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Okay, so there haven't been any awards yet.
If anything, they would be more like citations.
So I guess it's good news that this is just a "conceptual thing"...

Whatever keeps us out from behind bars.

You approach the darkened doorway when a flashlight suddenly switches on and beams across a sign that hangs on the doorknob. You struggle to focus in the dark of the night. The sign, a fingerpaint affair, hangs crookedly, and you wonder if this operation is legit at all...

At the door, a man with a flashlight whose face you cannot see. You offer him cash for admission which he denies. No bizarre. He leads you downstairs to a small, windowless room. There is a makeshift stage area and forty or so mismatched chairs, one of which you take a seat in.

Godwilling, the audience begins to fill out, and soon it is standing room only. Just as the air becomes nearly insufferably thick with the presence of a crowd, the lights dim quickly and unceremoniously, and a hush fills the room.

There is a snare drumroll, and a spotlight, and you have your first glimpse of the emcee. A greasy, gothic sort, she tells you to relax and enjoy the ride...

The emcee exits and the players enter. The speedy delivery and hilarity of their performance is something you have not had the good fortune to behold in a long, long while. And though the technical quality of the performance is pretty much nil, you find yourself enraptured by the clever performance and the wit of the original script.

The players conclude the first act and the lights come on again. The flashlight man and a helper are serving free drinks out of a few nasty-looking old thermoses and they're pouring them into an array of mismatched disposable cups. You grab a drink but inspect and sniff it first: Hawaiian punch and Citrus soda. Not exactly Club Med fare, but you take a couple of belts of it and sit back down. No one in the audience knows anything about these strange folks. The house is a veritable cacophony of questions and befuddled exclamations. Then again, just as the crowd becomes overwhelming, the lights go down once more.

Again the players enthrall you with their clever banter. They exit, and the emcee reappears to summarize and bid you good evening, when suddenly you hear the sounds of police sirens outside, and a crash at the door!

The emcee just laughs and bids you a hasty adieu, and you see the players clamoring for an alternate exit. They barely escape as the fuzz arrive; two uniformed officers and a plainclothes detective. They search for the players in a frenzy but find they have indeed escaped. The detective turns, "They've struck again...The Break-In Players."

"I found this note on the floor," one of his subordinates pipes in, and hands him a scrap of paper which he reads aloud, "'The Break-In Players will strike again, one month from this night, at the Corner Coffeeshop after it closes at eight o'clock.' Rats!" he exclaims, and crumples the paper, "All right, everyone clear out of here," he tells you all, "there's nothing left to see here."

He and the other two usher you out to the lot, where you suddenly see the emcee and players laughing and giving each other high-fives. You have no choice, you and the rest of the audience burst into spontaneous, raucous applause. You hear the detective's voice, behind you.

"There they are, round 'em up!"

Fortunately, the emcee hears him as well, and she the players leap into a van which speeds away. The cops are too late to even pursue. The detective shakes his head.

"All right, lock this place up. You folks run along, and enjoy the rest of your evening. And try to forget about these delinquents, if you can."

This is an actual project we are considering installing in our local theatre community. We don't intend to have a home, but to rely on different donated spaces to perpetuate the gag that we are "breaking in".

We have no budget, we have no's bound to work!!!
So mail us with your ideas and suggestions!

But don't mock us-we're theatre people.
It's all we know.