Latest Roleplays
::::SCENE: The Upper West Side Apartment of stage and screen actress Heidi Vaccarelli, star of such direct to DVD and low budget horror classics as “The First House on the Right”, “Night Terrors on Maple Avenue”, and “The Oklahoma Pitchfork Slaughter”. The apartment has hints of vanilla and lavender throughout. The layout of the kitchen and dining area is almost Kubrickian in how white and clean it is, almost contradicting the nearby living room which is warm and decorated. Several movie posters adorn the walls, all of which star or co-star Heidi….including the never released 2012 film “Kitty LaMacchia: A Gun Moll Story”. The image of a screaming Heidi as Kitty firing off a tommygun with images of her co-stars around her, none of which Simon Sparrow has ever heard of – Donald DeMonaco? Alberto Piazza? Norma Desmondi?
Simon Sparrow, sporting a black and teal tracksuit with the “StarrSek Industries” logo on it sits on the leather couch with a binder in his lap. The glass coffee table in front him has a partially full kale-mango-pineapple smoothie and a couple of publications – The New York Times and Variety. Heidi sits cross legged on the other side of the couch facing him wearing blue yoga pants and an orange top. Her light brown and blonde streaked hair is pulled back in a ponytail, there appears to be tears running down her face..::::
HEIDI: ….I did it…God help me…I threw my baby in the garbage….It’s—It’s my fault….
:::Simon Sparrow reads along with the binder and reads the next character’s lines – Detective Rosie Garcia.::::
SIMON SPARROW: “And now, because you are a horrible mother, and due to your excessive use of ‘supercrack’, your werewolf son is on a rampage in….”
::::Simon Sparrow just stops and looks at the thirty-nine year old scream queen.::::
SIMON SPARROW: I’m sorry, but who talks like this?
::::Heidi wipes the tears from her cheeks with her hands::::
HEIDI: You promised.
SIMON SPARROW: I know, but this whole script is crap. It’s awful! And you’re only in like three scenes.
HEIDI: It’s an important character that helps give “Jeb” a backstory.
SIMON SPARROW: Jeb – The Frat Boy Werewolf. You’re not old enough to play this role. Isn’t Jeb like twenty-three? This is garbage. What happened with that movie you were excited about?
HEIDI: “Woodhull”? I haven’t heard anything yet.
SIMON SPARROW: Why waste your time with crap when you—-
::::Heidi throws up an admonishing finger as mother would to a child who is about to touch a valuable vase, one that has been in the family for generations.::::
HEIDI: Don’t. Don’t jinx it.
SIMON SPARROW: But it’s different from…from….this….
::::Simon picks up the binder in the air and waves it in the air with the same level of disgust he uses the word “this” is usually reserved for Giants blowout losses and whenever he discusses Bobby Dean with the ghost writers of his memoirs.::::
HEIDI: I know it’s a shit gig but I can’t put everything on hold for a potential job. Would you rather help me with this or the gonorrhea prevention commercial?
::::Heidi reaches around the arm of the couch, the sound of leather farts fill the apartment as she pulls out another binder of sides for several upcoming auditions. She starts rifling through to find the right audition material.
Simon Sparrow looks at Heidi. At that moment, he found himself admiring her. Her most famous roles were in the field of horror and schlock back in the mid 2000s and has not had much to show for it, as her forty-eight credits on IMDB shows – her most recent TV or movie gig being “Juror #4” on the courtroom drama “Overruled” in 2020. Not to be deterred, instead of waiting by the phone like a desperate, lonely teenager, she’s taking her fate into her own hands, going on audition after audition (plays, movies, commercials) and battling for any bit of work she can find. Someone with her past would have most certainly tapped out by now. Not her. That type of passion and dedication, he cannot help but smile. She looks up and gives him a little crooked smile of her own.::::
HEIDI: What?
SIMON SPARROW: Nothing.
::::He would never express those feelings to her at this stage of their relationship. They’ve only really known each other for about three and a half weeks, ever since their booths were next to each other’s at the Des Moines autograph signing where they immediately hit off.::::
SIMON SPARROW: You know, HOTv is always looking for content, maybe I can get you some work there.
HEIDI: Oh, thank you so much! Drop your pants and let me blow you now! Let me sacrifice my self-respect and show how appreciative I am. Screw you!
:::Heidi folds her arms across her chest and purses her lips looking like McKayla Maroney at the 2012 London Olympics.::::
SIMON SPARROW: Whoa!
HEIDI: I don’t need you to get me a job.
SIMON SPARROW: I’m just trying to do a nice thing here.
::::Heidi sighs and forces a smile at Simon, showing her almost perfectly straight pearly whites.::::
HEIDI: I know. I don’t wanna be “that” girl. It’s just…any job I get I wanna feel like I earned it based on talent and merit. I’m not hustling and grinding every day just to have a job handed to me just because we’re sleeping together.
::::Simon allows those comments to linger in the air for a moment. The accusation that his gesture has some dark undertones offends him, not just physically but emotionally, as he feels a stinging pain in his gut. Simon struggles to find the right words to say as he knows that there is no right thing to say in this situation. However, saying nothing might be worse.::::
SIMON SPARROW: That’s not why I….
HEIDI: Forget it.
::::Some women would show up after being away from their respective business for years and immediately make baseless claims at how they deserve a title shot, some women will blame misogyny for their shortcomings, some women have more ego than talent who feel they deserve more than they have any right to. Meanwhile, here is a woman in front of him who is telling him that she wants to earn her success. A woman, who in every sense, is the opposite of his opponent in his “War Games” qualifying match at “Refueled”.::::
SIMON SPARROW: Maybe you could come to my match this weekend and cheer me on?
HEIDI: I have autograph signings this weekend.
SIMON SPARROW: In Philadelphia. You could easily skip it.
HEIDI: I always make my appearances.
SIMON SPARROW: Yeah, but—-
::::Heidi leans forward and takes Simon’s hand in hers and squeezes ever so slightly.::::
HEIDI: Simon, love, all I have is my reputation. If I decide to just blow off this signing, not only would I disappoint my fans, but anyone else who might be there, the actors, writers, whoever, might start to think I’m a flake. I’m not a flake. I once filmed a scene half-naked in the Everglades with food poisoning and a hundred-three temperature, did I complain? No. And I was nominated for a Hoopy for that film.
SIMON SPARROW: A Hoop—-
HEIDI: It’s an award for horror films named after Tobe Hooper. So, I must decline, but I will support you as I gladly take money from my adoring public for my signature on an eight by ten.
::::The more she talks the more infatuated he gets with Heidi. Here is a woman who would not let her fans down. Rather than sit around and say something he might regret to screw this up….and he knows he will….he rises from the couch.::::
HEIDI: You’re leaving already?
SIMON SPARROW: I have to be in Flushing at eleven.
HEIDI: You have plenty of time.
SIMON SPARROW: You never know with the traffic.
HEIDI: And what about my audition?
SIMON SPARROW: We can run lines after dinner tonight….
::::The words came out more like a question than a statement. He looks at Heidi’s almond eyes, the slight freckles across her button nose, her heart shaped lips, her perfectly natural , pale face (although he believes one ear is slightly higher than the other), expecting a response. She reaches over and picks up the binder containing the audition materials for “Alpha Kappa Death”.::::
HEIDI: The audition is this afternoon.
SIMON SPARROW: And you’ll be perfect.
::::Simon leans in and gives Heidi a quick peck on the lips before heading towards the door, picking up his duffel bag as he passes the kitchen.::::
SIMON SPARROW: Break a leg, I’ll call you when I get to the gym.
HEIDI: Text me. I don’t do—
SIMON SPARROW: “Calls”, I know. I meant text. Dinner! I’m thinking Thai!
::::Simon Sparrow turns the deadbolt and removes the chain and exits the apartment. He takes a moment in the red carpeted hallway that smells like old lady before heading towards the elevator, passing a large muscular gentleman carrying groceries in arms as he does so as the scene cuts to……::::
…..THREE HOURS, ELEVEN MINUTES, AND FIFTY-NINE SECONDS LATER…..
…..The Anton Sanchez De La Croix Wrestling School and Boxing Training Facility located in Flushing, Queens. The facility has three rings, one regulation ring for boxing, the other two for wrestling. The facility reeks of blood, sweat, urine, and bleach. The ring closest to the entrance has a television with an antenna attached to the VHS player in front of it on a rolling stand as if it were transported from a public school in the late eighties.
Emerging from the office is Simon Sparrow and he walks with a purpose, his face stern and no nonsense like a drill sergeant. He rolls into the ring and looks at those standing in front of the television. Darin Zion, his cell phone in his hand (probably texting back and forth with Meredith), Anton (looking like he is on vacation in Miami with his wrinkled white linen suit, white panama hat, and bright green tropical shirt), the Wabid Wabbit (dressed in purple tights with a black sleeveless t-shirt, his soulless Easter Bunny eyes looking at the Professor of Sparrowdynamics), two janitors whom he has never met before (one named Jesus, the other named Cooper), and Simon Sparrow’s ghost writers, their names he has not learned.
For the past several hours, Simon had been exercising (some pull ups, some weight lifting, a little work on the heavy punching bag), honing his in-ring fundamentals with the Wabbit, watching video of his previous match against Bobbinette Carey, working out how to avoid being put in a position where that cocky trollop can capitalize by hitting the Royal Pain. One such suggestion from the Wabid Wabbit was to “pwetend to be exhausted”. Yeah, like that idea didn’t occur to the HOW Hall of Famer. It was during this Q and A session that they had to break because of an emotional phone call.
Simon Sparrow has just spent the last thirty-four minutes on the phone with Heidi. She had received a call from her agent who informed her that she lost the “Woodhull” job to another actress. “They wanted a ‘name’ actress” she said. “She didn’t even audition” she said. “They just handed her the part after she expressed interest”. The news affected her in such a negative way that she bombed the gonorrhea audition. She was damn near inconsolable.
She worked so hard on the “Woodhull” callback. Heidi Vaccarelli, by all rights, was Victoria Woodhull, the first woman to run for the President of the United States, a fact that he would not have known had he not assisted her with running lines. The research and time she put into the role. This was a shot that she deserved and was mercilessly cheated out of because they wanted someone with a “name”. Fuck that.:::::
SIMON SPARROW: Alright, assholes, listen up!
:::Simon Sparrow looks around at the limited crowd gathered in front of the ring. Not a fearful look among them (although he cannot be sure with Wabbit with his Easter Bunny mask in a perpetual state of glee which is either endearing or just fucking creepy depending on the situation).::::
SIMON SPARROW: Instead of having seafood Thai curry tonight, reading lines of bad dialogue, and having a night of fantastic s-e-x, I will be forced to sit on my lady friend’s couch eating ice cream while watching “The Iron Giant” and tell her how talented and amazing she is until we both pass out. I hate ice cream. Do you know how many calories that contains? And don’t even suggest “Fro-Yo”, because that tastes like shit. My night is ruined. And you know who’s fault it is?
::::Darin Zion slowly raises his hand.::::
SIMON SPARROW: It’s one of those metaphorical questions, Zigs!
::::Darin Zion (whom Simon has nicknamed Ziggy “Zig Zag” Zion) slowly lowers his hand.::::
SIMON SPARROW: Bobbinette Carey is to blame for this predicament. Not Bobbinette Carey per se, but those like her. Hell, it might as well be her. After years of eating goats and living under whatever bridge she called home, she just shows up and feels she is worthy of an LSD Title match. Like just because she’s a Hall of Famer she should be in the same ring with Sektor and myself? The malignant troll.
::::The Professor of Sparrowdynamics paces the ring for a moment, wringing his hands together as if he were washing away filth and grime without the benefit of soap and water.::::
SIMON SPARROW: Actually, “egotistical parasite” might be a better description for that fustilugs. Think about it. Shane Reynolds wins “War Games” and she names herself HOW Champion. She uses and manipulates Mario into marrying her, abusing her, and faked amnesia just so she could play the victim and get sympathy from the masses. Most recently, she used Darkwing to progress in the Maurako Cup and the second she lost, she hopped right on over to Scottywood and spat in the face of the fans with their sham of a match. She’s exactly the type of New York dumpster water that would swoop in at the last second and rob someone else of their big break to satisfy that Alaska sized ego of hers.
::::Simon Sparrow has a look of disgust on his face as if he were forced to smell a decomposing corpse which had maggots and roaches crawling out of every orifice. Darin “The 4Z Network” Zion looks around and makes like he is about to start a slow clap like he was watching Rudy make a sack for Notre Dame. However, Simon Sparrow continues.:::::
SIMON SPARROW: There is no way in hell I am going to let that vile twat anywhere close to “War Games”. She’s tarnished it before and I will be damned if I let that happen again. And I want to make this abundantly clear, I want to brutalize her! I am the Rembrandt of Wrestling and I will paint that ring in her blood! Now, I want strategies, people! Anything to give me a competitive advantage! There are no bad ideas!
::::The young male Ghost Writer, who is probably in his mid-twenties but dresses like he is in his sixties with his corduroy jacket, jeans, and burgundy penny loafer raises a finger. It would not surprise the Rembrandt of Wrestling to learn the young auteur has a pipe in his pocket.::::
MALE WRITER: If I may interject, but perhaps, maybe the answer lies in Sun Tzu’s—-
SIMON SPARROW: I wasn’t asking you! You are supposed to fade into the background like a potted plant! Unless this is “Little Shop of Horrors” and you plan on taking over the world, silence!
::::The Male Ghost Writer shuts his mouth and receives a consoling hand on his shoulder from his female colleague. From the back, the balding janitor whose coveralls are zipped halfway down his abdomen exposing his gold chains and chest hair speaks up.::::
JANITOR COOPER: What about steroids? I knows a guy.
SIMON SPARROW: No drugs!
:::::The other Janitor, Jesus, who wears a New York Yankees baseball cap backwards, speaks up.::::
JANITOR JESUS: I dunno, man. Wrestle better?
::::The HOW Classic lets out an exasperated sigh and puts his head down.:::::
SIMON SPARROW: Jesus….
JANITOR JESUS (pointing to his name stitched on the coveralls): No. Heeeeey-Zeus.
SIMON SPARROW: ANTON! I’m sure there’s a fucking toilet they should be cleaning right now!
ANTON (to his janitors): Back to work chaps! Tally-Ho! Scrub the loo!
::::The janitors mumble and grumble to each other as they head towards the Mens Room near the office. Anton turns around, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, his yellow and brown grilled corn like teeth exposed, his eyes gleaming with pride as makes his suggesting to the Rembrandt of Wrestling.::::
ANTON: Simon, old chap, you are in luck.
:::Anton’s portly frame waddles towards the break room on the opposite end of the floor. He disappears inside as Simon Sparrow looks on with equal parts impatience and confusion. He turns back towards the remainder of the crowd.::::
SIMON SPARROW: Any other suggestions while we wait?
DARIN ZION: Kill her with kindness. Flowers, chocolates, we can set up a karaoke machine and you can serenade her with Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You”.
::::Simon Sparrow’s mouth drops. Has Ziggy “Zig Zag” Zion learned nothing from the Professor of Sparrowdynamics? Simon wants to erupt into a profanity laden rant sure to emasculate his mentee. All he can muster from his slowly reddening face is a groan. Zion suddenly laughs.::::
DARIN ZION: I’m just messing with you. What you should really do is, before your match, lie in wait with a lead pipe or aluminum baseball bat, some blunt instrument, and, as she walks by, bludgeon her into a near comatose state, no offense, then drag her to the roof and toss her off sending to the cold, hard pavement below where she will lie in a pool of her own piss, shit, and blood while you casually walk to the ring. If she doesn’t wake up, she forfeits. You win and you barely break a sweat.
SIMON SPARROW: I don’t think we need to be that elaborate, 4Z. But I don’t think that I couldn’t do that, could I? Wouldn’t it seem like the Rembrandt of Wrestling is incapable of beating her inside the ring if I did that? All I want is a competitive advantage that does not make me look like a cowardly ninnyhammer.
::::Darin Zion offers his mentor a thumbs up as Anton reappears from the break room carrying a bottle of orange liquid.::::
ANTON: I have been toying with a new entrepreneurial enterprise. One that will revolutionize the fighting industry! A sports drink that I personally guarantee will give you the strength to slap the moustache off that filthy slag’s face!
::::Anton walks up the ring steps and enters the ring. He hands Simon Sparrow the bottle who, in turn, begins inspecting it like a skeptic looking at a holy relic.::::
SIMON SPARROW: What is it?
ANTON: I call it “Hate-Her-Ade”.
::::Simon Sparrow unscrews the cap from the bottle and takes a swig. The liquid hits his palette like orange infused battery acid with a gasoline chaser. The sheer taste turns his stomach to the point that the garden salad he ate an hour and a half ago plans it’s escape through his mouth. Simon spews the foul tasting liquid from his mouth to the wrestling mat and Anton’s penny loafers.:::::
SIMON SPARROW: What the fuck is in this????
::::The HOW Hall of Famer hunches over and begins dry heaving as Anton slowly and carefully backs away, hoping the loafers he purchased at ReeseMart does not sustain any further damage.::::
ANTON: A special blend of orangeade, cayenne pepper, and a generous amount of authentic, backwoods Kentucky moonshine. One hundred ninety-six proof!
SIMON SPARROW: I’m an alcoholic! You can’t give me moonshine! What the fuck’s the matter with you?
::::The HOW Classic clenches his fist and prepares to go a round…or three seconds…with Anton in the middle of the ring, however, the familiar muffled, Elmer Fudd-like voice of the Wabid Wabbit stops him:::::
WABID WABBIT: Why do anythin’?
SIMON SPARROW: Explain.
WABID WABBIT: Why change youah woutine? Don’t compwicate things. We’ve watched this video wike ten times, you know what you did wong and you ah takin’ steps to wectify it. Wook, think of it wike an action movie. “Speed”, “Die Hahd”, “Wethaw Weapon”. The viwwain at some point gets the bettah of the hewo. Bobbinette Cawey beatin’ you? That was the gwass in you feet—-
SIMON SPARROW: Do not lump that trash in with the greatness that is Hans Gruber! She’s more like Nuclear Man in “Superman Four”.
WABID WABBIT: Sowwy. But aw you need to do is act exhausted and when she twies to hit the Woyal Pain, duck, wock her arms, hit the Fawwin’ Stah. One, two, thwee, you end Cawey’s dweam of once again competin’ in Wah Games.
::::Simon Sparrow stands in the ring as Anton slowly slinks to the floor by rolling under the bottom rope. For Simon, he ponders whether or not just beating Bobbinette Carey would send the message that entitled little princess assholes do not get what they want. Of course, he would prefer to end the Queen of Epicness….hand her the fate of the “Macarena”, “Gangum Style”, and Kevin Federline….blips in the history of pop culture…people knows they existed but no one really cares.
The phone buzzes in his pocket. Simon pulls it out and sees it is Heidi calling once again. He excuses himself to take the call. He has the delicate, insecure ego of an actress to soothe. And while he does so, he will tell her that Bobbinette Carey’s imminent downfall will be dedicated to her and her struggles. That should cheer her up, right? It would certainly show her how important she is, right? And maybe he will come up with a new name for Darin Zion in the process. Ziggy “Zig Zag” Zion, the 4Z Network has lost it’s panache. END SCENE.:::::