THE ALPACA HERDER
In an empty room at a desk with only a nearly full ashtray on it. Bill enters sits down and as if he doesn’t see us starts talking. His voice is hoarse, throaty and rasping.
Bill: (lights a cigar) you know my life used to be normal; I used to get up, sit down and… drink milk.
(Takes a heavy puff of his cigar, taps it to get rid of the ash)
But that all changed… last Tuesday. I got a letter, not from the post, but hand delivered and it read:
‘Alpacas loose on the cliffs of Beachy Head’
And in big red letters the words
‘WE NEED HELP’
At that moment I knew what I had to do, I packed my stuff ready to move to Eastbourne. I didn’t tell a soul, not my friends and not my family, because I knew what they would say.
‘You don’t know how many Alpacas there are. They are really fluffy Bill; you might be overwhelmed by the fluffiness.’
(Takes a heavy puff of his cigar) But you see, I am a soldier (taps the cigar) and when there is someone in danger of falling off a cliff, it doesn’t matter how fluffy they are, I have the responsibility to pick up my trusty staff with the lovely little bells on it and shout ‘HAI! HAI!’ until they are safe.
(Stubs out his cigar, picks up a new one from his breast pocket, but he doesn’t light it and holding the cigar, he continues talking)
There are no ups and downs, very little trials and absolutely no tribulations. It’s a stolid, static, stagnant life and I love it. Why? Because it’s my life and I would never give it up. Yes, this is the story of my life as an Alpaca herder
(Lights his cigar, sits back and exhales)
Scene pans out with Bills eyes closed silhouetted by the serene background of Beachy Head.
THE END
