YESTERDAY MORNING, 11:00AM, AT THE RAINBOW ROOM
(or this one, take your pick)
(Lights up on a private dining room with a magnificent view of the city. At the far end of table set for 12, a man and a woman slouch toward one another across empty place settings, their chargers, cutlery, and glassware swept carelessly to the side. Between the two sit a small bowl of lime wedges, two shotglasses emblazoned with the “I HEART NY” logo [hastily culled from a street-level souvenir shop], and a very large bottle of expensive tequila. The woman picks up one of the shotglasses, pours a hearty serving of tequila, covers the top of the glass with a napkin, slams it hard onto the tabletop, licks the side of her hand, downs the shot, and rips into a large piece of lime–in the process, rubbing off the last bit of Bonnie Bell gloss covering her thin, goyische lips.)
WOMAN: (Chewing) Jesus H. Christ, that fucking stings! What the hell were you thinking, getting goddamn sea salt?
MAN: What do you mean? What else was I going to get?
WOMAN: Regular Morton’s table salt, you dumbass motherfucker.
MAN: (Downing his own shot) What?
WOMAN: That stuff in the blue can or jar or whatever? With that picture of the salt girl and her umbrella? “When it rains, it pours?” (The man shrugs his shoulder) …You pussy.
MAN: Seriously, Katie, I don’t know what you’re talking about.
WOMAN: Shit, how the fuck did you end up here?
MAN: Where?
WOMAN: Here, with me. Did the turnip truck let you off at the freaking service elevator? (Downs shot)
MAN: I worked my way up from the very bottom.
WOMAN: Yeah, that’s what I hear, Matt…. Or should I say, Mathilde?
MAN: What do you mean by that?
WOMAN: Nothing, nothing…. (Patting his hand and smiling) Let’s just say that you and I have a lot in common.
MAN: Okay, you’ve lost me again.
WOMAN: Look, we’ve been working together for, what, seven years? Eight? You don’t have to play stupid with me. (Leaning over until her face is mere inches from his and whispering) When opportunity knocks, who cares if it’s at the front door or the back? (Smiles, sits again) Hell, the truth of the matter is that I respect you. You did what you had to do, and no one can blame you for that…. Besides, back then, Brokaw wasn’t so bad–all that salt-and-pepper hair, those big, watery eyes looking down at you…. Well, ’til he turned you over and went to town with that ginormous horsecock of his. I felt like the fucking Holland Tunnel for three goddamn weeks.
MAN: Katie, I don’t know what you’re implying here, but if you think that I–
(There’s a knock at the door, which we now see is barricaded with a stack of banquet chairs ten feet high. From the other side, we hear two voices, very muffled.)
WOMAN #2: Guys? Guys, are you in there? It’s us….
WOMAN: Shit! How did they–
MAN #2: We brought some “refreshments”…. Hey, guys? The door won’t open. There seems to be something blocking it.
(Suddenly, there’s a very loud pounding at the door, at though it’s being hit by a battering ram. Katie grabs the tequila, salt, and limes and ducks beneath the table. Matt follows. Soon we see the heel of an eight-inch platform boot crack through the door, making a small hole. Hands thrust through, enlarging the hole and tossing chairs aside. Eventually, the two newcomers enter the room: a large, African American man in a seersucker suit and a startlingly short woman who, though wearing the aforementioned platform heels, still measures only 5’2″.)
WOMAN #2: Katie? Matt? Come out, come out wherever you are….
MAN #2: We know you’re in here, you little scamps….
WOMAN#2: (Creeping toward the table and giving a knowing wink to MAN #2) Well, I guess they’re not here after all.
MAN #2: (Winking back) Maybe they went back downstairs….
(MAN #2 and WOMAN #2 simultaneously lift the tablecloth, revealing MAN and WOMAN.)
MAN #2: There you are!
WOMAN #2: Shame on you! Hiding from your best friends!
WOMAN: (Coming out from beneath the table) That does it, you cocksucking munchkin beaner!
WOMAN #2: Now, Katie, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: my mother was Japanese.
WOMAN: Fine. Then consider this my personal response to Pearl goddamn Harbor!
(WOMAN hurls a fist toward WOMAN #2, who uses the springs hidden in her platform heels to jump up on the table. Kicking, slapping, and considerable amounts of screaming follow.)
MAN #2: Come on out of there, Matt.
MAN: Uh, I don’t want to.
MAN #2: Oh, Matt, no one’s going to hurt you.
MAN: (Slowly standing) You’re sure?
MAN #2: Aw, come here and give your Uncle Al a big hug….
(MAN steps into MAN #2’s open arms. Shortly thereafter, MAN #2 begins fondling MAN, then groping. MAN #2 grows more aggressive, turning MAN to face window and committing sodomy upon him. WOMAN and WOMAN #2 race toward each other, heads down, and collide like bighorn sheep. They both fall to the floor, seriously wounded, collapsing into one another’s arms. The lights slowly begin to fade, leaving only the two copulating silhouettes in view.)
MAN: Al! Oh, Al!
MAN #2: Yes, Matt? I mean, yeah, bitch?
MAN: Al…I can see my house from here.
(Blackout)
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