[Setting: The Loire Valley. Still eerily similar to 804 MAIN.]

Narrator [Enter Narrator]

One year hath passed sith Author met his Doom--

Sith Fates sever'd his Thread upon their Loom--

His murd'rous Companie escaped abroad

Far from the Realm of their sith-murder'd God.

Merlinda conjured Airships, kept aloft

By virtue of Balloonmen pink and soft.

One Year passeth sith our Heroes set sail

Some mind his Memorie and track the Grail.

Yet others split away, and, own their own,

Completeth Quests their Liege would not condone.

This Booke begineth with Sir Brian, who

[Enter Pat o' Bedlam with ready Blade,

a Catapult, and Tony Danza.]

Hath not forg--aack!

[General Alarum; Narrator dies in brief scuffle]

Pat O' Bedlam [grabs Head of Narrator]

Huzzah! We now have two!

Our Mantel shall anon display our Lust

For massing rare and literary Busts.

Yea, verily! Forewith our Trove shall be

A Historie of Narratologie.

Now, shall we back to our infernal Den

Ere sinketh it into the murky Fen?

Pat o' Bedlam [with a deep Breath and a Cough]

This Gallic Air doth fortify my Lungs!

And Frankish Mead doth make us speak in Tongues!

"We're *people energy* from the *outside*!"

I would respond, but Lo! My Tongue be tied.

[Enter Sir Brian]

On yonder Cliff Sir Brian I espied!

Shall we give Meet or find a Place to hide?

Hail! Good my Queen! I sought thee many Weeks!

Yet find thee here amongst these Mountain Peaks.

[espies Head]

O! good my Queen! Will not thine Lust for Death

E'er cease until thyself ceasest thine Breath?

Do join our *Fun* and be not *round* or tame!

Radical Deconstruction is the *Game*!

What speakest thou? Thine Words have lost their Sense!

When Author's slain is this the Consequence?

Do Words lose Meaning? Doth Coherence fail?

An we lose this, we'll ne'er descry the Grail!

There is no privileged Meaning of a Work!

Within the Reader's where the Meanings lurk.

I see that thou art under baneful Hex

To disbelieve that Meanings dwell in Texts.

Of Pedantry have not ye had your fill?

I'm wearied; we ought seek something to kill!

The Publisher or Translator'd be nice.

Or barring that, the Typesetter'd suffice.

Roland Barthes [Enter Roland Barthes]

Bonjour. Your Plight I was fain to o'erhear.

But ere thou proceedest, your Tale, I fear,

Infringes on a Right of Copie I

Applied for when thine sires were this high.

[gestures to knee]

Thou didst proclaim the Death of Authors first,

Yet overlook'd the Circumstance reversed.

Thou canst not plausibly uphold thy Claim

An th'Author be naught further than a Name.

I bite my Thumb at thee, but mindeth you:

That Act admits of many Meanings, too.

Now get thee off ere I forget my Peace

And place thy Face upon our Mantelpiece.

[Exeunt Barthes]

[Enter Tour Guide and Group]

Tour Guide [gesturing to invisible Artwork]

This painting, made in Centurie Sixteen,

Did finally end the "Age of Ugly Green".

But the Art World had, within the week,

Begun the "Age of Copying the Greeks".

Lo! Ought we make a Pause and give them Meet?

Methinks we ought prepare a quick Retreat. [Exeunt all]