WHAT'S IN THE BRIEFCASE?

written by Alysha Reller

REVISION 162 Scripped scripped.com January 26, 2012 Copyright (c) 2012 Alysha Reller All Rights Reserved

CAST OF CHARACTERS CASSANDRA: SECRET AGENT MAN: FEMME FATALE: AUTHOR: THE EDITOR:

Scene 1 Two Characters stride in. One, The Secret Agent, walks very inconspicuously which of course makes him entirely conspicuous. He carries a fuschia briefcase that is handcuffed to his wrist. Occasionally he will look at the briefcase with a look that barely expresses the hatred he holds the wretched bag. Beside him is his partner, Cassandra, she looks incredibly confused as to why they are on a stage. CASSANDRA: ...Why are we in a Theater? SECRET AGENT MAN: Ugh, again? We're in a Parking Lot, Cassandra. Parking. Lot. CASSANDRA: Nooo...We're on a stage. (Looking around the stage, exploring nervously) SECRET AGENT MAN: (Annoyed and confused) Wha-? We're notCASSANDRA: (Has discovered the audience) OH MY GOD WE ARE BEING WATCHED. SECRET AGENT MAN: (Exasperated) Oh fuck, you're a UFO freak now? THERE ARE PEOPLE! CASSANDRA:

SECRET AGENT MAN: (Noticing a third character, smoothing back his hair) I-hate-it-when-you-PMS. Go exfoliate your vitamins. I don't know my lines! CASSANDRA: A sleek, mysterious, chain smoking FEMME FATALE enters. She has a cigarette that never goes out and constantly changes her accents. She walks over to SECRET AGENT MAN as he slicks back his hair. Her eyes

2. go his the fuschia briefcase. FEMME FATALE: (Russian) Nice briefcase. Is it flamingo skin? ...Sure. SECRET AGENT MAN:

FEMME FATALE: Fancy. That pink really brings out inner gay of you. Fuck you. SECRET AGENT MAN: FEMME FATALE eyes him and smokes. CASSANDRA: Do I even HAVE lines? (Cassandra wanders the stage, keeping a paranoid eye on the audience) SECRET AGENT MAN: (Really stressing over the briefcase now) I ASKED them for another briefcase. They said I'd stand out too much in a normal briefcase. They said fuschia would help me look modern and blend in. FEMME FATALE: You definitely don't look like Spy. What really? SECRET AGENT MAN:

FEMME FATALE: (Now French) Nobody would think of a gay guy as a Secret Agent. SECRET AGENT MAN: Th-That's offens- Wait. I'm not GAY. Wait- did you just-? CASSANDRA: (To the audience) WHAT DO YOU WANT? What's wrong with her? FEMME FATALE:

SECRET AGENT MAN: Oh, her. She's PDFing or some shit like that- Wait, Don't change the subject like that.

3. FEMME FATALE: (sultry pose, deadpan voice) Change the subject? Moi? Never. SECRET AGENT MAN: Fuck your boobs, I HEARD you change your accent. FEMME FATALE: (Cockney accent) I would never be so unsubtle. SECRET AGENT MAN: But...But you just. I just. WHAT. CASSANDRA: (kicking at the stage in hysterics) FEMME FATALE: ...What is she PTSDing over anyway? The Lion King too much for her? SECRET AGENT MAN: Ppffft, PTSD? There's no such thing! I told my therapist that! She went on and on about 'repercussions of war'. I laughed and told her that I was just fine. Sure I shot eight neighbourhood pets, but I'm pretty sure they were terrorists. Fucking parakeets. FEMME FATALE: (German. Peeved by the incompetence surrounding her.)

...Oi vey.

CASSANDRA: (Continuing to freak out, over the following dialogue, Cassandra continues rambling and overlapping SECRET AGENT MAN. There should be a buildup of insanity) STOP LOOKING AT ME./I'm not supposed to see you. Why can I SEE YOU?! //What is God? Where is the author? Am I god? (to the audience) ARE YOU GOD?! /// SECRET AGENT MAN: I fucking hate birds./ The sketchy bastards. Looking at you with their beady terrorist eyes.// (Begins mimicking birds in a falsetto) 'Oh look at me, aren't I cute? I'm a cute wittle dinosaur! Look at my feathers! I'm such a prwetty bird!'/// But I saw through those bastards. I was all 'Polly wanna cracker? Polly wanna CRACKER? ////POLLY WANTS TO TASTE YOUR INSIDES.' There is a rare moment of silence.

4. Cassandra is teetering on the edge of the stage. SECRET AGENT MAN considers his loathing of unpatriotic birds. FEMME FATALE is unnerved. SECRET AGENT MAN: But yeah, fuck birds, man. CASSANDRA: If I jump off the stage...do I cease existing? FEMME FATALE: (Terrible vague Middle East accent; also she is getting increasingly uncomfortable with these two.) I don't know how to react to all this. SECRET AGENT MAN: Wait- Fuck you, THAT'S NOT EVEN THE SAME CONTINENT. CASSANDRA: ( Climbs off of the stage. Wildly looks around. She still exists. Something her snaps. In a far off, distant voice.) I have crossed the Fourth Wall. I am GOD. FEMME FATALE: (Seduction mode: Activate) I don't know what you are talking about. I t'ink the briefcase is getting to your head. Maybe you need to work out some...tension. Cassandra, now evolved into a Fourth Wall breaking fiend runs around the theater screaming about Anarchy. SECRET AGENT MAN: No, No, NO. Stop boobing at me! I refuse to- NO. YOU ARE INSANE AND YOU ARE TRYING TO GO BACK ON YOUR PROMISE. SECRET AGENT MAN pulls out a gun. FEMME FATALE: (Spanish, nervous that her usual manner of dealing with men has failed) Maybe you should just give me the briefcase. Cassandra, flailing madly runs back to the stage

5. CASSANDRA: LIFE HAS NO MEANING ANYMORE. SECRET AGENT MAN: YOU DID IT AGAIN. STOP IT. FEMME FATALE: (Utterly confused. Also Scottish.) Did what? All I want is the briefcase. Give it to me! CASSANDRA: (Eyeing the audience) What are you still doing here? I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. GO AWAY. STOP IT. STOP WATCHING US! SECRET AGENT MAN: (Going slightly mad over the accent, points the gun at the FEMME FATALE) WHAT ARE YOU? TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE. THIS ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE. I WILL ---- TO YOUR ---ing...What? What are you...----! ----! ----! (As he begins to be censored, his face goes red with rage and he continues a garbled babble of nonsensical words. He points his gun at FEMME FATALE who is freaking out slightly) CASSANDRA: Censoring? We're being Censored? THE AUTHOR IS COMING. HE CAN SAVE US. HE'LL MAKE ME FORGET YOU. (to the audience) AHAHAHAHAHAHA! AHAHA! SECRET AGENT MAN: WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME? ----! ----! ------! ----! ----! I HATE YOUR ----ING FACE. SERIOUSLY? STILL? YOU ARE ----ING ME. I WILL ---- YOUR ---- TO THE ----ING WALL AND ---ING CELEBRATE ON YOUR ---ING ----ING FACE! Suddenly from Center Stage a most sterotypical Beatnik playwright strides in, turtleneck, beret and all. He walks up towards the characters arrogantly. AUTHOR: Don't worry guys, your Au-AGH!! Startled by the new presence, SECRET AGENT MAN jumps and shoots the Author. As the Author screams in agony, SECRET AGENT MAN panicks and shoots him more. Upon

6. witnessing this, CASSANDRA screams in rage and charges SECRET AGENT MAN, drawing a gun of her own. FEMME FATALE screams and ducks. SECRET AGENT MAN panicks more and shoots CASSANDRA, but not before she gets a shot of her own off. Everyone is dead. FEMME FATALE: (Accent has vanished in her shock. Her cigarette and body seem to be perfectly fine. She stands up amoung the bodies in shellshock.) An older, disgruntled man dragging in a mop and bucket walks on and looks aroun in disgust. He is THE EDITOR. THE EDITOR: Damn experimental authors. They always leave the biggest messes. (Notices FEMME FATALE) What do you want, Sugartits? ... ... Can I...go? Get out of here. FEMME FATALE: THE EDITOR: The Editor begins sweeping the bodies offstage. A pause. FEMME FATALE points to the briefcase still attached to SECRET AGENT MAN. I...need that. Actually. FEMME FATALE:

Holy shi-.

THE EDITOR: Do I look like I have a saw? ...Oh. Uh. Okay. FEMME FATALE: The FEMME FATALE grabs the body of SECRET AGENT MAN and begins laboriously dragging him away. The EDITOR looks on in disgust before continuing to clean. END