Thursday, 8 June 2017

Paddy the Bastard

I was their #1 son - and they treated me like Number 2.

- Oswald Cobblepot
Candidate for Mayor of Gotham City

How many scripts did you write? Your name was on 2.

Well, my name was on and then I wrote under a couple of other names: 

Archibald Schwartz 

[ Genuine/Precious, Bold Black or Dark-Complected Person (Black Irish?) ] 

was one and 

Paddy Fitz 

[ Paddy the Bastard ] 

was another.

So how many all together?

I t'ink 5.

Which ones? The last one...

The first one I re-wrote. It came out...not the way I wanted, and then the last one, I wrote. 

The penultimate one, I wrote. 

Free For All - another one, and then there was another one, I can't remember the name of it offhand. 

It's a long time ago.

 There are those who come here and deny that we can supply every conceivable civilized amenity within our boundaries. You can enjoy yourselves... and you will. You can partake of the most hazardous sports and you will. The price is cheap. All you have to do in exchange is give us... information. 

You are then eligible for promotion to other and perhaps more attractive spheres. 
Where do you desire to go? 
What has been your dream? I can supply it. 

Winter, spring, summer or fall, they can all be yours at any time. 
Apply to me, and it will be easier and better.

Elsewhere, Number 2 is also in rhetorical mood. He stands, megaphone in hand, on a stone balcony overlooking the gardens; the butler holds the black and white umbrella over him. The crowd here are much more sombre.

There are those who come here with a fresh face, with an enthusiasm that cannot be denied. Beware, be careful. Their promises ring richly in your ears. Our friend Number 6 has a splendid record, has adapted himself admirably to our procedure, but he has no experience whatsoever of the manipulation of such a community as ours. Beware! Has he got the administrative ability to implement his policies? Can you trust him?

The Prisoner is now haranguing the Village from a moving taxi.

Place your trust in the old régime: the policies are defined, the future certain. 

The old régime forever... and the old Number 2 forever? 
Confession by coercion, is that what you want? 
Vote for him and you have it! 
Or, stand firm upon this election platform and speak a word without fear! 

The word....
is "Freedom". 
They say 
"6 of 1 and half a dozen of The Other"... 

Not Here. 

It's "6 for 2, and 2 for nothing" and 5 for Free... For All... 4 Free 4 all! 

Vote! Vote!

His boisterous parade winds its way into the garden below Number 2, chanting "Six! Six!" and waving placards. Suddenly everything stops, including the brass band. Number 2 shouts down through his megaphone, and the Prisoner's amplified voice floats back.

You seem to be doing pretty well.

Far be it for me to carp, but what will you do in your spare time?

I cannot afford spare time.

Do you hear that? He's working to his limit!

Can't afford spare time! 
We're all entitled to spare time! 
Leisure is our right!

His crowd wave their placards and chant 
"Six for Two! Six for Two! Six for Two! Six for Two!"

Number 2: 
In your spare time, if you get it, what will you do?

6 : 
Less work... and more play!

6! 6! 6! 

Later, at the Cat and Mouse nightclub, a waitress brings a tray of drinks over from the bar to the table where the Prisoner is sitting with Number 58. Like everyone else in the bar, she wears a Number 6 rosette.

Waitress: Sir, non-alcoholic gin, whisky, vodka. Looks the same and tastes the same.

Prisoner: Bet you can't get me tiddly.

Waitress: No alcohol here, sir!

Prisoner: You going to vote for me?

Waitress: You and only you.

Prisoner: Go away.

Waitress: Gin, whisky, vodka. Looks the same and tastes the same.

Prisoner: GET OUT!

Scared, she runs away. Behind them a woman dances oddly to the jolly music of the mechanical band. The Prisoner points a finger at Number 58.

Prisoner: You're spying on me, aren't you?

Number 58: Ik...?

Prisoner: Get me a drink.

He holds up a glass. Number 58 whipers agitatedly.

Number 58: Kokazi trak ozamuk ni, tak ta.

Prisoner: Alcoholic drink.

Number 58: Kokazi trak ozamuk ni, nas ta.

Prisoner: A DRINK!

He hurls the glass violently to the floor. Number 58 quickly leads him out, collecting her coat in the foyer. He mumbles at passing customers as though drunk.

Prisoner: Vote for 6... vote for 6... vote for me and a drink... vohhhhte for 6...

Number 58: Ibazka!

Prisoner: Vote for me... six... vote...

Number 58: Ibazka!

Outside the club, she leads him to their taxi.

Prisoner: I'm for you... let me be... ever let me go... ever let me go...

They drive to the outskirts of the Village, where they get out and walk through the grove of statues.

Prisoner: Vote for me...

Number 58 points to the concealed mouth of a cave and mimes drinking.

Number 58: Eng brifti nakh, abartuk. Sluch! Sluchje...

She starts to run back the way they've come, but the Prisoner grabs her, smiling stupidly.

Prisoner: Spying on me, aren't you?

Number 58: Ag... sluchje! Sluchje!

She escapes his clutches and flees in terror. The Prisoner stares after her for a moment, then wanders into the cave.

Prisoner: Vote for me... I'm for you... let me be... let me be...

Inside the cave, a middle-aged man in an apron throws a bit of wood onto a roaring fire, then walks over to tend to a still in the corner. There is little else in this seedy drinking establishment apart from a hooded figure boozing on his own at one of the few tables. The aproned barman steps towards this figure, failing to notice the Prisoner in the entranceway.

Barman: Large or small, sir?

Figure: Massive.

The Prisoner suddenly steps forward.

Prisoner: I'll have a double!

Barman: With or without water, sir?

The figure leaps up and pulls the hood from his head. It is Number 2. He focuses groggily on the Prisoner. The Prisoner simply smiles back in acknowledgment.

Prisoner: ... Without.

Barman: Please take a seat, I'll be right with you.

The Prisoner wanders over to Number 2's table, but neither of them sit down yet.

Number 2: Little drop now and again keeps the nerves steady.

Prisoner: ... You're scared, aren't you?

Number 2: Frankly, yes.

Prisoner: Of what?

Number 2: It may seem improbable to you, but I'm wondering what's going to happen to you.

He pokes him drunkenly. The barman brings them each a beaker. The Prisoner glances behind him suspiciously.

Number 2: Don't worry. There's no surveillance here. This is the Therapy Zone.

They sit down together.

Prisoner: Clever, aren't they? CLEVER, AREN'T YOU?!

Number 2: They are, damn clever. Think of it: if you want to be an alcoholic, you can be one here in perfect privacy, so long as you rejoin the flock in good time.

Prisoner: You don't approve?

Number 2: Of the Village?

Prisoner: Yes.

Number 2: ... To hell with the Village. Cheers.

The Prisoner blinks.

Prisoner: ... Cheers.

They drink. Number 2 puts his hand on the Prisoner's shoulder, then indicates the barman, now busy again at his still.

Number 2: See him?


Number 2: 

 ... Cheers.

Again they drink.

Number 2: 
He's a brilliant scientist. Just does that for a hobby. Come with me. I'll show you something.

Number 2 leads the way into a small dingy chamber at the back of the cavern, containing chemical equipment and a blackboard covered in diagrams.

Number 2: We leave him here in peace, he brews his brew, plays with his chalk; we come down once a week, photograph the stuff, clean it up for him so that he can start on another lot.

He laughs and the Prisoner joins in. They both drink.

Prisoner: Clever as hell!

Number 2: Cheers!

2 starts singing; the Prisoner again joins in. 2 absently wipes some of the writing off the blackboard.

Number 2: 
Vote for me...

Vote for me...

Number 2: 
And I'll be...

And I'll be...

Number 2: 
Ever so comforty!

They drain their beakers. Number 2 giggles. The Prisoner teeters and topples onto the floor, out cold. Number 2, completely sober, removes the tatty shawl he is wearing and regains his normal composure.

Quicker than usual.

Number 2: I warned you not to make it too strong. We mustn't damage the tissue.

Barman: You needn't worry. There will be no remembrances. The portions were exact to take him right through the election.

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