Iowahawk: Requiem For a Lightweight
Iowahawk tells the sad story of the punch-drunk palooka of Pennsylvania Avenue: Requiem For a Lightweight.
(With apologies to Rod Serling)
ACT 1
SCENE 1A stark dressing room in the underbelly of the White House, bathed in the dim yellow light of a 25-watt compact fluorescent bulb. The dingy walls are plastered with Shepard Fairey “HOPE” posters. Off stage is heard the cringing, muffled gasps of a stunned arena audience. Suddenly the door bursts open and enters BARACK “BAM BAM” OBAMA, former champion, unconscious on a stretcher carried by his handlers — cut man TWINKLETOES EMANUEL, manager PAPPY AXELROD, SPITBUCKET BEGALA and SPINDOC GREENBURG. His nose is bleeding profusely, his eyes nearly swollen shut, and his forehead is embossed with a reverse “BRUNSWICK” from an errant bowling ball. They are trailed into the room by a pack of concerned sportswriters as they place the stretcher on a stark table.
TWINKLETOES EMANUEL: Alright, alright! Give ‘em some air, you mugs!
PAPPY AXELROD: Can you hear me, Champ?
BAM BAM: We would save enough money… uhh… we would… money save… the ones we are looking for…
PAPPY AXELROD (gently slapping Bam Bam’s face): Champ, Champ! Look at me! How many teleprompters am I holding up?
BAM BAM (giggling): Special Olympics… Heckuva job Timmy…
TWINKLETOES EMANUEL: Somebody get me the stimulus salts!
Twinkletoes opens a wallet under Bam Bam’s nose and he groggily regains consciousness
BAM BAM: Whuh… huh… whuhappened?
Frank says: