At the Theatre #1
Sir Mogowof Honeybuckle had been waiting for the opening of Ebenezer Ullian's play, 'The Wyrms', for a week and one month or, given that he had been measuring time by the notably mercurial Opinion of Moss, maybe less or maybe more. In any case, he was very excited. The play only had two characters, Wyrm 1 and Wyrm 2. The entire show, all seven and a half acts, was a duet. Each Wyrm had just come into existence, having been halved and thereby birthed by the sinning teeth of Eve. Wyrm 1 was still in the Mouth of Eve, an immense mechanical devise that masticated when stagehands (dressed in black) turned a crank. Wyrm 2 enunciated his pathos from the window of Eve's bite, in a sort of apple-shaped hut, lacquered candy-red. Many in the crowd wore Lachrymopticons, for the play was a tragedy, and in the one comedic scene (Eve's Realization, read the bill) there was a beetle-scuttle of clickclattering as all present removed their Lachrymopticons (one thousand caught tears sloshed in three hundred vials) and donned their Hilarioscopes. When the play ended, with the great crescendoe of the final scene, 'The Swallowing', Sir Mogowof Honeybuckle found himself greatly moved. His tear-vial was not very full, but the crying of bears is a mysterious subject. He exited the ovation-choked theatre with some fellows out into the glooming gloam of Drury Lane. He walked for sometime with these acquaintances, a Toad, a Porcupine, and a Yellowist Woman, talking about the play, recalling favorite lines, humming their favorite melodies, shivering at the memory of Wyrm 1's lament, accompanied by an obscured orchestra of alley cats, until they decided they were hungry, and they lunched or dined or brokefast as the tree set between the suns.