Faramir
kill’d with a sword, again, because, look, they don’t have tennis in Middle Earth ….
Mercutio
You’d think by now the judges would have intervened, what with all the mayhem and disemboweling and ruined grass and such. But no. They’ve blithely looked the other way. Which is weird, you know, because they always got so pinchy whenever McEnroe had tantrums or Agassi said he didn’t want to wear white. Okay. So whatevs. Welcome to tennis in the 21st century, I guess.
When the first blow came, brave garrulous Mercutio was heard muttering that it was “a scratch, a scratch” which Faramir, incorrigibly vain about his sword play and fashion sense, took as an insult to his prowess. The wounded Mercutio was mumbling still when Faramir, sword gleaming in the morning light, jumped the net, howled to the heavens, “Scratch, is it? Scratch?!” and ran him through completely. That kid. Such a drama queen. Ever the jokester, with his dying gasp Mercutio quipped, “Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.” At this, Faramir rolled his eyes, took a tennis ball out of his pocket, and, as a final insult, bounced it off of Mercutio’s dead head. A little boy in the front row caught the ball on the rebound.
Nice souvenir for the kiddo, don’t you think?
Sorry you’re a grave man, Mercutio. Time for your big Boo-Bye Speech.
A PLAGUE O’ER ALL YOUR HOUSES! I am sped;
Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon!
Ay, a scratch. Marry, it is enough.
Help me into some house, or I shall faint.
Thou hast made worm’s meat of me, Faramir!
I tried, Kate… really I did. This is a serious match, right? I had no idea that Mercutio was going to be blowing kisses to cute ball girls, or fighting with a glorified bendy-straw on a hilt. That “scratch” he was complaining about? I parried HIM – he cut himself with his OWN SWORD. It put me a little out of temper, but I really was only trying to knock him down and take away his giant toothpick before he really hurt himself. Turns out he wasn’t wearing any armor like one would in a proper sport. Frankly it’s shocking and I will be complaining to Her Majesty about it.
Look, I don’t know this “tennis” at all. In Gondor we play hockey. This “ball” business is still terribly confusing, and I was as surprised as anyone that the ball was light and furry – much like a giant bouncing hamster, really – and that it should rebound so far. I was just trying to drop it at his feet and it went winging off into the stands. Hey, I signed it for the kid, at least; I’m not all about killer fashion sense and might in battle. I would have my land remembered for its wisdom, its hospitality, its eleven Stanley Cups, and its vibrant club scene, and not just as the place where our enemies are “kill’d with a sword.” (We sometimes use arrows.)
PS – he wasn’t even killed. The King was here and had some fresh athelas. He’s sitting up in bed complaining that we denied him his grand exit and whining to that emo-Prince buddy of his, Romeo. No wonder the Capulets can’t stand him. But I’m under strictest orders to use a quarterstaff for the next match to avoid any such incidents in the future.
O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Faramir, you fairy, will you walk?
The vacant, unused space between your ears
‘Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide
As a church door. Marry, ’tis enough!
Be gone, thou fool, lest I should be thy haint
To torment Fairy-Mere forevermore!
You see?!?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I’m loving this. You both amuse the game mistress immensely.
*cough* Avada Kedavra! *cough*
Let’s just say our friend Fairymir had a little help. I vowed to kill Mercuti-ho, did I not?
And now it is done. I love the Dark Arts.
Oh, “Ho” is it? Thou, Severus, art vile.
Wicked apothecary, sniv’ling wretch!
Thy drugs are quick. Oh ladies, mourn me not
Only cherish my mem’ry in your hearts.
Personally, I think the little man just had a bit too much of the Ole Janx Spirit and couldn’t keep the sword up … if you catch my meaning.
Anyone see a Someone Else’s Problem around here?
Stay thy mewling, friend Mercutio.
Thou speakest with more force than typical
For a corpse. ‘Tis ten to one against
That thou’rt sped, unless thy tongue runs dry.
Ahoy! Iambic pentameter is
My purview and mine alone! Be thee gone
Foul Fairy-Mere! Or I shall next be forced
To tell thee that Eowyn loved me well
Last night, and many hundred nights before!
I thought to speak in manner like to thee
The better thou shouldst understand. Alas,
‘Tis courtesy that falls upon the deaf.
Shouldst be grateful, varlet, that thou liv’st,
And not to risk thyself with brags, nor fibs
Upon thy soul regarding fair Eowyn.
A glooming peace this evening with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be victorious, some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this: Wimbledon and Mercutio.
Exeunt
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You guys rock.
I’ve got nothing to add there. Well played, Mercutio, well played!