A Script for The Viscount's Vengeance, Take Twelve

[SCENE START]

**INT. OAKHAVEN PLAYHOUSE - DAY**

SOUND of a single, struggling fan whirring somewhere

Sunlight, thick with DUST MOTES, streams through a high, grimy window, cutting a hazy beam across a worn wooden stage. This is a place of history and neglect. Deep red velvet curtains, faded and frayed, frame the space.

NANCY (19), sharp and weary, sits on the lip of the stage. A dog-eared SCRIPT rests on her lap. Her fingers, faintly sticky, trace a line of dialogue. She forces a polite, practiced smile, but her eyes betray a silent scream.

She reads the line under her breath, her thumb smoothing the crinkled paper.

<center>NANCY</center>

> (To herself, a whisper)

> 'Indeed, the dew upon the nascent morn doth weep for my shattered honour.'

She shudders, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion.

Across the stage, JOHNNY (20), all charismatic energy even in a faded band t-shirt and cargo shorts, leans against a WOBBLY CARDBOARD PILLAR. He clears his throat—a dramatic, preparatory rumble that echoes in the empty theatre.

He catches Nancy’s eye. A spark passes between them: shared desperation, dark humour. A secret handshake. He’s already Percival.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> (As PERCIVAL, booming)

> My dearest Seraphina! Dost thou truly perceive the tempest of my soul, stirred by the treacherous winds of deceit and the vile machinations of my nefarious brother?

He sweeps a hand dramatically towards the non-existent wings. Nancy bites her lip, fighting a giggle. She arranges her face into a mask of agonised sympathy.

<center>NANCY</center>

> (As SERAPHINA, breathy and earnest)

> Oh, my beloved Viscount, Percival. Indeed, the very air doth thicken with the noxious fumes of villainy. Yet, my heart, a fragile bloom, doth cling to the verdant promise of thy honour.

Johnny takes a step. His boot scuffs a LOOSE FLOORBOARD, which lets out a loud CREAK. He masterfully incorporates the stumble, turning it into a lurch of anguish.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> (As PERCIVAL)

> Alas, Seraphina! The Oakhaven Scroll, our very legacy, our beacon of truth, hath vanished from the archives! A dark omen, surely, portending doom for our ancestral line and, dare I say, the very scones of the village baker!

He pauses, just for a beat, suppressing a smile. Nancy puts a hand to her heart, her gasp perfectly theatrical.

<center>NANCY</center>

> (As SERAPHINA)

> The Scroll? Gone? But… the Oakhaven Historical Society held it in such… veneration!

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> (As PERCIVAL)

> Veneration, indeed! And rumour has it, dear Seraphina...

He closes the space between them, leaning in conspiratorially. She can smell peppermint on his breath.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> (As PERCIVAL, a conspiratorial whisper)

> ...that the culprit possessed a fondness for… marmalade, leaving but a sticky residue where the scroll once lay!

His eyes twinkle. This is a new, ridiculous addition. Nancy’s feigned horror rises to the occasion.

<center>NANCY</center>

> (As SERAPHINA)

> Marmalade? A sweet, yet sinister, detail, my Viscount! This villain… this marmalade menace… he must be brought to justice!

A single, sharp CLAP echoes from the dark auditorium.

Both actors jump, their characters instantly vanishing. They turn towards the rows of empty seats.

A figure emerges from the shadows. MS. CARSON (60s), a whirlwind of eccentricity, draped in a magenta scarf and wearing sunglasses indoors. She clutches a bedazzled clipboard.

<center>MS. CARSON</center>

> Darlings, *darlings*! Magnificent! Truly! The *pathos* of the missing scroll, the *culinary intrigue* of the marmalade! It sang! It soared!

She glides towards the stage, her voice a piercing vibrato.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> Ms. Carson, might I inquire about the… continuity of the marmalade detail? Percival mentions it almost as an afterthought, yet Seraphina reacts as if it is the crux of the villainy.

He raises an eyebrow, a brave plea for logic. Ms. Carson stops at the foot of the stage and removes her sunglasses. Her eyes glitter with unsettling intensity.

<center>MS. CARSON</center>

> My dear Johnny! Continuity is for *chronologists*, not *creators*! The marmalade is a *motif*! A sensory anchor! It is the *sweetness* that masks the *bitterness* of betrayal! Do you not *feel* the sticky metaphor?

She gestures wildly, nearly knocking over a prop crate. Nancy steps in, the diplomat.

<center>NANCY</center>

> Indeed, Ms. Carson. The motif is… quite vivid. Perhaps, for clarity, we could have Percival *discover* a marmalade jar at the scene? A tangible clue?

Ms. Carson tilts her head, her tiny teapot earrings jingling.

<center>MS. CARSON</center>

> A jar? Hmm. Too pedestrian. Too… *literal*. No, no. The *suggestion* of marmalade. The *spectral presence* of marmalade! That is where the *true horror* lies, my dears! The *phantom tang* of citrus in the mind of the audience!

She beams. Johnny shoots Nancy an eye-roll.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> But, if the audience cannot *smell* it, will they truly grasp the phantom tang?

He makes a show of sniffing the air, then wrinkles his nose.

<center>MS. CARSON</center>

> Ah, Johnny, my young enthusiast! That is where *you* come in! Your *performance*!

She claps her hands together with startling force.

<center>MS. CARSON</center>

> You must *evoke* the marmalade! A slight, involuntary lick of the lips? A subtle shudder as if recalling a particularly cloying taste? *Show* them the phantom tang!

She demonstrates, making a truly grotesque licking motion. Nancy winces. Ms. Carson smiles, satisfied, then turns and disappears backstage, her scarf trailing behind her.

Silence. The fan WHIRS. Johnny runs a hand through his hair.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> (Muttering)

> A spectral presence. I shall endeavour to manifest the ethereal stickiness of citrus for the audience’s… gastronomical enlightenment.

He gives Nancy a deep, sarcastic bow. She returns it with a grand flourish.

<center>NANCY</center>

> And I, my Percival, shall strive to recoil from this phantom tang with the appropriate measure of noble revulsion.

She slumps onto the edge of the stage, exhausted.

<center>NANCY</center>

> Seriously, how do we make this not sound like a bad parody?

Johnny joins her, sitting cross-legged. He picks up a stray prop top hat.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> The entire play *is* a bad parody, Nancy. Our challenge is to make it a *brilliant* bad parody. An *intentional* bad parody. That, my friend, is the secret.

He spins the hat on his finger.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> We lean into it. We make it so over-the-top that the audience applauds our sheer audacity, not the script.

A slow smile spreads across Nancy's face. The energy shifts. A conspiracy is born.

<center>NANCY</center>

> So, the noble revulsion for the phantom tang of marmalade becomes… a silent scream that echoes through the annals of time?

She claws a hand at the air, testing the gesture.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> Precisely!

He snaps his fingers.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> And my shattered honour will not merely be shattered; it shall be *pulverised*! Ground to a fine, tragic dust!

He punctuates this with a vigorous STOMP, sending up a puff of dust that dances in the beam of the work light.

Nancy’s forced smile dissolves, replaced by a genuine one.

<center>NANCY</center>

> And what about the missing Oakhaven Scroll? Do we elevate that to a grand, existential quest? A search for truth in a world of… marmalade-stained lies?

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> A counter-motif! The villain, Sir Reginald, smells faintly of burnt sugar. It symbolises the slow, agonising incineration of Percival’s hopes.

<center>NANCY</center>

> (Delighted)

> Ms. Carson would adore that.

<center>JOHNNY</center>

> My hopes, dear Seraphina, are but embers upon the hearth of destiny!

He strikes a heroic pose, hand pressed to his chest. He looks so earnestly ridiculous that Nancy bursts out laughing. A real, warm, unforced sound that fills the empty theatre.

Johnny grins, his own laughter booming to join hers.

For a moment, they are just two friends, finding joy in a shared, absurd struggle. The oppressive heat seems to lift. The dust motes glitter. The challenge ahead feels less like a burden and more like a game they can win together.

[SCENE END]