—

(Throughout the sketch, people are tattooing other people in the background)

DAVID

(To audience)

I’m David M. Zaslav, President and CEO of Discovery Communications, the owners of TLC, and I’m in this busy tattoo shop for a very special television event.

(Walks among the tattooers, patting some on the back, checking their work)

We’re the network that brought you the hit tattoo-based reality shows Miami Ink, LA Ink, London Ink and New York Ink, as well as the upcoming Independent State of Samoa Ink, Sultanate of Oman Ink and Republic of Djibouti Ink, and now…

EDDIE

(To audience)

I’m Eddie MacDonald. Welcome to Canadian Ink!

(To CLIENT #1 and CLIENT #2)

So let me get this straight: you want me to create two original, full-colour tattoo designs from scratch, and you want each one to be large enough to cover your back.

(Consulting his notes)

You want the tattoos to combine the artistic styles of MC Escher, HR Geiger and the traditional tribal art from the island of Borneo.

CLIENT #1

Yup, and I want mine to have a fish, a sword and some flowers.

CLIENT #2

I want mine to symbolize these eleven important events and people in my life.

(Hands EDDIE a long piece of paper)

EDDIE

Okay, wait over there and I’ll have these drawn up in a couple of minutes.

CLIENT #1

Cool—I’ve only got about half an hour to spare. Will the tattoo take long?

EDDIE

On TV, we’ll be done in no time.

CLIENT #2

Will it hurt?

EDDIE

It sure won’t look that way. Oh, and I am totally interested in why you want these tattoos, especially if you can share some intimate stories.

CLIENT #2

I can, but they’re deeply personal and quite painful.

EDDIE

I hope you make me cry. That’s why I got into this business.

DAVID

The latest in a tradition of popular yet wildly inaccurate representations of tattoo shops, Canadian Ink explores this steadily-becoming-less-exotic industry from the unique perspective of the Great White North.

CLIENT #1

I also want a tattoo of a maple leaf, but…

EDDIE

Let me guess. You want it to be blue.

CLIENT #1

How did you know?

EDDIE

(To the other tattooers in the shop)

Hey guys, we got another one! Get Francois.

FRANCOIS

(To audience)

I apprenticed with master Horiyoshi in Osaka for 15 years, where I mastered the art of traditional Japanese tattoo…but as the only Quebecois in the shop, the other guys think it’s funny to have me do all the Toronto Maple Leaf logos. Maudite anglais.

(FRANCOIS begins tattooing CLIENT #1)

CLIENT #1

(To audience, and tearing up)

My dad used to take me to Leafs games when I was a kid, and now that he’s passed away I want this tattoo as a memorial to him.

(To FRANCOIS)

One other thing: Can you add some text? They were my dad’s final words.

FRANCOIS

(To audience)

At first I was cynical, but when I heard this customer’s story I felt honoured to be part of his life.

(To CLIENT #1)

Of course. What would you like it to say?

CLIENT #1

‘Habs suck’.

FRANCOIS

Tabarnak! I quit.

(FRANCOIS exits)

DAVID

All the art! All the drama! All the tattoo stereotypes you’ve come to expect…

BUD

(To audience)

They call me Bud. I used to be in a gang, did time in jail. Tattooing saved my life, man. The artwork on my body represents my life of crime…

(Lifts arm, points to areas on his torso)

…except for this teddy bear. And over here: teddy bear riding a unicorn…Hey camera-guy, you laughing? I happen to like teddy bears. You know what, I’m out.

(BUD exits)

SKY

(To audience)

Uh, I’m Sky. I guess I’m just a laid-back dude, you know, I go with the flow. My art is like a road map of the strange journeys in my life…

(Lifts arm)

…whoa, I totally don’t remember that one. What is that, an owl in a bowler hat? Weird. Hey, do me a favour.

(Lifts shirt and turns back)

Tell me what’s on my back. I know I’ve got something there…Oo, is it 4:20 already?

(SKY exits)

CINDY

(To audience)

So, I’m Cindy. Sometimes I spell it with an ‘S’. As the lone female artist in the shop, it can be hard to earn the guys’ respect and prove that I’m not just eye candy for TV, but I’ve learned that the—

DAVID

Tune in for the sexy drama and potential nudity!

CINDY

Goddammit.

DAVID

Canadian Ink takes you where no other tattoo-based reality shows dare to go!

EDDIE

(To other tattooers in the shop, and reading from a piece of paper)

All right guys, now we do piercings.

(To CLIENT #2)

What would you like, miss?

CLIENT #2

I want to get my nipples pierced. Who do I see about that?

(Except for CINDY, the remaining tattooers—and CLIENT #1—raise their hands)

CINDY

Oh for Christ’s sake…

EDDIE

And you, sir?

CLIENT #1

I want my penis pierced.

(The remaining tattooers—and CLIENT #1—look at CINDY)

CINDY

I quit.

(CINDY exits—background activity now includes piercings)

DAVID

With the high staff turnover these shows are known for, Canadian Ink will even—eventually—get around to examining the art of the aboriginal community.

TOM

(To audience)

I’m Tom, a member of the Haida Nation. We have an ancient tradition of tattooing that I’m more than happy to discuss, especially the—

CLIENT #1

Hey, can you do me a blue maple leaf but done in that kind of native art style?

TOM

Do you have any idea how insulting this is?

CLIENT #1

How about a raven and a whale?

TOM

That’s more like it. You know, these animals have an interesting—

CLIENT #1

Make one of them blue and the other red, and make sure to include the words, ‘Habs suck’.

TOM

I quit.

(TOM exits)

DAVID

Canadian Ink: It’s indelible! Did we mention the piercings? No other show does that. Although, I guess that means we need to change the name of the show…Man, we never think these things through. I mean, ‘Toddlers and Tiaras’—what the hell is that about? I need to rethink my life. It’s not like I don’t have other offers. Anyway, watch Canadian Ink…and Piercings!

EDDIE

(To audience)

At first I was nervous about giving my first tongue piercing, but when I heard this customer’s story, I felt honoured to be part of his life.

CLIENT #1

Mmmh, nnngh duh mwuh ng guh…

DAVID

Brought to you by TLC. That stands for The Learning Channel…but we haven’t had anything to do with education since, like, 1991. You know, I graduated with honors from the Boston University School of Law. Ah, screw it. I quit.

—

PETER

Holy smokes, look at all these parts.

IRIS

I liked our living room the way it was, honey. We didn’t need a new couch, and this one looks like it’ll be way worse than IKEA.

PETER

Icelandic furniture is supposed to be the new thing. Vice Magazine wrote that the instructions make IKEA look like Dostoevsky.

IRIS

What does that even mean?

PETER

I don’t know. Bill and Karen already have the living room set.

IRIS

So we’re competing with them?

PETER

I don’t know. It’s a lot cheaper than IKEA.

IRIS

It looks like an IKEA factory exploded inside a torture chamber. What do the instructions say?

(GUNNAR and HILDUR enter stage left)

GUNNAR

These instructions have been written by Iceland’s top design team of Gunnar Magnusson…

HILDUR

… and Hildur Kjarval. Congratulations upon your purchase of the Ragnarok Furniture Company’s Glanni Suh-ven-plass unit.

GUNNAR

Iceland’s pride!

IRIS

The hell kind of name is that for a couch?

PETER

I like it. It’s regal.

GUNNAR

Hey Hildur, can we really get away with calling it a “fool’s chesterfield”?

HILDUR

No one over there speaks Icelandic. Oh, I’ve got one—add this in: Before beginning construction, builders must mimic the behaviour of Iceland’s sweetheart and international recording artist, Bjork.

(HILDUR and GUNNAR high-five)

IRIS

How do I do that?

PETER

Come on, you love Bjork.

IRIS

All right, let’s see…early, shy, ingenue Bjork or later, aggressively-weird Bjork?

PETER

It doesn’t specify.

IRIS

(Sighs)

Let me think. Bjork, Bjork, be like Bjork…

(Covers her mouth demurely and giggles, speaks in a whisper)

Okay, what do we do now? I mean, what kind of magic is this?

PETER

Oo, good one. I mean–

(Covers mouth demurely and giggles, speaks in a whisper)

Good, uh…Big time sensuality!

GUNNAR

Now take the section named, “fyrstur” and connect it to the piece named, “annar.”

IRIS

I can’t read these markings. It looks like rune script.

PETER

I think this is an “f”…

IRIS

Oh, here’s “annar.”

PETER

Here’s “annar”-ther one.

IRIS

Ha, ha—oh, hold on, it says here…

HILDUR

Non-Icelandic citizens must not ridicule our glorious language. If you have already done so, you must throw the enclosed javelins at least 15 meters, for the sport of athletics is one of our nation’s favourite pastimes.

PETER

(Looking inside the box)

Hey, javelins. Here’s one for you.

IRIS

Remember when I was on the high school track and field team?

(PETER and IRIS throw them–sound of breaking glass)

IRIS

That’s got to be 20 meters. Yup, I’ve still got it.

PETER

(Calling out through a window)

Oh, hey Bill, Karen…sorry about that. Yeah. It’s called a Glanni Suh-ven-plass unit. No, it’s new.

IRIS

(Looking in the box)

Honey, don’t these things usually contain a ton of allen keys? I don’t see any.

GUNNAR

Please assemble the skrufa with the enclosed skrufjarn.

IRIS

Here’s a bag of screws labelled “skrufa.” So, I’m guessing “skrufjarn” means screwdriver.

PETER

(Digging around inside the box)

Oh, cool! I think I found it.

HILDUR

Our traditional skrufjarn reflects Iceland’s heroic viking heritage.

PETER

Check this out, honey! It’s a sword.

(Swings a huge sword around like a child playing with a new toy)

GUNNAR/HILDUR

It’s a svero!

GUNNAR

Use it to join the fyrstur to the annar.

(PETER and IRIS use the sword as a screwdriver to connect two pieces)

IRIS

Man, this sucks. We must be doing something wrong.

PETER

(Returning to the instructions)

I think there’s a section on troubleshooting.

GUNNAR

To aid in construction, grasp the traditional svero and re-enact the magnificent saga of Grettir the Strong.

HILDUR

The infamous outlaw, Grettir Asmundarson the Strong battles the undead creature known as Glamr the Draugr.

IRIS

You get to be the draugr…whatever that is. I’m going to be the hero.

GUNNAR

Grettir Asmundarson the Strong was renowned across Iceland for his freckles, his red hair and his enormous, fat belly.

IRIS

Forget it. I’ll be the draugr…a sleek and sexy, size 6 draugr.

PETER

So I get the sword?

IRIS

Svero.

PETER

I am so into this!

(PETER and IRIS enact a battle between a monster and a fat knight)

IRIS

Ow! You scratched me.

PETER

I’m sorry—I got carried away. I really felt a connection to Grettir the Strong.

GUNNAR

In this venerable saga, Grettir Asmundarson the Strong defeats Glamr the Draugr.

PETER

Yeah!

HILDUR

But the draugr places a curse on Grettir…

IRIS

Ah ha!

HILDUR

…leading to the outlaw’s death, years later atop the lonely fortress of Drang Isle.

PETER

That sounds like a bummer. What does it say about how he died?

GUNNAR

Aided by the draugr’s curse, Grettir’s enemies use sorcery to force him to commit suicide.

IRIS

Poor Grettir.

PETER

Yeah, they finally got to him. Wore him down. Aw man, I’m fat and old.

GUNNAR

The final step pays homage to Grimsvotn.

IRIS

(Removing something from the box)

Hey, this container is really hot.

HILDUR

The blood of Grimsvotn…

PETER

They sent us blood?

GUNNAR

…Iceland’s most powerful volcano.

IRIS

(Opening the container)

I don’t know. No, it’s—

GUNNAR/HILDUR

Lava!

GUNNAR

Pour a canal of Grimsvotn‘s blood.

IRIS

(Pours the lava on the floor)

This is going to ruin the tile.

PETER

It adds character to the house.

HILDUR

Use the lava to blacken the wood of your Glanni Suh-ven-plass unit.

(PETER and IRIS lift the couch and move it back and forth over the lava)

PETER

That’s not so bad. Kind of a cool effect, actually—better than staining the wood.

(They place the couch back down and move it into place)

I’ve got the seats here.

(Fluffs up the seats and places them on the couch)

Hey cool, they’re fireproof.

IRIS

Yeah, but now the instructions say we have to–

HILDUR

Fire-walk atop Grimsvotn‘s blood.

(PETER and IRIS remove their shoes and walk across the lava)

PETER/IRIS

Hot, hot, hot!

(PETER and IRIS collapse onto the couch)

IRIS

Wow, this is pretty comfortable after all.

PETER

I feel like we’ve shared a meaningful experience. We should celebrate.

IRIS

Oh yeah, I saw something about that–

(Reaches inside the box)

GUNNAR

To commemorate your successful construction, we have enclosed a traditional Icelandic delicacy for your shared consumption.

PETER

What is that?

GUNNAR/HILDUR/IRIS

Sheep’s head.

HILDUR

The eyeballs are the best part.

GUNNAR

Use the svero to scoop them out.

(PETER and IRIS scoop out the sheep’s eyeballs. Each holds one, which they raise to each other)

PETER/IRIS/GUNNAR/HILDUR

Skol!

(PETER and IRIS eat the eyeballs)

IRIS

Ugh, vitreous humour.

PETER

Just imagine it’s a piece of Freshen Up chewing gum, the kind that had the liquid goo inside? Remember how we used to love that when we were kids?

IRIS

Sure, okay…I’m chewing a piece of gum…I’m chewing a piece of gum from the 1970s…gum that is actually a sheep’s eyeball.

(Sound of breaking glass—two items land next to PETER and IRIS)

IRIS

Whoa! Javelins.

PETER

(Calling out through another window)

Oh hey Bill, Karen. Got the new dining room set, huh?

Affirms: “Next stop: Fern Avenue”

*

The driver coughs microphone static

“The next stop is not Fern Avenue”

*

The streetcar stop announced

Is not the streetcar stop

*

The name of the stop

Is no longer the stop’s name

*

This unnamed route

Manifests a map of the city

Ten thousand tracks in its streets

*

Desire for the 506 Queen

Reveals the mother of all street signs

*

Thus, constantly not wanting

One observes people searching

*

Constantly anticipating discomfort

“Right to the back of the car”

*

One observes the red and white shape

Appearing amidst traffic

*

Preventing cars from passing

Cyclists speeding perpendicular

*

People and streetcar emerge

A rude jumble of elbows and backpacks

“Give up your seat to those in need”

*

One body filled with distances

Travelling in one direction

*

A mystery: the doors open

A wonder of fresh air

—

FRED:

Captain’s log, stardate 2237. Lieutenant Wagoner and I have established a base camp on the alien planet and are proceeding with preparations for human settlement. Wagoner has discovered a root-like species of vegetable that is edible, and has even developed several surprisingly tasty methods of preparation.

WAGONER:

Food’s ready.

FRED:

Captain Fred, signing off.

WAGONER:

Hey, are you done with the recorder?

FRED:

Go right ahead. I’m starved.

WAGONER:

Captain’s log, stardate 3722. Apparently, Lieutenant Fred is still under the delusion of being Captain. Space madness is a hell of a thing. He doesn’t even have the stardate right. Unless I’m the one with space madness…No, that would be ridiculous. Anyway, if Fred’s madness progresses, I may have to kill him. On the plus side, these alien veggies are incredible, almost addictive, with a pleasing, buzz-like effect. Farming opportunities definitely exist, not just for settlers but also possibly for export and profit.

ALIEN:

Hey freaks.

WAGONER:

Holy crap!

ALIEN:

What?!

WAGONER:

Fred!

FRED:

What? I was just–holy crap!

ALIEN:

What?!

FRED:

Alien!

ALIEN:

Yeah, I know!

WAGONER:

I can’t believe we’ve actually discovered an alien species.

ALIEN:

You discovered? Hey dude, you’re the alien. You and your pet here.

FRED:

I’m the captain of this expectation.

WAGONER:

Expedition.

FRED:

This is my lieutenant.

WAGONER:

Yeah, we need to talk about that.

ALIEN:

Listen, I’m totally chill with you-all hanging out here, but this is my pad, man. Mi casa. What you’re doing here is, like, a home invasion, man.

FRED:

Why are you talking like that?

WAGONER:

Are you scanning our minds and making us hear your language as if it were English?

FRED:

Of course, it must be a form of linguistic telepathy.

WAGONER:

Truly amazing. We’re certain to get medals for this discovery.

FRED:

Let’s name it after us!

ALIEN:

Yo, are you high? Why are you talking like that?

WAGONER:

Oh, I see–let me explain. Having ascertained your telepathic abilities we recognize that we will be honoured by our culture.

ALIEN:

No, dude. I mean, why are you speaking my language? There are thousands of languages on Earth. I would have thought you-all would have developed something different by now.

FRED:

You know about Earth?

ALIEN:

Dude, who’s your daddy? My people seeded your planet a long time ago. You were one of our most famous experiments.

WAGONER:

Of course!

FRED:

You get what this thing is saying?

WAGONER:

Forgive my lieutenant, here. He has space madness.

FRED:

Your the one with space madness.

ALIEN:

You both have space madness.

WAGONER:

Oh yeah? Would a person with space madness understand what you said about seeding earth? Clearly, you were establishing a form of colony on another planet, and letting it evolve and develop until it was advanced enough to return home. It’s poetic, in a way.

FRED:

You’re way off. Clearly, this alien species has been observing our development, watching us become stronger, battling each other like gladiators, as a form of entertainment.

ALIEN:

Wow, you’re loco.

WAGONER:

Are thinking what I’m thinking, Fred?

FRED:

This alien’s not so big, is it?

WAGONER:

It’s alone, too. I hate to admit it, but you’re right, Fred. We’re both right. Listen, alien, our race has endured many hardships. We’ve nearly destroyed ourselves and our planet hundreds of times over. But we’ve survived. Now, Fred and I represent the strongest of the strong. We’re the survivors. We’ve been made stronger through our hardships.

ALIEN:

You’ve kind of become dicks.

WAGONER:

And now we’re here to take over your planet.

FRED:

How do you like those apples, alien?

ALIEN:

Ha! You slay me.

FRED:

That’s the gist of it.

ALIEN:

The other aliens were right on about you Earth-folks. You are total ego-maniacs.

WAGONER:

Are you mocking your future overlords, you puny alien?

ALIEN:

Dude, look out there. See all those shapes in the dark?

FRED:

Oh my god…

WAGONER:

They’re everywhere.

ALIEN:

I’m so not alone here, dude.

WAGONER:

They’re hideous.

ALIEN:

Hey, man…

FRED:

You may have us outnumbered, but we’re still bigger and we have more weapons that you.

ALIEN:

Yeah, I’ve been checking out your ship here. It’s nice. Lots of guns and stuff.

WAGONER:

Yes, you and your people must fear us. Submit to us.

ALIEN:

By the way, this is really tasty.

WAGONER:

Oh, thanks. I cooked those–my own recipe.

ALIEN:

Nice.

FRED:

Anyway…we’re here to claim your planet and enslave your people.

WAGONER:

I’ll give you the recipe later.

ALIEN:

Cool.

FRED:

So, as the captain, I must ask you to take me to your leader.

WAGONER:

Take us both. He’s insane…but he is right about the claiming part.

ALIEN:

Ha! You are so damned funny.

FRED:

Are you mocking us?

WAGONER:

I asked that already. Man, you can’t even be original when you’re taking over an alien planet.

FRED:

Shut up, space lunatic.

WAGONER:

You shut up.

ALIEN:

Ha! Stop, you’re killing me. Okay, okay, listen. You have it all wrong. We’re not a people. There’s no leader. You’re looking at me here, but I’m also that skinny one over there, and that fat one over there. Actually, that one there is pretty hot, and it looks like it wants to have sex with that one. Anyway, these shapes that look like separate bodies are all outgrowths of a single creature. You’re actually standing on my ass.

FRED:

Gross.

WAGONER:

You picked the landing spot.

ALIEN:

Anyhoo, I procreate every few million years, and I send the little baby versions of me to planets all over the place.

WAGONER:

So we’re…?

ALIEN:

Yeah.

FRED:

What? We’re what?

WAGONER:

Separate outgrowths of the same creature?

ALIEN:

Bingo.

FRED:

Like separate limbs?

ALIEN:

More like fingernails, but yeah, pretty much.

FRED:

I’m so conflicted.

ALIEN:

Now you’ve got me thinking about it, do you mind scratching that boulder over there?

FRED:

This one?

ALIEN:

A little to the right…ah. Gracias.

FRED:

I’m a fingernail.

WAGONER:

We’ve been killing each other for thousands of years…for what?

ALIEN:

Dude, lighten up. Come on, let’s have some more of these delicious Earth snacks.

WAGONER:

Those aren’t from Earth.

FRED:

Yeah, we found those right over there.

ALIEN:

You found them over…my babies! You’re eating my babies!

WAGONER:

Wow.

ALIEN:

You made me eat my own babies! You monsters!

FRED:

They’re good with barbecue sauce.

WAGONER:

Totally, bro. Have another.

FRED:

Cheers.

ALIEN:

They’re all gone…How can you be so heartless?

WAGONER:

Hey man, how do you think humans survived so long?

FRED:

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

WAGONER:

Yeah, because we eat it!

FRED:

Hey Wagoner, what do you think would happen if we had sex with some of these shapes?

WAGONER:

Never know till we try–all in the name of science and whatnot.

ALIEN:

Man, humans are jerks.

—
SMITH:

Welcome, members of the intelligence community. As many of you know, I am Smith–for security reasons, I can’t give you my full name, but I doubt you will have need to address me anyway. I am the personal assistant to the head of this agency, who I’m sure you have all heard of–the person known as B.

(Audience/AGENTS murmur)

Now, I know some of you have had dealings with B in the past, some that have not been exactly positive. However, in light of the current global situation, when the leaders of our countries have chosen to break down barriers and asked us all to work together, I know I speak for B when I ask that you please put away any grudges you may hold.

B:

(To SMITH)

Is it safe?

SMITH:

Yes, I have briefed everyone.

B:

No, I mean, is it safe?

SMITH:

Everyone has been checked for weapons.

B:

And?

SMITH:

None found.

B:

(To audience)

Hello, old friends. Welcome to our first general meeting as one global, allied spy agency.

AGENT J:

You killed my family!

B:

Who’s that now? Ah yes, my old nemesis from the former republic of–

AGENT J:

I’m J, from downstairs.

B:

J? Oh, right. How’s it going? Long time no see.

AGENT J:

You had my family killed last week!

B:

(To SMITH)

Did I?

SMITH:

You ordered it in response to a perceived threat to security.

B:

National security?

SMITH:

Job security.

B:

Oh, yes. I remember now.

(To AGENT J)

Listen, J, this isn’t the forum to bring up office politics, but let me just say that hitting reply-all on your emails is often a career-limiting move.

AGENT J:

All I did was type ‘LMFAO’ in an email that contained a link to a video about a kitten riding a turtle.

B:

Please keep any talk of codes private, J.

AGENT J:

That’s not a–it was an email you sent!

B:

Smith! We have a situation.

SMITH:

Perhaps you and the agent would like to discuss this at another–

B:

I said, a situation.

SMITH:

I’m not exactly comfortable with–

B:

Your comfort is irrelevant. Are you creating a…situation?

SMITH:

Handled in the usual manner?

B:

Do I ever request any other manner?

SMITH:

With all due respect, there are always alternatives to–

B:

That was an order, Smith.

(SMITH sighs, approaches AGENT J)

AGENT J:

What’s going on? Ack!

SMITH:

Could everyone in that row please move one over to fill the gap? B prefers to see every available seat filled.

B:

Now, as I was saying, I hope we can all bury the hatchet, so to speak. Or in our case, the cleverly concealed poison pellet delivery device…little spy joke. Anyway, as a for instance, I see Agent 53 over there. How are you? I apologize about your arm. What can I say? We were younger then, and I was eager to test our new exploding door handle technology. No hard feelings?

AGENT 53:

If I had only been a few seconds later I would have had you with our exploding door mat.

B:

Lucky me. Actually, I have Smith here to thank for that, for stopping me at the last moment.

AGENT X:

You also got lucky that time we tried to get you with the radioactive orange juice.

B:

Who is that? Oh, Agent X. Yes, I suppose I was lucky.

AGENT X:

How did you know not to drink from that glass?

B:

Smith pointed it out to me at the last moment, again. I believe I won the day on that occasion as well. Good to see you’ve recovered from my retaliatory ricin poisoning. Not many do.

AGENT X:

Yeah. Hey, can I get you a coffee?

B:

Why, thank you, I would love–

SMITH:

I would not recommend that.

B:

Ah, you almost got me! Good one, Agent X.

AGENT X:

Maybe next time.

B:

You know, I was always jealous of your code name.

AGENT X:

Is that why you tried to kill me?

B:

Can you blame me? Who here wouldn’t want to be known as “Agent X”? I mean, come on. Agent Pink, help me out here.

AGENT PINK:

I would have killed for your name, Agent X. Actually, I tried a few times.

B:

But you didn’t succeed, did you? That’s why you’ve never risen in the organization. At one time, you and I were colleagues.

AGENT PINK:

You had my entire team tortured so no one would compete with you in getting a promotion. How did you even know we were going to advocate against you?

B:

All thanks to Smith here–my eyes and ears. It’s all about motivation, Pinky. And that brings me to one of the main reasons I called you all here. I know we’ve all had our differences.

AGENT 65:

You burned down my house!

AGENT GREEN:

You caused the bombing of my homeland!

B:

We’ve all had our differences.

SMITH:

Coffee?

B:

Thank you, Smith. But I asked that you all be included in the new spy agency. Of course, I know I can only trust Smith, here. I’ve injured many of you, killed your loved ones and citizens of your countries, used many of you as stepping stones to get where I am today. But the point is, I’m here, and you’re there. I coined a phrase a long time ago: keep my friends close and my enemies closer, and that’s what I’ve done. I’m not afraid to tell you that, either.

SMITH:

So from now on, we’ll be restructuring our organization along more democratic lines.

B:

What’s that, Smith? I didn’t–

SMITH:

I ask that everyone share a moment’s silence for our former leader, the person known only as B.

B:

What are you–arg, the coffee…

SMITH:

Before I started working for you, Agent J was my partner.

B:

Who?

SMITH:

The Agent you had me…dispose of at the start of this meeting.

B:

This is your…

SMITH:

Revenge.

AUDIENCE/AGENTS:

Oooooo…

SMITH:

Also, just FYI, Sun Tzu said that thing about keeping your enemies close, not you. And it doesn’t work if your enemies are smarter than you.

AGENT PINK:

I would like to make a motion.

SMITH:

Yes, Agent Pink?

AGENT PINK:

As our first order of business, I move that my designation be changed to Agent X.

AGENT X:

Hey!

AGENT PINK:

Come on, let someone else have a turn!

SMITH:

Order! Order, please.

AGENT X:

Coffee, Smith?

SMITH:

Why thank you, I–ah, good one. You almost got me there. Anyway, let’s move on to our next item on the agenda…

descending this avenue in winter

my shoulders keep the wind and the world

from disturbing you further

*

I’ll be Cloak and you’re Dagger!
This overcoat opens an aperture
into the Darkforce Dimension,
“a world of strange ebony energy.”

*

I wonder if love is enough

to cause trouble

to alter its imprint

watch our footsteps fill with snow

*

It compels me to absorb lives, is
assuaged by your psionic light daggers–
these snowflakes–which force your target
to confront “the darkness in its soul.”

*

whitecaps dog-ear Lake Ontario

streetcar screeches around King

electricity showers the intersection

power lines speak of the Pyrenees

*

This is where Colonel William O’Hare
saw Napoleon’s ghost, relived
the Battle of Roncesvalles along this
ancient path of the Mississauga tribe.

*

we sit at the back of the streetcar

watch the lakeshore recede while we return

the forecast calls for warmer weather

in the morning you’ll be awake before I will

*

At that school in 1974 I read of my death
in The Song of Roland’s Battle of Roncevaux.
Convinced I was Oliver I sought significance
in the 40-goal seasons of Lanny McDonald.

coerce the black cat once again
into its crate of medicine scent
coerce the frozen lawn
into a Shan shui landscape
meandering path to threshold to heart

what is the forecast? should the hours
fall from the sky and glide between houses
the song of distance echoes lonesome
hollow in its call and response
one second passing after another

becomes infinite like König’s lemma
a path with no repeated vertices
somehow bringing me back to this place
tracing the significance of East and West
opening the garage door of the funeral home

—

Fake Book

Who shall I be, having loved you
Who shall I be, adrift as a cork on the waves

Who shall I be, once all
the rooms in the house empty themselves

I will sing this quietly while you sleep
a 10-bar blues with poor timing

a tune I am still learning to play
I have loved you

I have run out of space
run out of directions

I can no longer float, I cannot sink
adrift as a cork on the waves

-

Who shall I be, having said your name
countless times with love and fear

Who shall I be, knowing even the air
reminds me and must also you

Adrift as a cork on the waves
Who shall I be, when all else fails

me, my mind, my heart
when your voice remains

once I have stopped trying to rest
once I have forgotten how you breathed

-

Who shall I be, should a devil burst the floor
while the scent of fraud inhabits the walls

Once I have loved you
my eyes are the currents

pulling at the body of a drowned man
Once ten suns filled the sky in a dream

Who shall I be, while you are asleep
and I am adrift as a cork on the waves

-

Who shall I be, adrift as a snake in the river
through the forest of this island

Who shall I be, once my skin
feels like it fits again

once waterlogged and wrinkled
dried by the salty air and the sun

Who shall I be, once I repair this guitar
once I realign its cracked neck

-

Who shall I be, once the waves
flatten themselves taut as a soldier’s cot

and tuck the miscreant sun
into the horizon

once the trees sing lullabies to the air
and the drunken drowned man appears to sleep

once the devil pays his bill
and repairs the floorboards

once I stop dreaming
once you are too far to hear me

-

Once the waves cease their muttering
the forest can keep the time

I dreamed of the shoreline
standing in the sea air and the wind

I dreamed of climbing over rocks
the sound of broken seashells underfoot

fragments washed ashore who knows when
Who shall I be, once we run aground

amid this quiet daylight
while ice spreads a sheet

across countless rivers and into the sea

-

There have been songs about stevedores
who sank below the churn

and blues sent into space
the night cold above the hard ground

Who shall I be, once the rooms empty
themselves of these morbidly obese boxes

once you consent to my taking
this music lifted from an antique bin

this handwritten shanty shaken with haste

-

Who shall I be, refusing to define
myself, my meaning

Who shall I be, acknowledging the impossibility
of bounding the ineffable air in this house

Who shall I be, once you return the small stone
we identified as a mermaid’s finger

and once I return, too
the waves that carried it ashore

and change these boxes into burning galleons
emerging from the forest

-

Who shall I be, once I learn to play
this champagne-coloured resonator for you

the open tunings and chord positions
how to mute strings while playing slide

once I understand how these contents
at once plumb depths and fail to

once our blue anniversary arrives
and our azimuth becomes unfathomable

-

Once the singing soldiers
have leveled the forest

Once the waves end and the cork
burns in the sunlight

Once the river freezes and its snake
appears to be flying, dead or asleep

Once the mermaid’s finger on the broken guitar
plays a Delta melody about the devil

Who shall I be, a blank slate
who has made a life of reinvention

and who loved you as one who drowns
accepts the impossibility of breathing

I traced the outline of the boxes
left behind by the sun on our wooden floor

—

Infatuated octopus

In my cephalopod dream

of invertebrate existence

of three hearts and eight arms

like tongues

in pelagic waters neither too deep

nor too shallow

nor too far

from shore

should you drop in

where barely half the sunlight

touches my narrow habitat

and you float

within my sucker’s

fond and tender grasp

at the boundary of my devotion

and you ask, “Why will no one love me?”

I will love you

I will be your infatuated octopus

and promise to hold you

with such adoration

I would squeeze

your sorrow from existence

in a cloud of ink

and you would be still

and say, “This beautiful reef

looks like the ideal home

for an octopus.”

—

(Throughout the monologue CAINE performs various tasks: stacking furniture in front of the door, looking out of the window, drinking whiskey from a glass, which he refills from a bottle on the floor. There is one large box under the window.)

As the end of my life approaches, I know have tried to be a peaceful warrior, meditated the lessons of my teacher, the great Master Po, in particular his final words to me.

“Kwai Chang Caine,” he said. “You like to fight too much.” Then he said, “You are also an arrogant, half-white jackass, you Gwailo banana-head.”

For a Shaolin monk, he was surprisingly racist. Who uses his dying breath to insult the person who had been like a son to him, and who had just avenged him, causing said person no end of trouble, I might add?

I wish my Master were alive. He told me that every journey, no matter how long, begins with a single step. He never told me how a journey ends. Now the emperor’s assassins are closing in and I’m barricaded in this old saloon. Those guys really hold a grudge. At least there’s whiskey here.

I admit, I killed the emperor’s son, but that was in retaliation for the murder of Master Po. Surely there was justice in that. I killed him using this sweet spear move that I had just learned. Did I also mention I had received these brands on my forearms a few days before? So, that was a pretty big deal, throwing the spear with my arms all burned up.

I packed my Shaolin robes, left China and came to this country in search of my half-brother. I walked across the desert and from town to town—in bare feet. Do you have any idea how hot the sand can get, or how nasty the streets in frontier towns can be? I don’t even what to think about what I’ve stepped in. I wish I had worn shoes. At least I kept my robes clean. These are satin–that’s not easy.

Everywhere, people would ask why I didn’t wear shoes. It wasn’t for any Shaolin reason. All they had to do was look at my feet. See this one? Seven toes. Check my other foot. The little toe is bigger than the big toe. No shoes ever fit. And the teasing–no wonder I fight. Wow, that little toe is huge. When is a big toe not the big toe? There’s a mystery for Master Po.

Anyway, town to town and always the same thing: people would despise me. Maybe it was my bald head, my quiet demeanor or my hesitant way of speaking. Maybe it was my feet.

In every town one person would befriend me, while another would force me to decide whether or not I would fight. “Well, okay, if you insist.” Then, bam! “Meet Mr. Seven-Toes and his buddy, Biggie Smalls.”

By coincidence, every fight reminded me of my master’s lessons and that would guide my decision, which involved kicking the bejeesus out of redneck cowboys.

Now I’m an old man and I have accepted this land as my own, the land of my father, before he left me in the care of Master Po. I suppose I’ve become more philosophical, not to mention relaxed. As a peaceful warrior I had vowed: no sex, no alcohol, no swearing. What a prude. Now I know how to have a good time. Some say my tastes run a little exotic. I also use words like bejeesus.

I enjoy the way they speak here, although they always say I’m wearing silk pajamas. I would never sleep in these. They itch. I think it’s the embroidery.

I especially enjoy that so many of the people in these towns want to fight. You would think word gets around not to mess with the half-Chinese, shoeless bald guy with the weird feet who hates injustice and likes to beat up rednecks. How many of us can there be? But I’m not complaining.

My skills have improved even though my body has aged. Last week, this corrupt railroad boss–I can’t tell you how many of those I’ve faced (what is it with them?)–he ambushed me with a Gatling gun, which I admit was impressive. Fast bullets—I walked around them as if they were falling cherry blossoms. It took five minutes to wipe out his entire gang. A machine gun! Not bad for an old man. These robes still fit, too. Just saying, I’m in pretty good shape.

But even if I survive this showdown with the emperor’s assassins, I don’t expect to live forever. I’ve lived well. I’ve always stood up to villains. I never did find my half-brother, Danny. I wonder if he has a similar problem with his feet. It must be inherited. I wonder what he did for shoes—another mystery of the universe.

That reminds me of a lesson from my master. He said, “To talk without a destination is like climbing a tree to catch a fish.” Do you have any idea what that means? I don’t. He was strange—and a sadist. Did I mention the branding?

I’m surprised these assassins cornered me. To spot these clowns all I usually do is listen for some redneck cowboys to start laughing, then for the sound of those rednecks getting kicked or speared or flying-guillotined or what-have-you.

I suppose I let them catch up to me. The truth is, I’ve been bored.

(Opens the large box that has been under the window.)

I also just scored this sweet Gatling gun. You might want to take cover.

(Lifts and points the gun out of the window.)

Okay, you emperor-loving, pajama-wearing jackasses, eat hot Shaolin lead!