Why the hell are you giving me a *play*? I don't want a play! I'm not a playwright! I have absolutely no intention of ever writing and/or directing a play! Stop it!
It ends with my death.
(spotlight on Jake, walking around a darkened stage, wearing medieval peasant garb)
Inevitable. From the beginning, inevitable. The forces that took my plain and simple life, and ended it with me strapped in the heart of this infernal machine -
(lights up, gigantic steampunk contraption surrounding the entire stage. There's a podium in the center with a large wooden board standing vertically behind it with currently-opened shackles, placed for a human figure spread-eagled on the board)
- for a good purpose, I suppose, but perhaps I should be more cynical, perhaps I should curse the name of those who sentenced me to this -
(Jake walks up to the podium and stands in the shackles, which close around his wrists and ankles. The board is pulled up a foot or two, leaving him suspended)
- doomed to watch my life itself pulled from my body. All for a good cause, I suppose, but perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself?
(Board lowers, shackles release, Jake steps down, lights of the set go down leaving Jake spotlighted again)
Live while you can, that's what I say! Said. That's what I said. Enjoy your life, enjoy your food, enjoy your women! A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou!
(A wheeled table rolls in quickly from the side, carrying a loaf of bread and a jug of wine - Jake stops it with his foot and takes a long drink)
It started, as these things do, in a tavern . . .
(Lights go up - the steampunk set has been replaced with a conventional medieval tavern)
Goddammit no I don't want a play. Get out of my head.