Back in April we staged the fourth episode of Sandbox Radio Live, “The Chase” rounding out a year of producing this unique offering of all local theatre talent. The podcast of this last show is now available here.
Episode 4, “The Chase”
recorded at West of Lenin on April 16, 2012
@1:42 “Stewart and Miriam" by Elizabeth Heffron
@10:52 “Markheim: Episode 4” by Paul Mullin
@25:40 “Why We Run” by Scot Augustson
@29:35 “Ain’t Gonna Chase After You” Charles Leggett
@33:25 “The Back of the 358 #4” by Paul Mullin
@34:50 “Straight With Chaser” by Ki Gottberg
@42:54 “Always Disappearing” by Juliet Pruzan
@56:20 “The Back of the 358 #5” by Paul Mullin
@57:40 “Child of the Second Tier” by Elizabeth Heffron
@1:04:32 “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows”
@1:07:53 “The Back of the 358 #6” by Paul Mullin
@1:09:45 “Squeeze Play” by Vincent Delaney
It was a great evening, as the Sandboxers have really hit their stride generating and performing work intended especially for the pleasures of listening. For me the standouts of the evening were poems by Scot Augustson and Elizabeth Heffron, “Why we Run” and “Child of the Second Tier”; plus Charles Leggett’s hard blowing “Ain’t Gonna Chase After You” blues, getting its sassy behind kicked by Leslie Law’s second mic vocals.
In July we’ll kick off a whole new year, with Episode 5 “An Unexpected Twist”, be there to share the making of the magic.
And per tradition, below the fold you’ll find the script for Episode Four of Markheim, should you care to follow along as you listen.
(And thanks again to John Ulman for taking such great photos!)
Markheim - Episode 4
by Paul Mullin
VOICE: Still chasing the clockwork, still trying to figure out why I got sent down to flip some two-bit wobbler just so he could wind up twisting from his jail cell bunk. Add to that the appearance of a another Markheim saying she had orders from Upstairs to burn teenage kids, and it seems like my new home town is a one big mess of mysteries. But there is one problem I can solve nice and easy, with a quick six-block walk from my Harbor Steps to Westlake park.
(Sounds of Westlake Park and the Occupy Seattle protests.)
PROTEST LEADER (shouting out): Who’s park?!
PROTESTORS (shouting response): Our park!
LEADER: Who’s city?!
PROTESTORS: Our city!
LEADER: Who’s world!?
PROTESTORS: Our world!
(The voices fade as Markheim crosses to the North side of the park.)
MARKHEIM: That’s my dog.
STANK: Fuck you, Mark.
MARKHEIM: I want my dog, Stank.
STANK: It’s Liv’s dog. Unless you’re telling me Liv’s dead. Then I gotta wonder who killed her?
MARKHEIM: Liv’s in Oregon.
STANK: So you say. But for all I know you did her on some stairway somewhere like the other street kids you burned.
MARKHEIM: I didn’t burn any kids. The burnings are over.
STANK: Tell that to Didge. His hand won’t heal up.
DIDGE: It still burns, Mark. Who was that lady on the Galer steps?
MARKHEIM: She’s gone. You don’t need to worry about her any more.
DIDGE: It still burns.
MARKHEIM: Rub some blood on it.
I want my dog back, Stank.
STANK: Liv’s dog.
MARKHEIM: Fine. Liv’s dog. She gave him to me to take care of. And I want him back.
STANK: Like I said before, Marky. Fuck you.
MARKHEIM: And like I said before, Stanky: if I wanted to burn you, you’d be burnt. Now give me the goddamned dog before I make you wish you were ashes.
SMILEY: What’s going on?
STANK: Oh look, it’s Marky’s Big Indian sidekick.
MARKHEIM: This doesn’t concern you, Smiley.
SMILEY: Angel threatens some punk in my park, damned straight it concerns me.
STANK: Oh, he buys that angel bullshit? Fuckin’ Tonto’s crazier than Mark.
SMILEY: Liv gave Markheim the dog to watch, Stank.
STANK: For all I know Liv’s dead, and Marky here killed her.
SMILEY: Liv’s in Oregon. Everybody on the street knows it.
STANK: I don’t know it.
SMILEY: Cuz you’re a stupid poser who sleeps in his parents’ garage in Leschi every night.
STANK: Fuck you, Smiley.
MARKHEIM (suddenly distracted by something): Goddamn! What the--!?
SMILEY: What’s a matter, Markheim?
MARKHEIM (shouting across the park): Hey! HEY! You! What are you doing down here?
SMILEY: Who are you yelling at?
MARKHEIM: That Chub over there? In the gray coat.
MARKHEIM: Cherub. Angel, administrative sub-archy.
SMILEY: Well, your angel friend’s making a break for it.
MARKHEIM: Goddammit. I gotta catch him.
(Sounds of Markheim running, panting, pushing his way through the protestors.)
MARKHEIM (breathless): Damn. He’s gone.
SMILEY: You spooked him, Markheim.
VOICE: I spooked the Chub. But not as much as the Chub spooked me. What the hell is he doing down in the Show? Cherubs never leave the Fix. Strictly administrative. And this is the Chub who passed me my orders to Flip the Wobbler. And now he’s here. Why? Following me? Why?
Screw it. If he wants to talk, he can find me. Ain’t like I’m hiding. So I wait.
(Late night sounds of the city, the Harbor Steps.)
MARKHEIM: Who’s there?
DIDGE: It’s Didge, Mark.
DIDGE: I don’t care about your name, dude. You gotta help me.
MARKHEIM: It’s not a name, it’s a title. Only Arch Angels get names. The rest of us go by our titles: Cherub or “chub”, Seraph or “Seph”, then there’s Powers, Thrones, Dominations, Virtues, and Principalities. Or “princies” sometimes, but not to their faces.
DIDGE: I don’t care about any of that.
MARKHEIM: Just as well. It doesn’t care much about you.
DIDGE: My hand won’t stop burning.
MARKHEIM: ‘Course not. You got grabbed by a Burner Markheim. A few more seconds and you’d be gone.
DIDGE: That old lady, on the Galer Steps was a--?
MARKHEIM: I told you. A Markheim.
DIDGE: Like you.
MARKHEIM: Yeah, except a Burner. I’m a Talker.
DIDGE: I tried what you told me.
DIDGE: You said rub blood on it.
DIDGE: Yeah, and one of the girls that runs with us, Blow Pop, she’s a cutter.
MARKHEIM: A cutter?
DIDGE: Yeah, she likes to carve stuff into her arms with an X-Acto knife, ‘specially when she’s stressed and stuff. So I asked her if I could have the blood.
MARKHEIM: And it helped?
DIDGE: A lot. Slept for the first time since the Galer steps.
DIDGE: But it’s not enough.
MARKHEIM: Nah, wouldn’t think it would be.
DIDGE: I gotta get some relief. It’s roasting me alive. The nurse at the clinic says there ain’t nothing wrong with me, but—
MARKHEIM: Wrong? Meat, you’ve been blessed.
DIDGE: Blessed. How you figger?
MARKHEIM: That Burner gave you a bit of the glow. You got a dose of the Holy Fire in that hand. So long as it stays attached you ain’t never gonna die.
MARKHEIM: Wandering Jew Syndrome we call it. More common than you think.
DIDGE: What about the pain, the burning? It always comes back.
MARKHEIM: Of course it does. I just told you it’s Holy Fire. It’s eternal.
DIDGE: So what am I supposed to do about it?
MARKHEIM: Seems pretty obvious to me, Meat. This is The Show. The World? Pretty much drowning in blood. You shouldn’t have trouble finding some. There’s pigeons and seagulls. Cats. Stray dogs
DIDGE: I ain’t killing no dog for its blood.
MARKHEIM: You could hang out at hospitals, get a job in one, or at that butcher stall in the market. Human blood’s the best, though, to quell the fire, and freshly shed, of course. Best bet would be to make a glove out of some other meat’s hand. Takes a little doing, but worth the effort. That could last a full month or so. Blood follows the moon.
DIDGE: What’s happening?
MARKHEIM: What are you talking about?
DIDGE: There’s like a light around you.
DIDGE: You’re glowing.
MARKHEIM: I don’t glow.
DIDGE: I see.
MARKHEIM: No, you don’t.
DIDGE: I see what you’re doing. You’re telling me all the awful things I’m going to end up doing if I don’t take care of this the right away.
MARKHEIM: No, I’m not.
DIDGE: I feel you, Mark. I understand.
MARKHEIM: No, you don’t.
(Sounds of Didge getting up and starting to walk away, up the steps.)
DIDGE (from a distance): Thanks, Mark.
MARKHEIM: It’s Markheim.
DIDGE: Right. Thanks, Markheim.
VOICE: God damned glow. Who knows what that kid gonna do now? All because me and my big goddamned mouth.
(Sounds of the Harbor Steps in the morning.)
SMILEY: I found your friend, by the way.
SMILEY: Your angel friend. What did you call him? Chub. Gray overcoat. Looking lost and afraid over on the City Hall steps. What is it with you angels and stairways?
MARKHEIM: I’d tell you if I knew. Take me there.
SMILEY: Nope. Got shit to do. You can find it. 4th and James.
MARKHEIM: Do we cloud hoppers spook you, Smiley?
SMILEY: Bore me’s more like it. Got shit to do.
MARKHEIM: Okay. Thanks for the tip.
SMILEY: They ain’t free, Markheim. You’re on the books now. You owe me.
VOICE: Fourth and James. City Hall. Figures the Chub would be drawn there. Suckers for authority.
MARKHEIM: You! Walk with me.
CHUB: Markheim. You found me. Good. We need to talk.
MARKHEIM: If you wanted to talk you shoulda found me.
CHUB: I was...
MARKHEIM: It’s just The Show, Chub. Just a bunch of meat. They ain’t gonna bite you. Well, not most of ‘em.
CHUB: Okay. So can we talk?
MARKHEIM: No talking until we’re walking. If I know you’re here, I ain’t the only one. Let’s go.
(sounds of walking)
CHUB: No one knows I’m here.
MARKHEIM: That’s crap. What are you trying to pull? You nuts? You’re no Pow or Dom. Chubs are strictly for the Fix.
CHUB: I had to see you.
MARKHEIM: So you’ve seen me.
CHUB: And give you this.
MARKHEIM: What’s that?
CHUB: It’s your ticket. Back to the Fix. Remember you told me to keep it when the mission was done?
MARKHEIM: I remember. I told you to keep it forever.
CHUB: I can’t. It’s hot. Upstairs is wondering why you haven’t come back. If they find this on me, it’s trouble.
MARKHEIM: For you.
CHUB: Yeah, “for me.” Your decision to stay down here is putting the light on me. Sephs are starting to whisper that I aided your defection.
MARKHEIM: Sephs’ll whisper. They got nothing on you.
CHUB: They will if they find this ticket.
MARKHEIM: How did you even get down here? How does a Chub, strictly celestial, come by his own ticket to the Show?
CHUB: It’s not mine. It’s a friend’s.
MARKHEIM: And who’s your friend?
CHUB: A Throne.
MARKHEIM: That doesn’t make any more sense than you having a ticket. Thrones are Fix Cops. They got no jurisdiction down here. Only Pows, Doms, Princies and the occasional Virtue. Thrones don’t work wet.
CHUB: I don’t know what to tell you. My friend’s a throne.
MARKHEIM: You’re friends a liar.
CHUB: No. Just trying to help me. You’ve put the light on me. Just take your ticket and come back.
MARKHEIM: I’m never going back.
CHUB: Then at least take the ticket. Please.
CHUB: They’ll find it on me eventually. There’s no place to hide it up there and no secrets for long. You know that.
MARKHEIM: I never told you to keep it a secret.
CHUB: What I was I supposed to do? You know how they are.
MARKHEIM: So get rid of it. Down here, since you’re down here. Lose it in the Show.
CHUB: What? Just toss it in the trash?
MARKHEIM: Throw it in the sea. Angels never check the sea. Demon’s neither. It’s off territory. Dead neutral.
CHUB: They expect you to come back.
MARKHEIM: Ball it up and throw it in the Sound
CHUB: The “sound?”
MARKHEIM: The Puget Sound. Right there in front of you. All that dark water.
CHUB: All right. There!
(Sounds of the Chub balling up the ticket and throwing it.)
MARKHEIM: Good. Now get back to the Fix.
CHUB: I’ll go. Just... I’ve never seen anything like this.
MARKHEIM: The water?
CHUB: It’s frightening and beautiful at the same time. Look how the moon plays in it. Light/shadow/light/shadow. There’s nothing like that in the Fix.
CHUB: Can’t I stay and watch it? Just for a while.
MARKHEIM: How would I stop you? But understand you’re pushing it. This is Sam’s town. I can’t protect you. I’m walking neutral.
CHUB: Will you stay with me?
MARKHEIM: Sorry, Chub. Two angels together in the Show. It’s a liability.
CHUB: All right. I’ll only stay until the moon sets. I’ll keep my head down.
MARKHEIM: Do that.
CHUB: So long Markheim.
MARKHEIM: So long, Chub
(Sounds of Markheim walking away. Sounds of water lapping.
Something rips open, and suddenly the Chub is choking.)
MARA (malicious hiss): Hello, Chub. Know who I am?
(The Chub can only barely gasp.)
Name’s Mara. Smoke choker?
Maybe we never met. You’ll remember me next time, right?
What am I saying? There ain’t gonna be no next time. ‘Cuz where you’re going, you ain’t never gonna forget me. Not for a single searing second. Right?
‘Cuz things can always get uglier, Chub. Believe it.
(Something rips closed.
End of episode.)
© 2012 Paul Mullin