Bitter Brew of Buenos Aires

[The stage is set in the bustling city of Buenos Aires during the late 1500s. The curtain rises to reveal DON LORCA, a man of Spanish descent, sitting at a small wooden table in a dimly lit room, a cup of mate before him. His face is marked by the shadows of grief and revenge.]

DON LORCA: When shadows cast by setting sun doth fade And gentle night embraces day's retreat, The thoughts of dark revenge doth invade My soul, where once did live a heart so sweet.

[Enter SERVANT, with a sealed letter in hand.]

SERVANT: My lord, a missive, sealed with wax and dread, From lands afar, where Pampas grasses sway. It bears the mark of one you thought long dead, And speaks of debts that heavens bid you pay.

DON LORCA [taking the letter]: The hand of fate doth write in script unclear, And Argentine, whose blood will soon be shed, Will rue the day he crossed a man to fear, For by my hand, he'll join the silent dead.

[Opens the letter and reads silently, his face growing dark with fury. He crumples the letter and casts it aside.]

But how to serve this cold dish of revenge? A plan, a plot, a scheme must I now forge, To make his ending both cruel and strange, A poison in his mate, his life to gorge.

[He rises, pacing with a predator's grace, as the servant watches on, a silent witness to the brewing storm.]

For he who wronged me, robbed me of my love, And sent her to an early, earthen bed, Shall sip from bitter cup, and soaring above, His spirit will, but his flesh will fall like lead.

SERVANT: But sir, what poison dost thou intend to use? For mate is shared 'mongst friends, a sacred rite. To taint such bond, one's own soul might abuse, And in such act, one could lose heaven's light.

DON LORCA: Fret not, for I have toiled in secret arts, And from the jungles deep, a toxin wrought. A single drop, and then his life departs, In shared communion, his death is sought.

[He draws a small vial from his cloak and holds it up to the light, its contents gleaming with malevolent promise.]

And when he drinks, and falls to ground like stone, I'll watch the life fade from his treacherous eyes. For love and vengeance, both to heaven be known, Are passions pure, for which a man may die.

SERVANT: But what of thee, my lord? What fate awaits The man who vengeance seeks with poisoned brew? For such dark deeds do open hellish gates, And oft the poisoner's fate is poisoned too.

DON LORCA: I am prepared to walk through hell's own flame, To see that justice by my hand is served. For in this life, I've nothing left to claim, Save satisfaction that my wrath is curved.

[He stops pacing and stares out into the distance, as if envisioning the scene of his enemy's demise.]

So, let the plans of night be set in motion, The stage is set, the players know their cue. My enemy shall drink his final potion, And in his death, my life shall start anew.

[The servant bows his head, accepting the dark path laid before his master.]

SERVANT: Then I shall leave thee to thy task, my lord, And pray the gods be merciful and just. For in revenge, no man wields his own sword, But fate's cold hand that turns all men to dust.

[The SERVANT exits, leaving DON LORCA alone with his thoughts and the vial of poison. The stage darkens, and the curtain falls, signaling the end of Act I.]