Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature) by Flann O'Brien

Author:Flann O'Brien [O'Brien, Flann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press
Published: 2013-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

ACT III

Back of stage is undisclosed. TRAMP is again lying in the foreground, musing.

TRAMP: It’s very haird . . . but it’s very interesstin’—them little buggers with all the legs on them is queer little men. Don’t give a damn for one another—every man for himself. You ate me or I’ll ate you.

EGG: (Shouting.) The universe approaches its supreme crisis. Soon it will be liberated, calm, triumphant. I am about to be born.

TRAMP: Now take your man. He thinks he’s Number One. Never heard of annybody he likes as well as himself. He thinks he’s the whole bloody world. And look at the size of him, stuffed into a bloody egg, a thing I’d ate for breakfast without lookin’ at it. Of course I know what’s wrong with all these lads. They’ve no proper system or way of workin’. They’re not organized if you understand me.

EGG: Strange lights are glowing, strange sweet sounds are thickening the air, a frightful and majestic cataclysm is at hand.

TRAMP: Begob I think I’ve put me finger on it there. That’s the difference between meself and me likes and them lads. We have a system, a proper way of workin’. We have what they call a plan. Every man with his own job, all workin’ away together for the good of all. What they call the Nation.

EGG: I will soar aloft, traverse vast spaces, accomplish miraculous tasks. I am nearly born!

TRAMP: Begorrah now, I think that’s about the size of it. Human beins’ is civilized because they do be workin’ for one another and workin’ together. But these mad whores here do be atin’ one another. And that’s just the difference between the two. (He begins feeling himself and the ground about him.) Ay, what’s this? ANTS, be God! Millions of the buggers—I must be sittin’ on an anthill. . . .

(Meanwhile the curtain has risen to reveal the Ant Hill, a featureless and uneven situation crowded with ever-moving ants; they carry confused objects that look like tools and each drags along a round white object. In the centre an ant wearing a card marked BLIND sits and counts continuously. The ants speak with a most pronounced Belfast accent.)

BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore, wun tew three fore. . . .

TRAMP: Ay, what’s this? What’s goin’ on here? What are you countin’ for, Jem?

BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore. . . .

TRAMP: Ay, come here Jem, what’s the countin’ for? Is this a factory or what?

BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore. . . .

TRAMP: Do you hear me—WHAT’S GOIN’ ON? Look at the way all the lads are movin’ in step to the blind fella. Begob you’d swear they were all worked be clockwork!

BLIND ANT: Wun tew three fore. . . .

(CHIEF ENGINEER rushes in.)

CHIEF ENGINEER: Come awn now—quacker, d’ye hear me—quacker, wun tew three fore.

(They all move quicker.)

TRAMP: (Shouting.) Ay, you, what’s goin’ on here? What class of work is this? Is this a bloomin’ factory?

CHIEF ENGINEER: Hoo orr yew ond what’s yoor busness

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