MALFRED SWITCHCLOCK PRESENTS. . .
The Stolen Heart
by
Bashaan
Introduction
In the standing room only Theatre Royale of Dreary Lane (temporarily, and some say scandalously, converted into a Motion Picture Playhouse) the Posh Patrons patiently waited for the show to begin. As the Penned In Patricians’ patience was turning into impatience the live Steam Organ and Tuba, Spring Harpsichord and Violin finally burst to life. The Clockwork Quartet played the Funeral March Of A Marionette by Charles-Olivier Gounod* as the train-like projector squealed to life, pushing its light in betwixt the Musical Mists to dance upon the projection screen. A sketch of a well-rounded man faded into view upon a parchment background that was now flickering on the Silver Screen. (The fountain pen sketch was a rotund horizontal oval -superimposed by a smaller, rotund vertical oval that was complete with minimalist facial features.) Upon this ‘stick figure’ (this term is used very loosely) a transparent ‘MALFRED SWITCHCLOCK PRESENTS’ faded into and then out of view.
In between the movie-train fog his Portly Shadow hovered upon the Silver Screen from the left, filling in, then replacing the minimalist sketch that represented him before the Automaton Chamber Music Group abruptly halted with a final Ornery BOOM from its Zoo Tuba. In the silence the clanking and hissing of the movie projector churning in the background haunted the ears of the wide-eyed motion picture patrons -Aristocrats and Gentry that were dressed to the Clockwork Nines. His Blimpish Body followed his Swelled Silhouette onto the Silken Screen; eventually the Bloated Body took the place of the Overbearing Shadow. The audience gasped at the Abomination that floated before them as it turned to display its Transmogrified Face. His bug eyes, peaking through the hanging strands of his sparse, gangly gray hair, were unnaturally bulging; it was as if some force was trying to push them out of his skull. His steaming mouth upon his dour pout was unnaturally agape; it was as if something searingly sour was smoldering in the pit of his Bulbous Belly that he was trying to expel.
His Jigsaw Body was grotesquely stitched upon the aerostat that kept him afloat and alive. He was a Frankenstein Zeppelin. A more apt description would be he was a moored balloon -as the Scientifically Altered Steam that fed, empowered and raised his Bulging Belly was supplied by an unseen, underlying power cart that was pushed by his sexy assistant, Zeppi Hydrogen, whose Voluptuous Shadow could now be seen beguilingly behind him to the left. A hose, which was supported by a cable that connected the portable engine to his belly button, supplied the Life-Giving Steam. The Augmented Aristocrat, Lord Malfred Switchclock, spoke with the hollowed tone of a Ghostly Grandfather Clock. . .
“Greetings, Ladies and Lords, Sirs and Sirens; I see your eyes are bulging more than mine and your mouths are even more agape. At least I have an excuse for my repugnant condition: What is your excuse besides simple boorishness? With help from my Assistant I shall demonstrate the cause of my garish
affliction. . . Come hither, my Lovely.”
His sexy assistant, wearing an unseemly nurse’s outfit, sauntered on screen with a long, lit white candle. She brought the candle in front of his mouth at a distance; he blew towards the dancing candle flame and fire blasted onto the projection screen -and then seemingly through the screen and over the crouching crowd’s heads with the aid of stage pyrotechnics. “God knows the chemical concoction that is being pumped into my billowing belly and iron lungs. I thought of asking my Demonic Doctors what the miasmic mixture consisted of, but then I thought better of it. Indeed: Ignorance is Bliss.
Oh dear, Ladies and Gentlemen, now I see your eyes are bulging and your mouths are agape for a different reason. My Girl is Lovely: Isn’t she? Oh how I used to chase her when I was truly alive, perhaps I chased her barbarously so.” The assistant saunters off screen whence she came. “Perhaps my current condition is my punishment for my past life’s sins. Oh, I still chase her, but, as you can probably surmise, it is like a floating tortoise chasing a grounded hare. Perhaps, if I am as persistent as the tortoise in Aesop’s Fables, my persistence will be duly rewarded, but I won’t hold my breath -not that I can hold my breath.
Let us get to the original reason you ventured the foul city streets to arrive at this Sanctuary of Civilization: Our Story. Tonight, as the Night Fog smothers the gaiety out of London and chokes the life out of another innocent, we bring to you a common crime done in a peculiar fashion. The Heart symbolizes so much: Life, Love, Loss, Death: it is not at all surprising that it is the target of the nefarious, but, almost always, there is a unique reason for it to be impaled, pummeled, gripped or ripped asunder. In our case, the heart was missing, surgically cut from its body. The Body itself was seared; its brain was boiled; and its fingers and toes were ground to a pulp. Perhaps even more disturbing than the Body’s disfiguration was that the Body was found in an Ancient Church’s Clock Tower. Whose body was this? Who was the Killer? Our sponsor would have you believe that contacting the spirit realm via their Carbolic Cocaine Elixir would be the key to finding the Killer. With all do respect to their spokesman: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: that is Spiritualist Nonsense. Luckily, for all those involved in tonight’s Mystery, Detective Mackey Jackstone knew the Missing Heart was the key. . .” The projection screen faded to black as Sir Malfred Switchcock’s Undead Life faded from his face. . .
For Part One Click HERE! (When Available)
Charles-Olivier Gounod* - Real Name: Charles-Francois Gounod
0 comments:
Post a Comment