For Mark Spina Don’t blame the mirror if your face is crooked. CHARACTERS “SLIM” JIM WELSH “FATMAN” LENNIE SHAW COLONEL MURDOCK “THE OPOSSUM” MONROE THE OPOSSUM The backroom of a saloon, Silverton, Colorado, 1884. Animal furs caked with blood from hang from the upstage wall. Broken glass, poker chips, and human teeth are scattered across the floor. There is a bar stand stage right with half empty bottles of whiskey and bourbon. A wooden table with a table cloth and three chairs sits center stage. There is a door stage left leading to the main room of the saloon. A pair of crossed revolvers hang above the door. The lights rise on “FATMAN” LENNIE SHAW sitting at the table. The door swings open, and in walks his new partner, “SLIM” JIM WELSH. A silver pistol shines on his hip. FATMANspeaks in a low texan drawl. FATMAN: Jim Welsh? SLIM speaks in a confident Kentucky accent. SLIM: Call me Slim. Pleasure to be meetin’ ya. FATMAN: He comin’? SLIM: Hold your horses there, fella. We don’t gotta get right to business. FATMAN: I ain’t got much interest for small talkin’. SLIM: First step to bein’ a good par’ner’s bein’ a good pal. FATMAN: We ain’t gotta be pals. SLIM: Well, we ain’t gotta be enemies neither. You the one they call Fatman? FATMAN: I don’t like it much when folks call me that. SLIM: Ironic, ain’t it? The Fatman teaming up with ol’ Slim Welsh. You’s a mean fella, ain’t ya? He sits. FATMAN: I ain’t got no fancy for pals. Or people. Now is he coming or not? SLIM: You ain’t one for patience, are ya? FATMAN: What’s that mean? Patience? SLIM: It means you don’t like waiting, ya big lunk! Man, you ain’t a thinker, huh? FATMAN: What I ain’t, and what I ain’t not, ain’t none of your concern. But if there’s one thing I ain’t for, it’s that I ain’t one for bounty hunters. SLIM: I ain’t a bounty hunter to you. FATMAN: I got a bounty, don’t I? SLIM: Yo bounty ain’t a quarter of the one we ’bout catch. FATMAN: I don’t know. I don’t very much like doin’ business with bounty hunters. SLIM: Well, by the looks of it so far, you ain’t very much like much of anything. FATMAN: I like freedom. SLIM: Well, hell! That happens to be exactly what I’m offering. Looks like we may be pals after all. FATMAN: How I know you’re not goin’ sack me after we sack him? SLIM goes to the bar stand to fix a drink. SLIM: I’m a bushwhacker, and a bushwhacker I am. But I can’t do my bushwhackin’ if you ain’t gon’ trust me. FATMAN: That don’t answer my question. SLIM: Wasn’t meant too. FATMAN: I ain’t one for playing games. SLIM slams his fist on the bar stand and turns back to FATMAN. SLIM: Look, ya ugly bastard, I got you a meeting’ with The Pittsburgh Opossum, The Killin’ Colonel, Murdock Monroe! And you don’t drop out on a meetin’ like that, so you’s just gon’ have to take my word for it. FATMAN: I don’t very much like words. SLIM: Now that don’t surprise me. Words are tough, and it seems like you couldn’t teach a hen to cluck. Besides, you ain’t need to use words when you got fists the size of a horse’s balls, ain’t that right, Fatman? FATMAN pulls back his coat to reveal a revolver at his hip. Well, hey there, big man, you ain’t gon’ wanna do that, ’cause if you lay yo big paw on that there shootin’ iron, I’m gon’ have to reach fo’ my silver bullet, and I don’t know if you heard, but you speakin’ to the fastest gun in the West. Beat. FATMAN stands down. FATMAN: I said… don’t call me Fatman. SLIM: Okay then. I’m already Slim, what am I to call you? FATMAN: Call me Lennie. Lennie Shaw. SLIM brings two glasses of whiskey to the table. SLIM: Let’s drink, Lennie Shaw. He sits. FATMAN sits across from him. They drink. FATMAN: Alright. Walk me through it. SLIM: Sure, par’ner. So this fella, he’ll be comin’ any second now. And he thinks he’s comin’ here to plan out a hit on the Silverton Bank, but we’ll be doin’ no such thing. So we all talk for a bit and then when he’s not lookin’… Well, you know the rest. FATMAN: We gon’ bushwhack ’em? SLIM: We gon’ bushwhack ’em. He don’t know I’m a bounty hunter. FATMAN: And what’s this feller like? SLIM: Oh, he’s a mean fella. He’s so mean, makes you and I look like the sons o’ Maiden Mary. We talkin’ ’bout The Pittsburgh Opossum, the most wanted outlaw this side o’ the Mississippi. Yeah, he’s a slippery bastard, one mean mothafuckin’ mick. He’s a fast gun, but he’s faster with his words, could convince a chicken out it’s feathers. Yeah, that’s where his talents really lie, the mean bastard. FATMAN: What’s his story? SLIM: They say he’s born to two outlaws, had full grown chops the day he popped out his mama’s skunk. When he was eight, he kill’d his first man. At sixteen, he bled a whole city dry in just a month, then burned it down when there was no mo’ money to collect. He went to the army and rose them ranks quicker than the sun shines over Topeka. An army legend — until he ate a cadet up on some mount’n. But he got his bounty just recently when he robbed the Denver Bank with his gang, then sack’d his mates so he could keep the cash. Yeah, he’s a mean one, that slippery bastard. But you’s a big fella, nothin’ a lunk like you can’t handle, huh? FATMAN: (Nervously) How much you say that bounty was? SLIM: Ten thousand dollars. FATMAN: Ten thousand dollars. That’s a whole lotta paper. SLIM: Once we kill ’em, I take half, you take half. Then you go pay off the bounty on yo’ head and ride into the sunset all happy as you is. FATMAN: And you’re sure you can do that, pay off your own bounty? SLIM: Crystal sure, Lennie. My brother’s the sheriff o’ Silverton, he’ll help you out. FATMAN: Well, alright then. SLIM: Let’s get to work. They shake hands. Oh, Lennie, on mo’ thing. I need ya pistol. FATMAN: What? SLIM: That’s right. Murdock’s one rule. He’s the only fella in the room with a gun. FATMAN: I ain’t very much like goin’ without my gun. SLIM: Well, I won’t have mine neither. Gotta leave ’em with the tender. FATMAN unholsters his gun and hands it to SLIM. FATMAN: Don’t be pulling’ nothing, Jim Welsh. SLIM: You have my word, Lennie Shaw. SLIM exits, then returns without the pistols. He sits. I just saw ’em walk in the saloon. Get ready, Lennie. Here he comes. In walks COLONEL MURDOCK “THE OPOSSUM” MONROE. He walks with a cane and speaks in a feeble voice with a Pittsburgh accent. SLIM stands and takes off his hat. COL. MURDOCK: Good evening, gentlemen. SLIM: Good evening, sir. COL. MURDOCK: (To FATMAN) What, bawbag, ya don’t stand in a colonel’s presence? FATMAN: I ain’t stand for nobody. COL. MURDOCK: You must be the Fatman. FATMAN: The name’s Shaw. COL. MURDOCK: Well, boy, my name’s Colonel Murdock Monroe, and it’s only right you lift your fat ass off that there seat when I’s walk into the room, ya hear? SLIM: Uh, Colonel Murdock? COL. MURDOCK: (Deaf) What? SLIM: Colonel? COL. MURDOCK: (Blind) Who’s there? SLIM: It’s me, sir, it’s Slim. COL. MURDOCK: Who? SLIM: (Yelling) It’s Slim! Jim Welsh! COL. MURDOCK: Slim, tell this here feller to get off his ass. SLIM: (To FATMAN) Just stand up. FATMAN stands begrudgingly. COL. MURDOCK: He standin’? SLIM: Yeah, he’s standin’. COL. MURDOCK: Y’all got shootin’ irons? SLIM: Left ’em with the barman. Take a seat, Colonel. He helps COL. MURDOCK sit. FATMAN sits down across from him. SLIM takes the middle seat. COL. MURDOCK: So, they’s call you Fatman? FATMAN: Yeah. That’s what they call me. COL. MURDOCK: Why they’s call you that? FATMAN: ‘Cause I’m fat. COL. MURDOCK: (Deaf) What? FATMAN: (Louder) ‘Cause I’m fat. COL. MURDOCK: You’re what? SLIM: (Yelling) Fat, Colonel! He’s fat! He’s got a big ol’ belly! COL. MURDOCK: Well, Fatguy, I’s got a nickname, too. You know what they call me? FATMAN: What? COL. MURDOCK: They call me The Pittsburgh Opossum! You wanna know why? FATMAN: Why? COL. MURDOCK: I don’t got no goddamn idea! That’s the thing ’bout nicknames, they don’t gotta mean nothing. They ain’t call you the Fatman ’cause you’s fat, you’s fat ’cause they call you the Fatman! But I wear my nickname with pride. Don’t matter what they’s call you, as long as they call you somethin’! You’s gotta be one mean ass outlaw to get a nickname, that’s all I know. Don’t give a rat’s ass what it is. SLIM: Colonel, let’s get to talkin’ ’bout the Silverton Bank. COL. MURDOCK: They charged us full force, them Johnny Rebs! It was the thick o’ the night, Payne’s Farm ain’t never been so dark and so goddamn cold. I’s seen that of five hundred young Union men shrivel up in that cold! But I took the freeze with courage and we marched right back at ’em! My bayonet, oh it was sharp! Pierced three heads straight1 But there was too many Johnny Rebs, and my unit, those twelve Union sons, we was surrounded in that forest! Fifty men strong, they was! And they come into us from all sides and picked us off one by one. They got me in the ass, and I was bleedin’ like a broad at full moon. I lay my gun to the ground and put my face in the soil. And there I watched eleven young souls slaughtered and beaten and butchered and played! All those ol’ mamas’ got to her they’s sons was kill’d at Payne’s Farm! But what those Rebs fail’d to do was put a bullet in my head! Oh, my ass was cold and bloody, but my shootin’ arm was fine and strong, and so I play’d dead. There’s somethin’ ’bout a man with his face in the soil that makes even the meanest o’ fells turn they back. And when those troops turnt them backs on me, I flanked them Johnny rebs and lay a line o’ bodies fifty men strong, every last one of ’em down in the snow! And I laughed at the Johnny rebs, and I cried for them Union boys who sold they souls for mine. After this tale, he leans back in his chair, saddened. FATMAN stands up and walks over to the bar stand. SLIM follows. FATMAN: What in God’s name are we doin’ here, Jim? Who’s this fuckin’ piss pot bag o’ bones you brought me? SLIM: You’re talkin’ ’bout a Yankee legend and a gunslinger worth ten grand! FATMAN: Bullshit ten grand! That there’s an old beggar, wannabe gunslinger ain’t worth the shit on the bottom of his boots. SLIM: I got the poster in my satchel, he’s worth ten thousand dollars. FATMAN: There ain’t no way in hell that there’s a gunslinger! SLIM: Well, he might be a little past his prime, but he’s got the bones of a legend! FATMAN: And the wrinkles of my mama! SLIM: Wrinkles or not, he’s kill’d more men than there are in Silverton. FATMAN: The man’s not even awake! SLIM: Oh come on, he… They look to COL. MURDOCK, slumped over. FATMAN: Is he… SLIM rushes over to the colonel. SLIM: Colonel! Colonel! COL. MURDOCK wakes up with a gasp. SLIM walks back to FATMAN. He’s alive. FATMAN: Alright, listen. This man’s ’bout to go belly up on us, so how ’bout you go get your pistol from the tender and we get this job done? COL. MURDOCK: Hey! Hey, Fatguy! Where are ya? FATMAN: Over here. COL. MURDOCK: Come here, Fatguy! FATMAN walks to the colonel. SLIM turns away to the bar stand and fixes a drink. FATMAN sits across from COL. MURDOCK. (Quietly) Listen to me, Fatguy. I need your help. I think the skinny man’s fixin’ to kill me. I think he’s fixin’ to sack us both and take my bounty for ’emself. Word around town’s my heads worth ten thousand dollars. I think he’s fixin’ to have it. FATMAN: I don’t think so, old man. COL. MURDOCK: How you know? He could be fixin’ to take us in and get the bounty! FATMAN: (Looking at SLIM suspiciously) No, he wouldn’t… COL. MURDOCK: Can’t never trust a man as smooth with talk as he. Fast with his gun, faster with his words. Them’s the most dangerous o’ types. FATMAN: You don’t think… COL. MURDOCK: Just protect me, won’t you? FATMAN stands, walks to the door, and takes one of the guns fixed above it. He slips it in his coat and sits back down across the colonel. SLIM returns with three more drinks to the middle seat. SLIM: Let’s talk Silverton Bank. When we get there, there’s gon’ be mighty security. We’ll blow a hole through the back, that way we can be in and out as quick as possible. We’ll run into a few o’ them lawmen, but no mo’ then ten. Nothin’ we can’t handle. We’ll each bring in two bags, and, if we fill our coffers right, we could be talkin’ ’bout a forty thousand dollar payout. FATMAN: Forty thousand dollars. That’s a whole lotta slip. SLIM: Yessir it is. FATMAN: What we each walkin’ away with? SLIM: ‘Bout thirteen grand for the each of us. FATMAN: But it’d be real easy for one o’ our team to sack the other two, take the forty for themselves? SLIM: Well, it’s a good thing we trust each other. FATMAN: But it could happen. SLIM: You plannin’ somethin’, Lennie? FATMAN: I ain’t got no plans. SLIM: Then good. No reason for mistrust. FATMAN: All’s I’m sayin’, we puttin’ a whole lotta trust on words. I don’t know ’bout you, but I don’t very much like words. SLIM: We got a problem, Fatman? FATMAN: We ain’t got no problem. No problem whatsoever. None at all, Mister Welsh. SLIM notices one of the pistols is missing from above the door. He starts to stand but is stopped by the sound of a gun cocking under the table. He sits. SLIM: Fatman Lennie Shaw. FATMAN: Can’t be the fastest gun in the West without a pistol. SLIM: I ain’t interested in takin’ yo bounty. FATMAN: But you is interested in takin’ my head. SLIM: Can you listen to reason? FATMAN: I told you. I ain’t one for words. SLIM: Well. That’s a damn shame. I thought we was actually becoming pals. FATMAN: I ain’t very much like pals. A trigger clicks from under the table. Nothing. FATMAN repeatedly pulls the trigger, but the gun doesn’t fire. He takes it out from under the table, pulling its trigger furiously to no avail. Blanks? SLIM: Well. Sorry, Fatman. Looks like you weren’t fast enough. A gun fires under the table. FATMAN jolts and grabs his stomach, jumping to his feet. FATMAN: Ah, you bastard! You mean, smooth-talking, yella-bellied son of a bitch! He falls and tries to grab onto the table, but instead just pulls off the table cloth. Under the table, COL. MURDOCK holds a smoking gun, pointed at FATMAN’s chair. He throws away his cane and stands, walking over to FATMAN and dropping his act. He now speaks clearly. COL. MURDOCK: Well, Jimmy, another one down. You know, Mister Shaw, you should pay more attention to nicknames, they can say a lot about a man. Words are a tricky thing. You’re just like those Johnny Rebs. There’s somethin’ ’bout a man with his face in the soil that makes even the meanest o’ fellas turn they back. They don’t call me The Pittsburgh Opossum for nothin’. I know how to play dead. FATMAN dies. Alright, Jimmy, this one’s dead. Get some o’ your boys, he’s a big fella. Like always, send me half the bounty by Thursday and I’ll see you next week. SLIM: See you next week, boss. COL. MURDOCK exits. SLIM takes the gun out of FATMAN’s hand and hangs it back up over the door. He then goes to the body, takes a foot in each arm, and, with great effort, pulls FATMAN to the door. Blackout. END OF PLAY About the Artist Brennan Columbia-Walsh is a playwright, director, and actor from Montclair, New Jersey. His award-winning plays have been produced internationally, including at the Yale Schwarzman Center and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and he is twice the winner of the NJ Young Playwrights Competition. He studies Political Science and English (Creative Writing) at Yale. Apart from the theatre, he is the President of the Yale Political Union, an avid basketball player, and a Kierkegaard enthusiast.
The Opossum
Nikolai Gogol, Proverb
A charming, affable, smooth-talking bounty hunter whose charisma seduces both the purest of maidens and the meanest of outlaws into docility. And when the smiles and smooth-talking fail to sedate, he’s got nothing to worry about; Slim’s the fastest gun in the West.
A big, mean, brutish outlaw. Don’t give him a bad look, this bandit’s quick to fight and quicker to kill. And what he lacks in intelligence, wit, likability, charisma, and social skills, he makes up for with… Did I mention he’s big?
An old, senile outlaw past his prime with a penchant for deception. Once a Union colonel in the Civil War, he thenceforth turned to gunslinging, and he is now a Western legend. In his prime, he was an excellent strategist and a fierce fighter, but somewhere along the way the pistols turned to walking canes and wooden dentures. Don’t take his lack of vigor for senselessness; the man still knows how to play dead. They don’t call him The Opossum for nothing.
