Sketch: The Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse

Sketch #539: Recruiting the fifth horseman

INT: Bleak-looking office

Two caped and hooded figures sit at a desk. They have name plates in front of them, which read Death and Famine. Two spaces are empty, their name plates reading War and Pestilence.

A third caped and hooded figure stands in the background, struggling with a photocopier. From time to time, he smashes it very aggressively with his fist, before shuffling through a sloppy handful of paper.

A horse whineying is heard outside.

Death: War, have you finished copying those CVs? You've been at that photocopier for two hours now.

War (smashing the machine again): I can't... it’s just not – wait I think that’s got it... nope, I can’t get it to work.

Death: Honestly, what are you good for?

Famine clicks his bony fingers together.

Famine (singing): Absolutely nothing, say it again.

War and Death (together) : Shut Up.

Horse whineys ouside.

Death: And you shut up too, you bloody horse. (points at War ) How do expect us to recruit quality staff if your pissing mare is neighing all day?

War (returns to desk and sits ): Sorry. And we’re just going to have to share.

War stacks the papers in front of him and Death and Famine shuffle their seats a bit closer to see them.

Famine: What time's lunch?

Death: That's all you think about! Food food food.

Famine: Sorry.

Death: And where the bloody hell is Pestilence?

War: He called in sick.

Death: Oh, just great – how do we recruit quality staff if one of us is always throwing sickies.

War: He didn't sound well on the phone. Very throaty.

Death: Oh for Christ sake, Famine, call the first interviewee.

Famine presses a little box on his desk and speaks into it.

Famine: Mrs Hydra, can you send the candidate in?

The speaker emits a deathly howl.

Famine: Thank you.

Into the office walks, a young nervous looking hoodie. Death points a bony finger in his direction and points to the chair. The candidate sits down.

Death: (in an ominous, echoing voice, with attendant thunder and lightning): Name?

Candidate: Steve Jenkins

Famine: Hello, Steve.

War: Hello Steve

Horse whineys outside.

Death: Shut up. So... (leans over to see CV, obviously irritated) Mr Jenkins. Why do you want to be the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse.

Candidate: I really like working with people and I think I'd be perfect for the job, because I’m a real go-getter and –

War: What's your speciality?

Candidate: Making people stub their toes.

War and Famine wince and exchange nods of sympathetic agreement. Death looks non-plussed.

Death: Hmm. Mr Jenkins. Do you really think stubbing toes is, how can I put this – scary enough?

Candidate: Can be.

Death: You think people are really going to quake at the thought of the rumbling hooves of War, Famine, Pestilence, Death and Stubbing Your Toe.

Candidate: Er....

War: Oh come on, Death, give him a chance. He’s got his own hood, so that’s a money-saver right there. How about War, Famine, Pestilence, Death – and Steve?

Famine (giggling) : On bass.

War and Famine raise their hands in classic devil’s horns of rock poses.

Death: Thank you Mr Jenkins, but I’m afraid we’re looking for something a bit more... epic, shall we say, than toe stubbing.

Jenkins exits.

Death:(into speaker): Mrs Hydra, send in next interviewee.

The intercom speaker howls. Horse whineys outside. Death grabs the pile of papers from War, stands and walks towards the photocopier. He stubs his toe on the desk as he goes.

Death (hopping around the room wincing and grabbing his toe): I hate this job.

Famine: Is it lunchtime yet?

Fade out