Blogatron

CONVERSATIONS WITH MY METABOLISM (A Play)

SCENE 1.
A scantily-clad woman walks across the stage, holding a placard that reads "A New England Town. Fall. 2003."

The curtain rises. We see HILATRON, a robot of grace and charm, sitting behind a desk, upper stage left. Throughout, she will mime various actions.

Enter the METABOLISM, stage right. The METABOLISM is a Neanderthal wearing a fur loincloth. It carries a large stick. It looks around nervously as leaves fall from the ceiling.

METABOLISM. Unga! It get cold! Me make robot eat more, increase fatty deposits for long harsh winter. (Loudly, in the manner of an anime character calling out an enemy) STOOOOOO-MAAAAACH!

The STOMACH enters from stage right. The STOMACH is a small, jittery man in a denim jumpsuit, reminiscent of a janitor's uniform. He is clearly intimidated by the METABOLISM.

STOMACH. Y-yes, Mr. M?

METABOLISM. We need eat more! Winter come! You demand many foods now!

STOMACH. But, uh, Mr. M, sir, the lady upstairs won't like that. You know what she said about--

METABOLISM. YOU LISTEN ME NOW! What upstairs know about eating? Me been doing this for untold millennia. Me call shots when it come to keeping this show going! Ooogn!

STOMACH. O-o-okay. (Clears throat) Um, food? Can I have some, uh, food?

HILATRON looks around. She rubs her belly, then takes an apple out of a drawer and starts to eat it.

METABOLISM. Not good enough, digestion-boy! We need more than wimpy fruit snacks to pull through cold dark months! Ask for cheese!

STOMACH. But, uh, Mr. M, sir --

METABOLISM. Cheese! Ask for CHEESE! (He gives the STOMACH a violent wedgie. The STOMACH yelps and then:)

STOMACH and METABOLISM. (Together) CHEEEEESE! CHEEEEEEEEESE!

HILATRON tosses the apple aside, removes a large wheel of cheese from the drawer and starts eating it ravenously.

The pair continue yelling as the BRAIN, a large old-fashioned computer like something out of a science fiction movie, rolls in on an electric cart.

BRAIN. (Coming to a halt at center stage, in an imposing and educated female voice.) Stop!

HILATRON stops eating.

BRAIN. You fools. Are you not aware that we live in a modern world, where a wide variety of food is available year-round and heated homes are de rigeur? Your incessant pestering will merely make Hilatron plump and sluggish. If you want her to be in top form this winter, the best thing to do is to encourage a regular regimen of exercise, the consumption of fruits and vegetables, and plenty of sleep.

METABOLISM. (Smiles craftily.) Sleep? Me show you sleep! If you no allow successful gorging, me make Hilatron sleep real good! Urgh! Auuurrrph!

The METABOLISM hits himself over the head with his club and collapses. Simultaneously, HILATRON lets out a huge yawn. She tries to do some work at her desk, but is clearly exhausted. Finally, she pushes everything off her desk and lies down for a nap.

BRAIN. Oh for the love of... (To STOMACH, with condescension and a touch of distaste.) You there! Stomach! Get him awake this instant!

STOMACH. But -- but ma'am!

The BRAIN's lights begin to blink wildly. In a thundering voice:

BRAIN. This INSTANT, I said! Do not make me repeat myself again! I can make or break you, puny organ!

STOMACH. (Cringing.) Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am.

Tentatively, he walks over to the METABOLISM, who is snoring loudly. He taps the METABOLISM on the shoulder. No response. He taps harder. The METABOLISM rolls over, and the STOMACH jumps back and runs a few steps away before he catches himself. The BRAIN makes an ominous buzzing noise. The STOMACH takes a deep breath and returns, poking the METABOLISM in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. Without waking up and without apparent effort, the METABOLISM grabs the STOMACH's leg and pulls him off balance. The STOMACH teeters and then comes crashing to the floor next to the METABOLISM. The racket finally wakes the METABOLISM up.

METABOLISM. (Sitting up.) What for you make all this ruckus? Me sleep! Me prove point to that Brain over there! You ruin everything!

Enraged, the METABOLISM reaches for his club and starts beating up the STOMACH. In the background, HILATRON awakens and looks around. She mimes hunger as the STOMACH whimpers in pain and tries unsuccessfully to escape.

BRAIN. My good man, there's really no need for this vulgar display. If you would just listen to reason for a moment --

METABOLISM. (Stops hitting the STOMACH, who crawls to the edge of the stage and collapses. Quietly at first, but growing louder throughout his speech, as he slowly approaches the BRAIN:) You...and...your...reason! Me no care! Me know what's what! It get cold, we eat lots, we stay alive! That the rule! That work for thousands of years! Me no need some newcomer, some piddly evolution, telling ME what to do! Me no care from "central heating." Me no care from "supermarket." Me know that we alive, and that means my plan work! (He hefts club in his hand.) Now me take over here, even if I have to do this! (He hits the BRAIN with his club.)

BRAIN. I say! Violence will not solve anything! We just need to come to some sort of compromise...

METABOLISM. No more talk! Only hit! No more compromise! Only me!

The METABOLISM begins hitting the BRAIN in earnest, breaking lights and sending buttons and dials flying across the stage. The BRAIN makes stammering protests which degrade into frenzied buzzing noises; then, with a flash and pop, the BRAIN shorts out. The METABOLISM turns triumphantly to the STOMACH, who is quaking with fear.

METABOLISM. This winter different. This winter, we do things MY way! Unga-unga-OOOOOOOOOOOO!

The lights fade to black except for a spotlight on HILATRON, who gets up from her desk, walks carefully over to where the cheese landed earlier, and picks it up. Slowly and deliberately, almost primly, she sets the cheese on the desk and sits down. She takes a big bite from the large wheel. Smiling, with cheese dropping from her open mouth:

HILATRON. Mmmmm. Me like cheese.

THE END.

Posted by hilatron at October 22, 2003 10:41 AM | TrackBack