Mishka Shakespeare:
The Complete Works
—by Mishka Zakharin
Who is Mishka Shakespeare? Is his work the writing of a multitude of minds? Or is the mindful multitude of his writings
really just quite the piece of work?…
Nobody seems to know… (few even care…) And, now that you mention it, though ‘tis true his writings were
writ – yet, verily, do his works work?
Or do they mostly just sort of lay there and take it?… I just really don’t know…. But in Mishka Shakespeare: The Complete Works we hear Mishka (or
the ‘Little Bard’ as he prefers to be called…) in a new voice – a voice
garbled by the archaic frog in his throat… mayhap a literary journey of high
culture and deep wisdom – mayhap a shenanigous jaunt of humorous mayhem and
bawdy innuendo… forsooth – alas an’ alack! – indeed, methinks ‘tis both!…
Fiction/Drama BookSurge
Copyright: 2003 ISBN
1-59109-628-6
Excerpts—
from The
Tempest of Timon,
Chapter IV: Yahooda’ya Bendmaer, Genie of Tyre
Timon’s enthusiasm toward the achieving of his goal had been greatly renewed by his acquisition of the genie of the vial. He had heard tales of simple men who had gained beautiful women, enormous riches, and even entire kingdoms with the aid of a djinn—surely Timon himself, born a member of the upper class of Athens, could have whatever his imagination might fancy.
Or so he thought at first. Yahooda’ya Bendmaer quickly set him straight with regard to the limitations of his powers. As a genie of the vial, his magic was considerably less than that of a genie of the bottle (whose magic did have limits, but none that could be defined in mortal terms), but more than, say, a genie of the ring (whose magic was generally limited to a single with—and a modest wish at that). Yahooda’ya could bestow three wishes unto his master, after which he was unable to serve either that master or any of the master’s family or friends—otherwise people would simply pass the vial, giving no one else a chance, and that would hardly be fair.
Such limitations annoyed Timon, but he was still better off than he had been before stumbling upon the genie.
“Methinks we shouldst first proceed with our search for a magician,” Flavius suggested. “Surely the genie could help in that—and a magician wouldst have no such limitation with his incantations.”
“Methinks thou doth be right,” agreed Timon. “Tell me, Yahooda’ya, sirrah, doth advice be freely given?”
“Of course, Master,” the genie replied. “Though my wisdom is nothing to that of the elders of my kind.”
“What then is thy age, O youthful one?”
“I have seen pass a mere 746 summers, Master; the last 138 of them I lay in my prison in the sand, until you did liberate me from the vial.”
“Thou doth yet be wet behind the ears,” Timon said wryly. “Thy knowledge, surely, wilt fit our needs. Where might I find the greatest o’ magicians in all the world to help me in bringing mine enemies to their knees?”
“Master, it grieves me so to tell you,” the genie said slavishly, “but I know not the answer to this question. As I mentioned, I’ve been a little out of touch with things for more than a century . . .”
Timon began feeling frustrated—and dangerously so. Noticing this, Flavius quickly interjected. “Couldst thou, at the very least, point us in such a direction that might lead us to one who knows the answer?”
“That,” Yahooda’ya said, brightening, “I am very able to do, Little Friend of my Master.”
“Ah, ha!” Timon cheered, slapping Flavius on the back. “Well done, friend! Needs must we but structure our phrases appropriately to reach the answers we seek from this mischievous sprite! Speak up then, good Yahooda’ya—where doth the answer to this riddle lie?”
“In Egypt, Master. You must speak to the Sphinx. . . .”
*
With their path laid out before them, Timon was eager to continue in his quest immediately. Flavius, however, pointed out that evening was upon them; their best course of action would be to camp on the beach of Tyre for the night, and proceed in the morning—which is precisely what they did.
By the break of day, Timon was anxiously inquiring of his new servant what their best means of travel might be.
“Truly, Master,” the genie said, thoughtfully, “the safest method of travel is with your very own feet. It would also be the healthiest way to go; the exercise would do you much good.”
“Fie, sirrah,” Timon swore. “Thy answer, ‘tis simple to absurdity—‘twouldst take months to travel to Egypt in such manner.”
“Indeed it would, Master,” Yahooda’ya agreed quickly. “You are ever quick with figures, I can tell, to have allotted the time for our trip so very quickly. Shall we first purchase the necessary supplies, then, or shall we start out immediately and do the shopping along the way?”
“Nay, such shalt not be the manner of our conveyance to Pharaoh’s land,” Timon replied tersely. His great desire for revenge made Timon even more impatient than could be warranted by his naturally misanthropic demeanor. He wasn’t much of a morning person either. “Needs must we have a quicker means o’ travel. My thirst for mine enemies’ blood demands it!”
“Of course, Master, of course!” Yahooda’ya groveled, bowing so low he spoke into the ground, as a truly obeisant genie should. “I should have realized that time was most certainly of the essence. Perhaps you would like a steed—a horse or a camel, Master? Would a horse or a camel fill your needs? If so, I could find for you the most splendid of beasts—”
“Nay, nay, nay!” Timon bellowed, stomping his feet and kicking up sand.
“Ah, yes, a horse then!” the genie announced proudly. “A fiery stallion—I was just about to suggest the very thing! It makes me so very, very happy to have satisfied the Master.”
“AAHRRGGHRBLEBLBLBLBLBJ!!” Timon screamed, pulling at his hair. “NAY! NAY! Hath thou no sense, addle-brained djinn?! I want not a horse to take me o’er land!”
“Then how about a camel? They’re quite good in sand!”
“I care not for a camel, and needs I no horse!”
“Then what would you like? . . . An elephant—of course!”
“I want not an elephant, nor a camel, nor a horse—I’ve told thee before, a land route’s too course! Needs I a way to be both smooth and swift!”
“Hey—easy now, Boss, you’re acting kind of miffed!”
“Flavius!” Timon called, teetering on the brink of insanity. “Thou must talk sense to this creature! Silent hath thou been ‘til now, but the genie’s lolling logic hath made Timon most vexed.”
“Methinks thou art doing fine.” Flavius giggled, ending in a hiccup. “Melikes rhymes!”
“Flavius,” Timon accused, aghast. “Thou art drunk!”
“Truly, my lord,” replied Flavius, dancing with himself. “Sleep this one couldst not, so to soothe mine insomniac self didst I partake of our supply o’ cheap Corinthian wine.” The drunken man stopped his stumbling dance around the beach to look at Timon and Yahooda’ya, an expression of ultimate sadness in his eyes. “No one doth sing . . .”
“Dolt,” muttered Timon, pushing his servant face-first into the sand. “Belike thou shouldst sleep it off. Very well, djinn, where were we?”
“Our game had progressed to complex schemes of rhyme related to travel, beasts of burden, and time.”
“’Tis not a game!” Timon exploded, throwing himself upon the genie and thrashing him soundly with both fists. “All I asked o’ thee was a means by which to travel to the Sphinx, and from nowhere didst thou begin spouting wanton madness!”
“One thousand pardons, Master of Masters!” Yahooda’ya pleaded, throwing himself to the ground and hugging Timon’s feet. “One thousand times one thousand pardons! I am but a dim-witted, oafish genie, and I knew not at all that you weren’t playing! Of course we should find a means for you to travel—perhaps a ship?”
“Great gods!” Timon swore, rolling his eyes. “Art thou not a supernatural creature? Hath thou no magical means of conveyance?”
“Oh, you want to travel magically,” Yahooda’ya said, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I should have realized. I have been stupid again, Master—do you wish to beat me some more?” The genie lay down at his master’s feet, expectantly.
“Nay, thy stupidity doth grate mine edges greatly,” Timon said, swallowing his anger, “yet methinks I’ll get used to it.”
“Perhaps, then, Master’s Little Drunken Friend would like to abuse me?” the genie asked, inching his way over to where Flavius still lay.
“Ungbg bjflng djlgtrnr,” said Flavius, not bothering to take his face from the sand.
“Enough,” Timon said, pulling Yahooda’ya to his feet. “My patience wears thin. How might thee use thy powers to transport us fleetly to our destination?”
“This, then, Master,” inquired the genie, “would be your first wish?”
“Aye, my first wish,” Timon agreed. “Now on with it, ere the daylight hath burned all away.”
“Of course, O Great and Wise Master Timon,” Yahooda’ya said, bowing both deeply and regally. “Here, then, is your first wish!” The genie clapped his hands sharply, and muttered, “Actinium, osmium, hafnium, and coppet, what we could really use is a magic carpet!” As he finished the final syllable, before him, hovering a foot above the ground, appeared an intricately woven carpet of divine beauty. Beaming over his handiwork, Yahooda’ya explained, “The only way to fly!”
“By my fay,” Timon said, stepping onto the carpet. “’Tis about time. Now load our sodden friend upon this spectacular and sorcerously sown synthetic steed, and let us be off.”
“As you say, then, Master,” replied the genie. “All aboard! Next stop—Egypt!”
* * *
from
“Juliet and Romeo”
ACT II, SCENE 1
A churchyard.
Enter MERCUTIO and BENVOLIO.
MERCUTIO:
A most curious matter presents itself unto me; I know thee well, Benvolio, yet ne’er hath I known thee to visit the holy demesne o’ the goodly an’ Godly friar, save it be on the Sabbath—an’ then but by thine uncle’s duress when thou did be but a lad. Couldst be thou art on some mission for thy cousin Romeo?
BENVOLIO:
Aye, Mercutio; ‘milord’ hath sent me with a letter for a woman he hath arranged to meet here at midday. ‘Tis most urgent, he assured, and needs must I also commend unto her the message that he would most certainly arrive in due time—albeit some slight bit later than their appointed rendezvous.
MERCUTIO:
Ah, yea, a meeting of young lovers, in the quiet seclusion of a lonely churchyard . . . ‘tis truly very like our Romeo, wouldst thou agree not?
BENVOLIO:
Aye, he certainly doth seem to get around . . . last week, ‘twas Rosaline, the week prior, ‘twas Kate—or Katherine, as she did prefer; last month he loved Beatrice, and ere that, ‘twas Hermia. . . . Although, needs must I admit, ‘tis the first he hath elected to meet one here; mayhap his intentions this time be more than love-sick lolling.
MERCUTIO:
Hmm . . . I would bet not on that; more likely his wits be addled beyond all semblance o’ sense. . . .
BENVOLIO:
Why say thee this? Doth thou know something thou hath spoken not aloud?
MERCUTIO:
Aye, ‘tis usually the case. . . . Yet pay no mind! I do but ramble in the queer mood whence I wander! Thoughts o’ secret rendezvouses betwixt desirous women an’ desiring men flit through my brain; musings o’er th’ intents and endeavors o’ said would-be lovers, an’ th’ why and wherefore with which they might find themselves in the courtyard of a church. . . . Hence the depths o’ maturity whither now I tread, a remembrance springs hither from long gone days when yet I floundered in th’ happy shallows of youth; ah, such mirthful days of untempering innocence—so fiery and impetuous and wanton! I loved a woman—though not just any woman . . . her knees were jelly an’ peanut butter—th’ one, the former, an’ th’ other, the latter . . . I mean not to convey they had been mixed, willy-nilly, some of each to both . . . but, regardless, all one would hath needed did be a couple o’ slices o’ bread and ‘twas lunchtime!
BENVOLIO:
Merry! What a simple jest! I know not what thou doth speak!
MERCUTIO:
Oh, o’ course I mean not to imply her actual knees were actually made up o’ jelly an’ peanut butter in all the supposed actuality that might arise from such a proclamation. Nay, when I say her knees were jelly an’ peanut butter, I mean it in strictly the most spiritual manner imaginable . . . indeed, not at all in a secular sort o’ representation o’ knees being jelly an’ peanut butter, but, rather, an implied essence o’ knees being jelly an’ peanut butter—as if to say unto th’ world: ‘Hey, man—look what I’ve got!’ An’ then a shout o’ joy, a song o’ praise—Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!—and what hast thou. . . .
BENVOLIO:
Enough! Villian! Methinks I’ll starvate to my very death if thou doth keep on wi’ thy babbling!
MERCUTIO:
The left knee did be a sweet, strawberry jelly, an’ the right knee did be a smooth an’ creamy peanut butter—an’ she drank a lot o’ milk, as well, though I know not if such tied in at all. . . . Ah, to again know a love so deep an’ so true! . . . Mayhap I’ve but gone entirely daft—
BENVOLIO:
‘Mayhap’? . . .
MERCUTIO:
—yet methinks our young Romeo may have a chance after all. An’ Godspeed to him if he doth, by troth! What says thee, Benvolio?
BENVOLIO:
Hast thou eaten lunch yet?
MERCUTIO:
Hmm? Lunch? Oh—I know not . . .
BENVOLIO:
What means thou? How canst thou know not whether thou hast eaten or nay?
MERCUTIO:
Indeed—thy question, ‘tis most sound, and, yea, though nary the less. ‘Tis most vexing, yet some certain foods—mainly o’ the more sandwichy variety—escape the notice o’ mine hindsight an’, thusly, I recall them not. Methinks it doth stem from once upon a time, a youthful trauma o’ lost love . . .
BENVOLIO:
Nay, nay, go not back there! . . . Let me ask o’ thee this then: doth thou feel hungry?
MERCUTIO:
Hmm . . . nay. Nay, I doth be not particularly hungry just now . . . Forsooth!—
BENVOLIO:
For whom?
MERCUTIO:
Nay, nay—‘forsooth’ . . .
BENVOLIO:
Oh, sure, like that . . .
MERCUTIO:
Methinks now hath I a recollection!
BENVOLIO:
So, thusly, to recollect, thou hast eaten not?
MERCUTIO:
Nay, for my remembrance is o’ remembering not—so logic must allow if something is specifically remembered not, there hath been, most surely, some thing forgotten . . . else no lapse o’ recall would be noted. Thence to hither, needs must I surmise I hath, indeed, eaten lunch—a sandwich, no doubt.
BENVOLIO:
Well, I hath not. So if thou art of a nature to linger here anyway, could I impart upon thee to deliver tardy Romeo’s message to his impending lady-love?
MERCUTIO:
‘Twould be my pleasure.
BENVOLIO:
I thank thee, an’ shalt return directly whence I hath found some morsels to allay mine hungering distraction. . . .
[Exit.
MERCUTIO: [singing.]
I knew a lass, a bonny lass, O such a lass was she! She’d ride about on an old, gray ass, yet she would ride not on me! Ne’er could I forget her an’ the games that she played, with her eyelashes all a’flutter; yet I knew better, for her knees were made o’ jelly an’ peanut butter! Hey, nonny-nonny! . . . . . .
* * *
Contents—
Juliet & Romeo
The Tempest of Timon
The Death of the Duke of Inverness