70Two Minute Comedy

"Give us Two Minutes... We'll Give You Too"

A Series of Two Minute Comedy Sketches for short attention span theatre

Learning Burning
A Two Minute Comedy

Reverend Deacon Bleakon - 50,
Mary Agnus Despeakable - 12, precocious
Brother Balthazar - 30, the Burning Poet
Villagers - ragged and gullible

The village square of the Medieval hamlet of Penitence.  Looming high above is the sharp point of a  steeple.  Presiding is the Right Reverend Deacon Bleakon, a man best described as part judge, jury and jester.  The Villagers listen in rapt attention.

Bleakon: Good, people, reverend spirits, little souls… We gather here to study this day.  We study the things sacred and holy to us.  In this hand the good book… Yet firm in the other, demand to cast out dark and brooding evil!  Evil that lurks in those who practice the black art and devil works of Beelzebub himself!

A collective gasp from the Villagers.

Bleakon: When suspicion points its fiery torch at evil spawn amongst us, we must muster our strength and gather our fort attitude prepared to battle the mothers, of villainy.  And though she look tame, or tepid or timid - SHE IS NOT!!  She is the wicked witch!  One who glisters and smiles to hide the cauldron of sin-fill stew she wouldst share with… YOU!!

Another collective gasp. Deacon Bleakon reaches behind him and pushes a lovely little girl  forward.

Bleakon:  Little Mary Agnus Despeakable will tell us what to do…  Mary Agnus?

Mary: Never, never give food or drink or comfort to a witch.  If she be thirsty, she must be parched.  If she be hungry, she must be starved.  If she be lonely, she must be shunned!  (thinks) If she hath money, you should steal it.  For to steal from a witch is good!

Villager1: But scripture says it’s wrong to steal! 

Villager2: And wrong to bear false witness!

Bleakon: (thundering) The wickeds’ magic hides evil ‘neath a sad veil of tears!  Have no sorrow.  Have no pity.  Obey thy Deacon’s hand!  (sweetly)  Mary?  (he gestures)

Mary: (remembering) And never give a witch a soap!  Or toothpaste! 

Bleakon: Very good Mary.  And if the witch should ask  the time?

Mary: Ye shall reply, “Tis plenty time to get thee to a nunnery witch!”  And run and hide lest she cast the curse of Caspar-geist at you!

Villagers: (terrified) Caspar-geist!!

Mary: Aye.  Unfriendly Satan’s tune!

Bleakon: Hail Mary!  And praise Lord’s merciful love that cast out the wikend devil!!  (pause) Brother Balthazar, The Burning Poet…  step forward and tell it so, the knowledge to catch the wicked witch amongst us!

Balthazar: (stepping forward, unsteady) Fair people and happy souls, I come before you shamed by mark of devil himself!  Look ye with fear on this…

He rips open his shirt to reveal a Motley Crue tattoo across his chest!  The crowd shrinks back.

Balthazar: And mark my words as true!  Gaze upon this nightmare sign!   I know the hag, her witchy wiles, thy secrets I give to you!

He pauses unsteadily and sneaks a look at notes written on his hand.

Balthazar: Now then… How to catch a witch.  One.  If the witch be found asleep or coaxed to drunken reverie, step light upon her stoop with net of strongest hemp…

He opens his sack and removes a butterfly net.

Bleakon: (doubtful) A hempen net??  Doth not a budding witch scratch her way from so little restraint? 

Balthazar: The very reason to fortify the witch with mead… (drinks from his wineskin) And deepen her reverie!

Bleakon: (confused) By troth, you mean the witch on which you pour the devil brew?? 

Realizing his mistake, Balthazar corks his wineskin.  Takes out a fiddle.

Balthazar: By troth or trough or blowing smoke dear Deacon.  To catch the witch is delicate work and reason why I’m speakin.  (checks notes) Two.  If witch be idle, or in her witchen lair, fiddle ye a siren tune to glaze her eye and fix her witchen stare…

He fiddles a few bars of “Smokin in the Boys Room.”  Bleakon grows restless.

Bleakon: (hastily) With good fortune and God’s grace the witch is caught and bound and then Brother Balthazar, what remedy have you?

Balthazar: Why sticks of course!

Bleakon: Of what sticks doth thou speak?  The driest branch or river of hellish souls?

Balthazar: (insulted) A river stick will never burn!  But dry and tender tinder!  Grab ye hands the woody fill and spark to make a cinder! 

Bleakon: Ah ha!  Hold fair people…

Bleakon exits and hurriedly re-enters pushing a tall wooden stake on wheels.  A straw effigy is bound to it.

Bleakon: Wouldst now Burning Poet satisfy curiosity and shew us thy fiery technique??

Balthazatr: With pleasure Deacon Bleakon!  The trick is in the can…

He takes out lighter fluid and sprays it over the effigy.

Balthazar: To burn a witch takes little skill… But lies with fear to fan!

He flicks a lighter and the effigy bursts into flame.  Music CUE: Motley's, “Smokin in the Boys Room.”