Sunday, March 22, 2015

Brass Pole

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.