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The Spoooooooooooooky Issue

Dark Ages

Quiet, VICE readers! The Darkest of Ages is about to commence!

Designer: Seth Pratt, Wardrobe assistant: Lyndsea LaMarr, Lighting: Cynthia Webster,
Set design: Roni Levi and Etay Levi, Makeup: Nichole Servin, Props: Roni Levi and Reo Fordecor
Manic gestures. A dreamlike face, inflections of cruel irony.  ACT I Quiet, VICE readers! The Darkest of Ages is about to commence! [A bell tolls.] MOON:
Hello, Sun. Do you have a light? SUN:
I am the Sun!  MOON:
[takes a puff from a cigarette]
That explains a lot… I’m feeling reflective. Sigh, my ashen morose. Who will heat up my cold interiors? SUN:
Costumed actor! You believe you’re a moon? Time to cool off. MOON:
But fiery phalluses flying forever in every direction! SUN:
That’s just the kind of guy I am. Explosion! Fire! Lucifer’s clowns in a magazine spread, be free of your pages!!!
A stolen relic. Overabundant, heavily dressed in sumptuous raiment. Illuminated glances.  The Moon is exploded in atomic inferno, impregnated. She rains wet fireballs onto Earth. MOON:
Ooh! Was that good for you? Funny old Earth, I give you my orgasms. Empty-headed Idiot Dancers, dance. On Earth, an Idiot Dancer is a mudman. Got it. VICE has the ’tude. Oh yeah, fire transforms Idiot Dancer into the Zygote. Tick-tock. Future-past. Moments dissolve. Snakes appear. Pass the gate of pelvic ta-tas. Who is causing this? What are they saying in rubber bird tongue? Who lost the touch of evil beings in black and white? MIME:
The harlequin apple. You who form the darkness behind the white palm tree. Why cling to nature? Mannequins are fake but their clothes fit nice. There. (Taking the apple, she wipes away a nonexistent tear.) Let’s hide this apple from the ceiling of eyes in a magician’s handkerchief. Tempting? If you eat this in a crucible of promises, you drain the blood of your idiot ancestor’s dancing faces!  OMG, she ate it! Oh, blackest moment of human mysteries. MIME:
And they call what I do not necessarily heartfelt? Then let it be so! Nice work for the immortals, but aging badly. Who falls in love with the moons and stars, lunatic showmen, hapless shamblers of the dunes… Let’s see how fast we can get kicked out of here.
[A bell tolls three times. Intermission.]
Cyclical, moody. Spoiled and cute. More manipulative than despondent.
Asymmetrical. Angular. Germanic. Nervous, particularly sensitive.
Deer in the headlights, prisoner of time. Feral, naive, features of pure innocence.
A sexual android. Artificial. A starburst in the soft box.  ACT II A spooky dinner party. Zygote is on the menu. REVEREND SCIENCE:
Why take negative particles from angels’ dreams? Take her brain pâté for the seismograph! Give me the guts of those eyes still seeking the admiration of the heavens! I grant you, head, bleed out your alpha biscuits on a star lyre. I’m having everyone over for dinner. The table is set. Infomercial victims, superfluous head, organ deluxe! ROZBO:
This is fun! I don’t know where I am yet. You’re eating brains. Higher human consciousness was created as food for the cosmos. Duh!
Manners of the laboratory. Absolving, measured, quantifying, dogmatic.  OBELISK KING:
No one move! Where is my footman? These game pieces are powerless. ROZBO:
Yummy! Let’s have lots of drinks! CROWLEY-VISION:
Newsflash. The Eye, Satan my Lord! The Lust of the Goat! Ten of Hearts. Lioness of the Mountains. OBELISK KING:
Nothing exists outside of this room. Are they saying otherwise? Notes on the air. The open windows laugh at me, the keeper of antique menace.
Of a decrepit age, restored. Statuesque.  REVEREND SCIENCE:
Idiot, I’m constructing perpendicular Earth axes over the infinity of boredoms! Big Talk. Big Talk. Halo tear transfusion. Guns and tigers of plastic tubing! Pain and misery! Pure spirit in a cup! People are weird. I’m just a magazine. You made it this far? There must be something wrong with you. Some of you care while some just don’t, but how would I know. I don’t even have a brain! Just as existence manifests itself through creation of matter, nonexistence manifests itself through creation of consciousness… I must be dumb or something.
Zygote escapes. Run away, Zygote! Don’t go directly into the light. Headlights! Blood on the windshield. Night mode. Dark figure… driving, shooting, singing, dark streets. BAD LIEUTENANT:
Who were those costumed characters in a nonexistent play? Sieve the universe. They’ve all died. It’s how we are now. If their lives were actually a thing, we are the closest thing to it. We live in our heads. The higher we go the less we exist. Opposites battle for control in a jungle of swimming dark cars. Oh, sedentary streetlight souls I am driving in reverse. Possession is the possessor in black. Oh, objects of thought, slaves of neon thought, pools of thought bleeding and sick. Empty. Nothing. Driven to nonexistence… [All characters exeunt.] TO BE CONTINUED…
A talking beast head. Televised magical, bit of a know-it-all.
A Faustian vigilante meets homicidal moralist.