Scene 1: An EMPTY MISC OFFICE. EVAN ’28 soliloquizes to an unseen audience. His voice is humorous despite the grave tone he uses.
EVAN: To be exposed at a party, or to / Stay in your dorm alone and be really / Bored all night. That is the question.
EVAN: To have seen what I have seen of this campus, to see what I see, would make the most noble minds dejected and wretched. O, I am slain, slain by the horrid Drama Flu!
EVAN stops acting infected and gets down to business.
EVAN: The best of us say it began on the first day of classes when a drama major returned to campus bringing jubilation, yet burdened with a much-less-merry stomach bug. We would be prepared for the flu if this were indeed such a disorder of the body. But it seemed to be an affliction of the mind as well. Those enamored would begin to vomit profusely and, most strangely, on a musical pitch.
Scene 2: Enter MAX DRITKIN ’27, a disgruntled skateboarder. He’s a ‘cool kid’ and has managed to avoid being infected by bombarding everyone around him with his ‘political opinions’ until they go away.
MAX: It was already hard enough dealing with the goddamn singers when they were normal and singing fucking opera—god, I hate that shit. But now they’re vomiting everywhere and brewing up diss tracks on SoundCloud. I mean, that’s stupid, right? Didn’t we already do this in like, 2014?
STAGE LIGHTS center on a screen with the words BREWERCLOUD flashing in bright white letters. This is a new version of SoundCloud that has popped up on the interwebs with 4,000 listeners each day and counting. The unsecured website, which is flagged by most browsers, is completely safe according to Dean Luis Inoa who assures students that the College would never allow nefarious, off-campus actors to track students’ internet usage.
Scene 3: An elegant parlor with a fireplace, chocolate fountains and luxurious, comfortable chairs in which the administration is sitting. The PRESIDENT and DEAN SONYA SMITH are talking to each other while DEAN LUIS INOA is talking mostly to reporters, trying to appear part of their conversation. They are all sipping on champagne out of golden goblets while the reporters drink out of plastic Solo cups.
INOA [laughing]: Our students sign their digital rights away when they first access EduRoam, Bee-Tea-Dubs.
He turns to the PRESIDENT.
INOA: This new singing flu we cooked up in the biochemistry lab was a really good idea, Liz.
He high-fives the President.
PRESIDENT: I think the grotesque vomiting and rap battles add a nice, early 2000s grunge touch. You don’t really see that anymore, modernism, really, now that we’ve transitioned back to the classics like social media propaganda and political psyops. I was telling John we should do something New Age.
SMITH: I honestly thought this idea was a bit bottom-of-the-barrel. If I were you, I would’ve just made a virus that makes them give us all their money.
The president takes SMITH aside and whispers something to her about ‘prestige.’ They laugh together while DEAN INOA tries to appear content on the sidelines. After a few minutes, he pulls out Instagram in defeat.
Scene 4: REPORTERS in the SHIVA THEATER are watching a new play as actors throw up during musical numbers behind them.
EVAN: New theater shows have popped up, such as “We are Elizabeth Barfley,” “Rowdy FIZZ Posters BARF on LAC Students: An Emetic Mix” and “Pukey: The Singing Clam that Pukes and Raps,” each one of them seemingly titled by generative AI, as all the department interns have been infected and can no longer utilize their cerebral cortices. Naturally, both healthy and infected students have been attending these in droves, although they apparently aren’t very good beyond the surface level. Natasha Samson ’29 described them to me. Here she is! Gestures to Natasha.
NATASHA: They really got to me on a spiritual level, but I wasn’t feeling that essential cognitive connection. In the spirit of our dear infecteds: Had I, been vomited on profusely / I may, if given enough time, then formed / A diff’ring opinion more aligned with / the masses. Yet I, with them, do contend that / These plays now reek of simple drama, cl’che / Without plot, characters that move as if / they have ginormous spokes up their assholes.
An actor locks eyes with NATASHA, causing her to take off her boot and throw it into the rafters, revealing it to be a grappling hook and also, somehow, revealing an eye patch and a pirate hat she was hiding. Really, it seems quite nonsensical. She flies away, yelling prosaically.
NATASH: You will ne’er catch me, Natash ‘o the Lillies, foul spawn! / My prose is in prime numbers, count along!
The ACTORS call INTERMISSION, which triggers the audience to begin posting the musicals on INSTAGRAM and repost each other’s stories. NATASHA’s chant is drowned out by the sudden chatter.
Scene 5: The MISC OFFICE. Hordes of BREWERCLOUD singers have begun trying to KNOCK DOWN the door.
EVAN: Hello, everyone! It appears I am doomed, more or less. Such tragedy draws me closer to my indefinite end, alas. I wish you all the best.
Enter ZOMBIES. They surround EVAN and vomit on him. EVAN passes out and then awakes.
EVAN: Shall we find more victims on which to work / Our wicked craft? Toil behooves us, yet / By the pricking of my thumb, something acrid / This way comes, while not of our own volition. / Speak but now, are any of us opposed to / Striking with poison the Tuesday Donuts?
ZOMBIES shake their heads.
EVAN: Such a plot befits the Deece, but here shows / Much amiss. In respect for all this school / Has suffered: Go, bid the students spew.
Exeunt ALL.