A Failed Attempt at the Beginning of a Small Western Play Ideal for a Fringe Piece! by a currently Unemployed Actor in Philadelphia.

A small orange light begins to glow downstage center, like the warm glowing embers of a small campfire, on its way out. Only the campfire isn’t dying, it’s fire and light are gaining in intensity.

This effect can be achieved by placing a light directly over the, let’s face it, papier-mache would even be too much to ask given the budget, “found pieces of 1x3 near the dumpster and spray painted brown” campfire, the fire ring is constructed with patio bricks from one of the actor’s backyards.

Side Note: The backyard won’t miss it - it is a shit show of weeds like stilt grass, garbage, and altissima weeds (those are the ones that smell like raw ass when you try and lop’em down by the stem.)

There are props. For the goings on. And the learnings of the lessons, and the acting of the actions, and the growings of the characters of the play, etc…

We see two cowboys, hung over hipsters, attired in western garb, which is a hodgepodge of Carhart, Dickies and Calico rags from their own personal wardrobe. Strangely apropos, with shitty Cowboy Hats. 
There is a small sticker on one of a Carebear that they just couldn’t quite scratch off.

It is Grumpy Bear.

Or perhaps Bedtime Bear. It could even be Wish Bear. Who knows? 
Garbage.

They are shit actors in a shit play. And they know it.

They saunter onto the stage.

Cowboy 1
Ah Reckon.

Cowboy 2
Ah do too.

There is a shared moment between these two men. These two vain deluded scraps of vanity. Thrown together like two faded, sunbleached bits of garbage whirling around the center of a small vortex created by the passing of a City of Philadelphia Sanitation truck on a July afternoon under I-95 where a dead body, that no one will miss, that no one will be looking for, was just dumped.

They look out. No one is there. No one is ever there. In this City. 

In this Century.

Cowboy 1
Fuck this.

Cowboy 2
I’m going to bed.

The play isn’t over, those aren’t the lines. They leave.

Gott ist tot. 
Gott bleibt tot ist. Und wir haben ihn getötet. 
Doch sein Schatten noch Webstühle. 
Wie trösten wir uns, die Mörder aller Mörder?

Lights down.