# Swan Song

*Exported from [Holy-Writings.com](https://www.holy-writings.com/) on 2026-06-19 — 1 clipping.*

---

> ACT ONE -- Interior W. Estate, evening.
> 
> The hibachi cools, the coals turn powder, and a tuxedo clad John W.
> paces nervously in the kitchen. He steals a quick glance at the Westclock wall
> clock.
> 
> "Its time for `your friends' to go home," intones John to Linda as she scrapes
> remains of her ill-received "Ninja Pudding on a Stick" into the trashmaster.TM
> 
> "MY friends? What do you mean *my friends*? I don't think they liked my new
> dish, and it was *your pal* Prof. `We don't need no Review' Juan
> who insisted that I not let anyone taste it before I served it! He said it
> would be a culinary protest against pre-palate censorship. Some pal! This
> tastes like it was cooked by Mirza Awful Alpo, inveterate enemy of the cookout
> faithful -- besides, these guests are not *my* friends -- you're the one who
> invited them over to plot the overthrow of the universe, and look what
> happened!"
> 
> "We were not plotting the overthrow of the universe," explains John
> phlegmatically while hydraulically adjusting his bow-tie, "we were simply
> conducting a sociological experiment: "Contemporary Inflammatory Discourse:
> Professors who take themselves seriously, and Others who are Easily
> Impressed"..... and well, our agenda became overturned..."
> 
> "Yeah, well speaking of the hidden becoming revealed, try to ignore what's
> going on in the den: Steve  is busy convincing Melissa  that David's  picture should be on every milk carton in America. Someone mentioned
> that David is not missing, but Steve countered, "but his rights are", and that
> portraying him as a missing kid probably kidnapped by cultists will get a lot
> of publicity. David wants nothing to do with the plan, but they say he has been
> drafted for the role -- they took a vote. Ya know, sort of like making him
> caliph in absentia -- since he started it all he has to go through with it.
> Steve already has K. Paul committed to writing a feature story for "The New
> York Review of Marginal Religious Groups In-Fighting" -- quite an influential
> divisionary publication highly valued for its duplicitous ability to distort
> both sides of the story while pursuing etheric objective reporting."
> 
>  John moaned and reclined on the kitchen table next to the condiments. 
> 
>  "That's the last thing we need!" W. begins weeping in the Miracle
> Whip.
> 
>  "Yeah, I know honey," commiserates Linda, "investigative reporting has been
> the undoing of some of our best unbalanced minds."
> 
>  John daubs his wet eyes with a moist towelette purloined from KFC and asks a
> question of his mulla-hugging wife.
> 
>  "Who put those giant flapping things on our front yard -- ya know, the
> ugly-ugly-ugly flags with the lime green and puce happy faces with the nine
> pointed stars on their foreheads and the logo: "Bahá'í: Neoplatonism Rules!"
> 
>  Linda adroitly knocks John off the table with a swift kick to the
> cummerbund.
> 
>  "Those were a gift from Sen and Sonja -- I promised them that I would not even
> look at them before I put them in my front yard! How dare you suggest censoring
> someone's artistic vision!"
> 
>  John leaps precariously to his feet, his patent leather shoes sliding
> across the freshly greased linoleum. He careens headfirst into the vestibule,
> trips over Sherman the Bosch Bahá'í Cat, spills a bowl of clam dip on Sheila
> and Amin, and knocks over a candelabra in the foyer, accidentally setting
> fire to Richard's beard. Nima and Tony, who had been lurking in the
> umbrella canister, jump out and douse Richard with Canada Dry Ginger Ale. 
> 
>  While Richard says thoughtful prayers of praise and gratitude for Nima and
> Tony's fortuitous delurking, Sherman scrambles up the drapes, and the B's
> go in search of potato chips, John  begins wailing and flailing.
> 
>  "That does it! Everyone out! Everyone out! I'm pulling the plug on this party!
> Its over over over!!"
> 
> 
> 
> SWAN SONG - Act TWO
> 
> Music: "The Party's Over" played by Zamphir X, master of the Pan-African
> Flute.
> 
> ACT TWO: Front porch, W Estate, later same evening.
> 
>  John, head in hands, sits on the steps while his Ninja suited spouse
> comforts him.
> 
>  "I don't know what was the worst part of the evening," sighs John, "it started
> out so well: a small circle of friends telling each other how right we were.
> and then, bit by bit, things got weird, and by the time we tossed 'em out there
> was a cow wearing a bra in the vestibule .....is Juan still locked in the
> bathroom?" Linda nods sadly. "Yes, 'fraid so. He thought the cow was an Aux.
> Bovine spy with a secret transmitter fitted in her brassier. He says he's not
> coming out, ever. He just slides notes under the door. In the latest missive he
> called the Pope an `old Pole wearing a Queen's hat who's not the same Pontiff
> who wrote Pacim en Terris, and then he offered to re-spackle the shower stall."
> 
> John's eyes roll in their sockets like greased ball bearings. "What if we move
> away?" "Then he'll buy our house so he can stay in there, I guess. I knew
> things were getting strange when he tried to pull the beard off the UPS
> delivery man -- he insisted it was Robert  in one of his clever
> disguises. Rick  walked in, said `what's the furor' and Juan insisted he
> said "where's the Fuhrer." A tussle ensued, my mother's crystal candy dish fell
> on the floor, and Juan cried "Crystal Night! Crystal Night!" and then raced out
> the front door, ran around back, and crawled in the bathroom window. Just
> another normal Talisman night at the W Estate." "Well, its the *last*
> party at our house," insists John, "I am never inviting those nuts over again
> -- least of all Derek, the British Economist and his vicious feline accomplice.
> One or both of them crawled up the drapes! The B's  ate all the chips and
> wore all the dip -- my fault on that -- and then Steve and Allison played
> badminton with the Kiwi fruit -- food was flying everywhere [and I left without
> my hat]. I tried to be a good host, honest. Besides, I actually believed we
> could have some useful consultation. I even made up an agenda, but somebody
> hid it!" Linda laughs. "Oh no, honey. Nobody did that, I simply placed it on
> your desk under the bill for your tux." "You mean....." "Yes, the formal
> charges cover your hidden agenda." 
> 
> MUSIC: Ominous Theme
> 
> 
>  SWANG SONG - ACT THREE
> 
> ACT THREE: Bus Stop outside entrance to Abha Kingdom, distant future. Linda
>  paces nervously. John is trying to reason with her.
> 
>  "I'm *not* going in there," insists Linda, " I just know what its going to be
> like and I don't like it! I have never fit in with the acceptable, and half the
> time I don't even accept myself!" "Honey, please be sensible..." pleads John.
> "Sensible!? How can you talk about sensible when nothing that's happened in the
> last several decades has made any sense -- nothing turned out the way we
> imagined!"
> 
>  "True," Prof.  admits, " I mean Indiana being vaporized by Radical
> Quakers took me completely by surprise, as did the Armed Amish Electric
> Resistance Movement, and the...."
> 
>  "NO NO NO!!" interrupts Linda, "I mean the important stuff -- K. Paul 
> becoming a Black Separatist after his Melanin Reassignment Surgery, Juan 
> throwing away his brilliant career as an underpaid history prof. to write
> fantasy fiction comic books, then going berserk and leaping around on top of
> the World Trade Center screaming "I'm the Paraclete of Caborca!" and finally,
> after they adjusted his Lithium, Thorazene, Buspar, Ascendin, Haldol, and
> Novane he re -enrolled in the Faith, taught like gangbusters, and was invited
> by the Frankfurt LSA to be resident Bahá'í scholar at the Bahá'í House of
> Worship in Germany!"
> 
>  "Yep, that was a strange one, but Juan always did dream of the Germans coming
> for him" concurred John, remembering that night long ago when a pre-Lithium
> Juan locked himself in the W's bathroom. John glanced at the light
> from El Abha, "now let's walk through the door together, Honey, c'mon..."
> 
>  "And what about Quanta winning the Pulitzer Prize? Did you expect that, huh?
> Didja? Or David serving at the World Centre all those years? Or Derek
> becoming the richest Bahá'í in the world and then getting so senile that he
> left his fortune to establish an Adam Smith Memorial Trust and have it
> adminstered by Sherman the Cat!! Good thing his wife had all her marbles!"
> 
>  John finally grabs Linda, holding her close to keep her from relentless
> pacing.
> 
>  "Easy, my little Ninja...tell the good Prof. what you're *really* upset
> about"
> 
>  She kicks his shin horribly hard.
> 
>  "OUCH! Now, that's more like my lovely Linda! What *is* bugging you for
> real?"
> 
>  Linda sags to the equivalent of pavement and the tears flow like real tears.
> Her sobs sound like someone stomping on a rubber duck. 
> 
>  "I peeked around the corner..." weeps Linda, "and I saw Abdul Baha. That's why
> I can't go in there..."
> 
>  John's drop jawed.
> 
>  "Honey, darling, snookums.....is it a sense of guilt or shame for those stupid
> things we said back in the 1990's that's keeping you from entering Paradise?"
> 
>  Linda stops sobbing and gives John a look that could freeze concrete.
> 
>  "Shame?! Guilt?! Are you nuts? No! But when I peeked around the corner I heard
> Abdul-Baha asking everyone "Are you happy?", "Are you happy?" and you know me,
> John, I *just can't stand to be interrogated like that*!"
> 
>  Linda is now up and pacing, steam rising from her peter-pan collar.
> 
>  "What right does he have to ask me if I'm happy? That is a private matter
> between God and Linda, and ..."
> 
>  Suddenly, a searing shaft of illumination captures her as if she were a rabbit
> trapped in headlights...a form stands at the gate, long jet black hair flowing
> luxuriously to his waist, a full dark beard reaching mid-chest. A mild,
> dignified voice intones: "Oh you who are waiting, tarry no longer..."
> 
>  Linda, overwhelmed at the prospect of facing the Blessed Beauty, swoons. John
> catches her in his arms and hoists her over his shoulder as if she were a sack
> of onions and heads for the light, stopping to thank the bearded apparition.
> 
>  "No problem, John, my pleasure."
> 
>  "Well, listen," advised Prof. W, " you better ditch before she comes
> to, if she finds out it was Richard  who got her into Paradise, she'll
> never get over it!"
> 
>  Linda, woozy and limp, entered the Celestial Pavillians slung over the sturdy
> mid-western shoulder of John -- a comedic scene bringing much
> laughter to Abdul-Baha who indeed did ask "Are you happy?" 
> 
>  Linda, seized with transports of enraptured joy, lifted her blushing pink
> cheeks and smiled soundless at the Master. Before John swung her down to stand
> on her own, Linda wiggled her fingers at Abdul Baha in a friendly wave as would
> any child delighted with a glorious, loving, reunion.
> 
>  "I always did love you, Abdul Baha" 
> 
>  The Master smiles.
> 
>  Linda, holding on to John, steadies her stance.
> 
>  "I am a Bahá'í, really. I have forever loved Baha'u'....." the Greatest Name
> catches in her throat, and even before the first tears stream down, Abdul Baha
> has enfolded her in a hug of warmth, acceptance, and love beyond measure.
> 
>   Narrator: And they all lived happily ever after, forever. Really.
>
> — *Swan Song (Used by permission of the curator)*