Two people, a man and a woman, are having a conversation at the bar of the SAGGY RACK, a strip joint on the outskirts of Colma popular with gay men and off-duty cops. Junebug, the bouncer and handyman, is tall, lanky, bug-eyed, wears coveralls and has a big, lopsided Afro -- his mannerisms suggest he's never left the Deep South. Charity is one of the dancers -- she's had enough work done to look vaguely feline.
JUNEBUG: Well, the way I reckon it, m'dear, is that we need our Mr. Willamses. Just like we need our overseers, our Janet Renos, our Hitlers. I mean, what would cotton candy, kittens, fireworks, and 16 year-old coalburners mean to us without evil? Alls I'm sayin' is, think about it.
CHARITY [adjusts her bra strap]: That's very wise, Junebug -- I've misjudged you.
Oh, and Junebug?
JUNEBUG [begins sweeping the floor around him]: Yes'm?
CHARITY: The back of the toilet's gettin' rusty again.
JUNEBUG: Yes'm.
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