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Synopsis
After closing his tab at a hotel bar in Valdez, Alaska, visiting playwright Elliot Rhodes is intercepted by an eccentric local couple, Mavis Hemingway, who claims to be related to Ernest, and her Wyoming transplant companion, Silas McCrea, who insists he met her while she was hunting bears by pretending to be one. Over one last drink, their stories grow stranger, their observations become increasingly personal, and their invitation becomes harder to dismiss. As Mavis and Silas reveal the peculiar life they've built together, and the unusual qualities they admired in the men who came before him, Elliot must decide whether curiosity is worth the risk. A dark comedy about loneliness, storytelling, and the irresistible pull of people who are just a little too interesting to ignore.
Inspiration Set
Playwright Note
This play is simultaneously a loose retelling and a surprisingly faithful account of one of the strangest nights of my life.
While attending a playwriting conference in Valdez, Alaska, I wandered out of the hotel lounge after one too many cocktails and found an eccentric couple sitting on the tailgate of their truck. They struck up a conversation, invited me back inside for a nightcap, and before long casually suggested that I come live with them. They assured me I'd have a room in their home, could stay as long as I liked, and wouldn't have to worry about much of anything.
They were utterly sincere. I was very intoxicated.
Now, common sense probably would've suggested declining their offer and heading back to my hotel. But I've always been fascinated by unusual people, and these two ranked among the strangest I've ever encountered. So, I did what any playwright with questionable judgment and an unhealthy curiosity might do: I stayed, listened, asked questions, and kept following the conversation to see where it wanted to go… right up until the moment I decided it was probably time to leave.
This version of the story takes generous liberties, but emotionally it's remarkably close to the experience I remember. What fascinated me wasn't whether these people were dangerous. It was that they were impossible to categorize. They were funny, unsettling, oddly charming, deeply lonely, and completely convinced their view of the world made perfect sense. Those are my favorite kinds of people to write.
Most of my work lives in that uncomfortable space where laughter and dread share the same heartbeat. It's where dark humor does its best work, lowering your guard just long enough for something unsettling to slip in beside you.
Whether Mavis and Silas were offering paradise or perdition, we may never know. I just know I was grateful to have met them… and even more grateful that I made it out alive, forever altered by the encounter.
While attending a playwriting conference in Valdez, Alaska, I wandered out of the hotel lounge after one too many cocktails and found an eccentric couple sitting on the tailgate of their truck. They struck up a conversation, invited me back inside for a nightcap, and before long casually suggested that I come live with them. They assured me I'd have a room in their home, could stay as long as I liked, and wouldn't have to worry about much of anything.
They were utterly sincere. I was very intoxicated.
Now, common sense probably would've suggested declining their offer and heading back to my hotel. But I've always been fascinated by unusual people, and these two ranked among the strangest I've ever encountered. So, I did what any playwright with questionable judgment and an unhealthy curiosity might do: I stayed, listened, asked questions, and kept following the conversation to see where it wanted to go… right up until the moment I decided it was probably time to leave.
This version of the story takes generous liberties, but emotionally it's remarkably close to the experience I remember. What fascinated me wasn't whether these people were dangerous. It was that they were impossible to categorize. They were funny, unsettling, oddly charming, deeply lonely, and completely convinced their view of the world made perfect sense. Those are my favorite kinds of people to write.
Most of my work lives in that uncomfortable space where laughter and dread share the same heartbeat. It's where dark humor does its best work, lowering your guard just long enough for something unsettling to slip in beside you.
Whether Mavis and Silas were offering paradise or perdition, we may never know. I just know I was grateful to have met them… and even more grateful that I made it out alive, forever altered by the encounter.
Production History
None to date.
Development History
None to date.
Awards/Recognition
None to date.
Reviews/Recommendations
"The mix of cool and creepy is even better when you realize that MISCHIEF AT THE BEST WESTERN does to you the reader what Mavis and Silas do to Eliott, hold you transfixed with ominous suggestive storytelling. Without ever sounding preachy or pedantic, Craig Houk has written an exemplary playwright's play, a worthy offshoot of said conference. Writing long speeches that work so well with the fast dialogue is the craft lesson I can glean from this masterly horror story of implication."
"There's a line on page 2 of this play that really resonated with me. It's not a line of dialogue but in the stage directions speaking of Elliot - "he's caught between exhaustion, intoxication, and the undeniable temptation to see where this is going." This perfectly encapsulates how you should go into a Craig Houk play. This one intrigues even as it makes you ready yourself for the inevitable dropkick you know is going to keep you up at night. Funny and creepy at the same time."
"I loved this creeper of a play, unsettling in its revelations, funny when it's disturbing. If you're a male playwright who gets the chance to go to Valdez, watch out for Mavis & Silas!"
"This short play has the eerie feeling of familiarity: memories of chance encounters with very different people in a far-off place, the moment frozen in the fog of one too many shots of bourbon. The tale that Craig Houk tells is hauntingly seductive, told by characters that beg the imagination to believe, and lucid conversations that you think you heard. You don't have to have been a customer at this particular place (although I have been) to place it firmly in the realm of it-could-happen."
"Craig Houk never disappoints with his signature style. Mischief at the Best Western manages to expertly walk the line of comedic intensity, which is not the easiest walk to tread. His bizarre, yet overly friendly antagonists, keep the compelling narrative rolling, keeping us just as hooked as Elliot is...all the way to the surprising finish. Well worth the read. Great roles for more mature performers."
"Houk at his hilarious, creepiest best. Unhinged, weird, yet strangely alluring, as with his best work he draws you in, springs the trap when you least expect it, and you're absolutely fine with that. It should be the hit of next year's festival, if not cause a surge in submissions from those who've read and loved it. Well done."
"A lamplit, Dutch-angle oddity that looks at you sidewise and sings to you in a slurry, sensuous undertone. Somehow, Houk's short play manages to be menacing and cozy at the same time. Alluring. Strange. Romantic. An excellent yarn."
"In the liminal quiet of a hotel bar in far-flung Alaska, a drunk writer has to weigh an offer as unusual as the couple making it. Craig Houk's reliable gift for eccentrics' repartee is fully on display, along with his sniper's instinct for physical comedy; there's also an unexpected warmth to be found in these oddballs' reveries. It's all very strange and unmoored, yet oddly grounded and relatable. If there's more to this story, I'll jump to see or read it; as is, it's a short that's sure to linger."
Enter "N/A" if not applicable.
REMINDER: No presentation or production of MISCHIEF AT THE BEST WESTERN; OR, THE INDISPOSED SEX SLAVE OF VALDEZ, in whole or in part, is allowed unless permission is granted by the playwright or his designated agents.