5. The Plea

Drama zum Thema Verzweiflung

von  Mutter

The Plea

The silhouette of a giant man sits in a dark and gloomy bar, the face obscured by shadow and smoke. A woman, in her late twenties, dressed to kill, approaches the man and leans provocatively on his table.
Slowly, he blows a thick cloud of smoke in her general direction, regarding the dame with glinting eyes.

THE DAME: Hello there. You aren’t from around here, are you, big boy?

THE MACHINE: …

THE DAME: My, aren’t you the talkative type. Slow down, honey, I’m having trouble following what you’re sayin’. (laughs nervously)

THE MACHINE: What do you want? A drink? Some change?

THE DAME: THAT is very rude of you. What have I done?

THE MACHINE (sighs): It’s usually not about what people HAVE done, but rather about what they have NOT done. Sit down.

THE DAME sits down on a stool and flattens her skirt.

THE MACHINE: Who sent you? Trout?

THE DAME: …

THE MACHINE: Trent’s dead, you know that, do you?

THE DAME (puts her hand up to her mouth): …

THE MACHINE: Killed that son of a bitch last night. And you know what? I fuckin’ enjoyed it, every bloody second of it. Put my fingers around his wrinkly neck and pushed down, hard. Felt good, it did.

THE DAME (nervously): Mr. Trent is dead? Oh my God …

THE MACHINE: So, you tell me – who’s next? Who’s next in line? The Trout? Come on, open your pretty little mouth, before I have to do it for you.

THE DAME: Please, don’t kill him. He’s my uncle.

THE MACHINE: Listen, darling – he could be Mother Theresa’s uncle, for all I fuckin’ care, but it’s not up to me, okay? This gets decided somewhere else. And not up to you, either. So you can buzz off and blink your pretty lashes elsewhere. Come on, scoot …

THE DAME (sobs): …

THE DAME finally gets up and leaves the bar.
THE MACHINE takes a big gulp from his pint of stout.

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