Simon King

[We fade in to a crumbling, disgusting toilet which hasn’t been cleaned out in years. The maintainer of this toilet, however, keeps his job, gets paid for it, and lives in the toilet itself. He rarely leaves and incessantly philosophises about life, poetry, and the act of crapping. He has established quite a reputation, and he often receives many visitors – both male and female, because the toilet isn’t designated  for a specific sex – who don’t use the toilet for shitting or pissing, but come and ask advice for some troubling problems instead. He is something of a guru. His name is David Crapper. He is talking to Mary Vagina at this moment in time.]

David Crapper: It is often like that, you know. I often find myself going to the toilet, and I often find myself shitting my brains out. I can’t help it. The toilet is nearby, and I just….

Mary Vagina: Mr. Crapper, please! This is obscene!

David Crapper: Is it? Is it? Let’s question our surroundings, Miss Vagina! Let’s question ourselves, Miss Vagina! Where are we? In a stinking shithole! What are our names? Crapper and Vagina! What are we talking about? The way your fucking cunt shoots too much blood! Now, I don’t know what your little friends have told you, but my name is crapper, and I’m no psychoanalyst – I’m a fucking crapper! I find a solution to a person’s problems the crappy way, not the clean way!

[Miss Vagina bursts into tears. She is twelve years old. When girls her age enter adolescence they encounter new, difficult experiences which make them cry. But anyone would cry after receiving an infuriated, verbal outpouring coming from Mr. Crapper. His saliva goes all over the shitty ground, and often on Miss Vagina herself. He makes her feel small. She cries and cries, and some blood oozes out of her cunt; it makes its way to Mr. Crapper’s dirty, unwashed feet. This makes her cry more. This does not bother him in the slightest. He maintains his angry gaze closely fixed on Miss Vagina’s weeping, mourning face. Mr. Crapper walks towards her and crouches down. He looks straight into the girl’s eyes. Miss Vagina hasn’t had many frightening experiences in her life; she has lived in a safe, upper-class neighbourhood; she has had kind, loving parents; she has never been bullied at the ‘School for spoiled, innocent bitches’. But this, without a shadow of doubt, is easily the most frightening experience she has ever had. He slaps her. She howls in pain; her nose bleeds and drips a combination of mucus and blood.]

David Crapper: I am here to help you! Forget about all your privileged upper-class values and hear me! Sort yourself together!

[Miss Vagina gradually slows her convulsive shrieks. Her tears decrease by the burning, painful passage of time. She wipes her tears off her face and gets up.]

Mary Vagina: Ok.

[Enthralled and captured by her renewed enthusiasm and acknowledgement, Mr. Crapper unfolds a smile. He looks up at Mary from his squatting position. He gets up and looks straight into her eyes.]

David Crapper: That a girl! See, you should eliminate all traces of the bourgeois in your mind and then we can begin! I’m a poet! I left my shitty parents and their shitty comfort! Who needs comfort when you have poetry, eh? Who needs the bourgeois when you have creativity, eh?        

[Mary is perplexed by this. She does not completely understand what he is getting at. She smiles; she thinks that this will help. And it does. Mr. Crapper is overjoyed and jumps about in excitement. While he does this he slips on the piss he never cleans. He hits his head. Some say this would serve him right. Nevertheless, he gets up unperturbed.]

Mary Vagina: I’m ready now.

David Crapper: Of course you are! Now speak!

Mary Vagina: Well, you see, Mr. Crapper… uh. My vagina releases blood all the time; it just never stops. I find it disgusting. I cry whenever it happens. And it goes on all the time: when I’m at school, when I’m havin’ din-dins with mama and papa, when I talk to Josephine. It happens too often – far too often. I think it’s every hour or so.

David Crapper: It’s called a period, I think.

Mary Vagina: Period?

David Crapper: Yes.

Mary Vagina: Never heard of that. But ‘period’ suggests that it happens every so often – not all the time, surely.

David Crapper: You’re a smart lass, but don’t they have sex education in your school? I never went to school; I truanted, so I wouldn’t know. Y’see, I stayed at home and read poetry and prose. But I have heard about periods. I hadn’t heard about periods around childhood or around the time I was a teenager – I locked myself in a cupboard with my books and a lamp so I, consequently, never went near a woman. ‘Cos I never got no degrees or owt like that, I had to take this job as a toilet maintainer. This has been my job for twenty years, and I haven’t cleaned it for ten of those years, and I haven’t left in five years. Anyway, I got a bit distracted there. Where was I? Oh, yes, periods! When ladies went in the toilet, I always came across this peculiarity – tampons.

Mary Vagina: Tampons?

David Crapper: Yes, they cluster the blood.

Mary Vagina: They just cluster it?

David Crapper: Yes.

Mary Vagina: But Mr Crapper, I don’t think you understand the grief, the pain. It just hurts so much! It’s like a knife, I swear!

David Crapper: Well, I’m sure it’s not meant to be that bad.

[No-one speaks for a long while. Crapper ruminates, studying each figment constituting the room: toilet paper mathematically scattered all across the floor, which creates strange, indefinable shapes; the light bulb which had burst three years ago, and had always remarkably remained blurring for seventeen years, lies over his head; the toilet works fine, and this is because it receives regular, outer maintenance from other people, so it only has a few logs floating;  Mary Vagina looks remarkably out of place and shy, and she seems to be awaiting him – as if he was about to say a giant revelation encapsulating the meaning of life.]  

David Crapper: Ah, yes! Of course! How could I be such a fool? The answer was there all along!

Mary Vagina: Oh, Mr. Crapper! Please, please tell me! I hate it! If a tampon just clusters the blood, it doesn’t mean it stops the flow – does it? Oh, lord!

David Crapper: We’ll just impregnate you!

Mary Vagina: And how does that happen?

David Crapper: Well, you get a stiff penis inside you.

Mary Vagina: Oh, very well then.
    
David Crapper: Come here, then.

[Miss Vagina walks over to Mr. Crapper who is now sitting on the filthy, soot-covered toilet seat. She stands in front of him. Mr. Crapper lowers his trousers, revealing an enormous, erected penis.]

David Crapper: You’ve never read Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, have you?

Mary Vagina: No.

David Crapper: Good.

[Miss Vagina lowers her pink trousers and her pink panties. She does not seem to know what to do now. Mr. Crapper lifts her up, and places her on his erection. He moves her up and down accordingly. She starts screaming out of disgust – she doesn’t like it. Nevertheless, after a few minutes the penis penetrates deeper into her cunt and she has an orgasm. This time, she likes it. Mr. Crapper, meanwhile, simultaneously comes into her cunt and shits into the toilet. Miss Vagina is in ecstasy and she closes her eyes in an attempt to savour that wonderful, yet somehow disgusting, orgasm. Mr. Crapper lifts her up and places her on the floor. She is overwhelmed and vexed, so she collapses on the ground. After a short while, she gets up. Accompanied by Crapper, she makes her way to the door.]

Mary Vagina: That was like a fun tickle! What was it? How does it happen?

David Crapper: An orgasm. I penetrated into your clitoris.

Mary Vagina: Clitoris?

David Crapper: Yes, clitoris. You seem to be discovering more about yourself, girly-wirly! Now, don’t forget – come here in a week’s time!

Mary Vagina: Of course I won’t forget.

[Miss Vagina smiles like she has never smiled before. She proceeds onto opening the door, which reveals a large ray of light strongly contrasting the dark environment David Crapper lives in. He covers his eyes in desperation and, when the door is closed, gives a gasp characterizing his exasperated emotions. He goes to the toilet, sits down, picks a pen and some toilet paper, and writes a poem. We fadeout as he writes.]


[One week has transpired. David Crapper has, as usual, not cleaned his toilet, and he has received a large amount of visitors. We fade in to Mary Vagina who is standing and leaning on one of the walls, and we see David Crapper walking around in circles.]

Mary Vagina: It is much better now. I never have any ‘periods’. I have to go to the bathroom to vomit a lot, though. I’m not complaining – I’d much rather have it this way. My parents think I’m sick, so I get to miss school a lot. I take it I’m pregnant?

David Crapper: Yes. You’re about to get an abortion, however. Come here, girl.

[Miss Vagina abides and walks over to Mr. Crapper. She pulls her trousers and panties down, and she stretches her legs as Mr. Crapper advises. He gets his hand out, and he places it inside her cunt. This makes her scream. Crapper tries comforting her by caressing her leg. He plunges his whole arm into her cunt, and his hands are now clenched within the depths of her body. Mary screams; it isn’t really because of the pain she feels, but the mere sight of this is horrible. This experience would incite the same effect on anyone – regardless of their age. David displays an agitated look on his face and he seems to have gotten a grip on something. He now starts to pull. Crapper now starts screaming louder than Vagina does. He pulls and pulls until he gets his arm out, with a small foetus gripped tightly onto his hand. He drops it into the toilet and flushes. Miss Vagina falls onto the ground and rolls around in agony.]

David Crapper: Very well then, if you don’ wanna have no periods no more, come here.

[Mary gets up in pain and she surrenders herself to David Crapper by falling straight into his arms. They repeat the sexual intercourse they had two weeks ago. Mary enjoys it, but she is so exhausted she’s incapable of moaning aloud. David, however, screams as he shoots his semen into the extremities of her body. She gets up and painfully hops to the door. We fadeout as she opens it.]  

                                     
[This process is repeated for the next two months, and it keeps working – Mary keeps getting pregnant and she keeps getting aborted, but no painfully unwanted periods arise. However, Mary Vagina’s parents have been getting suspicious. She doesn’t appear to be behaving like the little girl they’ve always loved and adored. They presume it to be adolescence, but it surely wouldn’t set itself in motion so soon. Mary regularly vomits for no apparent reason, appears to be sulky, never eats with her parents, and, most curiously, leaves home without any pretext whatsoever. They contact Josephine, her best friend, and she informs them that Mary has kept avoiding her for the past two months. Mary rarely attends school and her grades have dropped down to a considerable degree. They feel alarmed. We fade in to Mr. and Mrs. Vagina’s home where they are arguing with Mary in the sitting-room.]

Mrs. Vagina: Listen child, get yourself together! We can’t live with you any more!

Mary Vagina: Shut the fuck up, stupid bitch!

Mr. Vagina: My lord, where did you learn such appalling language? How dare you use such profanity on your mother!

Mary Vagina: Shut the fuck up!

[Mary now gets up, heads towards the door, opens it, goes out, and slams it shut.]

Mr. Vagina: That’s it, I’ve had enough! I’m following her!

Mrs. Vagina: Raymond!

Mr. Vagina: Suzanne, this is our chance to find out where Mary goes off to. This is the opportunity to find the solution to this cursed mess!

Mrs. Vagina: Oh, Raymond, I don’t know what to say.

[Mr. Vagina leaves the house and begins to trail after Mary. She heads towards the darkest alleys. This doesn’t surprise Mr. Vagina in the slightest. This area is particularly renowned for its infamous drug dealings. He tries to incorporate himself within the hoards of people walking past, because he is quite worried about the possibility of Mary turning around and noticing him. She doesn’t seem to check her tracks, however, because she never, indeed, turns around: she seems to be in a real frame of mind; she walks in a panicked velocity, running into people unapologetically. Mr. Vagina has trouble keeping up with her, and he himself runs into a few people in the process.
 Mr. Vagina carries a look of disgust on his face – he can’t stand the working classes, and he especially dislikes to be entangled in their poverty, their ugly faces, their smells, and their decaying surroundings. He knew he shouldn’t have purchased his lovely home in the ‘posh idiots’ neighbourhood; it resided right next to this particular community accommodating such swine.
He notices that Mary turns to a alleyway. He runs as fast as he can to that direction as she is prone to disappearing around that proximity. He gets there in time to see her turn to another alley to her right. He dashes to that direction as quickly as possible. He sees her going up some steps that lead up to a public toilet with a sign announcing ‘toilet’, instead of a male or female symbol. She goes in. This is the moment, Mr. Vagina thinks to himself - this is the moment to capture the drug perpetuator.
He heads up the steps, positions his head next to the door, and hears his daughter gasping heavily. He also hears male gasps emanating out of an older masculine voice. Suddenly, it all occurs to Mr. Vagina that his daughter is illicitly having sexual intercourse with an older person. This disgusts him more than the thought of Mary doing drugs. With drugs, Mary would be able to kick the habit – either cold turkey or with help – and get back to her normal, regular life. On the other hand, forced sexual relations would imprint menacing memories, leaving her scarred for life. He gets a hold of his mobile phone and calls the police. He heads back down the steps and turns left to the preceding alley he had gone through while chasing Mary. He crouches down, hides behind the wall, and maintains his gaze attached on the toilet door, awaiting the man he hates the most – the man that sexually molests his young daughter. We fadeout during this moment in time.]


[We fade back into the very surroundings that we have just left. Two policemen appear behind Mr. Vagina’s back.]

Mr. Vagina: Ah, you have arrived.

Policeman 1: We’ll get that sick fucking bastard for you, Mr. Vagina.

Policeman 2: We’ll kick that idiot for you, Mr. Vagina.

[The two policemen run up the steps and knock the door down. They uncover Mr. Crapper fucking Mary up the anus. Not only do they have sex to stop Mary Vagina’s periods, but, with the course of time, they have become full-blown lovers; and Mary often serves inspiration for Crapper’s most turgid sonnets. She keeps her eyes closed whilst screaming her lungs out. She is so immersed within the sex that she doesn’t notice the two policemen. David Crapper, however, is shocked and open-mouthed. He stops the movement of his penis, and it instantly shrivels down to its normal size; it remains inside Mary’s asshole, and when she notices the lack of movement she opens her eyes, finally discovering the two policemen pointing their guns towards her direction.]

Mary Vagina: Shit!

Policeman 1:  Freeze!

[Policeman 2 runs over to Mr. Crapper, hits him, holds him down to the ground and cuffs his hands together. Mary sits on the toilet, naked, not knowing what to do; she shits into it out of sheer desperation. Mr. Vagina walks into the disgusting toilet, looks at Mary, and disapprovingly shakes his head. Policeman 2 repeatedly kicks David Crapper’s head.]

Policeman 2: Take that you fucking paedophile!

David Crapper: Wait!

[Crapper picks some toilet paper up that, along some shit, contains one of his love poems dedicated to Mary. And the whole world stood silent as he read out the immortal words.]

David Crapper:  


[The two policemen, Mary and Mr. Vagina swoon over the verses Crapper spews out. And by the time he finishes, they all clap enthusiastically. Policeman 2 immediately uncuffs him.]

Policeman 2: You’re a free man! Sorry about the kicks!

Policeman 1: Beautiful! Beautiful!

Mr. Vagina: You can fuck my daughter all you want!

[David Crapper runs out of the toilet utterly undressed.]

Mary Vagina: Oh, he’s left! For the first time in 10 years! He’s left the toilet!

Policeman 1: What a man.


[David Crapper runs across the urban streets, parading his testicles that move and dangle towards all directions. He is overwhelmed by the light, so he has no real idea of where he is headed to. The crowded populace looks at the absurd, naked character in awe. He heads down a peculiar alley, and he proceeds to head up a succession of steps. By this moment, he has grown accustomed to the overbearing light, and he can make out where he is. He finds ‘apartment 15’ and he intuitively opens it. As he walks in he discovers a person sat on the floor with a typewriter, churning words out at an accelerated rate.]

David Crapper: You bastard!

Simon King: What? May I help you?

David Crapper: That poem…. It was awful! And they liked it! You bastard!

Simon King: Ah, yes, David Crapper.

[David Crapper spits saliva out of his mouth; he is completely infuriated. He loses the sense of lucidity that once belonged to him.]

David Crapper: Stop that! You idiot! You don’t do that in a play! Aghrrr.

Simon King: Stop what? And this isn’t a play, David. It’s an experimental work that fuses elements of descriptive prose with the traits of a traditional play. It is only meant to be read, not acted out. It also contains some rather explicit, disturbing sexual moments.

David Crapper: You made my poetry awful! You can’t write!

[David Crapper is wrong. Simon King can write.]

David Crapper: Shut up!

Simon King: I didn’t say anything. Well, the thing with the poem is…. Have you read The Mirror and the Mask or Undr by Jorge Luis Borges? They deal with the theme of how powerful a single word can be. To save your skin, I decided to do just that with a poem instead – a compendium of powerful, singular words. But, alas, I can’t write poetry, so I digressed and made the whole thing comical.

David Crapper: Ha-ha-ha! You could get a piece of writing by a two-year-old and call it experimental. Ha-ha-ha!

[Crapper really has lost his mind.]

David Crapper: No I haven’t!

Simon King: Not what? Lost your mind? Are you hearing voices? If anyone has lost their mind here, Mr. Crapper, I think it’s me. For one thing, I don’t even have my own apartment. I am seventeen-years-old and I live with my parents.

[Mr. Crapper dissolves into oblivion and Simon King is now found in his bedroom in Dronfield. He turns to his imaginary audience and gives a conclusive speech.]

Simon King: We should stretch the constraints of any medium, dear audience. We should be vigorously experimental with techniques. And, dear audience, we should not enforce taboos on art! Who’s to say that I’m advocating pedophilia? I’m not! I can hear all you censors! Anyway, a work of art does not channel the thoughts and opinions of a person. This is particularly paramount with fiction – as opposed to, say, a pop song – because it is only meant to portray a certain topic within a certain canvas. If you find this disturbing, you are disturbed with the moral issue of paedophilia – not with the author of the subversive work in question.

[Simon King yawns, gets bored, and walks away. We fadeout to an ending at this point.]