TV! And death to ye all!”
“Go on Shaun, ya good thing!” the leg-grabber shouts.
“Shut up, you muppet!” Shaun shouts back.
“Anyhow, what makes even better TV than me pretending to be a subhuman wreck and why your dick of a producer hasn’t cut me off yet is me standing here abusin’ you freaks. Tellin’ the truth. The truth is TV. We’re all fuckin’ TV. That’s what you’ve reduced us too. But I’m not bitter. I’m a truth teller, yeah, but also—more importantly—a vessel of love. I can’t save ye all but I’ve come to save Quigley from himself and from ye vipers. Quigley, I’ve watched ya for years. You’re a spanner playing the role of a hammer, my friend, and it’s killin’ you. You remind me of meself, kid. It took me years to discover meself as an artist. I was a spanner too, but this fucked up capitalist shithole we call society kept giving me nails to bang into holes. You’re a spanner trying to bang nails into holes, Quigley, and you have been all your life! It’s time now to find a nut to get a grip on. At last and for once in your life be yourself! Let’s find that nut! Come on folks, a bit of encouragement!”
The audience cheer.
“Go on, Quigley, ya spanner!” someone shouts.
“Find your nuts!”
Quigley remains frozen in his chair, inwardly and incessantly praying Shaun keeps his pants on.
Shaun moves towards him and kneels down.
“Take my hand, Quigley.”
“Wha… ?”
“It’s time.”
Shaun grabs Quigley’s limp hand in his and jerks himself and Quigley up. Quigley stands, dazed, and Shaun marches him to the nearest camera.
“This is a man!” Shaun shouts into the lens. “Fuck ye all and what ye’ve done to him. But he’s free now! He’s free! Say it with me, Quigley! We’re free!”
“Eh… Eh…”
“Say it!” Shaun reaches for his belt.
“We’re free!” Quigley croaks.
“That’s it, Quigley, we’re free and fuck ye! We’re free and fuck ye!”
“We’re free and… and… “
“Come on!”
“Go on, Quigley, ya good thing!” The leg grabber runs onstage again and goes for him.
“We’re… we’re…”
“GO ON!”
“WE’RE FREE AND FUCK YE!” Quigley screams with sudden and violent release.
“YES!” shouts Shaun and raises their arms together, shaking them in triumph before spitting a huge glob of snot into the nearest camera.
Quigley collapses onto the woman clinging to his shins.
“Brilliant!” a voice shouts from offstage, and Simon, the producer, runs out to embrace Shaun, “Fucking brilliant! Done deal! The job’s yours!”
Quigley jerks spasmodically.
The producer looks down at him, “Sorry, my man, He’s in. You’re out.”
“You… you fucker, Simon. You… My… My lawyers…” Quigley splutters.
“We ran it by our lawyers first, Quigs. It’s legit. Check your contract.”
Quigley stares, an odd blankness overcoming him.
“We wanted you to go out on a high, my man.” Simon adds “And you did. I mean, the show did, and you’re the show. Well, were.”
“Sorry, bud”, says Shaun. “Looks like I passed the audition, wha’? Hssss.”
He turns to the leg grabber “You. My dressing room. Five minutes.”
Quigley remains frozen on the floor. The producer leans over, prods him curiously.
The Lark
Larry Larkin’ struts and sighs and stops and sighs and struts. Words dribble.
‘’Alysha … bitch. Dermot… treachorous fuck. Ventakesh… utter bastard. Judases all. But you’re not beaten, Lark. There’s always a way. You’ve always found a way. You can’t be beaten, can you?’’
The dribbles trail off. An odd cast over the eyes—cloudy, an incantation.
“It’s no law of the universe. We must be hard-nosed. The mind could go before the body and fortune before the mind. Is this the start of it, Lark? When it shows its chops? When the stride fails? You’ve seen it. You’ve caused it. Cause and effect. Time runs its course and then? The laws of the mind are not the laws. Truth persists. It obtains, they say. And what does it obtain? You! You, Lark. The game stops working because you invented it. Because it was never there. Only truth was there. Truth obtains… But…”
§
“Where’s Larry?”
“Where is he ever? Marchin’ up and down his dressin’ room like a toy soldier, mumblin’ to himself.”
“What’s he sayin’”
“Fuck knows. He’s not used to bein’ put in his place. He never knew he had one.”
“Is he goin’ to do the fuckin’ show or what?”
“Of course he’ll do the show. What else would he be doin’? He is the show.”
“Maybe he’s lost it?”
“If he hadn’t lost it long ago… Listen, relax. He’ll do the show.”
“He’ll do it?”
“He’ll do it.”
§
“I’ll do the show. I’ll fuckin’ do the show. I’ll do it.”
Larkin laughs and sits and looks in the mirror.
§
“The Lark caved?”
“I told ya he would. He’ll interview O’ Donnell. No more B.S. All he wants now is long format and some layout changes. The two of them behind a desk. Cameras to the front only.”
“What for?”
“He says it’d be more intimate. Who cares? Give the baby his bottle. The veto’s gone. We got O’ Donnell. lt’s a win.”
“It’s a win.”
§
“…And now, your host, Larry, ‘The Lark’, Larkin.”
(A stride. Breathless. Inner thunder gathering.)
‘’Wow, folks, have we got a show for you tonight! Have we got a show! It’s gonna be different, it’s gonna be better, it’s gonna be dynamite! Ladies and gentlemen, let me just tell ya, because I can’t handle the suspense either, it’s gonna be CON O’ DONNELL!’’
‘’Get out here, CON!”
“Larry! It’s an honour.”
“Listen to that, Con! They love you! Over here, my friend. Let’s talk!’’
The Lark struts, skips, shimmies to the desk and slides into his chair. Con ambles after, sits and flirts with a lock of his hair.
“A horror movie, Con! And it gets you the gong. The whole country goin’ mad. Would you ever have thought? A young lad from County Meath, batterin’ sliotars one minute and the toast of Hollywood the next. What a ride! Is your head spinnin’ Con? Is it spinnin’?’’
‘’Jes’ it is, Larry. It’s hard to take in, I can tell ya.’’
‘’Now, Con, a horror movie of all things…the fear in you, the fear was palpable. It burned through the screen, Con. We couldn’t look! But we had to. What a performance! A triumph! And we’re wonderin’, where did it come from? Where did you dig it up? How did you dig it up and…
” Well, Larry, uh…”
“… and could you dig it up again any time? Like now. For us!”
“Well…”
‘’Listen to them, Con. They love you! You’ll do it for them, won’t you, Con?!’’
‘’The thing is Larry…’’
Con’s sentence doesn’t finish itself, not from any want of internal impetus but a sudden realization of the external, a pressure, a push. Con looks down and sees the gun.
“That’s it, Con! That’s it! It’s coming… Will ya look, folks! Stunning! It’s what got you the gong! It’s what has them wonderin’ are you man or God!”
The Lark applauds and the audience joins the ovation.
Con’s face is death. The Lark pushes a card in front of him and mouths “play along”.
1. The Author of Misfortune: Mother Milked.
“Now folks, I told you the show was going to be dynamite and I meant it. We’ve got an announcement to make. A big one. Con, spring chicken though still he is, has written the first volume of his autobiography, and we are proud to be the first to read it and the first to bring it to you!”
“Con, let me just say, it’s dark isn’t it? I mean, let’s get that out there. You go places that would have others shakin’ in their boots. It’s testament to your courage, but risky, risky, I mean career-wise, to say the least, to reveal what you have here.”
A push of the muzzle.
“Eh, yes, Larry, yes, it’s eh… “
“Go on, Con, go on…”
“…I… I felt the openness of it, I mean to do that now at this stage in my career. I want people to know me…”
“Hell with the image right? Keep it real! I love it Con, I love it. And the audience. Don’t you love it? See, Con, they love it too.”
“Just so intense, Con. Like when you admit your sexual feelings for your mother, the uh, relief you got from—let’s not go too far into it—but ‘playing’ with her underwear, rubbing your…ah the… Stay with us, folks, stay with us. This is real. We’re getting real. None of us should be afraid of that.”
“I… I… “
“Go on, Con, you’re among friends here. Look, they love you. You love him, don’t you? See, Con?”
“It’s ah, ah… “
“And your mother there in the audience. There she is. You don’t need to, eh, worry. mum. He says you fought him off every time and now you can even hug again. Right, Con?”
Tears are seeping down O’Donnell’s face. There’s the gun and Larkin and nothing else but a feeling that the past and future have obliterated each other.
“We can hug again.”
“Beautiful, beautiful, Con. We are all deeply moved.”
The Lark slides another card across.
2. A Stunning Separation: In for a Penny.
“Now Con, there’s something else that, in the spirit of openness, you want to announce here and I know it’s difficult. Your wife Penny is there in the audience too and there’s something you want to tell her, isn’t there?”
“Uh, I, uh, tell… uh…”
“We thought we might need my help. Some things are just.. But can you do it, Con? Can you.. ? Is it too much?”
“I, I…”
“It’s OK, Con. It’s Ok. I said I’d help. Penny, Penny… He’s sorry but.. Well… It’s over Penny. He’s divorcing you. It’s finished. Tell her, Con. Go on. You’ve come this far.”
The push, the squeeze of the muzzle.
“I.. It’s… “
“Over, Con, tell her it’s over…”
“Over! It’s over! Over!”
“Stay with us, audience, stay with us. He, they, need your support more than ever… Now Penny.. Oh, she’s going. Penny! It’s not you, it’s him. He wants to tell you that, Penny…”
“Peeehhhnnnnnny! Pehhhhnnnnnnnny!”
“It’s Ok, Con, it’s OK, we’re nearly there. A big round of applause for Penny. That’s it. That’s it! See, Penny, they love you too. They love you, Penny!”
Larkin pushes another card over.
3. Heart of Darkness: The Wager.
“We’re getting to the heart of it now-–why you need to do all this, why you need to change your life, why you need to, for once, tell the truth. Aren’t we, Con? Your inner pain. Your misery, Despite all the success. That monkey on your back you can’t shake off. That’s been following you since as long as you can remember. “
Con’s face like cardboard in a rainstorm.
“We’re… It’s always been hard.”
“Tell us more, Con. Tell us more.”
“It’s true… It’s true… you don’t know how true, not even you, Larry…”
“It’s OK, Con, go on.”
“…When I finished… finished that flick, the one you’ve all been raving about, I went home, put my head under the bedcovers and stayed there for days, in a mood as black as death. It was even worse after I got the gong. I nearly didn’t go. But I thought I had to. There’s no weight to it… It was all too easy. And it’s always been like that. The toys, the girls, the parts, the kudos. It’s been showered on my head my whole life. One fucking Disney movie after another and me behind a screen unable to touch any of it. It’s a curse I wasn’t born a failure, could never become one, so I could work my way out of it.
“But I go on. For all that, I’m driven. On I go and and still I go on and still it works… Somehow it works. I’m fucking sick of it. I want out of this mad trip. I want off the road. Give me a fucking bridge and a river as deep as it takes! Give it to me, Larry!”
The Lark puts the gun in Con’s hands and grabs him in a dramatic facsimile of supportive embrace, hissing into his ear “Here! Now’s your chance, Con. Now!”
And there’s a moment when it might have happened, when Con might have taken control, but only a moment and then a limpness, a limpness in which Larkin shouts “HE’S GOT A GUN!”, grabs Con’s wrists and pushes them up shouting “CON! STOP! STOP! CON! NO!”, pushes the gun up right under his chin, his fingers tightening on the young man’s, with the audience screaming, the producers in paroxysms, and O’ Donnell trapped in an unknowing paralysis that ends in explosion.
§
He sighs and struts and stops and struts and sighs.
“The thing is—at the end—it was the truth, wasn’t it, Lark? No act at all. He was telling the truth! You never would have guessed. And it almost gave you pause was the thing. You almost didn’t follow through. Not seeing how much better it made it all! The novelty! The irony! You did him a favour after all, no? Despite yourself. But he might have… Ach, it doesn’t bear thinking about. It had to happen the way it did. Had to. It wasn’t you. It was it. It was there. It obtained. Only it obtained him. Not you. Beautifully. Completely. Finally. So you could go on. A work of life’s art laid at your feet because you had the courage to pursue it. A finer weave than you could have imagined. Cannot be denied. Ad infinitum and forever, amen. The Gods dodge truth’s bullets and mortals die for our sins.”
“Amen, ahhhmen. But… for all that, for all of it, it was still—was it not still… are we not still… is everything not still… just a lark?”
—- EKM PORTAL TO STING GAME —-
—- PRIMARY CONSTELLATION —-