“It was a farce! A char*BURP*ade! An in-DIG-ni-ty of the high*BRAAAP*est order!”

“Er… What my client means, Mister Masterson…”

”I mean exactly wh*slurp*...what I say, BAROLD! You pompous LOUT!”

…In the Anarchy GM’s office…

Two men sit across from ‘Bashmaster’ Barry Masterson.

On Bashy’s left, Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing.

Currently occupying a wheelchair and full-body cast…

Slumped over Bashy’s desk, sipping at a peppermint dish on Bashy’s desk…

Like a cat at a milk saucer.

On Bashy’s right? Lionel’s mortified agent, Gene Bronagh.

…Staring at Bashy’s ceiling. Praying this meeting would end.

“Imagine, Barold! A man of my credentials and culture! Pumm-*cough*”... Suddenly, Lionel coughs a giant ball of peppermint onto Bashy’s desk… “Pummeled about my punim by Cyph3r, that… glorified understudy!”

…Gene coughs, trying to cut in, as he surreptitiously brushes Lionel’s peppermint hairball off Bashy’s desk.

…Nope, already stuck.

”I can explain, Mister Bashmaster. …I tried to mention it was a real f-”

”To think! A stage performer would physically assault another! Simply because I so clearly outshone him on the stage!”

”...Lionel, you can’t b-... HOW DO YOU STILL NOT GET IT?!? Cyph3r wasn’t trying to out-act you! He was trying to beat you silly!”

”Feh! You want silly? The moment Cyph3r’s boot left the stage? That was the nano-instant he made clear he did not belong on-stage with me! Now, who looks silly!”

Lionel tries to accompany this declaration with a dramatic wrist-flick.

…Unfortunately, his arms are sticking straight up, so he merely turns his wrist at a slight angle…

”...Lionel, Cyph3r’s boot left the ‘stage’... in order to kick you in the face! Listen, L! It was a real fi-!”

”It was AMATEUR HOUR, is what it was! How degraded should Mister Cyph3r feel!” Lionel scoffs, as he buries his face down into the candy dish for more. “The purpose of theatre? To transport… to cre*BURP*...create the illusion… to SIM-yoo-late! Any clod with a foot can kick a man… But, to make an audience believe a boot to a skull’s rear could render a man broken! Deformed!”

Lionel tries to stick a hand aloft to emphasize his point…

…Not realizing both his hands are already pointing up.

”That! Is the mark of an ACTORRRRRRRR!”

…Gene sighs.

”Right. And the fact that Cypher’s stomp to your skull aggravated your lumbago, leaving you in a full-body cast? Obviously, *that* was… part of the performance?”

”I USED my PAIN to play the role of a lifetime! A MAIM-ed man! A role I play to PERFECTION!”

…

Gene buries his head in his hands.

”Mister Bash, sir… Before you terminate your contract with Bronagh Talent… Could I say one thing in my defense?”

Bronagh takes a breath, closing his eyes… praying something comes to him to salvage this contract.

…

……

The silence is deafening.

Gene opens one eye.

Across from the two, behind his desk, is ‘Bashmaster’ Barry Masterson.

Staring straight ahead.

…

”Um… Mister Bash…?”

Suddenly, Bashy reaches up to his ears…

And pulls out… headphones!

”Great stuff!”

Bashy focuses on the two men in front of him.

”Sorry, gentlemen! I accidentally double-booked your meeting with a meeting I had with myself to listen to a podcast I recorded of myself.”

Bashy lifts his phone to his meeting-mates, showing a Spotify screen of ‘BASHING GOOD PODCAST w/ ‘Bashmaster’ Barry Masterson!’

”Absolutely cracking stuff! The listening went great!”

Bashmaster shoots finger-guns at the two men.

”I assume the meeting *also* went great! So, Mister Sir Lionel, when’s the next Thursday you’re free to Bash?”

”...Wait, you want Lionel back? After THAT performance?”

”I didn’t watch last Anarchy! Too busy recording and listening to podcasts! But, I assume by ‘THAT’ performance, you mean *it* was incredible and I’d be crazy not to re-book him!”

Bashy points at the saliva-covered peppermint ball atop his desk!

”And *that* must be a gift thanking me for the opportunity!”

…

”Yep.” Gene smiles weakly. ”Correct, twice.”

“Feh! I am ABOVE this troupe! These dabbling dilettantes! Wooden-acting woe-be-gones! Hammy-acting hellions! For what possible reason would I choose to remain in this damnable place?”

”Oh, that reminds me…” Bashy reaches into his desk.. ”Here’s your paycheck.”

”A pittance of a pittance, I’m certain! You can burn your DINNER THEATER paystub in the fires of HE-”

Lionel stops cursing Bashy long enough to eye the check.

…

”...Fifty…”

“THOUSAND?!?”

”Yes! Apologies, ol’ sport Thad accidentally deleted all company accounts again, so everyone’s getting a $50,000 bonus for their trouble.”

…

”...*ahem*...”

“As I was saying…”

“What’s my next part?!?”

“The show must go on!”

---

Presenting…

The Tragedy of Larry Tact

With Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing as Larry Tact

Enter Stage Right: Pennyfarthing, wearing a bald cap and mutton-chops.

He struts confidently across the stage.

From off-stage, a woman’s voice!

”Larry! It’s your wife! I’m… I’ve been in an accident! I’m in the hospital! Please come!”

…’Tact’ clears his throat, projecting toward the voice!

”The Edmonton Oilers were founded in 1971 by Dr. Chuck Allard, an Edmontonian banker and failed massage therapist.”

…

”What? Larry! Listen! I was run off-road by your rivals! Our daughter… she’s been taken! Save her, Larry!”

…’Tact’ opens his mouth again.

”The Oilers, after five Stanley Cup wins in the 1980s, became a national embarrassment, missing the playoffs for ten straight seasons after 2007.”

”Larry, what the FUCK are you talking about?!? Your WIFE’s in the hospital! Your daughter’s missing! You’re COMPETING this week! Can you do anything except talk about the Edmonton Oilers?!?”

…

”The Oilers have made FOUR first overall NHL draft selections since 2007… and they wasted every SINGLE one!”

”...Oh God. Larry, my Doctor heard your incoherent babbling… He’s diagnosed you with… EDMONONUCLEOSIS!”

‘Tact’ gasps!

”Is THAT why I can’t stop talking about the Edmonton Oilers?!?”

”Yes, Larry!” The voice breaks down in tears. ”Yes!”

”And why I can’t become erect without yelling the word ‘TACTILIZING’?!?”

…

”*ahem*Actually, that’s… unrelated.”

”But, for the record… I, Larry Tact, *do* have erectile dysfunction.”

‘Tact’ nods somberly.

”And that’s a #TACTFACT.”