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Polimarchus.....Finesse Mitchell Alexander.....Kenan Thompson Zombie.....Will Forte (Open on a murky, damp dungeon. The shelves on the walls are lined with bottles of various chemicals and potions. Polimarchus, a sorcerer of the dark arts, stands before a stone slab. He is quite old, with graying hair, wrinkles and a long beard, dressed in a flowing black robe. He recites an incantation over a corpse, mottled with green blotches of rotting decay. He speaks in a typically elderly voice.) Polimarchus: Ater ara atrum, infusco pravus corporius diablos! Arise from the realm of the dead, my minion, to serve me in my Satanic quest! (The corpse twitches, then rises up. The newly-created zombie bows before Polimarchus.) Zombie: (deep, gravelly voice) Master, I am at your command. Polimarchus: (ecstatic) Superb, another success. God Pluto smiles upon me. Soon, the entire kingdom shall fall before my lich servants, and I, the great Polimarchus, shall rule over the realms of life and death! (laughs maniacally). Where doth my son Alexander reside? He should be here to witness the new future that I have wrought. (He turns to the left and shouts.) Boy, get your black ass down here now, else I give you a whuppin' so bad you'll think you were the Green Knights be-atch! (Polimarchus' son Alexander rushes into the dungeon. He is clad in a deep indigo robe and is reading a musty text.) Alexander: You summoned me, father? Polimarchus: Yes son, I wanted you present to behold my creation. Another obedient minion of my undead army, one infused with the very fires of Hell itself! He shall lead my forces into combat against our enemies, and soon, we shall rule supreme. (He laughs maniacally again, and the zombie joins in. Alexander looks very uninterested. He puts the book down) Alexander: (yawning) Oh, another zombie, Father? Well, whatever makes you happy. Polimarchus: (angered) What do you mean "another zombie"? Do you fail to comprehend the magnitude of my successes? With this fine creature leading my forces, our enemies will fall! Alexander: (sarcastically) Yes, I see, sending an army of rotting corpses into battle during the hot summer months. Quite ingenious. And I suppose the king's forces shan't be deterred or forewarned by the stench of decay, or the swarms of flies coming to feast on their dead flesh? Yes Father, there is nothing that can deter your odiferous soldiers. Zombie: (offended) Hey! I'll get some cologne later! Polimarchus: (sighs) Son, why must we quarrel such? What keeps you from appreciating the magnitude of my craft? I can infuse life to the dead! Alexander: I know father, it is quite an accomplishment, but why persist in ressurecting corpses simply for battle? They are not fit for this lot in life. Forgive me if I offend thee, but your zombie is unfit in combat. Zombie: (angry) I'm standing right here, you know! You could take my feelings into account. Polimarchus: (turns to the zombie) You be quiet, this doesn't concern you. (The zombie looks hurt and crosses his arms in anger. Polimarchus turns back to his son.) Alexander, my son, you are an educated man, but you know nothing of the art of necromancy or combat. Alexander: I may lack that knowledge, but I do know where thou art in error. Polimarchus: (haughtily) Oh, oh yes, of course. Ever since you graduated, you know what's best for everyone. Dost thou forget that I, thine own father, graduated summa cum laude from Diabolicus University, the foremost school for the liberal and Satanic arts in the kingdom, and that it was I who toiled and struggled to support your education, not once denouncing you for shaming your family legacy and enrolling in a (shudders) trade school. Alexander: There's a great demand for metallurgists in today's society. Polimarchus: Yes, yes, but do they earn as much as a skilled necromancer such as mineself? Alexander: You don't earn any wages as a necromancer, you work for yourself! Father, I mean you no offense, but I'm simply stating the truth, your corpses cannot serve as fitting soldiers. Zombie: (mad as hell) All right, I'm not going to stand for this anymore. (He picks up a meat cleaver on a table.) I'll show you who's not a fitting soldier! (He raises the cleaver over his head and prepares to bring it down on Alexander, but his arm falls off. Polimarchus is surprised, and the zombie is very embarassed. He picks up his arm and sulks off.) Zombie: (from offscreen) Little smart-ass punk. Alexander: Does that prove my point to you, Father? Polimarchus: (grumbling) All right, all right, perhaps that was not my finest achievement, but can you not give me the slightest credit for my past accomplishments? Alexander: I already said it was a great accomplishment, but that they are not fitting fighters. Do you recall your army of skeletons? Polimarchus: They were skilled combatants, they passed the training session wonderfully. Twas it my fault they could not be properly armed? Alexander: They were nothing but bone! They weighed one-sixth of their original body mass, and you clad them in heavy armor! Did you really think that they could support such a great weight without collapsing?! Polimarchus: (a beat) We were able to rid ourselves of that pack of stray dogs afterwards, so it was not a complete debacle. (Alexander has a smug I-told-you-so look on his face.) Alexander: Precisely. And do you wish that I bring up the mummy fiasco? Polimarchus: The spirits of the pharaoh's guided me to create such troops, they should have been victorious. Alexander: Yes, they should have, had their tightly bound limbs not prevented them from wielding their weapons or quickly fleeing from the battlefield. Polimarchus: Enough, you have proven your point! I admit it, I am a failure, my pursuits in the dark arts are all for naught! Are you happy now, child?! (He breaks down and begins sobbing. Alexander goes over and hugs his father.) Alexander: Be not sad, father. You are gifted with a great art, but perhaps it is time to apply that art to a more profitable trade. Why, imagine the achievements you could make in the medical profession. Look at the state of society now, the plague is obliterating thousands by the day. With your skills you can resurrect those who perished too early, reunite families ruined by this damned disease. You could be a hero! (Polimarchus gets up, a glowing expression on his face.) Polimarchus: Yes, yes, that's perfect. Apply my trade to healing. I can free mankind from the ravages of disease, keep them alive and functioning in society for many years more. No more will man have to fear an early death! It's so simple! Alexander: Yes Father, that's the spirit! Polimarchus: And surely, those healed by my magnificent powers will be indebted to me, and serve me blindly in my reign of conquest. Alexander: Oh, no. Polimarchus: Their gratitude and freedom from the ravages of death will embolden them and compel them to fight dilligently against the king's forces. Then I shall reign supreme! Ha ha! Thank you, my son! (He hugs his son tightly. Alexander pushes him away, a disgusted look on his face.) Alexander: (sighing) Forget it father, you're hopeless. (He turns and walks out. The zombie re-enters, a new arm sewn onto his shoulder. It is obviously from a newer body, since it is tan and whole in contrast with his pale, rotting skin. Polimarchus notices the change.) Polimarchus: Where did you get the new limb? Zombie: Some Arabic kid came to the door selling subscriptions to Dragonslayers Quarterly. I promised him I'd buy 2 years for double the price if he gave me the arm. Polimarchus: Pretty good deal. But enought idle chit-chat. I am afraid that I have no further use for you, for I shall now apply my trade to the art of healing. Be gone, foul creature. Zombie: (furious) What?! You disturb my soul and bring me out of a peaceful eternal slumber because you wanna use me to lead some "mighty army of the undead," and now you just wanna toss me aside?! Polimarchus: (nonchalantly) That's the way it goes, kid. (The zombie has a look of great anger on his face. He grabs his left, decaying hand with his newer right hand, rips off the middle finger and gives it to Polimarchus.) Polimarchus: Oh, giving me the finger. Quite mature. (The zombie grumbles and turns about. He takes two steps before stiffening and falling forward. A thud is heard.) Zombie: (unseen) Damn rigor mortis. (Polimarchus looks down at the ground.) Polimarchus: Do you want some help? Zombie: (unseen) No, no, I'm fine. The stones are actually quite cool and refreshing. I think I'll just lie here for a while. Polimarchus: Very well. I must be off, I have work to do. (beat) Would you like something to drink before I go? Zombie: (unseen) A mug of mead would be nice. Make it two, in case a rat comes by. That way he won't go straight for me. Polimarchus: Two meads, you got it. (He heads off to get the drinks.) (Fade out) Rate or review this sketch | Prior comments |
