Michael Karl (Ritchie)
The Death of Marlowe
Scene: A tavern in
Merrie Old England.
Force is more powerful than thought,
though thought may change the nature of thought in our time,
thereby sanctioning slaughter of the innocents
whom we now recognize as our enemies.
Cousin, I summoned you back from death,
not to drink, but to sink your rapier into the gut
of that spy who claims man alone is God!
Women are harlots, especially that red-haired
bitch who holds the throne. Let my puppet speak.
My sword is multiplied by many swords
that join me in battle. Without me to bark
commands, they could not slash a path
through the multiplicity of so many options.
My leaping charge harnesses to me
their rage for victory and death,
their need for absolute certainty.
I alone am God because I alone win.
Cousin, stay thy drinking and slay
that double-agent who by force of arms
buckles nations to his belt and rises
scion of the New Jerusalem
in his crusade against infidel women.
Let the bastard bitch go to church.
Her flirting with Christ cannot move me.
Only now is it clear what it takes
to be a man. Let my puppet speak.
Keep your dick in your pants, boys!
God rewards the strongest by making
him even stronger. Who would be king
like God before him must kill without mercy.
Rhetoric without action draws flies to the carcass.
Let the whores beg for your steel absolution.
Mercy is a fairy-tale told by nuns.
Cousin, you may have all the sack you want
when first you wrest that eloquent tongue
from that adder who cozens both sides of the realm
the better to poison both.
I am become the darling of the unreal world
who throng to my theater and repeat my words.
Take my words and burn them in my mouth.
The only way to bring about change
is to act. Let my puppet speak.
I defy whoever stands in my way to the throne.
I belong among the chosen to make men suffer,
because suffering is what men were born for.
They crawled out of a bleeding womb
and now they want to crawl back in,
but I am here to put a stop to that.
Sink your hands, boys, into the wounds
you have given our enemies and lap it up,
for that's the only blood you're going to get.
I pray you, cousin, leave off your revels.
I have a bowl of figs ready to spread their legs
once you have disemboweled that foul-mouthed
profaner of all our regency.
In this realm, to choose a queen
is to choose between bastards.
To choose a king is to choose oneself
benighted by glory. Let my puppet speak.
There is no turning back once I have decided.
Once I have committed my troops,
turning back becomes a sign of weakness.
I cannot countenance a breach in the armor
of the God I have become. Fortitude
stays the course no matter the cost.
There is no devil to sell my soul to.
I am my own devil, and yours as well.
Rise up and follow me. We already live in hell.
Have at you!