It is Obsequiam. He is surrounded by machines and glass beakers in his laboratory. There is one particularly sinister machine that bears the name Destructomatic 3400 directly behind him.
Obsequiam: Blast the sun! Blot out the moon! I will extinguish the stars for no one to see. Only in darkness may I find contentment... Only in darkness will my rotten sasquatch soul be soothed!
Another sasquatch enters the lab. It looks exactly like Obsequiam. It is Obsequiam's Clone. Obsequiam cloned himself so that he would have a lab assistant that would work for free. He only gave the clone half of his mental capacity so that it would be more subservient. However, since Obsequiam had overestimated his own mental capacities, this rendered his clone in a very sorry state indeed.
Clone: Helllloooooo. What're you labbin' now, there?
Obsequiam: Hush, you vile wretch! There is much work to do if I'm to destroy the universe today. I'd like to be basking in everlasting darkness as soon as possible, and I can't do so if you keep talking every so often.
Clone: Alright then, Obsequies.
Obsequiam: It's Obsequiam! My name is Obsequiam, not Obsequies. How many times must we have this conversation? We share the same name, you should be able to remember it.
Clone: Uh huh.
Obsequiam turns his back to the audience and begins fiddling with his machines and writing calculations on a chalkboard. Obsequiam's Clone stands idly for a moment before extracting a yo-yo from his lab coat and doing an increasingly complicated sequence of tricks with it, hiding it from view each time Obsequiam turns to look at him.
Obsequiam: Damn this infernal machine!
Clone: Huh?
Obsequiam: My machine, you furry fool! My machine! The Destructomatic 3400... It's not producing enough force to destroy the universe. It's hardly producing enough to destroy a galaxy as a matter of fact...
Clone: Well why don't you fix it, there, Obsequi?
Obsequiam: I could, of course, fix the machine myself, my slow witted copy. But why should I? I paid a king's ransom for an extended warranty on the Destructomatic 3400, and I expect a certain level of customer service and expedition in repair because of such. Fetch me the communication device, wretched clone!
Clone: Uhh?
Obsequiam: The phone! The phone, you fool! Bring me the telephone!
Clone: Ohhhhh. Sure!
Obsequiam's Clone disappears offstage to retrieve the telephone. Obsequiam walks to center stage and the lights around him dim as a spotlight is shined on him. He begins a soliloquy.
Obsequiam: Will I gain the end I seek? Or will the stars continue to blink? Oh great darkness, fill my lab and fill my heart, darken the universe and never depart. Why oh why won't my Destructomatic 3400 start...?
The spotlight dims as Obsequiam, in his ardor and frustration, reaches out toward the audience, presumably for the great darkness which he hopes to invoke. Scene ends.
Act 1 Scene 2
The lights rise upon the stage once again to reveal Obsequiam sitting on a small wooden chair in front of the Destructomatic 3400, an old fashioned rotary telephone sits in his lap and he holds the handset to his ear. His clone is nowhere in sight. Obsequiam is located in the center of the stage. On the right stage is a group of elves sitting at a long table lined with telephones. They wear green tunics with red trim and all are miming speech while holding the telephone handsets to their ears. Fake snow falls continuously in a window cut into the set behind them. The window reveals a barren snowy landscape. One of the elves puts down their phone. As soon as it does, Obsequiam spins the rotary on his own telephone and the elf's phone begins to ring. The elf's name is Irritatious.
Irritatious: Destructomatic customer service hotline, this is Irritatious speaking. If it is service you seek, perhaps I can be of assistance.
Obsequiam: Greetings Irritatious. My name is Obsequiam.
Irritatious: I bid you good afternoon Obsequiam. How may I assist you?
Obsequiam: The power being generated by my Destructomatic 3400 is not meeting my needs. I need the power to destroy all light in the universe but it's only generating galaxy extinguishing power. I have a warranty and I absolutely demand service be rendered to me post-haste.
Irritatious: Of what age is your unit?
Obsequiam: Of what does age matter in an instance such as this? I guarantee that my warranty is within date.
Irritatious: There is a script to which I must adhere and forms with blanks that must be filled, sir! Of what age is your unit?
Obsequiam: Fine! I'll play your customer service games and I'll dance your bureaucratic foxtrot, but I demand that you make it quick!
Irritatious: Then tell me the age of your unit, Obsequiam! Bestow your secrets upon the Destructomatic customer service hotline...
Obsequiam: My Destructomatic 3400 has been with me for eleven months, and has doled out damage all over this world and others.
Irritatious: Excellent. And what problem is precluding you from utilizing your Destructomatic 3400 today?
Obsequiam: I've already departed that information upon you, vile cryptid! I want to destroy all light in the universe but it's not generating enough power! I suspect the electromagnetic capacitor is the culprit.
Irritatious: That is a likely assumption. Open the inspection hood of the machine, and if a scent of rotten eggs you smell, the electromagnetic capacitor it be....
Obsequiam opens the small metallic hatch on the Destructomatic 3400. He takes a great sniff and begins to wretch violently.
Obsequiam: Vile stench! Rotten orbs of future chickens bred from Hell's own stock! It is unbearable!
Irritatious: We have uncovered the issue. Your electromagnetic capacitor is no more. Weep if you must, I can hold.
Obsequiam: Unnecessary and unwarranted given my ownership of a warranty. No tears shall be shed unless they be yours if you do not send a new capacitor immediately!
Irritatious: Though your threats are worded with precision and experience, you must remember that I am a customer service representative. I am threatened from moment to moment throughout the day by more malevolent beasts than you! Your warranty covers the electromagnetic capacitor not. You are doomed to pay full price for parts and labor, Obsequiam!
Obsequiam: You scoundrel! You knave! Your words rip my fur ridden flesh and expose my starch white bones to the air! Let me speak to the head of the Destructomatic engineering department... Perhaps they will be able to talk me through a repair. Something I am quite sure you are incapable of, given your immense lack of mental dexterity!
Irritatious: I'm afraid that your wish is impossible, naive Obsequiam, for I do not work for Destructomatic. This is but a third party customer service agency hired by Destructomatic.
Obsequiam: Ha! A hole in your plan... I have spotted it and will soon take my vengeance upon you while procuring a new electromagnetic capacitor in the same stroke! Destructomatic headquarters is but five miles from my laboratory... I am coming to end you Irritatious.
Irritatious: Aha! It is now I who laugh! I am thousands of miles away from the Destructomatic headquarters. I am at the North Pole, the impenetrable block of ice! Don't you see the beauty of the third party customer service agency? A company can keep the complaints far away and the customer service agency representatives get the privilege of disappointing people all day long with no fear of repercussion.
Obsequiam rises from his chair in a rage.
Obsequiam: What manner of evil is this? I demand to speak to... your supervisor.
The line of elves surrounding Irritatious gasped.
Irritatious: Stay on the line, please...
End of Scene 2. The curtain draws across the stage, and the Dragon Narrator enters. A spotlight is cast upon her horned head as smoke rises from her nostrils.
Dragon Narrator: What happens during the wait on Obsequiam's call? Somehow the subject changed to cryptid baseball. Sasquatch and elf, debate their cause. No matter who wins, both have lost. The elf's supervisor will soon appear, will Obsequiam
ever bring about the end we fear?
Act 1 Scene 3
Irritatious remains relatively calm as the elves around him continue to mime speech into their telephones. The scene outside their prop window has not changed, and fake snow continues to fall. Obsequiam, however, is on his feet and is in a rage. Somehow during the wait for Irritatious' supervisor the subject has changed to cryptid baseball. Particularly, the two are arguing over which baseball player from the first half of the twentieth century is best.
Obsequiam: Thou shan't profane mine own ears any longer with such half-truths, Irritatious!
Irritatious: Profane not, do I! 'Tis profanity to accuse an elf of such. I speak my mind on this matter, and if the content of my mind is true then the truth is what I speak!
Obsequiam: Ha! A denizen of the North Pole, and a soul under the employ of a third-party customer service company, you are! What dost thou know of baseball?
Irritatious: Speak not of my employ with such razor sharp tones. Your tongue is a sword, Obsequiam, but it will not save you in this matter anymore than it will save your Destructomatic 3400's electromagnetic capacitor.
Obsequiam: Blast! You mention my failed electromagnetic capacitor, you defer my thoughts in this time of debate. You wish to regress my argument, vile Irritatious!
Irritatious: Aha, you are sagacious in discerning my attempts at misdirection but it does not matter! It does not matter... Flippin' Frank Flidizzio.... Mere mention of the merman with the golden hands has brought you to a tremulous state! I can feel it, I can hear