Th' Tragedy of Lord Shelton, Renegade of Illinois

[Morgan Darkwater]

Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre

April 17th, 2024, Afternoon…

The iconic Globe Theatre stood on the edge of the river Thames, a hotspot for tourists, history-lovers and fans of the arts alike. The afternoon tours were concluded, and the theatre was closed to the general public so the troupe could run rehearsals for their upcoming run of “Much Ado About Nothing”. But when you had connections – and were a significant contributor to the theatre’s funding – getting a personal preview was a simple matter.

“You always bring me to the nicest places, mi amor,” Esmerelda Santos whispered affectionately to her large husband during one of the scene transitions. Arm-in-arm with the burly pirate captain against the evening’s brisk breeze, the two of them stood close to the stage, just behind the director who was currently offering feedback to his players.

“Only th’ best fer my lovely wife,” Morgan agreed with a soft chuckle, his bearpaw of a hand caressing hers fondly. “I know how much ye love th’ Bard, Esme dear, so when I heard we were comin’ to London fer StrangleMania, but ‘tween shows? Ye know yer Captain had to pull some strings… an’ make a generous donation or two. Glad ye be enjoyin’ yer’self…”

She reached up to plant a tender kiss on his cheek as the director settled back into his chair, clapped his hands, and shouted out over the silence, the theatre’s architecture perfectly designed to carry his voice. “Okay, people! Places for Act 3, Scene 4! That’s Hero, Margaret and Ursula!”

A hush fell over the company and its selective audience, during which a few moments passed before a lone figure pranced out onto the stage. A tall, rakish character, dressed as a court jester albeit with a few familiar black curls poking out from the jester’s cap atop his bleached skull. He held a stick in one hand, bells adorning the top, and a tambourine in the other, both jingling softly with every slight motion he made as his skeletal eye-sockets bore into the Captain.

“Oh, fer th’ sake of all that be holy…” growled Morgan, resentfully preparing himself for what was about to transpire, knowing he was helpless to do anything but ride it out. “I was gettin’ really happy with me break from ye…”

ROOK, avatar of the Magic, ignores his protests, clears his raspy throat, and begins the performance.

ROOK
Hark! Listen to my tale! In foggy London, where we lay our scene.
April 22nd the date, Wembley Stadium the place of battle.
Two warriors, sharing nothing but a steel chain,
Fight! For honour, for glory, for gold!
Each to be recognised as the face of Brawl’s distinguished Heritage.
A noble pursuit, perhaps? Or mayhaps vainglorious folly, a battle of egos.
But lo, hear it not from the mouth of this simple jester – our Champion approaches!
Adorned in gold, standing proud, a leader strong and true.

MORGAN enters stage-left, much confusion on his face from this sudden transportation from the audience. His large frame is squeezed into gleaming gold armour, his tricorne hat adorned with plumage of the peacock. In one hand, his cutlass Black Betsy, ensnared by chains. In the other, a golden crown bearing a striking resemblance to the Heritage Championship. Silence falls between the two players, Rook gesturing for the man to speak, and he does, though reluctance be etched upon his features.

MORGAN
Heavy tis th’ head that wears th’ crown,
When ev’ry knave and scoundrel seeks to tear it down.
Thinkin’ they, an’ they alone, be th’ worthy Champion of th’ Realm.
To take th’ limelight, th’ glory, an’ Brawl’s helm.
First twas that dark jester, Stitches, our battle in Anaheim storied and great.
Now I hear this Lord Shelton doth desire to share in that sad clown’s fate.
Though I have far more to prove that night than he; a precedent must be set,
This Heritage cannot be one of short-lived champions, their reigns th’ world forgets.
I must fight tooth an’ claw – an’ steel-chain too – to put him to th’ test
To see which of us truly deserve t’be called th’ best.
My pride, as Champion an’ a man, rests solely on this on this cause –

ROOK
And woe betide the Captain should he suffer a loss!
For he knows if this defence falls short, there be no rematch in sight,
If he wishes to grasp his crown again, from the bottom he must fight.
And looking at him, as old and battered as he is, ageing like cheese,
Is he truly capable of such arduous tasks as these?
Or will this be the end of our Champion Captain, his legacy one of a final, pitiful reign?
Defeated and laid low at the feet of Shelton once again?
Hark! Doth the Dragoon’s Glory from yonder horizon call? Will Shelton get his Clutches on our Lord?
Or will bloodyminded, dogged determination aid the Captain in avoiding a loss he cannot afford?

MORGAN
(Scoffs)
Aye, well, let this Lord Shelton think himself safe an’ assured, whether from home or ivory tower.
It be not th’ first time his cocksure arrogance has gotten th’ better of him,
Dismissing Caleb Scott in Tacoma, only to fall foul to his Grave Plot.
Has he learnt his lesson? Apparently not!
Nay a speck of humility nor humbleness t’be found,
On his most punchable of visages proud.
An’ whilst such confidence an’ arrogance may have served him well thus far,
Against Emmanuelle an’ Chelsea Skye,
He will find th’ Captain of a far higher class an’ calibre, a most indomitable threat!

Storm clouds roll across the sky, rumbling lowly with the threat of thunder, as Morgan beats his armoured chest with his chained fist, the clanging reverberating throughout the theatre, as some unseen light-source illuminates Morgan’s grizzled features.

MORGAN
Th’ Beast of Brawl, too formidable, too relentless, too ravenous to submit,
Nay matter how many Dragoon’s Glory knees Shelton may execute upon his mighty jaw.
Try as he might to break th’ Beast in his Clutch of Amis, chain or no,
This proud Champion Captain will not tap, nor quit, an’ will fight til his dyin’ breath…
Or at least til th’ breath leaves his body, an’ havin’ left, leaves him unconscious on th’ mat.
His match forfeit, an’ with it his crown – a fate he will fight with th’ fury of a thousand tempests!
A focused storm, mind, one that will patiently batter away at th’ limbs of Lord Shelton,
With fist an’ chain, boot an’ hold, wearin’ him down o’er time,
Til he be lucky to even muster a hold himself, only to find lockin’ it in an insurmountable task indeed.
A loudmouth can only get a man so far
When he be screamin’ into the maelstrom of violence, that can strike without warning.

Lightning strikes the stage a foot from Rook, who numbly leaps to the side with insane laughter.

ROOK
And what a loudmouth he be, that Renegade, that arrogant jackanape!
To so assuredly proclaim that he be the “Greatest of All Time” – Hah!
Why, one could blindly throw a stone in the locker-room, and hit a supposed “GOAT”.
But the Greatest at what, pray tell?
The Greatest Champion to hold three titles, with zero successful defences for any?
Shelton! Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
The British don't see you for five years, and quickly get sick of you.
Stitches may have been a sorry clown, but at least he wears his true face.
Whilst Shelton doth blare into a microphone, hoping to drone out the truth, that of mediocrity.

MORGAN
It be not up to us to declare ourselves the Greatest of All Time, but fans, peers, an’ history.
An’ I fear ye would be hard-pressed to find any who would agree with him.
But come! Let us see if his deeds match his boastful words,
Let him bloody his fists against th’ Bulwark of Brawl, find it unyieldin’.
A giant not easily felled, much less broken an’ submitted.
Then when he be exhausted, at th’ end of his rope,
May he learn th’ Fate of th’ Wicked, or find himself lashed to a chained Keelhold.
Or perhaps I will have to string him up to th’ ringpost,
Let th’ world see his big mouth fall agape, fall finally silent.

ROOK
And what of the sword, my Lord, that you clutch so tightly in your grip?
Be it, methinks, sharpened to cut that snide dog’s lip?

Morgan raises his cutlass to admire it grimly, but shakes his head.

MORGAN
Nay, my blade be not fer Shelton, though th’ temptation be there.
I hone it so another may beware.
Its cuttin’ bite, its plungin’ sting.
To cut him down when he thinks he has ev’rything.
But I digress – th’ battle is nigh!
That night, where Shelton crosses paths with I
That night, where he will find nay quit, just unrelentin’ savagery,
A Steel-Chain Submission Match, twixt two fierce adversaries.
Both men sooner t’be knocked unconscious than surrender
A brutal Champion, an’ his egotistical contender
Chained together, destinies steel-bound
Th’ Heritage title on th’ line, its worthy holder t’be found.

ROOK
A match, unmatched! Cold and hard as steel!
Will Shelton arise victorious, or will he be made to kneel?
How far is each man willing to go, how much will he give?
A braggart who won’t let any forget, or th’ Captain who does not forgive?

Morgan steps forward, taking centre-stage, and raises both cutlass and crown aloft.

MORGAN
Amis Shelton, if ye be hearin’ this somehow, take heed!
Yer victory be not so assured, fer that we both must bleed
‘Fore this match is through, our battered bodies runnin’ on instinct
One man too arrogant to surrender, th’ other refusin’ to go extinct.
Best believe, th’ Captain will bring his storied history
Of bare-knuckle brawls an’ submission fights so grisly
Each endin’ in undisputed victory
Fer Captain Darkwater!

Jim Connors, a hunchback dressed in rags, shambles onto the stage, chain hanging between his hands, He offers the chain up to Morgan, placatingly, only for the Captain to turn up his nose.

MORGAN
Connors! Ye snivellin’ bilge-rat, do not think this makes us friends
Th’ Captain does not need yer help, he knows how this story ends.
So out, damned spot! Ye blight against my good name!
Darken my door nay longer, lest yer fate become th’ same!

Connors exits, pursued by a bear with the face of Grizzly Duggan.

MORGAN
With Shelton brought low, humbled an’ broken, made to admit he be not th’ Greatest
Not ‘less he survive this bloody crucible, his ultimate test.
But he will find in th’ Captain a stalwart Champion, defiant an’ proud
Whom words alone will ne’er defeat, nay matter how loud.
Ye be not th’ first to think himself so far above Darkwater,
Ace, Flip, Stitches, Cosmo – all fell to th’ slaughter.
Ye may think me a gimmick, a silly old goat to mock
Let us hear yer barbs when th’ Keelhold I lock
That steel-chain wrapped deeply in yer big mouth, chippin’ at yer teeth
As my knees o’erextend yer back underneath.
Th’ Captain not givin’, ne’er releasin’ his hold
Til th’ referee declares him th’ victor, his foe vanquished, out cold.
‘Cause to ye, this Heritage crown be an affirmation to yer claims, yer so-called right.
Nay respect fer what it means, its legacy, only that it can take ye to new heights.
It means so much more to th’ Captain, an’ he’ll be damned
If he relinquishes it to a cur whose arrogance is rammed
Down the throats of th’ fans
Again an’ again.
So come, Amis Shelton! Come April 22nd! Come Wembley Stadium!
Come witness a battle so momentous, so brutal
Angels hide their faces, whilst dark devils delight.
All will bear witness to th’ Captain’s first successful title defence – th’ first of many!

[Exeunt Omnes, Curtains Fall]