"I don't eat beans with fellas the likes of ye."

A funny thing happened back in September. A play I directed called "Bug" had just finished its first week of production. The reviews came in, and they were positive. Before I could give myself a pat on the back, I got a call from the equity theatre in town. I had auditioned for the Irish play called "The Lieutenant of Inishmore" a couple weeks before. I got a call back but was not cast. Due to a conflict of another actor, they decided to recast and asked me to play the role of Joey, an Irish militia thug. I said sure. Take the roles at the equity house when they come.

"Shitting me knickers? Do you want to see me knickers to me knickers to see if they're shitted?"

They day after "Bug" closed, rehearsals began for "Inishmore." The play is a dark, bloody comedy by Martin McDonagh. It is his most technically difficult and hilarious play to date. It centers around a dead cat named Wee Thomas. An Inishmore local boy, Davey, finds the dead cat and brings it to who he assumes is the owner, Donny, only to discover that the cat really belongs to the his crazy son who is off in Northern Ireland planting bombs and torturing drug dealers. They decide to tell the son, Padriac, his cat is ill and will slowly tell him that the cat is getting worse until it dies. Letting him down easy. When the son finds out, he hurries to Inishmore to nurse his best friend in the whole world back to health. Of course, his cat is dead.

"I won't claim credit for battering a cat, because there is no credit in battering a cat. Battering a cat is easy. There's no guts involved in cat battering. That sounds like something the fecking British'd do. Round up some poor Irish cats and give them a blast in the back as the poor devils were trying to get away, like on Bloody Sunday."

It turns out that the son's cat was actually killed by fellas in the INLA (The Irish National Liberation Army), consisting of the trio of Christy, Brendan and Joey (that's me!). Because the son was planning to splinter away from the faction, they were luring Padriac back to his home where he wouldn't expect to be executed. Along the way back to Inishmore, Padraic runs into Davey's sister, Mairead, who still idolizes his roughneck ways.

"I never would have joined the INLA in the first place if I'd known the battering of cats was to be on the agenda. The INLA has gone down in my estimation today. Same as when we blew up Airey Neave. You can't blow up a fella just because he has a funny name. It wasn't his fault."

Christy, Brendan and Joey are kind of like The Three Stooges. Mocking & teasing each other, and ultimately supposed to inflict lots of violence. Joey is the sensitive one. He has no qualms about killing people, but braining a cat goes over the line. In their definitive scene together, Joey reveals his displeasure with the cat battering ways of the group. By the end of the scene, Christy and Brendan have their guns pointed at Joey, who wilts under the pressure and they drop the subject.

"Ah, let's not point our guns at each other. Sure, we're all friends here."

After many jokes and set ups in the first act, Act II revolves around Padriac's homecoming. The two bumbling idiots who told Padriac about his ill cat have attempted to shoe polish a cat because they couldn't find another black cat in time. Padriac comes in, shoots the phony cat dead and ties up the duo, getting ready to blow them away when us goons arrive. We come in and drag the son away to his supposed death, but the girl Mairead shoots our eyes out, and we come crashing back into the room with ready for our gun dance.

"She's had our fecking eyes out!"

With bloody eyes, we stumble around blind shooting off six to eight rounds each in a small theatre. Constantly missing. Padriac comes up behind Brendan and Joey and blows their heads off point blank. Little does the audience know that under our hoodies and ski caps are devices we strapped in to have blood shoot out our heads and splatter against the wall. I've seen my brains blow up four nights a week for four weeks now.

When you think it can't get any more bloody, the final scene consists of chopping up our bodies. The FX guy made head casts of the goons, so we have our heads on stage with bullet holes through them. Mine has a blown out mouth so my lip is half gone showing my teeth. It's the coolest thing. Really.

The whole thing ends in a bloody mess. Mairead discovers that Padriac unknowingly killed her cat (the half polished one), so she blows his head off. It leaves the two bumbling idiots, Donny and Davey, with four dead bodies in the room when they discover a cat has entered the house. It's Wee Thomas. The dead cat they thought was him turned out to be a stray, and all the violence occurred for no reason. It's probably the best comment on Irish terrorism ever made.

Although it was just a supporting role, being Joey was the most I've been paid for any acting gig. It was also the most intricate, bloody & technical show I've ever been involved with. Instead of saying 'break a leg,' I've been saying 'blow your head off.' Add to that learning an Irish accent, and I must say it's been a fecking enjoyable ride.

After four weeks and fifteen shows, I have one matinee left today. The blood and guns will end, and I'll settle in a nice non-violent Thanksgiving slumber. Goodbye, Joey-o. It's been swell fall because of ye.

Chris Jungle is finishing a run of eight months straight of theatre. Woof.