Doomey's Floor Disquisitions

Day 1, June 15th, 2010
[doomey, standing by his desk, head down, sighs. theo watches doomey expectantly. as time passes, theo becomes aggitated. he taps his foot. his cheek twitches, some new facial tic. he crosses arms and glares at doomey. minutes tick by. tick tock. out in the lobby, someone screams. doomey comes to life. he grabs a ream of typed sheets from his desk, steps up to theo and shoves the manuscript up under theo's nose, startling the poor old shark-toothed bastard]

you sent me this? this...this...

[doomey shakes the pages. a few sheets come free and glide to the glass tiles. the mirrorball above creaks]

you sent me a story? i don't examine stories, ted! fuck!

[doomey throws the manuscript back toward his desk. papers twirl and float upward and sideways and downwards, and the Floor is a fluttering snowstorm of typewritten...story]

you sent me a fucking story.

[doomey grabs a page from the air. he shows theo the font typed on the page, pushes it at theo, quides it in real close so there won't be any mistaking what their talking about. theo must be able to smell the ink. the blue haired son of a bitch looks a little nervous]

this is a play slash movie script that's been sent to me by mistake, ted. you know damn well i have clients in the wings just chomping at the bit to tear me limb from limb come the end of the quarter if i don't supply goodstuff. you know this to be true, ted. you can wax poetic all day long about how we've been here, toiling under your thumb, for five long fucking years, but, hey, man, i mean, come on. come on! things haven't changed since day one, sister! i examine capital! i don't do this...this...

[doomey shakes the page]

bullshit, ted!

[doomey walks over to the Porthole, opens it, and then he shoves the page out into the deluge]

there. you happy, ted? dane robinson's Death Blooms at the Edge has been fucking shitcanned! it's been Portholed. i mean, is it a play, ted? with a horse drawn carriage in it? is it a movie script with acts 1 and 2? what the fuck is this, ted?

[doomey races around, collecting pages from the tiles, from his desk, from Dep's hammock. he collects a handfull and then he goes to the Porthole and shoves it all out into the stormy gloom, and then goes about collecting more]

don't do this to me, ted. i do not want to fucking die again, buddy. i need goodstuff or they're going to fucking murder me, okay? if those pussies out there are gonna just send in fucking stories...

[doomey convulses. he gathers his wits, collects the last of the pages and shoves them out into the deluge]

if they're just going to send us stories, then you can count me right the fuck out, ted.

[doomey breathes deep. he moves to his desk and sits, the desk chair squeaks as he leans back. he taps out a smoke and lights it up, sucking in some sweet, sweet smoke]

if your gonna fuck me up the ass,ted, at least buy me a fucking drink first, please. see, i'm being nice. i said please.

[doomey smiles]

so how you been, motherfucker?