Will Shakespeare, Space Alien

by Jeff Gaba

One of the persistent concerns of Earth literary critics is how William Shakespeare, the child of a glove maker in a small English town, could have written perhaps the greatest plays in human history. The answer is simpler than many suppose. Shakespeare was not, as most have been taught, born to John and Mary Shakespeare in Stratford, England. He was, in fact, born Willx Shaghorne, to Grilf and Mary Shaghorne on the fifth planet of the Betelgeuse star system. He only immigrated to Stratford.

An obvious, but overlooked, clue to his origins lies in the first published reference to Will Shakespeare. Robert Greene, a disgruntled and envious contemporary playwright, described Shakespeare as “a tiger’s heart wrapped in a player’s hide.” This is typically seen as a reference to Shakespeare’s description of Queen Margaret in Henry VI, part 3: “O tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide.” In fact, it is a quite literal description based on Greene’s inadvertently seeing Shaghorne molt his outer skin, a frequent occurrence during Shaghorne’s stay on earth.

Being a space alien does not, of course, explain the extraordinary success of Shaghorne as a playwright. Shaghorne was a rather mediocre intellect by the standards of Betelgeuse, or even Earth. There are, perhaps, two explanations for his ability as a playwright.

First, Shaghorne was telepathic and stole works from some his greatest contemporaries. Most of his best lines were plucked from the minds of Christopher Marlowe, Ben Jonson, and Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. Second, Shaghorne had a remarkable knowledge of the galactic literary canon. His Hamlet, was, in fact, an almost verbatim copy of Sibil Griblie’s famous play, Hargret, Prince of Glorn. But more on that later.

How, you may ask, could Shaghorne have possibly hidden his extraterrestrial origins?

One explanation is that most Elizabethans were illiterate and even stupider than Shaghorne. It was no great feat for Shaghorne to show up in London in 1588 claiming to be an actor from Stratford. To be fair to the Elizabethans, the Internet had not yet been invented, and it was impossible to google his background.

Another uncomfortable explanation is that he “offed” the real William Shakespeare and assumed his identity. It is not clear why Anne Shakespeare, Will Shakespeare’s wife, did not notice that her husband had three testicles after he returned to Stratford from London.

In addition to “how,” you may be wondering “why.” Why would Shaghorne have left his home planet to travel to the backwaters of the Milky Way? And why, of all things, would he have assumed the difficult and uncertain life of an actor and playwright? His limited intelligence should not be overlooked as an explanation, but it is also true that Shaghorne loved the limelight. He was a ham. However, this explanation has been questioned, since there were neither limelight, limes nor ham on Betelgeuse. He loved nothing more than parading around on a stage and receiving the accolades due a wildly popular playwright. Given his lack of native talent, it is perhaps not surprising that he could achieve only on Earth the notoriety he craved.

It was his thirst for publicity that proved to be Shaghorne’s downfall. Galactic civilizations take their intellectual property seriously, and even productions on an obscure planet ultimately would come to the attention of the Milky Way Actors and Playwrights Union (MWAPU), an organization that jealously guarded the intellectual property rights of its members.

The MWAPU had little concern for Shaghorne’s mental pilfering of the thoughts of Earth playwrights. Neither Christopher Marlowe nor Ben Jonson was ever known to have paid union dues. Copying the plays of a noted MWAPU member like Sibil Griblie was, however, a different matter and called for the sternest response. Typical penalties sought for this type of copyright violation involved restitution of profits from the illegal production and vaporization of the offending playwright.

Shaghorne first learned that he was in trouble with MWAPU in September, 1611. One of his last plays, The Tempest, had just been performed for the first time, and it takes no great imagination to see him kvelling at the thought of himself as the magician Prospero. At that time, he was at the very height of Ben Jonson’s powers, and he no doubt chuckled at stealing the best lines in the play from that noted university wit.

But by 1611, news of the success of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, had made its way to the accountants of MWAPU, and they immediately connected Shaghorne’s play with the far more famous play by Sibil Griblie. In no time, MWAPU ~~thugs~~ lawyers showed up at Shaghorne’s door in London.

Shaghorne peered out his window and saw two well-dressed Elizabethan gentlemen holding briefcases standing at his door. This triggered alarm bells in Shaghorne’s mind: briefcases had not yet been invented, and neither of the gentlemen smelled of shit. Something was definitely wrong.

Shaghorne’s first thought was that Marlowe was pulling a practical joke. He rejected that as unlikely, since Shaghorne himself had invaded the mind of some lowlife in Deptford, directing him to stab Marlowe to death in 1593. Jealousy among playwrights in 1593 was no less common than it is today in 2671.

The only alternative was Shaghorne’s other great nemesis: the MWAPU. “Zounds,” he thought, “these must be MWAPU ~~thugs~~ lawyers. First, I have to get out of here. Second, let’s kill all the lawyers.” Will Shakespeare, master actor, was also a master of disguise. Quickly putting on the makeup and clothes of an Elizabethan washer woman, he casually walked out the door, passed the lawyers, and headed down the street for the Globe Theatre. Had he not left his molted skin on the floor of his rooms, he might have escaped. But as it was, the MWAPU lawyers realized his ploy and were soon on his trail.

Shaghorne was no Fool, but he was at least smart enough to realize that the Globe Theatre was the first place the lawyers would look for him. He was also smart enough to know that the second place they would look was the brothel around the corner from the Globe. Two steps ahead, however, was as far as Shaghorne could think, so he ducked into the third most likely place they would look: the bear-baiting arena next door to the Globe.

Bear-baiting was serious entertainment in Elizabethan London. Large, ferocious bears, maddened by hunger, would be attacked by fierce dogs. The Elizabethans would bet on who would die first, the dogs or the bears. Great sport, second only to watching Shakespeare’s play Cymbeline.

The two lawyers quickly found him near the bear cages. “Mr. Shaghorne,” they proclaimed in their most pompous legal manner, “we are here to serve you with a Writ of Reploxin. You are hereby ordered to tender to us all of your profits from your illegal production of Hargret, Prince of Glorn and submit to being disintegrated before a jury of your peers.”

Shaghorne had, of course, long since drunk all of the profits, and he had a religious objection to being disintegrated in front of anyone. So, using the superpowers conferred by the strong yellow rays of the Earth sun, Sol, Shaghorne kicked each of the lawyers in all three of their respective testicles. The lawyers paused to consider a reply to this argument. Shaghorne using his native mental powers, — not apparently enhanced by the strong yellow rays of the Earth sun, Sol — took advantage of this opportunity to open the cage confining the bears, enter and close the gate behind him.

It might be appropriate at this time to discuss the differences between an earth bear and a Betelgeusean womspittle. Both stand about six feet tall; both have sharp teeth and sharp claws; and both are fierce carnivores. In fact, the primary difference is that a bear will rip you open and eat your guts, while a wompspittle will suck your guts out your nose and drink them. This distinction is primarily of importance to taxonomists.

The difference was certainly lost on Shaghorne who, when confronted by an angry bear, put his hand over his nose. Sensing his mistake, Shaghorne looked at the advancing bear in front of him, and the angry lawyers behind him. In the instant, Willx Shaghorne made his move. Opening the door to the gate, he dashed out of the bear-baiting arena into the darkness.

Willix Shaghorne of Betegeuse exited, pursued by a lawyer. In the dark, winding, smelly streets of Southside London, Shaghorne managed to elude his pursuers, and, shouting, “Eastward Ho,” he attracted the attention of a waterman who rowed him upstream on the Thames to apparent safety.

Chastened by his close encounter, Shaghorne decided it was time to retire from the theatre and await the next ride off Earth. Home in Stratford with the family of the original Will Shakespeare, he relaxed and waited by drinking, whoring and mentally torturing Ben Jonson. With a memory only slightly longer than a womspittle, he quickly forgot about the risk of being discovered.

But Shaghorne underestimated the tenacity of the ~~thugs~~ lawyers in pursuit of justice and billable hours. In April 1616, the MWAPU lawyers tracked him down in Stratford. By this time, they had determined that Shaghorne was “judgment proof,” and they would not get any money out of him. So, on orders from their client, they pursued a different strategy. Taking the shape of Shaghorne’s “friends” and fellow playwrights, Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton, they enticed him out for a night of drinking, whoring and mentally torturing another Elizabethan playwright, John Fletcher.

Shaghorne, drunk on his ass, was no match for the crafty lawyers. In no time they had infected him with the dreaded Venusian virus, Oratio taediosus. The virus has a hideous effect: its victims incessantly recite rhymed couplets in iambic pentameter. Death usually ensues within days from being stoned to death by family members and passers-by.

Thus was the fate of Willx Shaghorne.