ACT I, scene iii, p3

05/02/2011 at 10:24 pm Leave a comment

[exit chorus]

JONES: And thus the seed is planted, already bearing fruit. The look on that whore’s face when I picked up this hat – enough to tell me my quarry is much nearer than I think. Ah! How close I must have been. But merely knowing he was here, it must suffice; however malignantly the prospect that a murderer of police walking freely in this very house sits in my throat – there are other factors in play here. Elements that warrant my attention yet. This killer will be found – but I sense a greater mystery unfolding. Something more forbidden, a greater menace stalks these walls –

[he runs his finger along the bar, picking up traces of the cocaine]

I can taste it. Ah, the razor’s drug of choice. Cocaine. Originally brought to Europe in the late nineteenth century and administered for the treatment of chronic flatulence, (although it may just as often have the effect of exacerbating one’s ailment). Colloquially known as ‘snow’, it creates for the user a sense of confidence and well being, followed by severe bouts of paranoia and depression. As such it becomes highly addictive and long-term use can cause symptoms ranging from psychotic episodes to extreme halitosis. As such it pays not to stand downwind when consorting with the class of person who might take such habits too seriously.

Aside from the fell odours that emanate from the drug’s ambassadors, it is a scourge on our streets, blighting young women and turning the men into something not quite human, or perhaps something at its most verily human, something stripped of civilised veneer. I have long ceased to ponder the many contradictions of behaviour making up a man. It matters little in the run of things, I am concerned with keeping order. I can abide some small transgressions of the law, the petty late night drinking games, the sexual delinquency – they serve a higher purpose; that unto a peace as God himself would want. Aye it is known that venues such as these, while strictly illegal are a necessary stop to all out bedlam, where the vicious tendencies of men can be kept away from view, and checked.

And yet, this fine white powder might be a trick to not simply catch the killer true, but reel back the senseless cahoots that surely will ensue. One crime is not the root of the problem but a symptom of the whole. [he picks up a newspaper] The broadened filth that lines these sheets more and more each day. Rubbing in our faces the decline and degradation that lies beneath.

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Entry filed under: Sydney THEATRE.

ACT I, scene iii, p2 ACT I, scene iii, p4

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VICTOR SANCZ vassanc [AT] gmail.com

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