The Fool and the Donkey Overture

Note - excessive cursing, eldritch abomination

The red curtain lifted. The stage was set, and the props were all in their correct places. A full-sized bed next to an open window, a spinning fan behind the window emulating a breeze, and, of course, a khaki-colored desk. A large, coffee-stained desk with disorganized stacks of music sheet paper that practically fell to the floor.

It was about a year before the Modern Plague.

Everything was different then.

The conductor looked to the orchestra and lifted his baton. Each section of the orchestra lifted their instruments in turn, ready to begin.

A suited man entered and grabbed the microphone left of center stage.

Betwixt bed and desk, she grabbed her phone and turned on her Bluetooth earplugs.

Her heart raced in her chest; although she was sure she was alone in her room. She looked at the laptop fixed onto her blankets. Audacity, the music applicator, was open on screen with her latest composition. It wasn’t exactly finished, partly because there was no such thing as ‘finished’ in the entertainment industry.

Not that she was apart of that industry. Far from it, she was just an aspiring music producer at best.

In fact, the composition on her laptop was imitation, not even an original piece. Imitation of genuinely published and shared music. An overture, if one will, made up of songs from a legitimately professional artist.

She looked over at the furry, black-haired Beast scratching her floor with its sharp claws.

From the perspective of the audience, this Beast was a six-foot-tall actor dressed in full-bodied spandex with perfectly stitched-in black fur. He licked the back of his fur covered hand and imitated a growl.

She sighed and pressed the play button on her phone.

The orchestra began to play a rendition of Offenbach’s “Can Can” and the man began to sing:

Oh

Fuck, fuck,

Shit, shit

Oh

Shit, shit

Fuck

She lost herself once more in the nostalgic sound, leaning back in her power wheelchair. Her desk was chock full of scribbled down music notes. Some original, most not. She hadn’t heard this song in years. At least since she was fourteen. Ah, yes. Fourteen.

She thought back to the day of the talent show.

Cue light on stage left, Little Lynsi in her wheelchair in front of three judges.

She was grinning ear to ear and presented her original work for her audition.

“I hope you like it!” She said. The audience screamed.

The judge cut the song short mid way through.

The orchestra slowed and plucked violin strings.

“What is WRONG with you?!” They decried. “This is the single most disturbing song I have ever heard in my entire life. I expected more from you, Lynsi. This is—-well, it’s insane.”

Her heart shattered. All her life, adults wagged their fingers and shook their heads.

Planted audience members shouted:

“Why don’t you compose something uplifting?”

“This isn’t something a girl like you should compose.”

“I want to be INSPIRED by your music.”

Was it the wheelchair? The paralyzed legs? Why did everyone want to be inspired by her? She numbed the familiar feeling.

The orchestra commenced.

The Beast beside Lynsi reached out and grabbed a stack of the music sheet paper. She rolled her head to the side.

“Not now.” She told it, but the Beast’s red painted eyes only intensified as it ripped the sheets apart.

“Aw, poor little Lynsi…” the audience whispered.

Fuck, fuck, fuck,

Shit, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit

Fuck, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Shit, shit, shit,

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Shit, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit

Fuck, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Shit, shit, shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit

Fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, shit, shit,

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Stuck in a chair….” The audience whispered.

The Beast tossed the scraps across the stage and kicked the bed. It hit the hard floor—THUD—the Beast then picked up a fluffed pillow and aggressively unfluffed it.

“Can you NOT?!” Lynsi screamed. The Beast flipped her the bird and continued to vigorously shake the pillow clean of its feathers.

“Yes, I can’t.” He slammed the pillow to the ground. Making eye contact with his human counterpart, the Beast picked up a copy of The Album and chucked it into Lynsi’s lap.

She couldn’t help but think of an old interview:

Another man and an interviewer entered stage right.

“I heard you’re coming out with an album?”

“Uh huh.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s it called again?”

Giggling. Lots of giggling.

“The Album.”

“W-what?”

“The Album.”

“T-that’s it?”

More giggling. “Yep!”

“Truth be told, nobody cares!” The audience whooped and cheered.

When she was around four years old, Peter DuVall came out with “The Album”. Despite its generic name, it had genuinely well written tracks within its elusive CD. The best part? “The Album” was published by a record label that produced songs meant for children.

Happy titles such as: “Where Are My Pants?” and “I’ve Got Your Nose Now!” were soon replaced by the eye catching, jaw dropping, Offenbach remix: “Fuck, Fuck, Shit.”

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck shit

Shit shit shit fuck

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck shit

Shit shit shit fuck

She’d been around five or six when she’d first heard it. It was for kids after all.

The cover of The Album reeled in from the stage ceiling. The front was a photo stock image of smiling children holding hands and the back was a list of tracks.

Soon enough, kids all across the United States sung “Fuck, Fuck, Shit” whenever they could get away with it. In spite of incensed teachers, outraged parents, and confusion from even the record label itself, “Fuck, Fuck, Shit” struck her generation like a tsunami.

The audience lifted their arms and performed the wave. All the stage lights shifted to the right again.

When interviewed after its initial release, then twenty-four-year-old Peter simply stated:

“We were bored and thought it was funny. I mean, I listened to worse shiiiii—stuff—yeah, stuff—when I was younger. Some kids just like that sort of thing, you know?”

Even so, he was all smiles when the interviewer asked:

“And what about the parents? I’ve heard you’ve gotten into a lot of hot water with the record label….”

“Yeah, well, the record label approved ‘The Album’. They knew what I was making in there, and we all thought it was funny sooo—maybe those parents should lighten up a little, hm?”

Peter giggled mischievously at a funny thought. “Besides, they’re going to piss blood out of their skulls eventually, might as well happen now, right?”

It hadn’t occurred to him children as young as four years old had been exposed to the song—or maybe it had. Either way, that’s where the outrage came from and, either way, Peter DuVall couldn’t give less of a care. It was all just so funny.

The stage lights cut briefly and blinked back on.

Peter, a year older, was in a new costume.

“The thing is,” he said in another interview. “It’s not like I hid the song from parents. You can literally see the title on the back of ‘The Album’! How’s it my fault that they didn’t know how to read? Check what you’re buying for your kids, parents!”

All the stage lights focused on the audience.

“We’re such great people!” They shouted.

Soon enough, it wasn’t just kids singing “Fuck, Fuck, Shit.” It was whole conventions of people and, thereafter, teenage girls. Some of which accredited Peter DuVall as the creator of the Can-Can.

“Fuck, Fuck, Shit” became more than a song, it became a fashion statement on t-shirts

mugs,

posters,

ashtrays,

and bongs galore!

Teenage girls just about screamed their heads off whenever he said anything, anything at all. Unlike most of the producers of the record label, Peter was young and attractive. Of course all these girls bought up his songs and peppered their social media with playlists full of his tracks, including remixes from fans. It was usually just: “Fuck, Fuck, Shit”. Covers and covers of “Fuck, Fuck, Shit”.

The audience sang along with the man.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

Shit shit shit

Shit shit shit shit

Fuck fuck fuck

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

Shit shit shit

Fuck Shit Fuck Shit Fuck

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

Shit shit shit

Shit shit shit shit

Fuck fuck fuck

Fuck fuck shit

Shit shit fuck

Fuck fuck shit

Shit shit fuck

Fuck fuck shit

Shit shit fuck

Fuck fuck shit

Fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit!

Unfortunately for Peter, just as he was in the middle of making “The Album, Pt. 2”, the record label dropped him.

The interviewer pushed Peter off the stage. The audience gasped and watched all stage lights center in on Peter.

The suited man continued to sing. He slowly stood, facing the audience with wide eyes.

No matter what Peter did, he wasn’t able to garner the same success as he had with “The Album”. Every convention he went to, every autograph signing, every moment recognized, was always followed by…

An audience member pointed at Peter: “Hey! You’re the ‘Fuck, Fuck, Shit’ guy! Man, I used to love that song.”

That statement was usually followed by a…

Another audience member pointed: “You wanna go ahead and sing it again for old times sake?”

To which Peter said: “I’m not the one who sang it. I can’t sing.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Yeah, I just wrote the lyrics. My friend sang it though. Maybe you should ask him?” 

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck shit

Shit shit shit fuck

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit

Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck shit

Young Peter exited the auditorium, stage light following him until he was out of sight. It shifted its focus back to the stage.

A new, older Peter entered stage right.

By the time he was in his mid thirties, Peter’s giggle had faded and his smile transformed into a scowl.

Stage lights blinked on and off with every sentence he spoke.

On.

“Uh huh, yeah. ‘Fuck, Fuck, Shit’—-Let’s talk about something else, yeah?”

Off. On.

“Sing it? I can’t sing, dude!”

Off. On.

“Pass!”

Off. On.

“NEXT!”

Off. On.

“Yep. I’m the guy.”

Off. On.

“Yeeeeeep.”

Off. On.

“Is ‘The Album, Pt 2’ coming out? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe in your dreams, hm?”

Off. On. Peter was older now, well into his forties.

“I swear to god, if I hear one more person ask me about ‘Fuck, Fuck, Shit’, I’m going to lose my fucking mind—NEXT!”

The lights slowly shifted left. 

The audience whispered in each others ears.

Rumors spiraled. Some said he was creepy, others said he fought a security guard the day he was kicked out of the studio, and many said that a child jumped into traffic to sing ‘Fuck, Fuck, Shit’ at the oncoming cars.

A horn honked through the large speakers, followed by the sound of tires ripping flesh apart.

“Poor Sammy!” said the audience.

When one is fourteen and is in desperate need to show their ability to compose good music, they don’t think about any of that. They just think: “Lemme make my own version of ‘Fuck, Fuck, Shit’ real quick. It’s on theme, right? Lemme show them I can compose!!”

So, she and a friend performed their own version of “Fuck, Fuck, Shit” on stage in front all the adults they knew.

The stage lights narrowed, shining down on Little Lynsi and friend. The two sung along with the man briefly and performed jazz hands.

As the audience clapped and cheered, Lynsi wondered briefly if being a full-fledged composer would be just as empty as that feeling she had on stage.

She thought that would be the last time she ever thought of: “Fuck, Fuck, Shit.” That’d she go on to focus solely on original compositions.

Life had a funny way of punching one in the metaphorical nutsack over their preconceived expectations, didn’t it?

“Like a song! Like a song! Like a song!!” The audience shouted, stomping their feet. 

(I’m gonna)

Fuck shit fuck shit

(I’m gonna)

Fuck shit fuck shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

I’m gonna fuck this shit up

I’m gonna fuck this shit up

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuck

Shit

Fuccccckkkk!!!

The orchestra ceased and a few sections rested their instruments on their lap. The audience applauded, as was expected in theatre.

The man bowed and exited left, along with Little Lynsi. Her friend bowed several times before following the two off stage.

Lynsi, still center stage, looked over at the ginormous, six foot tall, still ever hungry Beast.

“MORE!” He howled.

The Beast glared down at her and gnashed its sharp teeth. In truth, everyone had a Beast. It’s just that hers was a little…broken.

“Please stop! I let you listen to the song, didn’t I? Now, will you chill out a little?!”

Ever since she was little, this Beast would latch onto any show, hobby, or—god forbid—person she liked and suck dry all the knowledge it could get from them. It was a problem. A ceaseless, unwavering, hyperfixating problem.

He snarled. “I S A I D M O R E!” 

Mother had taken her to see several specialists some years back thanks to the Beast.

Three different specialists entered right and said:

“Eh, it’s depression. Give ‘er the good ol’ antipsychotics.”

“She’s already in a wheelchair. That’s clearly the problem here.”

“She’s just a teenage girl. She’ll grow out of it.”

They turned, filed in a row, and exited the stage.

Lynsi reached out to grab the Beast, but it leaned back.

“Really think you’ll get rid of me that easy?” He mocked her in a low voice. Clasping his long, plastic claws around her head, the Beast gazed into her eyes. “We’re companions for life, Lynsi.”

She threw its hands off her, wheeling away from the smirking thing.

“No, we’re not!”

Three planted audience members stood, one after the other:

“Stay still, Lynsi!”

“You’ve been talking about this for hours, Lynsi.”

“Wow, you’re, like, so weird, Lynsi.”

The amount of shame the Beast brought her…and no one believed it. It’s not like she wanted to toss her bed and unfluff her pillows. That was the Beast! It was all thanks to this damned creature.

The Beast just cackled. “But what about Part 2, Lynsi?! What about Part fucking Two?!” 

When the Beast caught wind of “The Album, Pt 2” coming out after eighteen years of being dead in the water…Well, it hungered once more for an already devoured meal.

“Part two! Part two! Part two! Part two!” shouted the audience, pointing at Peter. 

The Beast grabbed her hand and made her hop on YouTube to pull up a recent clip of Peter DuVall.

Stage lights shifted right again.

“I can’t wait for people to obsess over ‘Fuck, Fuck, Shit’ again,” he spat sarcastically. “Totally gonna love it.”

An interviewer entered stage right.

“So, you’re not excited?” asked the interviewer.

“Oh, no, I am!” Peter said, suddenly earnest. “It’s just…I want people to enjoy it, not, you know, obsess over it.”

Shame crawled across her flesh and emboldened the Beast. His mischievous smile grew.

The only saving grace she had was that it was just “Fuck, Fuck, Shit” that the Beast had latched onto, something she could well keep to herself. Only “Fuck, Fuck, Shit” …and the deep desire to become a composer.

“Lucky bastard. At least you got to be one.” said Lynsi.

“Hey!” shouted Peter back at Lynsi. She reared back.

“Alright !” Lynsi shouted. “That’s enough !”

Lynsi shooed away the Beast and grabbed a dab pen. She popped the cartridge out of the machine and narrowed her eyes. It was still halfway full of that bright yellow liquid. She smirked and inhaled the vapor from the white end, allowing the eventual high to take her away.

The conductor raised his baton and the orchestra followed his instruction.

The curtain slowly fell. After all, this was only the overture. They performed the Can Can again. That’s all “Fuck, Fuck, Shit” was without lyrics. Just the Can Can.

Still, the Eldritch roared and clapped its many hands in applause.