GRAPES: WHAT TIME IS IT!!!
WRATH: I’M SLEEPING!! CAN YOU KEEP IT DOWN!!
GRAPES: !!SORRY WRATH!! I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU WAS SLEEPING FOR ACTUALS! I THOUGHT THAT WAS SOME PLAYFUL FRIDAY NIGHT TYPE THING!
WRATH: Nope, it was real. And now I am irrevocably roused. You could even say… “a”-roused
[GRAPES shucks her decomposing kimono with alacrity. Smoately, what does ‘alacrity’ mean?
SMOATELY: Ask me outside of the stage directions.]
GRAPES: “promptness of response.” (When I’m outside of the stage directions, I have my laptop, so I can just look things up on my laptop.) [GRAPES is spectacularly nude. Her body is a weeping faucet, a city’s worth of sex only a few twists of the knob away]
SMOTELY: Imagine, if you will, that you live in New York City, have perfect vision, one of the nation’s finest critical apparatuses, and the body of Michael Phelps, the Olympic gold-medal swimmer. Also you are Lou Reed, a little bit, inside, and in your clothes.
WRATH: He’s mostly talking to me.
SMOTEY: What do you do?
WRATH: Isn’t it obvious?
[It is totally obvious to both SMOATELY and GRAPES, but they look on anyway, mute and expectant.]
WRATH: I would fuck. A lot. Everyone. All those perfect peaches. I would pluck them. And fuck them. In their tiny apartments. Make their neighbors crazy with the sound. Go to work with my prostate a beaten and worn thing, tenderly tucked away for the lunch hour. I’d be a racehorse of pleasure. I would nail ersatz ponytails to my wall as trophies.
GRAPES: This is disgusting. [WRATH and GRAPES begin copulating hotly. SMOATELY steps forward and faces the audience. He fingers the buttons on his slate trenchcoat.]
SMOTELY: And here, thus, are the origins of Chicago post-rock, and that glitchy Aphex Twin sound, and freak folk, and whatever genre the Strokes and the Futureheads and all that is called. WRATH [gestures to WRATH’s pounding, exposed buttocks] is this culture’s Great Father. And Grapes [gestures exaggeratedly again, as GRAPES yelps with unvarying urgency] is the mother. Their spawn, which will sing its first note not nine months from tomorrow, will be the New Scene. Christmas is almost here.
[Giant snowflakes fall past the window. The downtown Brooklyn tower is visible, as is a cursive Coca-Cola billboard and San Francisco’s Transamerica Pyramid. What the fuck???]
[Eventually WRATH, who looks exactly like Wharf from Star-Trek, and GRAPES, who looks, whatever, hot, she’s Kate Hudson, who cares, are finished and lay spent on the bed. From the rafters, a gross oversized papier-mache baby is lowered onto the bed. It is dripping with syrup, which falls and pools on the bed as it is lowered. more syrup is poured down from above onto the baby as it comes down. The whole thing is gross. WRATH and KATE HUDSON aka GRAPES writhe and moan on the syrupy bed. SMOATELY, who looks, whatever, like Truman Capote or David Hockney or Elton John — lights a cigar and winks a bunch of times at the audience.]
END OF SCENE ONE