So as far as Geoffrey knew, his production of Twelfth Night was well under way. No, really -- despite it having been weeks since his
posters had been altered, he had somehow entirely failed to notice that the people who were signed up for the play were, in fact, signed up for a completely different one. This meant he was probably due for something
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So, he stumbled up onto the stage, a glass of red wine in one hand, looking as if he'd actually showered in his clothes. Which, of course, he had. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, speaking around his cigarette. "What I bring to this theater today is a classic of the classics!"
Bernard coughed into his wine glass, took a sip, and began. The fact that he was reading literature outloud, and not speaking lines of a play, completely escaped him. Also, Middle English was totally appropriate for a Shakespeare play.
"Have do", quod she, "com of, and speed the faste,
Lest that oure neighebores thee espie"
This Absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie.
Derk was the nyght as pich or as the cole,
And at the wyndow out she putte hir hole;
And Absolon, hym fil no bet ne wers,
But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers
Ful savourly, er he were war of this.
Abak he stirte and thoughte it was amys --
For wel he wiste a womman hath no berd.
He felte a thyng al rough and long yherd,
And seyde, "Fy! allas! what have I do?"
"Tehee!" quod she and clapte the wyndow to;
And Absolon gooth forth a sory pas.
"A berd! a berd!" quod hende Nicholas
Clearly, a passage about a man accidentally kissing a woman's nether regions when he'd thought he was kissing her mouth was the very pinnacle in the history of fine literature.
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As for the piece, well. Geoffrey'd had his fair share of raunchy speeches. He'd asked Ellen if he could lay his head upon her lap and asked if she thought he spoke of country matters. This wasn't that much worse. He raised a brow, glanced back towards where Ellen sat, looked over at Bun-Bun, and shrugged. "And you are?" he asked the hopeful actor.
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"Er, Bernard. Black. I mean, Bernard Black, obviously." He paused, staring into his wine glass. "See, I find this is the problem with theater auditions," he announced, related to absolutely nothing, "You can get up on stage and say your piece, but after that, you're really just on your own, aren't you? What do you say?"
Bernard took a moment to ponder this, frowning heavily and scratching the back of his head. Then, he looked up, the sudden action making him sway slightly. "I know! Do you want a pineapple? ...No, that's stupid," he reprimanded himself. "What play is this going to be, exactly?"
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The second question (or rather, the third) made his smile a little more strained. "Well, apparently, we are doing A Midsummer Night's Dream," he explained wearily. And then, hopefully: "Why, did you hear something else?"
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And she was fairly certain she'd just seen her Oberon. Unless Geoffrey caved and she got Helena. Ellen bet she could get him to cave. She would be an amazing Helena. Or Hermia. Either one.
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