Sweet Sapphire's Revenge
A pseudo play in 1/2 of an act
Setting: the verandah in front of a shattered Tarah. A plastic magnolia and a leafless rose bush quiver in pots in the foreground.
Sapphire O'Flarah bats her six inch eyelashes at Cousin Bashley, who is sipping a virgin mint julep on the verandah, watching his wife Mellow who is watching Rhette who is watching Scarlett who is watching Bashley.
All eyes should focus on Sapphire, who is wearing a ballgown of red drapery sheers, coordinating with Scarlett's red terry bathrobe.
Sapphire(to camera)-I am sure tired of being third fiddle after that selfish bitch Scarlett and that wimpy Mellow. I am so mad I could spit boll weevils.
Sapphire looks in her reticule.
Sapphire-I must have left the boll weevils in mah other purse. She (turns from the camera) settles for poking cousin Bashley coquettishly with the imported switch blade fan that Rhette purchased for her on the black market.
That gets Bashley darling's attention. His head swivels.
Bashley darling, staunching the flow of blood from the wound Sapphire has inflicted, at last turns her way; and Sapphire bats her eyes again, cursing that all the virile young men have been killed in action or are dressing in drag until the War Between the States is over.
Bashley Sighing delicately, ineffectively staunching the milky white fluid dripping from the four inch gash on his arm,-Dear cousin Sapphire, have you something in your eye?
Sapphire - Only you, Cousin Bashley darling."
Bashley - You must be mistaken. All I see in your eye is a piece of Saran Wrap and Rhette Butler's jock strap.
Sapphire - You tease.
Sapphire scoffs, petulantly, whacking Bashley again with the sharpened edge of her fan.
Sapphire - (continues) That’s my contact lens."
Ashley staggers a bit and hands Sapphire his virgin mint julep, saying, ever so politely,
Bashley - Would you excuse me my dear? I really believe I must have the vapors now.
Graciously Sapphire takes the glass, adds two jiggers of white lightening from her pocket flask, and sips delicately. She pronounces the drink utterly delicious, then watches Bashley, in a dead faint, gracefully float into a pool of milky liquid.
Scarlett - Oh, Bashey! Poor dear! But he does that so well. I must ask him what sort of hair spray he is using.
Puddy stands behind the plastic magnolia unsuccessfully hiding from the camera, threading a needle. She is sewing the curtains into a muu muu.
Sapphire laughs like a thousand crystal glasses shattering on marble.
Sapphire - I do believe Bashley dear’s corset is too tight.
Sapphire approaches a window. The stage fades to black and then lights again. Through the window is a field of stubble. In the far distance, Atlanta burns. Sapphire is in her boudoir, and Sapphire is seated in front of a vanity table, wig on stand,
collection of eyelashes lying like bugs in a souvenir soap dish. Behind her, in the shadows stands her Serbo Croation maid Puddy).
Sapphire - I am not at all surprised to discover that Cousin Bashley really does have milk and water in his veins.