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Bugsy
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Post Sun Jul 22, 2007 10:56 pm - Bugsy
Bugsy
<br>
A Play In Three Acts
<br>
645 East 14th St. 9-E
New York, New York 10009 212-995-0299
Holycity@juno.com


<br>
Cast:
<br>
Sechel a male angel. He also plays Bugsy Seigel.
<br>
Zhlog a female angel. She also plays Doctor Schlock.
<br>
Actor l Plays Columbus, Bradford, Washington, Jefferson, Grant, Theodore Roosevelt, Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt, Kennedy, Reagan, and Clinton.
<br>
Actor II Plays Gomez, Mather, Lafayette, Lee, Rockefeller, Churchill, Bobby Kennedy, etc.
<br>
Actor III Plays third lead parts such as Stalin and Teddy Kennedy.
<br>
Actress l Plays female leads, such as Sally Hemmings, etc.
<br>
Actress II- Plays second female leads.
<br>
Note:
<br>
The various settings and times in history should be mirrored an the stage very lightly or not at all. Costumes and lights should suffice to achieve the effects of a production where empty space and a fluidity of aery devices would be most effective.
The characters should play this work in masks. The masks should be, like the production, suggestive rather than realistic.

Act One
<br>
(Enter two half naked nubile maidens carrying baskets heaped
with tropical objects such as palm leaves, mangos, bananas. They giggle as they touch each other's bodies. Enter Bishop Gomez and Christopher Columbus. They survey the women with severe yet ironic looks and then move downstage.)
<br>
Columbus This is my last voyage to the New World. When I first sailed toward the dying sun people thought I would find the spicy isles of the Indies; the priests spoke of dragons, leviathans, behemoths and the abyss. What was once the bed of the day is now the dream of Iberia, and I am a hoary ghost in Seville, though I have made Ferdinand and Isabella rich.
<br>
Gomez To make the whole world like Spain, my dear Captain, is
a holy work worthy of us, is it not?
<br>
Columbus Undoubtedly. Did you ever get to know the religious of
these pretty little girls we've enslaved? Something cruel and colorful, I hope.
<br>
Gomez It was the most arrant persiflage and madness the Devil
could invent to pollute the minds of youth. They wore no clothing, knew no shame, and acted as if they were in Eden. Worst of all, they never heard of Jesus. They are lucky you sailed her, Commander; otherwise they would be making love her all day and night, devoting themselves to infernal joys. They say they predicted out coming; one day when the sky is filled with chariots we will know they also saw our end. What do you make of such hellish mischief?
<br>
Columbus Nothing. What does one make of drivel?
<br>
Gomez That's what they say about our religion, Admiral. Or what
they said. We've killed most of them.
<br>
Columbus Good. There's no room for blasphemy in paradise. My
Goodness, sir, I hope you burned all their holy books, killed, tortured, enslaved the best of them, and whipped the pretty women to show your detestation of this horrific cult and its criminal ways.
<br>
Gomez I could not do less and forgo my duty to God, the Bloody Son and the Weeping Mother. I butchered babies, crones and bodies made for love, all the time commending their unbaptized souls to
the hell closest to heaven.
<br>
Columbus Excellent. I hope these nubile maidens in front of us are aware that it is the divine purpose of God to make Spain the ruler of the world, and have even the green lizards slinking through the jungle acknowledge the grace and awful power of Christ.
<br>

Gomez I would be lacking in zeal were I to have educated them to
think anything else but that, Captain.
<br>
Columbus Capital. We've given them syphilis, self contempt, Spanish, a love of tyranny, athlete's foot, and Christ Jesus. I've never named this place, have you?
<br>
Gomez They have their own name for it; we've destroyed their
language, gods, manners, cuisine and taste for carnal pleasure. We are like Adam in Eden here; we name everything. We are the lords of these tawny animals.
<br>
Columbus I name this place: Puerto Rico.
<br>
Gomez An exotic choice, Commander. It is the door to carnality.
These sluts have subtle forms of amorous manners that make
the satanic palatable.
<br>
Columbus There are youths and wenches on this island that bear a
fair resemblance to you, Gomez; can there be any truth in the rumor that you have not remained chaste, poor, or even virtuous?
<br>
Gomez It is a lie in the throat, a railing burlesque of my ghostly charity to these vessels of beauty, spread by rude sailors who infest this paradise with spite for holiness.
<br>
Columbus Then how do you know so much about their charms, my dear Gomez?
<br>
Gomez Mere report, sir. I am married to Christ.
<br>
Columbus You know, Gomez, I sometimes wonder whether our Jewish friend was the messiah.
<br>
Gomez Why? He preached loving your enemy, the virtue of poverty, and that God loves the meek. Where would we be without him?
<br>
Columbus- Yes, but we rule a world of vegetables. His ideas are totally crazy. This island needs something more than enslaving men and nights with little girls under banana trees.
<br>
Gomez- What do you mean?
<br>
Columbus- We need to turn this island into a pleasure resort of some kind. Gambling, cheap brothels, endless entertainment, and a cocktail at the shore for the newly arrived mariner. Murder and soporific religion is a sign of poor organization. I sense sometimes in a vision another Jewish man of genius found a city in the desert on a nearby continent that vault us into the future.
<br>
Gomez- In God's Creation anything is possible.
<br>
Columbus- Sometimes I feel possessed.

<br>

Gomez- Perhaps you are.
<br>
Columbus- Gomez, has it ever occurred to you that we are not merely ourselves?
<br>
Gomez- If we are not ourselves, then who are we?
<br>
Columbus- In the act of love, don't you feel like an actor on a stage?
<br>
Gomez- I do represent God.
<br>
Columbus- Yes, an uncritical accepter of lost souls, a kisser of lepers.
<br>
Gomez- Our God is the God of Love.
<br>
Columbus- This love kills better than the sword. It gelds a man of pride.
<br>
Gomez- God is only half of Spain, Admiral. Where you go, I follow. They will tire of me soon enough. Do you think I am the last chapter here? I may stabilize what you discover, but eventually I do it badly. The Devil follows me.
<br>
Columbus- Then Satan must pay you wages; you are his employee.
<br>
Gomez- Perhaps he does my lovers.
<br>
Columbus- What after the Devil, Gomez?
<br>
Gomez- What follows Lucifer? Pain and death.
<br>
Columbus- Perhaps comfort, the relief of being trivial. Things follow other things. One must be intrepid and have a good ship to sail on. One hears the nightly sound of buggery among my sailors, the yelping of the enigmatic weather in the unmappable seas while we discover the next world at the risk of death in the open sea. I am a voyager and my nostrils scent God lurking in a spoor of brine.
<br>
Gomez You are a mystic, captain. You have the uncanny look of one not altogether human.
<br>
Columbus I have seen infinity. I know what is mysterious.
<br>
Gomez You need amorous refreshment, Captain. Even mariners and
saints need a bout with soft flesh to detain them from too hasty a trek to paradise.
<br>
Columbus Are you suggesting we steal away with these two tawny wenches and have our way with them under the Jumabalaya trees?

<br>
Gomez Even the ark of Noah finally dropped anchor.
<br>
Columbus- Noah was a true sailor; he listened to God. He rode the elephants of the water. (He sings. The ladies listen.)
<br>
We ride on waves of up and down
We eat dried meat and grain
We wonder how the best can drown
Though most men live with pain.
<br>
We wail and try to understand
Who chases, who is chaste
We walk on water, search for land
Beyond the salty waste.
<br>
We think of women, booze and ports
And maids with genteel diction
Tales, accounts of fabled sports
Or lovers' daily friction.
<br>
Time turns our virgins into drabs
It makes the new the old
Marks the past with faceless slabs
And turns all summers cold.
<br>
When we pull into a cave
Of frankincense and spice
We know most love's a honeyed grave:
A dead man's paradise.
<br>
Gomez An admirable air, Captain;, I didn't know you were a chanter and poet. Such wiles work well with a woman's heart.
<br>
Columbus- Music is their true lust; verse is their amusement. Love is their revenge.
<br>
Gomez- You rail well, admiral.
<br>
Columbus- Yes, I am accounted a wit here and in Seville. (He points to one of the women.) You will take this comely slut, Bishop? (taking the woman Columbus has pointed out up politely by the hand, leading her to the exit, left.) Have you read Aristotle, Captain? This Greek says we differ from the animals because we reason. Our Church claims we have souls. Sometimes even a saint tires of definitions. (Exit Gomez and the woman.)
<br>
Columbus- Do you speak my language, my little mango blossom?
<br>
Woman- Not well, Captain. So you wish to whip me?
<br>
Columbus- You have been destroyed enough. You have no past. You are empty. If I freed you, at the core of your heart and loins you would be a perfect slave.

<br>
Woman- I am utterly your slave.
<br>
Columbus- I know. Would it surprise you that the world thinks no less of me? They've infected me with sin. I recovered. The sea cured me of their singular ideas.
<br>
Woman- Will you whip me now, admiral?
<br>
Columbus- I think I will make love to you. To you this is the Old World. To me, I would like to see something new. (He takes her up, holds her hand lightly, and leads her to the exit left.) I think we should be comfortable. My world is grandiose. Even our defecations are metaphysical theatre. Let us do something trivial. (He embraces her.) I think we should be comfortable. (As they embrace, Zhlog and Sechel, dressed like angels, enter stage right. Columbus and the women do not see them; they are invisible. They saunter toward center stage, observing the embracing couple.) I think we should be kind to each other. (Exit Columbus and the woman.)
<br>
Zhlog- This Creation is huger than the last two, though much less interesting. God may be running out of elegant ideas.
<br>
Sechel- He said it was good. Perhaps there are refinements here
too subtle for angels. God has ideas even the seraphim don't
comprehend. We're minor angels, Zhlog; we stumble through
darkness.
<br>
Zhlog- Has God given us the right to play our little game?
<br>
Sechel- God insists on it. We make history happen, Zhlog.
<br>
Zhlog- Does God notice how well we do it? I'm surprised he can find us in this enormous maw.
<br>
Sechel- God always knows where you are, Zhlog. Even the hummingbirds look fatigued when you walk through a garden.
<br>
Zhlog- It stinks of death, but only angels like you can sniff the odor, Sechel. I cover the horror with perfumes.
<br>
Sechel- I could smell you on the first planet of Andromeda. I battled you; we made history. They're all dead, but there's a statue of me on a sulphur mountain.
<br>
Zhlog- Their death was beautiful. I exploded them. The lovers thought it was a casual excess of passion.
<br>
Sechel- You kill with love. God must like you.
<br>

Zhlog- I wouldn't know. Angels like ourselves have never been even in the outer court of the Nameless. You know, I am mistaken for God himself frequently; I am only an angel but there must be something even more divine about me than I've guessed.
<br>
Sechel- They mistake me for Satan.
<br>
Zhlog- I wonder whether Satan is flattered or mortified. Sechel, you don't look at all like him.
<br>
Sechel- I'm the Angel of Life. I don't have his qualities. I'm too ferocious. Satan is rather a humorist.
<br>
Zhlog- I'm the Angel of Death. They think I'm God; who would believe I was death? I come with pleasure, and fragrances, and simple cults; I am full of sentimental ideas, I even give out sweet desserts, I'm more than a little pious.
<br>
Sechel- Most creatures are uneducated; they don't have enough information about you.
<br>
Zhlog- Perhaps they know everything. Death for the aging is a relief.
<br>
Sechel- Life is a joy, but who would guess it, Zhlog?
<br>
Zhlog- People think of life as delight, not work. They've seen the reality with which I choose to bedevil them. This is a new world and a new life. It's too bad God didn't make Creation altogether like this place.
<br>
Sechel Is this America?
<br>
Zhlog No, it's Puerto Rico. (He turns to see Bradford, Mather and an Indian entering stage left, pulling along two witches.) Here comes America. (They walk off, invisible, stage right.)
<br>
Bradford We brought these two wenches here for you to question,
Mather. They are about to be hung; we assay it might be better for their souls if you chastised them somewhat in your usual frightening, relentless manner.
<br>
Mather Are you sure these two are witches? They look treacherous enough; not all evil women are creatures of Satan. Some are Jezebels, Eves, Delilahs and Magdalenes because they want to be.
Satan likes to seduce people in Europe; here, it is freedom.
<br>
Bradford I know what you mean, sir. Freedom is of the devil, yet we have traveled on the Mayflower for freedom. Is not the
mathematical end of this syllogism that we are all creatures
of Lucifer?
<br>
Mather Were I not sure of you, such sophistries might suggest you were carnally possessed by the Dark One, Sir. Lies are
beautiful but not persuasive; Satan sometimes uses truth to
foment evil. The Pope says are Salems are weird parodies of
Jerusalem, our sermons hellish madness, our morals sterile, our

virtue terminal obsessions, our land a citadel of pain remote
from Heaven. The Pope is a degenerate. We live here burning
witches, studying Hebrew, and training women to be frigid. The
truth of God is bitter.
<br>
Bradford It is a mystery. Our prophet Milton fought for freedom yet linked Lucifer with liberty. As the Devil bows to Heaven,
freedom leads us closer to enigmatic flesh of God.
<br>
Mather What do you mean by that, sir?
<br>
Bradford One embraces nature; nature is astonishing. I think Satan did not cross the Styx of the Atlantic. Perhaps, like the
vampire, he is confused by flowing seas. I think God is somebody
we left behind us in Europe sometimes.
<br>
Mather What do you mean by that, Mr. Bradford?
<br>
Bradford I think nature is God here.
<br>
Mather The inevitable suspicion of a virtuous man, sir. Already the whole world on the other side of the planet seems to be a kind of fiction. I have always felt our ingress into America is
no accident. The Pope was so maternal, so tolerant, so effeminately Babylonian in his acceptance of singular passions.
Something like Rome will follow us when America grows tired
of life. People hate God; He is always good, always right,
always perfect. Would you tolerate perfection in a lover?
<br>
Bradford You are right. Time will give God a bad name. Sots will
embrace some Anabaptist theory of free love, cheap saints, and
boozy rites. Well let them come. God's will be done.
<br>
Mather Sometimes I see a new messiah: an expert baby doctor. He is building a new Zion in the middle of the desert. He turns
the race into children who look like adults. They come from
all over the world to play games in a Holy City of wheels
and numbers and whirling bails; they gather to make love to beautiful lacquered women and eat truffles in this gaudy capitol of the miraculous world to come. He will call himself the
light of the world; he will rule the sands of the West.
<br>
Bradford Why don't we do it ourselves? Anybody can call themselves the messiah; it's easy.
<br>
Mather We call ourselves saints; it's the next step.
<br>
Bradford Pah, I doubt it, Mather. What could the future come up with that is not detailed in the Bible, or what we haven't seen
some idiot yokel practice on a nearby farm?
<br>
Mather Redemption. Of all sorts and to all tastes. In the West.
<br>
Bradford But isn't Zion the other way? To the East?

<br>
Mather- Of course. Do you think I've lost my sense of direction?
<br>

Bradford Wouldn't this baby doctor build Zion in Israel, Mather. In fact, why are we here on this rocky soil? Shouldn't we start a Crusade, forget about America and settle Israel?
<br>
Mather What a ridiculous thought. We're Puritans; leave that to the Jews or the Pope. Zion is in the heart.
<br>
Bradford We Puritans are the real Jews. Read the Apostle Paul.
<br>
Mather I'm honorable, Bradford; I don't like reading other people's letters, especially if they're insane. We are here because God wants us to be here: to murder Indians, to make love to witches. (At this, the Indian changes expression slightly,
but the two witches look up pertly.)
<br>
Witch I- You Puritans make such bad lovers. All you know is the
missionary position.
<br>
Bradford- It is the amatory taste of the cherubs, you prize slut.
<br>
Witch II- Indians don't make bad lovers. Of course, they don't come quickly enough.
<br>
Bradford- This is an educated Indian, you saucy boob. Say something educated.
<br>
Indian- I feel disgust and shame at my whole ancestry. It was puerile, banal, reeked of poverty, was at once savage and trivial. My ambition is to go to Harvard, reside in London, join the Episcopal Church, and despise myself and my country.
<br>
Bradford- This is indeed an educated Indian.
<br>
Mather- He isn't willing to die for us. Say you are willing to kill or be killed in any stupid war, to defend your right to hate
yourself.
<br>
Indian- Good.
<br>
Bradford- Let us begin the trial. These witches must die. (to the witches.) Come here. (They approach him and stand.)
<br>
Witch I- Before you make love to use could we put on our manacles, sir?
<br>
Mather- I think not, my little bean pod; nothing is more delicious the throes of love than an abandon untainted by power. God knows you arrant doxies scream as though we were performing some medical operation. One could go stone deaf from love. Are you possessed by Lucifer?

<br>
Witch I- like to couple, mumble things and go to sleep. Nothing
diabolic about it; if anything it's rather boring because
most of our lovers speak colloquial Greek, Latin and Hebrew,
We think angels and evils are hovering around the pickles and
cheese, and make love so soberly you'd think they were writing a sermon. Most try to convert me to their faith and politics.
<br>
Witch II- If it weren't for the Indians, life would be empty.
<br>
Mather- Well, there may be a virtue in vice without a mandatory celestial theatre. You don't pray to Lucifer?
<br>
Witch II- For what, sir? Everything is free.
<br>
Bradford- She's right; all you have to do is exterminate the Indians and everything from squaws to corn belongs to you.
<br>
Indian- I'll help you do it. Indians have an Asiatic look. Let's put them in concentration camps in the desert. I'll guard them.
<br>
Mather- An admirable Indian; so many of them are thieving savages. (to Witch l) Let us call off this scurvy trial; let us leave the rites of tyranny to Rome's Babylonian whore. Let us enter the land of freedom. I want to couple with your exquisite body, my little pumpkin; in this region I am afraid it will mean nothing. (He embraces her.) I am used to the large notions of Europe. Yet I am tempted by a coupling which, when one thinks of eternity, is an irrelevant episode. Your breasts intrigue me.
<br>
Bradford- Come, Indian and witch. (He pulls both of them off toward the exit left.) We will leave these two godly mortals to their pleasure. Delight is a folly most powerful when unobserved.
(over his shoulder at Bradford.) You three should have a singular evening in the interior of a pumpkin. (Exit Bradford, Indian, and Witch I.) I am afraid of you, witch. Any lover knows they take away something of the ghost of their beloveds after even one night behind a pile of corn husks. I am a bit terrified you will give me a disease: a nutlike verity that will annihilate my reality. Do you speak in tongues, witch?
<br>
Witch I- You should try my tongue. I can even speak with my fingers.
<br>
Mather- You will rob me of my faith, witch. Sometimes I think it is the conquest of the universe by the sainted Christian forces
when they are not busy killing each other, and other times
I think it might be the triumph of Islam, or a plot to make
the poor of the universe rich. I am frightened of you. With
your promiscuity and indifference to God you are much more of
this New World than I am.
<br>
Witch I- I am not chaos. Have you ever thought of continuous entertainment?

<br>
Mather- Continuous entertainment. Is that the future? One would
have to be ceaselessly inventive. Perhaps you are, witch.
<br>
Any thing is possible here, witch.
<br>
Witch I- Even your own fulfillment. You may be all you can be, Mather.
<br>
Mather Without kings, bishops and belief in Lucifer, I might very well, my little dragonfly.
<br>
Witch I Wouldnít you like to live in a Creation that needed no sermons, had no tragedy?
<br>
Mather I would have to give up my religion. (a slight pause) That would not be unpleasant. My beliefs make me tense. I project my hatred of my nature, of nature, onto others like our Indian friend. I am no goody goody; I am tired of pretending to be something a man can be only when he is very sick or very old. Will you show me how to be myself, witch? (They walk to the exit, left.)
<br>
Witch Gladly. You are one of the wonders of the visible world; you may astonish both yourself and the hierarchies of Heaven, Reverend. (As Mather and the witch exit, their backs to the stage, Zhlog and Sechel enter stage right; they watch them leave.)
<br>
Zhlog This America is a second chance?
<br>
Sechel It'll collect the jetsam from all over the world, every failure. It'll be like reincarnation: a jaunt across the Atlantic.
<br>
Zhlog It seems dangerous. They'll have a chance to remember everything about their past lives.
<br>
Sechel You'd prefer death, wouldn't you. It's such an expensive atrocity.
<br>
Zhlog I'm the Angel of Death. Extermination when done properly has more somber beauty than you and your lust preceding torpor
can mold from dust and air. Besides, they love me in the
marketplace more than you.
<br>
Sechel You are more attractive, Zhlog; given your payoff, you have to be.
<br>
Zhlog If America works, I suppose God will make all Creation like this paradise. The Puritans even call it Zion, don't they?
<br>
Sechel They named their capital after Jerusalem. It's better than Minsk.

<br>
Zhlog This will be an interesting battle between us, Sechel. I'm
glad God invented America.
<br>
Sechel I notice that America was settled by maniacs. You know what God says about Redemption. People can go to heaven anytime.
They donít want to.
<br>
Zhlog God is a wit, isn't He? We're lucky. Suppose God were nice, but a bore?
<br>
Sechel We are lucky. Let's watch this for awhile.
<br>
Zhlog No. This time we'll act. (Exit Zhlog and Sechel stage right. Before they do, Enter George Washington, Lafayette, Martha Washington and Pythagoras: a Black slave, none of them noticing the retreating angels.)
<br>
George I need my wife satisfied while the Marquis and I plot this revolution and you act as if intimacy is a comedy of manners.
<br>
Pythagoras Love is all expectation, a soft illusion, a cheat.
<br>
Marquis I admire your savoir faire, sensibility, and je ne foi gras, George; to educate your slaves is crazy even for a
democracy.
<br>
Martha I like educated lovers who are slaves. They're usually
unusually volatile. Slaves have to have a feral life; they look for power in bed. Ambitious men like yourselves make terrible lovers. (She kisses him lightly.) They make powerful husbands though.
<br>
George Why should anyone expect me to be a great lover, even a good one; I'm a military genius; I'm so busy I don't have time to sleep with my own wife. I've become a kind of specialist so I educated my slave Pythagoras here to be her lover. It used to be a man could do everything for himself, even masturbate; now he has to hire armies to fix him a tolerably strong mint julep.
<br>
Martha I despise slavery; it cheats people of their chance to act badly of their own free well. I never know who my lovers are; for all I know I've never has any, only my husband's field hands.
<br>
Pythagoras You have embraced a philosopher, madam; most of the Roman savants were no less slaves than your servants; no Roman matron complained that love was crude stuff when blended with wisdom.
<br>
Martha You have been magnificent.
<br>
Pythagoras It is simple, madam; I am not a maniac. Your country has been settled by pietists and thieves; I have been brought

here by force; it not my world. Whatever lunacy I have, you will never know it.
<br>
Marquis- You are the true American, Pythagoras; your life is mysterious and trivial.
<br>
George- For that very reason you are merely an avatar of nature to us, Pythagoras. We cede you that. We're still Christians enough not to want it. But we've escaped enough from our manias to need you to be our pioneer.
<br>
Pythagoras- Have you? Perhaps there are lunacies waiting for you even worse than Christianity. Consider my life; I was robbed of my legacy: cannibalism, endless war, starvation, galloping diseases and lives dominated by revenge. I was forced to become a Greek philosopher. Perhaps I will only lead you to a new way to die, George.
<br>
George- You have freed me from my wife; I have freed you from the incivilities of African manners. who has helped whom more,
Pythagoras?
<br>
Pythagoras- Offer your deep questions to our wise Creator; the best questions are never answered.
<br>
Martha- I hate a wit as a lover; only recipes should be complicated. Love should be simple.
<br>
Marquis- The battle commences in a few minutes, a war which will, at least for a few minutes decide the rate of mankind. This is no time to doubt liberty; they may hang us for trying to take it.
<br>
Pythagoras- The power to die, to commit suicide, to belittle, besot, befoul betray oneself, while one has a good time, to dramatize God's perfection with one's own insolent counterpoint, to suffer for one's own mistakes and not those of insane masters: this is worth fighting for.
<br>
Martha- You're still a slave; Pythagoras, we never freed you.
<br>
Pythagoras- So were the Hellenistic Greeks; power holds you in bondage, my lady. Anyway to be a slave in an asylum, a playpen or a hospital is no tyranny at all. In life, nothing fails like success.
<br>
George- Eventually we'll have other wars in which we will fight to be slaves; any cause worth struggling for becomes in a man's lifetime by its very success a tyranny worth marrying oneself for. Before America tires of freedom and adult life. I hope to discover monsters.
<br>

Pythagoras- They are everywhere. Creation specializes in the grotesque and lunatic. In Africa they say we have been sequestered here by a divine providence because we are not fit even to revel with the more insane animals. Of course, the animals are more insane in Africa than they are in Virginia.
<br>
Martha- I thought this was Lexington.
<br>

George- People who live their life on their back have peculiar ideas about geography.
<br>
Martha- Youíre the worst lover anywhere, George. You're lucky you're a military genius; otherwise the whole country wouldn't put up with you. You're cold. You're worse than a fish.
<br>
George- Well, Carpe Diem.
<br>
Marquis- He has an admirable sense of humor, does he not, Madame? He speaks Greek with a charming Spartan frivolity that amuses the civilized. With those saucy little breasts you could make me speak Chinese, Polish and Arabic, Madame, simultaneously.
<br>
Martha- I suppose you're come here to be free. You'll be spending your time mostly in a stupor if you survive your tastes, recovering from your carnal excess.
<br>
Marquis- Pardon my clichťs, which are un-French, but in a revolution wit has always seemed effeminate. I hear the sound of drums coming closer. I feel a slight stirring in my loins; my ears have never distinguished properly between love and death. I have come here at worst to find a more picturesque route to oblivion, a unique nightmare.
<br>
Martha- You are male. You have the power to do so.
<br>
Marquis- When power comes your way, my sweet, you will do no less. You discover an Arctic faeryland wrought from wombs and comfort; believe me, you are no different than men: we destroy triviality; you multiply it.
<br>
Martha- You will make a good lover after Pythagoras.
<br>
Marquis- I will bore you. Aristocrats have a narrow range of acquaintance which makes them dull to others though interesting to themselves: a contemptible paradox. As a lover, my one skill is mimicry; I do wonderful animal imitations.
<br>
Martha- It might be delicious for a night to confuse you with a bison.
<br>
Marquis- My lovers love me forever; I am like a religion. In France I learned from the Catholics how to be a lover. I never step the ceremonies; I am one ball of continuous entertainment. I perform miracles. I warn you; it will make you bored with yourself.
<br>

Pythagoras- It will free me.
<br>
George- What's the big deal? Poof! You're freed. You were always free. Slavery is a sort of legal invention.
<br>
Martha- Go do whatever you want. See if I care.
<br>
Pythagoras- I have. Now that you mention it, I have always been free. (a short pause.) By the way, I'd like to thank both of you for teaching me how to read. My people are all Christian converts; we all think of ourselves as Jews.
<br>
Marquis- Really? You don't look Jewish.
<br>
George- Books may distract you from Creation; I hope I have done you a service.
<br>
Pythagoras- You have, sir. (He begins to sing the "Freedom Hymn".)
<br>
I have mounted the mountains, Iíve fondled the fountains
Of many a recondite pleasure
I have mapped out ripe valleys, been antic in alleys
Perusing your sensual treasure.
<br>
Though I've sampled some goods in the sagebrush or woods
From the slaves on your ample plantation
Prom every child bride who's not ugly or died
To the mother and pride of your nation.
<br>
Her holy appeal stems from freedom's ideal
There is God in her amorous gaze.
Her buttocks and mouth are the hope of our South;
Her face has a grace I must praise.
<br>
Martha- Your ears and your lips are not only ripe
Your spirit is blessed with good humor.
You're not the worn sort who has corns or a wart
Flat feet, lack of heat or a tumor.
<br>
Iíve spied in ablution your sweet constitution
I'm love's slave and you clasp what you capture
Few expect to select and collect when correct
Such acts are rejected in rapture.
<br>
Marquis- There is one declaration Iíd offer the nation
When freed from tyrannical rule
Women are wings on whom some fly from kings
They make slaves of a husband or fool.
<br>
Your patriots's fight for their natural right
Of a free man to learn his potential
But when one lacks a mate to lust for or hate
A certain sangfroid is essential.

<br>
George- Some have the will but they spill all their fill
After milling and mocking about.
Some play fey in the hay or may lay in a way
That causes that boils or the gout. (To Martha.)
<br>

I love a society scorning propriety
Loving satiety, dearest. (Enter Zhlog and Sechel.)
It sends a deep shiver through heart, lungs and liver
To make free with the neighbor thatís nearest.
<br>
All- We are free from the priest, from his robes at the least
And bullies who claim to be regal;
Yes, we're free to attempt to turn tastes that we're dreamt
To pleasures most banal and legal.
<br>
Some say that we're slack about freeing the Black;
I consider such charges absurd.
Freedom is heady, but when we are ready
Weíll bring in the Chinese in a herd.
<br>
George- Tom Jefferson and Sally Hemmings! How marvelous of you to visit our camp. We thought you two had an affair that made history trivial. Perhaps youíre here fur the food; it's really pretty sorry fare.
<br>
Sechel- (He wears a revolutionary three cornered hat that does not disguise his usual mask; Zhlog wears a bandanna.) Sally, this is George and Martha Washington, Lafayette from France, and Pythagoras, their slave. You remember them from the orgies at Monticello.
<br>
Pythagoras- I am no longer a slave, sir, though as George pointed out, I never was when I thought I was. Itís amazing how credulous even philosophers can be.
<br>
Sechel- Iím sorry to hear you're been freed. Thereís nothing like slavery to keep love healthy. Sally, I wonder how long you and I and our nine kids would last without slavery. Slavery at its worst lasts longer and is more comfortable than the dullest amour. I suspect the whole world will want to be slaves someday; not the way weíve done it, of course; manacles and chains have given slavery a bad name.
<br>
Zhlog- I like slavery. It's nice to be valued, Tom.
<br>
Sechel- Of course you do. One day your grandchildren, Pythagoras, will beg for slavery, affluent slavery, bondage to paradise.
<br>

Pythagoras- Aristotle says meet men prefer slavery; perhaps itís only for revenge; most slaves take the names of their prestigious pharaohs only to parody them by leading lives at variance with their luminous models. If my descendants are like me they will be free even in the bonds of amorous labor.
<br>
Martha- I thought it was love. Yon whispered to me you adored me.
Pythagoras- I adored you because you are a star burning through the darkness of eternity, a paragon, a genius, a kind of Bible, the closest thing to God there is, my buttercup.
<br>
Martha- O my ebony idol, my dark emerald.
<br>
George- Women loved to be loved; when they are not they will civilly put up with veneration.
<br>
Marquis- Nobody venerates like a slave. Too bad you freed him; he may turn to even love to a paradox.
<br>
Pythagoras- Your extraordinary parts conjure up the unfathomable and alien elements in my nocturnal nature. We have brought God back to America, you and I. What sensible God would take a chariot ride to Earth when its inhabitants are bores? Dullness, my dear, a repetitive tediousness in love in what long age exiled God from Earth, and sent Him to lave the arachnid fare of other stars. While we couple He will ne longer ignore his prophets nor smile at evil.
<br>
Martha- Then we must couple all night long and forever.
<br>
Pythagoras- It is a prelude to the future. We are the first sane people in Creation. Even we must be redeemed by a higher evolution.
<br>
George- (exalted) It's true. We are a new work of providence; our freedom will be seen in our darkness. Let the suicides, the morons, the self befoulers, the satanic daemons run into the streets and parade their infamies on a holiday rife with flatulence and gluttony. Call it Thanksgiving.
<br>
Martha- George likes to invent holidays; itíll make our country attractive.
<br>
Marquis- So will the chance to defend liberty, not the caprice of some besotted tyrant. You two are drafted. Go to the front. Your ears will take you to the dreamland of drums and cannon. Pick up a rifle. Shoot at anything patrician in red.
<br>
Zhlog- You're drafting slaves and women? You're cruel, Marquis.
<br>
Marquis- As a slave you have a purity and intensity that l lack; as a woman and creatrix you are closer to God than I am. Yet defer to me, my delectable chocolate bunny, in matters of politics. Freedom must be defended; most of the world is ruled by tyrants. Our very existence is a threat to them; they must attack us. We merely want to clear America of repression; then we will return to chamber disasters.
<br>

George- Sanity is at stake, my lovely jar of molasses. We are the first sane men on God's Earth. To tyrants such a world is unthinkable and dangerous. They consider sanity a perversion no just deity would countenance when God and Kings could have the adoration of lunatics. What do you think this revolution is about? What do you suppose we're spent four years fighting in the snows and marshes for but to live outside any social caprice, to be utterly ourselves as God is and men should be? We will promise the peer riches and the zealots there own Western bedlam, but that is all Pythagorean metaphor. We are an island of reason in a sea of madness; we are defending ourselves against pirates, subterranean monsters and water.
<br>
Pythagoras (winking at Martha and Zhlog) Then, to battle for liberty, my pretties! Let us dance to the front, chanting a glad song. We will murder the enemies of reason here in America, and everywhere, every place, forever. (He leads Martha and Zhlog toward exit right.)
<br>
Marquis That is the wrong direction, Pythagoras. Such a route will infallibly take you away from the struggle.
<br>
Pythagoras I am aware of that. We are stopping off at the manse to pick the illustrated works of the Marquis de Sade in your private collection. War is mostly boring; we will fatigue ourselves for battle if we do nothing but make love in the trenches.
<br>
Zhlog I will nurse them as they fall, spraying out their rich
blood while dying. (Exit Zhlog, Pythagoras, and Martha.)
<br>
Marquis I wonder whether anyone will show up for this battle. The food and lovemaking is so bad here we may get a big crowd
because they have nothing else to do.
<br>
George It hardly matters what happens. War has become unfashionable in England. When people are fatigued with glory, they make love and leave stale rituals to the church. Eventually England will leave here and we will do as we please.
<br>
Sechel Our natural ally in reason is France. I have been offered as a new Eden of liberty the vast territory of Louisiana by
revolutionaries who in a mere decade or so will rule Englandís
old enemy. They need money; they want us to make of Louisiana what we will to keep the British out of America. We may eventually spread sanity throughout the universe.
<br>
George Come, Tom, we mustn't talk or even think like that or we'll be one more death dealing legion sheathing murder in priests and piety.
<br>
Marquis He is right; I have not come halfway across the world to
fight for a new Established Church, even if it is the Church
of truth and reason; I have too much faith in nature and none

at all in ideas held more than five years. I am, of course,
in touch with these zealots; they love reason like a virgin Messiah; like all coquettes, they will tire of her. Of course, they tire of success no less quickly. They will kill each other till they tire of public death, and then bow to a tyrant, perhaps a general, who free men of their kings in huge rites of bleed. And so it will so there, under the name of any God from Christ to Reason. Mr. Jefferson, we have a chance to be sane here. To be alive, to be conscious.
<br>
Sechel- Wouldn't you like to bring freedom to the Indians? Isn't
Pythagoras better off as George's slave than free in a jungle? We won't conquer the Indians; we'll seduce them as if they were beautiful. We will give them a mere stimulating life; weíll free them with the gaudy toys with which he garner lovers.
<br>
George- Indians are boring. How many ways can you kill a man with a tomahawk?
<br>
Marquis- I don't know; itís a question for scholastics.
<br>
George- Five. I counted them. Perhaps God will forgive us for redeeming the unimaginative. He is, after all, the author of the stars where boredom must exist in a purity unknown to our motley whirling.
<br>
Marquis- Alors. To the battle, my President, where the holy enemy is in view and does the dance of death in uniform. (Exit George and the Marquis.)
<br>
Sechel- (singing) It's all a dark stew like a custard of goo
As Newton and Noonan have showed
Some will make love with many, some wonít sleep with any
Some lie with boys if the mode. (Enter Zhlog)
If States are our churches let's haggle but purchase
The land to the West clear to Texas.
It might be terrific to own the Pacific
To see how the West Coast affects us.
<br>
Zhlog- Come, Sechel; there is a revel in heaven. Bring your harp.
<br>
Sechel I will do better than that. I will bring you! (Exit Zhlog and Sechel.)
<br>


Act Two
<br>
(A table surrounded by four or five chairs. It will stay on stage for all the scenes in Act Two. Enter General Grant and General Lee. They are meeting at Appomattox.)
<br>
Lee This war has been about dying, Grant. One is shot by strangers; one dies in a costume.
<br>
Grant War is elephantine madness and buffoonery, Lee. This has been a just war on both sides, if that is not some sort of paradox, but issues of Secession and Union are, at the point of death, a gossamer mockery of keys to glory.
<br>
Lee If you only knew the perversity that lamentably has become a
rampant contagion among us. We have fled loss of hope among
shadows; we have turned from freedom to parodies of diabolic
revels. We are accustomed to degradation. (He pours a yellow
liquid from a carafe into one of several glasses on the table.)
Will you have a glass of urine, sir?
<br>
Grant No, thank you. I suffer from excessive narrowness in all ways, according to my wife; I rarely drink urine. I am partial to good whiskey.
<br>
Lee You are very introspective, General: a quality perhaps more apt in a priest than a military man. To your success. (He toasts Grant, then sips the beverage.) The rigors of war, sir, force men to do things they normally would not do; after fifteen minutes, an hour at the most, they regard such unthinkable persuasions as normal, beautiful, even morally necessary to please both God and irascible lovers; I have meditated upon that, Grant. I suspect Creation itself is, to the eye of providence, grotesque.
<br>
Grant Iím sorry you lost the war. Perhaps it's the urine, but you give history, sir, a certain fine manner.
<br>
Lee Itís the dung; the fare of the vanquished. I hardly eat anything else. One must not weaken one's system by breakfasting on delicate fare. Afterwards, you must come to my camp, General; our cooks will astound you. They are wizards in the kitchen. Their passion for freedom in cooking knows no sane frontier.
<br>
Grant Now that the war is over, I suppose you will amuse yourself by collecting memorabilia and writing erotic verse. I myself intend to open up a mastodon farm.
<br>
Lee They're extinct. You're too late, General. As for me, I detest erotic verse; I have too much respect for sex and poetry. I leave the public pleasures of peace up to you, General. I am suspicious of delight that, unlike torture, does not have a certain fatality. I shall retire to tastes that will not leave a single footnote behind me because they will be incomprehensible.

<br>

Grant You have a fine tradition of cavalier amusements with alcohol and slaves that would console any philosopher, General.
<br>
Lee Come now; my people are Virginians. We produced America, literally. Washington was its midwife and Jefferson its teacher; do you think we prefer to sip sour mash brews and discuss with our slaves how to pick tobacco and cotton?
<br>
Grant Iíve always admired your men of genius; Iíve always thought God must be a mere pure wunderkind. Jefferson amazes me. He rewrote the Bible, played the violin, wrote everything from wonderful letters to the Bill of Rights and the Constitution, founded a college, spoke French, had a Black mistress and dabbled in amours like a god. Men of genius naturally treat each other men as if they're morons, if not slaves; I suspect that if we have made slavery anathema we have done no less to genius and the elites that support them. I suspect you Virginians may take up the Arts, General; there must be some place in the world for the uncanny.
<br>
Lee You will never outlaw slavery; you will only call the new bondages by another name. Men, sir, are slaves of country, life, appetites, sentiments, history, manners, mistresses, and finally, the state. There is nothing in this world but slaves and masters; ones most adept at domination like the Jews and after them the Egyptians Romans and English, are our models. Our farm animals are slaves we kill; our pets are slaves we love.
<br>
Grant Admirably phrased, but the South is finished, sir; you ruled your country like an Opera. The North is finished too; if people were insects a factory would be Heaven, but as one learns from a study of lushes and love, the only true slavery is a world that chains men with pleasure.
<br>
Lee The Chains Of Pleasure. I read a novel by that name, translated from the French, once. How do you propose to make slaves of imbeciles who wander anywhere, and do anything they please, sir?
<br>
Grant- It will take awhile. I don't begrudge the poor their taste of paradise. I have visions of a baby doctor.
<br>
Lee- What's that?
<br>

Grant- I'm speaking metaphorically, sir. Pain and pain alone leads to freedom. Our factory workers will demand vacations, affluent wages, ripoffs and pensions even before birth; at this point we can't do without them, but eventually we will give them the piffle slaves want for their portion: easy money, abstract games of power, love as a diversion. We cannot legislate pain out of existence; that is laughable. But we can create a city y God; a land of milk and honey with tireless entertainment that will console them for being born, if we can only find the proper desert setting where emptiness surrounds the leaden heaven like a blanket of ether around a green star.
<br>
Lee- One would have to have the audacity of Moses to convince millions of people to leave their homes to inhabit this new world. There's a man by the name of McDonald thatís sold wafers and bread by the millions out there; he'd be better than Jesus. You need a leader that has a certain glamor, that nobody questions.
<br>
Grant- I was thinking of Jesus. They say he's been resurrected so he must be around somewhere, possibly in Miami, where most retired Jews live. McDonald might be a little cheaper. Speaking of money, sir, why shouldn't we all make this war into a profitable occasion?
<br>
Lee- Make profit from war? What an astounding idea. Haven't all of us made enough money on this churlís conflict already? We couldn't extract another dollar from it if it went on another ten years; I had the market sewn up when Sherman went through Atlanta. They had to pop my popcorn and toast my marshmallows. We all need a war which occurs among scurvy and swinish mountebanks who are utterly expendable, in some place thousands of miles away, preferably in some foul Asian jungle. Then we can throw in the Mexicans we made Americans in the last war. There's nothing wrong with Texas that an all White population wouldn't cure, sir. Most White people are schizophrenics, sir; give them a clean street near a brothel across a border and they're happy.
<br>
Grant- War and Peace, sir, are ultimately seasonal events, like Spring and Summer, sex and sleep, or love and indifference, but money can be made from everything: Life as well as Death. Once we have the technology, we will not fight anymore; we will pretend we are and send the proper photographs to the newspapers. I've been reading Marx, sir; the man is basically sound. I'm asking him to be my labor advisor. He has wonderful business ideas.
<br>
Lee- I thought he was against us.
<br>
Grant- Karl Marx? The man is very reliable. Ever hear of the classless society?
<br>
Lee- Yes, it's called the Bowery.
<br>
Grant- Exactly. Imagine a world like the Bowery. No Art, no family, no hope, no civilization, no unctuous priests, no morbid doctors, no nothing. Just bums. If Americans won't go for it, we'll import our legions from India and settle them in the cities. We don't have to be choosy about Indians; they're all bums, they like to be bums their gods tell them it's great to be a bum.
<br>

Lee- This Marx sounds like a revolutionary to me. I need a glass of urine. Youíre sure you won't join me?
<br>

Grant- I have always been faithful to my wife, tobacco and whiskey. (Enter John D. Rockefeller and his wife.) Hello, John; you're here just in time for the surrender. (looks at Lee) He's surrendering.
<br>
John- This is a country where the women conquer and the men surrender.
<br>
Wife- Quiet, you horrendous swine; you make a buffalo seem elegant when you make love.
<br>
John- We're disgusting animals; I want to make love to you, my darling, as an accursed soul deep in the bowels of some bestial nether Hell. I want to be shaggy, unkempt, hirsute, a fit companion for urine tainted trysts.
<br>
Lee- I feel the same way. Have a glass of urine.
<br>
John- I take in human trash metaphorically. Love with my wife is like rolling in loathsome mephitic jelly. A kiss from her is
unclean, porcine, menacing.
<br>
Wife- A caress from you is like an attack from a diseased
wild horror.
<br>
Grant- This is Mr. Rockefeller and his Mrs., General Lee; most people have the strangest notions that the Very Rich make love in rather more interesting ways than we do; I have urged these two to detail their amorous habits to enlarge the range of intimacy among the American populace, but genteel folk have always had a distaste for being fashionable.
<br>
Wife- (to Grant) An affair with you would be vulpine and moronic. We would rival insects in tedium; your amorous techniques would depress God.
<br>
Grant- I've always suspected God had a manic enthusiasm that needed somebody like me.
<br>
John- I wish you would cuckold me with these slaughterhouse nincompoops; your lust competes only with the frozen hungers
of the arch demons of hell.
<br>
Wife- I at least live to propagate progeny whose looks will please heaven for about ten years; you are vermin from an outhouses, a vintage crop from a cistern. Men like to drink rotgut, barf and lie in the gutter; when they are not, they make love like a brown bear chewing on meat.
<br>
John- Love with you is a murderous studs unworthy of the moles, the three toed sloth and the ape.

<br>
Wife- You would chill any fire. God fashioned you out of puky murk and a garland of moony nightmare.
<br>
Lee- You know, I hope you don't mind me saying so; you must be an extraordinary person to make love to. Your words have a hypnotic music I find very stimulating.
<br>
John- My wife is one of the meet ferocious lovers in the Midwest. She embraces the gross and bold with ardor that would embarrass an opium fiend. Take her with my compliments; you can surrender to General Grant here, you can surrender to anyone.
<br>
Lee Thank you sir; I think I will. (He leads her to the door, exit left.) Iíd like to introduce you to some vintage urine. Itís
not human. It comes from diseased geese; it's very French.
<br>
Wife You drink it neat?
<br>
Lee Of course not. We spice it with cloves, usually. On holidays we add nutmeg.
<br>
Wife Weíll use it to wash down plates of my poisoned mushrooms.
wife and Lee.)
<br>
Grant Love is a sort of religion; some adore one God, others need more.
<br>
John We train our lovers to be pious by our imperfections. Most
women begin by loving men and end by loving God.
<br>
Grant Lee needs a little diversion; heís just lost a war and surrendered.
<br>
John He didn't seem too disconsolate about it. Are you sure you won, Grant?
<br>
Grant John, the only people who lose wars are the soldiers who are destroyed by them. Everybody else wins. You and I become
millionaires, of course; so does Lee. Even the common soldier on both sides kills and rapes as he never can in any place beyond the brothels of Samoa or his nightmare dreams. War is the true Art where people discover the irrational; it gives a voyager the ultimate freedom. War will end only when people discover something more interesting. (Enter Sechel and Zhlog, dressed as Eskimos.) who are these: ice cream salesmen?
<br>
Zhlog Weíre Eskimos from Antarctica. Weíre ambassadors from a country which doesn't exist. We're here to make a deal with you.
<br>
Grant There are no Eskimos to the South; your remark is intriguing, sir. Your fiction corrects nature's imbalance. What business do you wish to broach? We have no lust to purchase chains or Confederate money.

<br>
Sechel We are selling dreams. You dream of enslaving the world with pleasure.
<br>
Zhlog We want to help you. We have a trove of inventions from what some call Lemuria, others Atlantis, which you nowadays
call Puerto Rico. They will change your lives for the better.
<br>
John- The last time I heard that, I got married.
<br>
Zhlog- (taking out a radio, turning it on.) Listen to this; you can dance to it.
<br>
Grant- Frankly, dancing to me seems a little trivial. Aren't you colored, by the way?
<br>
Sechel- Yes, of course, we're Eskimos.
<br>
Grant- Well, we've freed you.
<br>
John- No, you haven't; Eskimos are Indians. These two go to the Reservation.
<br>
Grant- Sorry, I haven't freed you.
<br>
Zhlog- We're not Eskimos at all; we're from Nigeria.
<br>
Grant- Well then, I have freed you.
<br>
Zhlog- We were never slaves; we live at the Arctic Circle. That's why we call ourselves Eskimos.
<br>
Grant- Well, well, I reckon I haven't freed you.
<br>
Zhlog- We escaped from Alabama illegally; we were once the property of an Atlanta horse meat barbeque. We were the ones who made the hot pastrami.
<br>
John- Atlanta isn't in Alabama.
<br>
Sechel- Atlanta, Alabama is in Alabama; it's right next to Peking and Moscow. And we are genuine men of bondage. (sings)
<br>
I suppose it's trite when I think how the White
Made myself and my family slaves.
We'll get you and your brother too
History breaks in waves.
<br>
A Christian is pure, a Worker is poor
Everyone envies the Whites
Except a machine, well oiled and clean
Dancing in rhinestone tights.
<br>
We're the only ethnic Americans

That can't make love or dance
We hate to woo, we love a pew
And saints of high finance.
<br>
My lips are thin, I never grin
No gin will touch my mouth
Folks in the snow don't really know
Why some attack the South.
<br>
I love high European thought,
And all men know we hate
The wicked crazy British kings
Who made you emigrate.
<br>
I'll marry my wife in the afterlife
If you give me my lover too
I'll make love to a mate whom I love and hate;
Ainít I just like you?
<br>
John Excellent. You have the true soul of a slave. I'd like to mass produce your experience but not in igloos, in tents, call it by a military name: camp, make it for children: they are the distilled slaves.
<br>
Grant John is a little crazy. (He shoots the radio. It goes off.) Just as I thought; it s an animal that sings dance music.
<br>
John Mad? I'm not mad. I merely want to cover New York City wish buildings looking like file cabinets. I've got a warehouse full of crucifixes I don't know what to do with. Maybe I'll start a gigantic Sunday School. I could make this whole globe into a Pax Americana: a stable, clean, well run huge factory that would make everybody secure.
<br>
Sechel You need a desert city of abstract gambling, loose women, and continuous entertainment. With a leader.
<br>
Zhlog The world is an insane asylum. Who runs a loony bin?
<br>
John A doctor.
<br>
Grant You do need a leader that no one questions. I was thinking of somebody's mother. Not my mother; she's too busy.
<br>
John A doctor is better. They kill and everybody pays them for it. People trust doctors.
<br>
Zhlog You need a baby doctor.
<br>
John Well, I have reservations.
<br>

Grant Give them to the Indians. (to Sechel and Zhlog) Come, gentlemen, I am thinking of running for president. I want you to join my cabinet. You'll provide the dance music. I'm planning to make Karl Marx my Secretary of State.
<br>
John I thought he was against us.
<br>
Grant You've been taken in by him, John. Marx is merely bargaining. (Exit Grant, Zhlog and Sechel.)
<br>
John (alone) Now that it pays, a cowboy prays
To catch an Apache when stealing
Pillage his land, give him free sand
Offer him soybeans with feeling.
<br>
We pushed him West; we murdered the rest
Seduced them with brandy and soda
I love all these nations with few reservations
In spite of their love life and odor.
<br>
We increased like a beast in our Mexican feast
Someday we'll do it on Mars
We'll get diarrhea in Guam or Korea
Weíll puke up bad beer on the stars.
<br>
We'll sleep with the dregs with their spidery legs
We'll chew on their lavender tits (Enter Zhlog, unseen, who watches.)
We'll orgy with women more like a persimmon
Though God Knows such dreams are the pits. (Exit John.)
<br>
Zhlog- (looking like the angel he is, sings The Ballad of Dr.
Schlock.) You've been hobbled in your home
Nobody notices when you roam
Your wife has a boyfriend; so does your lover
You know what Columbus didnít discover
Giraffes and sheep and friends in a heap
Sprites from the deep and what comes cheap
You're electric from a state of shock
There is nothing you can lock
You've the heart of a chicken, the flesh of a cock
You might do better somewhere down the block
You need an expert; you need Dr. Schlock.
<br>
You're haunted by dad, grandad too
You wander by cages in a zoo
You'd like to preach, beseech and teach
You feel there's nobody you can t reach
You'd like to kick in every ruler and clock
There is nobody you don't knock
There is no soul you won't rock
There is nothing you won't mock
You need an Expert; you need Dr. Schlock.
<br>
(Exit Zhlog, with wild laughter. As he leaves Wilson and Clemenceau enter. They do not see Zhlog.)
<br>

Wilson This is an extraordinary moment, Monsieur Clemenceau;
the Versailles negotiations will start in about three hours. I must admit I feel somewhat nervous.
<br>
Clemenceau Woodrow, I have waiting for us in the foyer some exotic entertainment which may relieve you of such lamentable
anxiety.
<br>
Wilson Mere amusement has a frivolity that I would find difficult to explain to my Maker, my dear Clemenceau. However I think God approves of pleasure when it relieves a paralyzing and
appalling nervousness. Even the most shallow and sybaritic bagatelle, I must warn you, produces in me animal spirits in a surfeit that leads to an unmanly fatigue.
<br>
Clemenceau Love and death exact the most painful dues from us. Et entre nous, mon ami, les poules ici en Paris, c'est meilleur
que champagne.
<br>
Wilson- You speak French beautifully, monsieur. I've always admired people who speak French.
<br>
Clemenceau I am French, monsieur; what language do you expect me to speak, Mandalay?
<br>
Wilson Pardon me, sometimes I am woefully obtuse. This is France; you are french. You should be speaking French. In fact, what would be more appropriate than a Frenchman speaking French in France?
<br>
Clemenceau Precisement. Vous desirez les poules tout suite ou apres notre deluge des mots injustes?
<br>
Wilson I don't see how chicken will quiet my neurological
pathology, but perhaps you have a way with wines and spices
that will conjure a soporific effect on my ganglia. Or do
you mean a swimming pool? I don't swim, or walk on water.
<br>
Clemenceau Merde.
<br>
Wilson I'm not mad. I'm just not crazy about chicken.
<br>
Clemenceau Vous avez ses amusements; peut etre vous avez en Amerique une maitresse avec les yeux comme une tigre d'or.
<br>
Wilson Don't you have anything more comfortable than a mattress
to sit on?
<br>
Clemenceau Monsieur, I do not sit on my maitresse. Quelquefois, she sits on me.
<br>
Wilson Who is Quelquefois, and what has she got to do with your
mattress?
<br>

Clemenceau Monsieur, let us talk politics. I want Danzig, Alsace and Lorraine.

Wilson I don't like dancing much. I donít know Alice or Lorraine. I enjoy a little dancing but I'm suspicious of the fruits of pleasure.
<br>
Clemenceau I am talking about Poland.
<br>
Wilson This is where you go dancing?
<br>
Clemenceau We'll talk about Danzig later.
<br>
Wilson It seems unseemly for a Premier to be always talking about dancing.
<br>
Clemenceau Vous etonnez mois; vous est fou. Probablement, c'est un folie d'amour. Vous semble une petit syphlitique. Bien, let us divide up the world.
<br>
Wilson Clemenceau, I do not give a hoot for the world; I care only about the decent people of New Jersey. I want America to
remain, strong, Christian, virtuous and Anglophilic. The
world can go to the devil.
<br>
Clemenceau You are a more complex wan than I thought, Woodrow; I must say I loved your senseless but mellifluous phrase: saving the world for democracy.
<br>
Wilson God saves the world, and not much of it at that; God isn't an apostle of democracy, is he, non vieux? God is a king, a
benign oligarchy whose first rate fustian decries heresy, and calls liberty a bestial and ambiguous hellishness. God's Will will manifest itself in America, and we will lead the world on the right tack.
<br>
Clemenceau Pardon we, did you say white track or white tack?
<br>
Wilson I can't recall; which metaphor makes more sense to you?
<br>
Clemenceau Neither. Am I to understand that you entered the war to lead your nation to a white track or a white tack?
<br>
Wilson I entered no war; other people did. I asked them, that's all. They could have always said no.
<br>
Clemenceau You are better off without them. Anyone who goes halfway around the world to be shot at by strangers is better off never having been born or dead.
<br>
Wilson anybody alive is better off dead; I am impatient for the next world. Perhaps the angels are not so prone to wear uniforms. Here we have cattle of a different stripe, mon ami; they are mephitic slaves.

<br>
Clemenceau I will send a biologist to your country to inspect your bovine herds; I think they may be zebras.
<br>
Wilson Some are convicts. We have closed the brothels, deported the radicals, but God wants a pure nation.
<br>
Clemenceau You say you have talked to God about purity? Does He find the subject intriguing?
<br>
Wilson I am commanded by God, monsieur. I had a cushy, prestigious job at an American college before I dove into the sewer of the human body politic; I could have, had God not wanted it otherwise, died while reading the Waverly novels. Instead, I entered into the hideous cesspool of the material world.
<br>
Clemenceau Entering cesspools should be done with caution. Woodrow, mon ami, there is an intrepid deepness in you.
<br>
Wilson America needs an honest man as its president. Don't you think there's something disgusting about life?
<br>
Clemenceau Disgusting? I suppose so, yes. I could see it that way.
<br>
Wilson- Life is not theatre, monsieur; it is neither farce nor tragedy. It is horror.
<br>
Clemenceau For that reason, I have always preferred theatre to life.
<br>
Wilson Rightly so. What could be more unworthy than something which begins and ends with baths of dung and mucus, between which one tells lies, begets mere monstrous madmen, and falls into a parody of beauty before one descends to Earth, worms, hospital bills and fragrant slime?
<br>
Clemenceau Well, if you put it that way
<br>
Wilson I must. (Sings.)At night with my wife I always dream
Of lovers who never move or scream
Who do everything I want them to do
Mutely, cutely, no hullabaloo.
<br>
I wake in the morning and read the Times
About strikes and kikes and pikers' crimes
I wonder what God and Heaven thinks
Of Niggers, Indians, Reds and Chinks.
<br>
When I get to my desk to jiggle my job
I hobnob with barons who love to rob
I think of Creations where angels congeal
Where seraphs and cherubs are made of steel.
<br>

I think of our race, its drunken babble
The papists, rapists, the rest of the rabble
I mutter, it's rather absurd if not odd
That we weren't made of steel by God.
<br>
They'd be the perfect moral neighbor
They'd never unionize their labor
When you see a machine behave
You'll never want a whore or slave.
<br>
On Sunday mornings when I go to church
I think of underwriting some heady research
To make my country pure and clean
Like a well oiled sweet machine.
<br>
I find passion repugnant, mon ami; I love the still marmoreal quality of the dead. I'd love to eat a corpse; I dine mostly on cold meat. I want to destroy, not Life but Consciousness. I want a Life without pain. The multiple personalities can be divided forever into something simple. Artificial beings can screw in amorous organs or have no organs at all. We will need a new word, a new word for a new thing; don't you think when the superman comes to Earth it deserves an utterly new name?
<br>
Clemenceau I never thought about it. What are you going to name it, Howard? Or Sharon?
<br>
Wilson Yes. Howard and Sharon Shickelgrubber.
<br>
Clemenceau Shickelgrubber...They may change it. And go into German politics. (Exit Wilson and Clemenceau, as Sechel and Zhlog entering, watch them leave.)
<br>
Zhlog Now, Sechel? Do we start our war in America?
<br>
Sechel Not quite yet, Zhlog. The world has to be tired of people like these praising war and steel. And then they have to be fed up with me. I stand for pleasure.
<br>
Zhlog When will l have my turn, Sechel?
<br>
Sechel After they till me.
<br>
Zhlog- Won't it hurt, Sechel?
<br>
Sechel- Pain is momentary. We all have an immortal soul. I will return. Perhaps in another form. I will help you, Zhlog.
<br>
Zhlog- Where will you die?
<br>
Sechel- In Hollywood. It is a good place to die. It is filled with beauty.
<br>
Zhlog- Who will kill you, Sechel?

<br>
Sechel- You. You, Zhlog. With bullets. Many bullets. There will be blood all over my palace.
<br>
Zhlog- Then, for the moment, I will win the war.
<br>
Sechel- You will win the battle, not the war. (Exit Zhlog and Sechel one way as Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin enter by the other door. They do not see Sechel and Zhlog.)
<br>
Churchill- How clever of you. To tell the public we are in Yalta, Franklin, when we are actually vacationing in Las Vegas; it puts the hounds off the scent, so to speak.
<br>
Roosevelt- Winston, Las Vegas is the city of the future; I wouldn't want you to miss it. It's all unreal, like abstract Art.
Stalin- Under socialism, tovarich, we are more interested in the real.
<br>
Roosevelt- Joe, the unreal is part of reality. You were never revolutionary enough.
<br>
Stalin- I tried to make people love Work. I killed millions of people. How much further could I go?
<br>
Churchill- You could have blown up the world. And made a new one without God.
<br>
Roosevelt- That's what Hitler tried to do. It's mimicry, not revolution. It's piffle; Death is warmed over pap. He dreamt of a world without Jews.
<br>
Churchill- No Jesus? I love metaphysics.
<br>
Roosevelt- I prefer a natural laxative.
<br>
Stalin- I like a gigantic purge. No Jews, no Trotsky, no Marx... no Marx?
<br>
Roosevelt- No bagels, sour pickles, chutzpah, God or bubbie.
<br>
Stalin- No bubbie?
<br>
Churchill Once Hitler exterminated the enemy, he had to find new enemies, like us. We'll keep Jews alive. You'll be our Jews; we'll be your Jews. And secretly, we'll control the world. We'll run a few miniature wars to keep things kosher.
<br>
Roosevelt- Abraham Lincoln said, you can't fool all of the people all of the time.
<br>
Churchill- The ones we don't fool, we'll murder.
<br>

Stalin- If we can murder them right off, we do we bother to fool them in the first place. Murder is cheap and clean. We will let the women live and make love to them.
<br>
Churchill- Love is a bore; that's why I got married. My wife costs me less time than it takes to smoke a cigar. Affairs are rum stuff to a lord who seeks power.
<br>
Roosevelt- You must be proud of your children.
<br>
Churchill I have a daughter who's an actress; she takes after me. One son's a journalist. I make lies and he prints them.
<br>
Roosevelt- Winston, your country may be in big trouble; you've got a lot of Socialists there.
<br>
Stalin- Not as many as I've got.
<br>
Churchill- How's your production?
<br>
Stalin- We have none. We consider Socialism an experiment.
<br>
Churchill- What do you call yourself, by the way?
<br>
Stalin- Secretary. I am Secretary of the Communist Party.
<br>
Roosevelt- You don't look like a secretary. I wouldn't tell people you're anything in the Communist Party, Joe; people are afraid of Communists. You might give yourself a higher class name too, like Romanoff.
<br>
Stalin- Romanoff?
<br>
Churchill- What's your daughter's name?
<br>
Stalin- Svetlana.
<br>
Roosevelt- Really? She perspires a lot?
<br>
Churchill- There's something terrible artificial about the family; I'm glad you've replaced it with Socialism.
<br>
Roosevelt- Winnie, pooh on your artifice. God gave us the family to take care of babies. Otherwise, one would only put up with intolerable behavior in lovers.
<br>
Stalin- If God exists, from His own opinions I can tell you. He is a pure, dull bourgeois.
<br>
Roosevelt O no, God is a Liberal. So am I. That's why a lot of Americans mistake me for God. (Sings.)
<br>
You mutter how the Blacks and the rednecks in their shacks
Are the servants of the bankers and the banks.
How the honest worker classes, and the poor and hungry masses

Are ruled by bullets, submarines and tanks.
<br>
Yes, you love the crude and savage whom the rich and cultured ravage
You're enamored with the convict and the peasant
You murmur you've a cure for the imbeciles and poor
Their future will be comfortable and pleasant.
<br>
You cater to the young with fluidity of tongue
You tell them they are lovely, smart and pure
You help them to despise their fathers and the wise
You call the world a cesspool and a sewer.
<br>
Yes, you talk of many victims of violence and dictums
You understand such martyrs must be furious
You praise the sense of measure in doles for endless leisure
The cults whom some call crazy, crass, injurious.
<br>
One preaches there are ways to construct the End of Days
To be what none have dreamt of, or have been enough
The truth is immaterial, power is imperial
The saints most Out would murder to be in.
<br>
Sechel- (entering as Bugsy Siegel. He looks natty, dapper.) Hi folks. Welcome to Las Vegas.
<br>
Zhlog- Ah, gentlemen, this is Mr. Siegel, our host. Mr. Siegel has been talking to me about new ideas for America. And his notions are sound, very sound.
<br>
Churchill- Las Vegas is a perverse place that an amusing one, Mr. Siegel; there seems to be no farms or cattle or business here just continuous entertainment.
<br>
Stalin- You have Mexican prophylactics in the reading machines; they're filled with shredded chili peppers.
<br>
Sechel- I'm just trying to help the workers, Joe; if I don't buy these things, the factory goes out of business. They've got enough trouble in Mexico.
<br>
Churchill- You are a subtle fellow. You aren't a Socialist, are you?
<br>
Sechel- You got a stereotyped idea of Las Vegas guys, Winnie; I spent a lot of time when I was young waiting for phone calls for business with the boys, not just playing pinochle but talking about things: Plato, Atlantis, squaring the circle, circling the square; you name it. Hey, if we could have taped those conversation we could have made twice as much money as Plato.
<br>
Churchill- I thought you were basically horse track prognosticators like our English gentry.
<br>

Sechel- Nah, we talked about the immortality of the soul, predestination, and relativity. Lepke was our Heisenberg man; Dutch Schultz was the Swedenborg expert; in the end, where did it get us?
<br>
Stalin- Nowhere. None of you were Communists.
<br>
Roosevelt- It's a tribute to universal education. I'm proud your new and innovative ideas have come out of America. Progress and freedom is what our country is all about. Tell them about peace, Bugsy.
<br>
Sechel- Sure. Guys, you've been making war cuz it's the easiest way get rich. Rut there's more lettuce to be made out of peace than killing people. War is legalized genocide: call it Murder Incorporated, but people will make more cash for you when they're alive. Everybody can be rich; there's no reason anymore to hate the poor. A bum is a fossil.
<br>
Stalin- You think the future is not work but pleasure? An interesting idea Mr. Siegel; whoever works will eventually be your master: this is history.
<br>
Sechel- This city in the desert is history. Look it over, tovarich. We will make this whole planet, even the universe, into a gambling casino and a brothel, which is what it's always been, by the way, baby.
<br>
Roosevelt- Bugsy is opposed by the liberals, Joe; they want to make Creation into a hospital. Sick people make interesting slaves; They're too ill to either work or run away.
<br>
Churchill- Perhaps a hospital is better than a brothel or slaughterhouse. I'm tired of death; love is an expensive bore.
<br>
Sechel Love is cheap. Everything after two months is boring, even you, Winnie. Look, I've been to Hollywood, where the stars are. You guys want to make love to a love goddess? Most people do. I can turn them out with cosmetics like toys.
<br>
Churchill- Most people who loved Venus came to a horrendous end.
Stalin- This will never work in Russia.
<br>
Roosevelt- He's got something, boys; we can always do the hospital bit later. I've been talking to a baby doctor.
<br>
Sechel- (aside, loudly) Zhlog: Not now, Zhlog. (at one of the exits) Girls, come out here. (Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield enter. As Sechel talks they put their arms around Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin.) This is the McCoy; this is Marilyn and Jayne, folks, and they want to get to know you. And when you get tired of them, got Raquel, Rita, Betty, and Joy. And between the nights in the hotel rooms I got the casinos; I got plastic chips.
<br>

Churchill- You've got a world of carnal purity.
<br>

Stalin- In Russia, nobody has ever organized whores; I wonder whether its bourgeois decadence.
<br>
Sechel- Here they do. People call them pimps, baby.
<br>
Roosevelt- I should have guessed from my life that everything turns to shit. I hope Eleanor will understand; she's bright. This will turn the whole country into shadows.
<br>
Sechel- Itíll be more interesting than their lives. Jayne, take these three gentlemen to the hotel suite. We got Rita and Tuesday up there, haven't we baby? Hey, have fun.
<br>
Roosevelt- I wonder whether we're doing right. It seems too easy.
Sechel- Hey, what's wrong with being comfortable?
<br>
Stalin- It's a little bit unsocialistic; now that you mention it, who cares? You must come to our empire some time, Mr. Siegel; perhaps you can make it a little bit more like paradise. (Sings.)
<br>
Welcome to our Socialist Paradise
Where the vodka clear and strong
Where the secret police are not very nice
And no revolution lasts too long.
<br>
We know what's good for everybody
If you disagree, youíre insane
We cage you, starve you, whip you bloody
Put electrodes in your brain.
<br>
We study what Marx and Lenin said
About eating without red meat.
We stand on lines to buy our bread
Our peasant can't grow wheat. (Exit Stalin, Roosevelt, Churchill with Jayne.)
<br>
Marilyn- These are dangerous people. (She puts her arm around Sechel.)
<br>
Sechel- They're insane. When I was working for Murder Incorporated, baby, I didn't kill anybody that hadn't killed himself; it was an inside game. We're just small time chiselers who never exterminated anybody, and I don't force anybody to come to Las Vegas at gunpoint. Theyíre here because they want to be here.
<br>
Marilyn- So am I.
<br>
Sechel- I'm a piker; will you forgive me because I never knocked off millions of people?
<br>

Marilyn- I want you, Bugsy. You're close to death. Death is close to power. I can feel the life in you when we camp together for the night.
<br>
Sechel- I am life. And I am close to death; he's my brother.
<br>
Marilyn- What are you, a Martian, or some kind of alien?
<br>
Sechel- No. This is the lowest of many worlds. I come from the others. Let's just say I'm not exactly human.
<br>
Marilyn- I come from a world where all you have to do is make love.
<br>
Sechel- Love tells you nothing. Love is one more animal in heat.
(He embraces her.) There are two ways a soul shows its character, Marilyn, baby in Intimacy and death, not in power.
<br>
Marilyn- Who's backing you, Bugsy, baby?
<br>
Sechel- Some mineral water bigwigs from Iceland. Not the usual bunch from New Jersey.
<br>
Marilyn- It isn't about money. You don't care about money, Bugsy.
<br>
Sechel- I make enough money, baby. I donít need money. Why should I make any more money than I need? In America, that makes me a freak, but this work isn't about power.
<br>
Marilyn Or love. I know that, Bugsy; it's about dying.
<br>
Sechel All life is about dying. I don't call my crimes business;
they're murder. I don't live on profit margins made from a
stranger in Taiwan; I don't look for trouble, but if I hadn't
killed everything from enemies to chickens, I'd be long dead,
baby.
<br>
Marilyn You're a brute.
<br>
Sechel It's all personal. (He takes her toward the exit; clearly they are about the make love, are hanging on each other, touching
each other. Enter Zhlog from the other exit, with a gun. Sechel
turns to face him.) Zhlog.
<br>
Zhlog Doctor Schlock Bugsy. He shoots Bugsy. Bugsy fails, dead.
Marilyn screams, looking at the fallen body.)
<br>
Marilyn Help: Help! (She runs out the exit door, screaming.)
<br>

Zhlog (He walks over to Bugsy, examines the body, puts away his gun, then drags the body beyond the exit door. He looks around the room.) What a joint! Gaudy like a brothel. An audience that loves sleaze; when they go to heaven they'll be looking for the barmaids in paradise. God uses Las Vegas just as He does Jerusalem. Nothing but whores and clowns here.
Bye, bye, Bugsy. (He sings.)
<br>
Bennie said to Meyer, we got it made
I got Wendy Barrie; she's a little like trade.
You're in love with Havana; I like it too
But I know what's real; how about you?
<br>
I'm going to Hollywood, be a movie star
George Raft's my buddy, Wendy drives my car
Meyer says to Bennie, that world ain't real
Men live off murder, and what they can steal.
<br>
Bennie mutters to Meyer, hey, I'm a cocaine man
I like a little pleasure; I do what I can
But when I sleep with Wendy, he tilts his hat.
Meyer calls him, Bugsy; he says, don't call me that.
<br>
We'll own Las Vegas; we'll buy off the whole state.
You can find Wendy Barrie while you dump your mate
weíll legalize whores, craps, beer and wine
We'll make Nevada the heaven of crime.
<br>
We'll build the Hotel Babel with cards and roulette.
We'll have the best powdered angels you've ever seen yet
Where the women come cheap and the booze is free.
You can play blackjack with Wendy and me.
<br>
They found big Bugsy in a pool of blood
With his eyes shot out, and his hair mussed up.
But like Jesus and Lenin, when the love life is gone
With Wendy Barrie, the Babel lives on. (Exit Zhlog.)


Act Three
<br>
(Enter Bobby Kennedy. He sings.)
<br>
You make love like a clerk, it irks you like work
When you plough every cow in the yard
You rattle and jerk, dribble and smirk
You wait for your hate to get hard.
<br>
You sing of the rose as everyone knows
The nightingale's warbling cry
The flows, shows and throes which bloody the snows
The blows to the heart and the thigh.
<br>
Love in a study is uncomely and bloody
Muddy and cruddy with shame
To turn her to putty, make love to her, buddy
Women are better when tame.
<br>
Loving is murder, you bite her and hurt her
Uttering grunts as you slash
These are demands of the amorous glands
And worth all the fighting and cash. (Enter Jack Kennedy.)
<br>
Jack- Marilyn called, Bobby; she says she wants to sleep with both of us this time.
<br>
Bobby- Lucky I'm not an intellectual; I'm an animal and I don't have to think about it.
<br>
Jack- You make love so badly. No wonder most of the women in this country are killers; Love is their religion and all they get is lady killers like you, Bobby.
<br>
Bobby- Women are dumb, Jack. Who else would get pregnant but a woman?
<br>
Jack- It's what happens when a woman goes after orgasm. Everybody's talking about clitoral orgasms, vaginal orgasms, anal orgasms, even eye orgasms; it's the last hope, Bobby.
<br>
Bobby- I thought you left cults behind you when you slept with your first maid on the old family pool table.
<br>
Jack- At their best, what were they? A puffer of laundry bills. ignorance is what interests me, not the sorry episodes and frantic gambolings, the futile spasms of past amours. I'm in contact with Bugsy Siegel.
<br>
Bobby- Bugsy? Isn't he dead?
<br>

Jack Dead and alive. Don't ask me how. He's an octogenarian in the Congo. He's helping the natives to stay healthy as he is. He plays the organ, mostly Bach, a little Caesar Franck and Marcel Dupre. He writes me letters about Reverence for Life.
<br>
Bobby- Wait a minute;. isnít that Albert Schweitzer?
<br>
Jack- Isnít what Albert Schweitzer?
<br>
Bobby- The Congo guy playing the organ, the jungle messiah.
<br>
Jack- He works under the name of Alfred Schvitzer. Bugsy sweats a lot, you know; the Congo keeps him sweating even more. I got him the Nobel Prize. After he died, he dyed his skin yellow and led a bunch of bums from Mongolia into a long march down to downtown Shanghai.
<br>
Bobby- Wait a minute; isn't that Mao Tze Tung?
<br>
Jack- Do you expect him to run China under the name Bugsy Siegel? Do you think he's crazy?
<br>
Bobby- I always looked up to Bugsy. I learned from him how to make love to movie stars.
<br>
Jack- I like them when they're married. Adultery gives a woman hope.
<br>
Bobby- Why do we have to be the greatest lovers ever in the White House? I don't like women. And I get tired of love. I'd rather play touch football.
<br>
Jack- Because daddy said so. We're Irish. Weíre Catholic. We have to show we're as degenerate as everybody else. Then they'll accept us.
<br>
Bobby- Do we want to be accepted? This country is filled with creeps and lunatics. You don't making love much either, Jack. I heard you were sleeping with your wife.
<br>
Jack- Sometimes. You know how it is, Bobby; I sleep with your wife too. I sleep with everybody's wife if I can. It's like touching all the bases after you've hit a home run.
<br>
Bobby- Aren't you tired all the time? It's nerve-wracking to have
orgasms.
<br>
Jack- It's the diseases that fatigue me. I'm planning to outlaw orgasms.
<br>
Bobby- Why not outlaw sex? Then they'll be no orgasms.
<br>
Jack- Please, the American public wouldn't put up with it. I want
to push making love the same way. We'll call it, the best way.
<br>
Bobby- When is Marilyn coming? (Jack does a double take.)

<br>

Jack- Weíre going to kill her after we make love to her, Bobby.
Bobby- Again? We already knocked off half of the girls we made love to; there must be two hundred of them.
<br>
Jack- They sure make beautiful corpses. The very act of making love to us has doomed her. Nobody must know I have made her insane with amorous pleasure; you have failed her. We don't want people talking about our love life; it'll hurt our career. People expect politicians to be better than they are. And, of course, we're always worse. I get to express ultimate love and hate at the same time; it's not so bad. To sleep with me is a sentence of death. Pills, car accidents, heart attacks. We'll put Marilyn in a New York hotel; believe me, the American public loves beauty to kill itself. They don't want to admit that they hate beauty.
<br>
Bobby- I'll miss her. As Shakespeare says, each man wills the thing he loves. Then he comes and goes to sleep.
<br>
Jack She cured a lot of my back problems. The whole experience was therapeutic.
<br>
Bobby- It's scary. Maybe next you'll kill me.
<br>
Jack- Blood is thicker than sperm; We won't kill each other. We're politicians, Bobby; we destroy beauty, we put physical perfection and gaudy divinity into the grave. It means nothing to you. You come more quickly than the life cycle of most bacteria.
<br>
Bobby- Who told you, Marilyn?
<br>
Everybody. Even Swami Rum Baba, the Yo Yo Master, whispered it to
me.
<br>
Bobby- I never slept with a man, well, rarely, certainly much less a Yo Yo Master; how does he know?
<br>
Jack- He found out from that big boobed bitch, Jayne Mansfield. Rum Baba can't get over the way women are built here. Jayne told him.

Bobby- Well, everybody knows. Let's kill Rum Baba and her too.
<br>
Jack- He's coming here tonight; be nice to him. He's enriching our culture, Bobby. Here they come now. (Enter Swami Rum Baba,
Marilyn Monroes and Jayne Mansfield; Jayne hangs on Baba Rum.)
<br>
Rum Baba (singing) When a rabbi or priest chews a thigh at a feast
I never will scorn them, not I
But give me at least though I'm fresh from the East
A cut of the national pie.
<br>

Some eat pastrami, Make love to salami
Some like a bum, who knows why?
Some treat a swami much worse than a Commie
While cutting the national pie.
<br>
Some talk of honor, some marijuana,
Some talk of Ghana and cry.
Let's give Nirvana a little green manna
A cut of the national pie.
<br>
You Yanks are a nut for a gut or a slut
For what in a hut cuts a sigh.
But some butt a butt, or rut with a mutt
For a cut of the national pie.
<br>
Some scurry and hurry for goals that are blurry
For a war or a door in the sky
Why should they worry if Hindus eat curry
Cutting the national pie?
<br>
Bobby- Weíre for you, Rum Baba; we've always been for civil rights.
<br>
Jack- And the uncivil rights. We're for all the rights.
<br>
Jayne- In history, a wrong makes a Right.
<br>
Marilyn- In history, two Rights make a wrong.
<br>
Bobby- You girls shut up. please. No wonder women aren't equal to us. They can't think; they can't have orgasm.
<br>
Jack- I would think that would make them superior. Orgasms are vulgar; I'm addicted to them like cigarettes but they demean me.
<br>
Rum Baba- You should make a religion of the orgasm. It's impersonal, reductive, a good way to control people.
<br>
Jack- We were trying to think of something to replace war; maybe
it's sexual fatigue.
<br>
Rum Baba I never have orgasm myself. It's an illusion. Oddly enough, so is not having an orgasm. Life is a paradox that doesn't exist, Jayne; that is why I love you. There is no I, no you, and no love.
<br>
Jayne I love you bccause youíre Black. I always had this thing about colored people. I guess it comes from being a Liberal.
<br>
Rum Baba I'm not really Black, my darling; I am more of an Indian. I hope it won't make any difference in our love.
<br>
Jayne Of course not, Liberals love Indians; it's too bad you aren't retarded; then I would really love you.

<br>
Bobby We love Blacks and Indians too; we're making them legitimate.
<br>
Jayne Really. How many stars are named after Blacks? How many new bacteria or suburbs? How many chemical elements are named after African people?
<br>
Jack I haven't the faintest idea; I cheated my way through Harvard. You're a conservative, not a Liberal; you don't want a revolution, Jayne darling; you just want to re name everything.
<br>
Bobby We've got Uncle Ben's rice. (Enter Zhlog, with the mask and dress of Dr. Schlock.) Ah, Dr. Schlock the baby doctor: the
man who is really running this country. I hope you know what
you're doing, Schlock.
<br>
Zhlog What I am doing is inevitable.
<br>
Rum Baba You have a certain charisma, Dr. Schlock.
<br>
Zhlog So do you, Swami. Perhaps we both glow from the light in our character.
<br>
Rum Baba Where is your friend? Sechel?
<br>
Zhlog This is not an appropriate place to talk about my relatives, Swami.
<br>
Marilyn You know, Doc, it's as if a fire was lit somewhere when you came into the room; you are magic.
<br>
Zhlog I'm an angel. You'll be meeting Sechel too, Swami;
I'm sure you two are intimates.
<br>
Rum Baba I would hate to miss him; he is a man with a gun. Within he is life itself. You burn with love and tenderness; I think you are Zhlog: the Angel of Death.
<br>
Bobby What are you two talking about? I thought you were here to
help us, Doc. Go ahead. Shoot.
<br>
Zhlog I don't shoot, Bobby; I help.
<br>
Bobby All right, help. Or order us; neither of us have time for power. We're too busy coming. Get it over with, Schlock.
<br>
Zhlog First of all, what I tell you is hardly my caprice. They are the result of irrefutable studies under laboratory conditions
done by experts in posh universities. Half o£ them are Nobel
Prize winners; the others are runner ups. This is the fruit
of science.
<br>
Jack What do you want us to do, Schlock?

<br>
Zhlog Mr. President, your major problem in America is education.
<br>
Jack I know that, Schlock.
<br>
Zhlog As long as people become educated, they threaten your power, your money, your love life, not to mention your place in the pantheon of history. We need an educational system that makes people stupid, infantile, and preferably speaking some other language than English.
<br>
Jack Schlock, say that again.
<br>
Zhlog We need an educational system that makes people stupid, infantile, and preferably speaking some other language than English.
<br>
Bobby- Can you do that? Do you think Americans are crazy?
<br>
Zhlog They should all think they're crazy. And need therapy. I bet everyone blame themselves for their own misery; then they'll be no more war.
<br>
Bobby Only sexual fatigue.
<br>
Jack It sounds improbable; go on, Schlock. It's amusing.
<br>
Zhlog We must have orchestras for the deaf.
<br>
Jack Orchestras? Why? We're not made of money; what about one
certified microcephalic on the drums?
<br>
Zhlog Nothing less than an orchestra will. do. So many people
have an orchestra. How would you feel if you didn't have an
orchestra? You'd feel left out.
<br>
Bobby The deaf don't hear anything.
<br>
Marilyn They won't notice the mistakes. Why not make the musicians deaf too? You can give a whole bunch of people jobs.
<br>
Jayne We could have orgies at old people's homes; they won't notice the mistakes either.
<br>
Rum Baba- Angel of Death!

Zhlog- They want me, Swami. People have given up on life. They call an angel a hoodlum with a gun. I cannot be in America unless people pray for me. You know that, Swami.
<br>
Rum Baba- Angel of Death! (a short pause.) Where is Sechel?
<br>
Not far, Swami, not far. He is never far away is he? In the stars, in the methane air, he finds ways to make life. He was

Bugsy Siegel. And now he's Frankie Boy: (Enter Sechel with a
Frank Sinatra mask. He sings.)
<br>
You'd be bored by a long affair
You're restless, you like something new.
Over a weekend we're quite a pair
Let's do what we always do.
<br>
A happy marriage is something rare
Like love without hullabaloo.
I'll pick you up Friday, you know where
For a weekend with you.
<br>
Your husband vanishes on Sunday night
His business seems mostly in Nice.
My wife takes off on her little flights
So what if it keeps the peace?
<br>
You do things to me that most wouldn't dare
After the quiche and brew
Tell your therapist; I don't care
On a weekend with you.
<br>
I don't care who sleeps with my wife
Let everybody get what they need.
Is marriage a jail where one's sentenced for life
To feed and to sleep till one's freed?
<br>
Sometimes you get a monthly scare
Sometimes I have the flu
Our love's like a comfortable easy chair
On a weekend with you.
<br>
Jack Frankie. I know you're crazy about Marilyn. She's with us,
my brother and myself, for tonight anyway.
<br>
Sechel I'm really in love with love. Take her, Jack. She was never really mine; no soul is.
<br>
Marilyn Frankie, you're so good looking. (She embraces him.) There's a light that shines in you too. You're an angel, Frankie.
<br>
Sechel An archangel. A seraph. So are you, honey. That's why people worship you. Give the President an extra special time. Death is always around the corner, baby.
<br>
Marilyn Frankie, we're all going to live forever. (Exit Marilyn, Jack and Bobby.)
<br>
Rum Baba Jayne, wait for me in the bedroom. There are some things I want to talk over with my old friends. (She caresses him.)
<br>

Jayne I want you, Swami. You could teach the whole world how to do the rope trick.
<br>

Rum Baba I could, but who would listen? People think there are no practical uses for Krishnakurma.
<br>
Jayne What is Krishnakurma, baby?
<br>
Rum Baba what we do on Earth, though it is shimmering dance of rubies and flowers to the eye of the celestial lotus.
<br>
Jayne Whatever it is, it makes me happy, baby.
<br>
Rum Baba One day, Jayne, I hope you will forgive me for giving you only pleasure. I meant to offer you wisdom. I consider every affair a failure unless my lovers experience enlightenment at least thrice. And all you know from my embrace is felicity and pleasure.
<br>
Jayne I love you for that, Swami. Most lovers don't even want to give me car fare home.
<br>
Rum Baba You have been a fool who has trysted with fools. Wait for me in the sanctity of the sheets. I will introduce you to Tibetan pleasure that will seem to you like infantile madness.
<br>
Jayne Luckily I'm a Liberal; otherwise I might still be baking
biscuits for some drunken Cracker who smells of peach brandy.
<br>
Rum Baba One day you must make me biscuits. (Exit Jayne.) And now, time to talk. What are you two doing here, so many miles
away from the nameless places that border paradise?
<br>
Zhlog We are playing a game. Or a war. Life and death always do
that. You know that; you play, your own games here in America
with no less delight.
<br>
Rum Baba What is your game?
<br>
Sechel It's almost finished. Too bad you've arrived near the terminus. We've been so many people, we've played such
wonderful charades. Of course, only people like you can see
us without masks, as we are, Swami. Keep it quiet. We
aren't going to be here long.
<br>
Rum Baba I think you should leave now. Why are you torturing these people with this ridiculous puppet show? They came here to be free; let them enjoy liberty, Sechel.
<br>
Sechel Freedom is the power to organize the prison and doorways of the soul to one's pleasure. We have not interfered with that.
How much freedom has there been here, Swami? There have been a few admirable philosophers, of course; some men have the souls of angels. We work under the direction of God.

<br>
Rum Baba Is God the master of these funeral games? Come now, Sechel, I have been to the suburbs of heaven; God wants only good for his children.
<br>
Zhlog That is true. Nobody learns through happiness. Madness
and pain is God's Adept. I will make them stupid. Death is
too easy.
<br>
Rum Baba Angel of Death, you have lost faith in your own remedy.
In any case, you are both angelic degenerates playing out carnal games with trivial lunatics. (A short pause.) So am I. I wonder whether this isn't some heavenly winter.
<br>
Zhlog In paradise it is always brilliant green and August. You
have chosen to be here too, in the Land of the Second Chance.
You have done what people with no angelic spirit have
done. You've been greedy.
<br>
Sechel You've explored the jungle. Youíve been a masker at a
carnival; the mask is the lecherous face of a beast.
<br>
Rum Baba And you?
<br>
Zhlog No less. As angels we offer more than a masked cur.
<br>
Sechel- We gave them Las Vegas. And Welfare.
<br>
Zhlog- God loves freedom. And intelligence. He loves prophets; they listen to the voices of paradise. He is enamored of philosophers. They are angels whirling on heated stone. What I bring this world is the deep mercy of God as Sechel brings them grace. Before we leave, I will bring them horror. They will grow from anguish. They hope for a dog's felicity; I will bring them pain. What you do today, they will all do in the next decade. They will make love to an imbecile. Then we will leave. (He sings.)
<br>
Some like to embrace a body or face
Whom they hope will make love with some skill
You'd marry a dunce if you tried it just once
And after, an imbecile.
<br>
One mumbles through pain, one's plain or insane
Or the doctor who scribbles the bill
One turns to embrace with a glutinous grace
The face of an imbecile.
<br>
Some vote for a fool to govern and rule
Thinking the clever ones kill
When morons make war, it's rarely a bore
I'd vote for an imbecile.
<br>
A dunce is the sort we all should support

Along with the vicious and ill
Let us quote at least once the odes of a dunce
The words of an imbecile.
<br>
A moron's a tool to tax and to rule
Though they make what is nothing or nil
Yet rakes when they marry never will tarry
Unless she's an imbecile.
<br>
(Exit Sechel, Zhlog, and the Swami. Enter as they leave, through the other exit, two Hollywood starlets, dressed provocatively. They move downstage; following them from the same exit come Ronald Reagan. He watches them sing the following chorus.)
<br>
Tootsie and Goldie I'm not crazy, I'm not ill
I'm in love with an imbecile
He babbles and gabbles; there's nothing to say
He loves his loving any dumb dumb way.
<br>
He's filled with pills, he never keeps still
Mated, sedated, it's the same old thrill
He babbles and gabbles; there's nothing to say
He loves his loving any dumb dumb way.
<br>
I don't bite; I don't kill
Cupid is stupid when he pays the bill
I flutter and mutter but there's nothing to say
I love my loving any dumb dumb way.
<br>
Reagan (singing) When I was elected the land had rejected
The war on low income and pain
They defected, reflected on what they'd erected
A bin for the broke and insane.
<br>
Tootsie The women were tricky, preferring a quickie
And sticky with icky thick notions.
Few men had a yen for a den stuffed with ten
Where they'd enter and go through the motions.
<br>
Reagan Creation, implodes to one of two roads
In modes one unloads at the last.
Vice that corrodes, goads, in one's nodes
Seems rarely the joy of the past.
<br>
Goldie All overweight and envenomed with hate
For their mote and their country as well
Had made a decision to watch television
Where crime is the prime time of Hell
<br>
Tootsie One gleaned in one's teens from the media screens
That sin filled the seats and the aisles
Though these clods in their ease were clogged with disease
Headaches and herpes and piles.
<br>

Reagan I'd love to bring back what Americans lack
Family, virtue, when White.
Ladies not silent with some sexual bent
Not merely meant for the night.
<br>
You knew that your crew knew the new was a zoo
A boo boo, a communist tactic
Some looked for a village to rape, rob and pillage
Others loved war when galactic.
<br>
I told them I'd hitch my whole pitch to the rich
Though as kitsch, let them bitch in the slums;
Even I was too late to reform this great state
At the rate it had made babies bums.
<br>
Tootsie- That's terrific. I didn't know you could sing.
<br>
Reagan- Want to see me tap dance? All the people want is entertainment; in the end they'll hope God is a clown, not a lover. (He kisses Tootsie.) Don't make love to me, Ron; we've got serious business.
<br>
Goldie- I'm not so serious. I mean business.
<br>
Reagan- I like the way you talk about business, Goldie. Don't forget this is all going to be videotaped and run forever on some educational channel long after we're dead and the universe is blown up: as a re run. There's nobody here but us, is there?
<br>
Tootsie- Where's your Secret Service men?
<br>
Reagan- How should I know? Don't ask me to keep track of them; I have enough troubles. Look, every world needs a testifier, a historian, a national epic. (Enter Sechel, looking like a television director.)
<br>
Sechel- You've got one now. Girls, get to the cameras and the lights. (They move out the other exit, and change the lighting apparently. Sechel looks up at the cameras.) Thanks, ladies; it looks good. You know your lines, Ron?
<br>
Reagan- Sort of. You sure you'd rather not use animation? I get a little funky, sometimes.
<br>
Sechel- Hey, you're not dead yet, Ron. God's doing the animation; it's easier and cheaper.
<br>
Reagan- You always were a deep one, Bugsy. You name yourself
after Bugsy Siegel, kid? You've got that swagger. I knew him.
<br>
Sechel- I know. I know everything about you, Ron. You know, it's wonderful the voters are starting to appreciate actors. Most of the old Presidents were lawyers. It's amazing, isn't it?
<br>

Reagan- Baby, what did lawyers produce but a bunch of crumbs and liars? We're given you Shakespeare, Noel Coward, Elizabeth Taylor and Moliere; we gave people a life before death, worlds when they needed one, whores and gods when people asked, nicely, villains so nobody realized they were their own enemy. Give me an actor for President; give me an actor in bed. Give me actors in heaven and hell, give me worlds of actors, let God fill the next Creation with them. Would you buy a used car from a lawyer, baby?
<br>
Sechel- You sure can talk, Ron. Wasn't that from your l955 appearance on Twilight Zone?
<br>
Reagan- l958. I was magnificent.
<br>
Sechel- This is a universe filled with lawyers. And warriors.
<br>
Reagan- Not any more. It's an old age home. We're too tired, Bugsy.
<br>
Sechel- The pilgrims called this place Zion; the Mormons said the messiah showed up someplace in Idaho.
<br>
Reagan- Maybe we'll do better on Mars or the moon. (A short pause.) You're a little bit of an angel, aren't you Bugsy?
<br>
Sechel- I'm the Angel of Light. (Enter Zhlog.) My old friend here, Doctor Schlock, is the Angel of Darkness.
<br>
Reagan- I figured you had to be something a little extra terrestrial. Let's start the speech. (The lights change, a spot hits Reagan as he talks.)
My fellow Americans, and citizens of the world, you are all in the secret paradise of Romeís defunct nightmare. You are rich, you have every neuron licked by glazed and empty beauty, you are in an endless bakery and you are magnificently overweight, you live in peace and find it mildly boring, you make more money than you deserve and can steal for things nobody needs and services nobody would miss, you have pills to deaden the ravages of age and death, you have a nice doctor who listens to your problems, you patronize the poor who only exist to tickle your sentimental charity, you help quietly an army of victims of social injustice and brain damage, you travel to places it would take you a thousand years to find if you were walking.
The money is paper, the love is good sex, the Future is the promise of a new whore, the Pair is meaningless, defunct, and a little charming, your homeland is a playpen you're never seen in Iowa on its way to a slum, then a parking lot. You hire experts to make all your decisions, and you have little affairs with children to decorate the shuffle to eternity, your every kink and perversity is legitimized enough to make money selling it to Japan, you wriggle with the artificial pang of wars far away. You know you are a poor slob. You have all of this. Youíre miserable.

You are ruled by terror. The food never stops coming into the supermarkets, your old lovers hate you but you have new mistresses to take up the slack, your friends move somewhere else every day but you've heard all their jokes, so, bon voyage.
<br>
Zhlog Ron, forget all this. That was that crazy movie you made with Bette Davis. Make the right speech, please.
<br>
Reagan Do you mind if I tap dance?
<br>
Sechel You're a left footed hoofer. Do a song.
<br>
Reagan All right. (He sings.)
<br>
You say it's very nice in the children's paradise
A land of candy cane and chocolate fudge
You bless the lack of stress, how you dress up less and less
Confess that we're a mess no one can judge
<br>
I've dabbled with the rabble barking bureaucratic babble
I've mugged the middle class and robbed the rich
Pleased the poor I tease with a warehouse full of cheese
But all of us are maggots in a ditch. (Exit Reagan. Bill Clinton enters, singing to himself.)
<br>
Iím an Arkansas boy from way down South
Where the honky tonks serve raw booze
The girls at the bar have a hell of a mouth
And nothing I do is news.
<br>
(The phone rings. Clinton answers it.)
<br>
Bill- Hello? Yeah, honey, I feel great but I miss you, I donít know why you take those crazy trips to Africa; youíre liable to catch something...Whatís that?...Yeah, Iím saving it all for you...Yeah, weíre going to have the time of our life when you get home honey. (Hangs up phone. Monica enters. She is brisk and efficient looking. She is carrying an attachť case.) Hi, Monica. Whatís up?
<br>
Monica- You look a little frustrated, Bill. Maybe you need a stiff drink.
<br>
Bill- Iím crazy about that woman. The real woman, not the media image they push at us to get elected. She is aces, Monica.
<br>
Monica- You too are the happiest couple Iíve ever seen. True and faithful. Itís beautiful.
<br>
Bill- Yeah, and they push on television as a frustrated man. We got the frustrated man electorate that way. They even get my daughter to put on make up to look ugly because it gets votes.

Monica- Itís disgusting. Youíre a virtuous man. Nobody in this country wants you, Bill. They want sleaze, dirt, scandal and trouble.

<br>
Bill- I gave them what they wanted. An image of a lousy marriage, lechery, dirt, and whatever. All I want to do is be honorable and tell the truth. They just love me as a retired car salesmen. I hate it.
<br>
Monica- Well, Iíve got news for you.
<br>
Bill- I donít want to pretend Iíve had an affair with Dolly Parton. Or I talk to Elvis or Martians at night. Or that I wear a wig. I told them no and I meant no.
<br>
Monica- You know, after you more or less admitted your marriage had problems, everybody in America went out there and committed adultery. It kept them in the motel rooms and out of trouble. The people who run this country like that.
<br>
Bill- I put some money into motel stocks myself. It was good for me too.
<br>
Monica- Really. I put my money into condom stocks. I made a fortune.
<br>
Clinton- Weíre set for life, baby. I can have my own rock and roll studio now. You can have a stable of houseboys or whatever it is American women want. This is a great country, Monica. Iím proud to live in America. Letís drink to it, honey. (He goes over to the able and pours liquid into two glasses from a bottle of liquor. They pick up the glasses. ) To Motels and rubber plants, long may they wave.
<br>
Monica- (tasting the drink. What is this stuff? It tastes like rat piss.
<br>
Bill- This is Chinese rice liquor, baby. I got it free when I gave them Most Favored Trading Nation Status. A little money went my way too, but nothing to talk about.
<br>
Monica- Iím going to throw up, Bill. They gave you a bottle of rat piss.
<br>
Bill- Iím a little nauseous too. It sure donít taste like French brandy. Why would China do that to me? Iím making them big money.
<br>
Monica- Not the slaves. Youíre keeping them in chains. They want revenge. And they got it.
<br>
Bill- Iím feeling better now. They got the President of the United States serving his colleagues rat piss. Theyíre probably laughing me you all over China.
<br>
Monica- Iím feeling better now too. Everything passes. Thatís what piss is for.
<br>

Bill- Itís funny. Say, how do you know this is rat piss? You ever drunk rat piss before, on your own?
<br>
Monica- It is a mild aphrodisiac. Maybe thatís why the Chinese gave it to you.
<br>
Bill-Well, then they werenít making fun of me; they were my friends. Hey, Iím good for everybody. I made a little quiet messing around legal.
<br>
Monica- Everybody was happy. There were thousands of abortions later. That put money in the pockets of every abortion clinic in the United States, including the caterers and the help working in the lunchrooms I know sales of bourbon went up. People were watching more television. Poor people were naming their kids Clinton, even the girls.
<br>
Clinton- It was good for America. Like everything else I do.
<br>
Monica- You put adultery on the map, Bill.
<br>
Bill- Iím trying to be a patriot. But Iím starting to think the only thing that keeps the American people out of trouble is bedding down with a stranger.
<br>
Monica- So what? Itís better than war, prison, terror or death. Whatís the matter with a little illicit lovemaking to keep people on the right side of the sidewalk?
<br>
Bill- Nothing. I just feel I was the wrong boy to push voice, Monica. I love my wife, I donít care about money or power, and my idea of a good time is going out camping with Hillary and toasting marshmallows by the fire.
<br>
Monica- Youíre arenít so naive.
<br>
Bill- Try it. It ainít bad. Monica, I was always the wrong guy for the right job.
<br>
Monica- What are those books on the table?
<br>
Bill- Plato, Martin Buber, St. John of the Cross and Kabril Gibran. Itís light reading for me, Monica. I need it when I think about Iraq.
<br>
Monica- Whatís that big book over there?
<br>
Bill- The Talmud. I like to red it on the toilet usually. But it comforts me when I sit here smoking a little grass and thinking about what the hell I can make war on now that thereís no more communism.
<br>
Monica- The Talmud? Thatís a Jewish book.
<br>

Bill- Well, Iím part Jewish. Honey. My grandmother was Jewish, just like Elvis.
<br>
Monica- Letís keep that quiet, the country isnít ready for a Jewish president.
<br>
Bill- Iím part Chinese too. Grandfather Ching was always around in the background somewhere. He taught me how to play mah jong.
<br>
Monica- Letís keep that under the table too. Americans like their bread and their presidents White.
<br>
Bill- Hey Iím the descendent of a few people who killed Christ. So what?
<br>
Monica- I told you, you canít talk that way Bill. This is a White Christian country; you canít even kid them about Jews. And donít eat so many noodles. People are going to say youíre Fu Manchu or something.
<br>
Bill- I eat noodles because Iím part Italian. Weíre all Mafia on my maternal grandmotherís side. Weíre from a small town in Sicily. People donít understand the Mafia, honey; we just donít dress up in uniform like the American army when we kill people.
<br>
Monica- Bill, you worry me.
<br>
Bill- Why, itís okay to be Italian now. Everybody loves pizza. You know, Elvis was part Italian too.
<br>
Monica- At least he wasnít Chinese too like you.
<br>
Bill- People love us Chinese now. They even love communism. China and communism gave us slaves to make our socks.
<br>
Monica- Donít talk like that.
<br>
Bill- Why not?
<br>
Monica- The America people donít like to know they are living off Chinese slavery.
<br>
Bill- Why? Black slavery was okay.
<br>
Monica- Slavery is fine as long as itís secret.
<br>
Bill- My whole life is a secret. I like to play mah jong and I canít ever talk about it. I was an honest man before I got into politics. Maybe I ought to quit this job. I can always work playing back up saxophone in a honky tonk. Iíd like that kind of work. Itís entertaining people. Iím getting bored with this presidency stuff. I lived an interesting life before I got elected to live in this crazy place.
<br>

Monica- What would you do if you quit? Write your memoirs?
<br>
Bill- Iíve done some things people would like to know about. I spent a night with Jean Cocteau. He wanted to show me his Oscar Wilde memorabilia.
<br>
Monica- I think you should not tell that story.
<br>
Bill- I had some peculiar experiences working on a goat farm during a summer in Greece. When you canít fight them, join them I always say. And I was a vegetarian for ten years.
<br>
Monica- Forget all that. (She pulls a sheath of papers form her attachť case.) These studies showed your popularity went up when you admitted your marriage had problems Every American thought you were a lecher and adulterer. They loved you. They voted for you. They all felt that democracy had returned to the United States. They finally had somebody who represented them.
<br>
Bill- So what?
<br>
Monica- They stayed off the streets, they didnít make trouble, and the people who back you were even happier than they ware.
<br>
Bill- Itís amazing what makes them happy.
<br>
Monica- Youíve been a good president, Bill.
<br>
Bill- You bet. Iím for women, gays, masturbation and social security. You canít lose with that kind of a platform.
<br>
Monica- You were losing. When they heard you might have done a few nasty things to put across a real estate deal, your popularity went up even further. Every American wants to steal.
<br>
Bill- I didnít do it.
<br>
Monica- You were faithful to your wife and where did it get you? You were losing in the pols till America thought you were sleeping with everybody including the dogs. If you didnít do it, you should have done it. Bill.
<br>
Bill- I said I didnít do it. And I didnít do it.
<br>
Monica- They were sure you were lying, Bill. And your popularity went up even further. Every American wants to cheat and baffle the world. You did for them.
<br>
Bill- I told the truth.
<br>
Monica- They donít believe it.


Bill- You know, I hated Jack Kennedy. The son of a bitch was a bum, a whore monger and a German spy. You had me love him and model myself after him.
<br>
Monica- People loved him too. He was even more crooked and inept than they though he was, or they would have loved him more.
<br>
Bill- what are those papers there?
<br>
Monica- Studies that show that if you were caught again in some crummy sex scandal youíd have a mandate with the American people. You could tell them anything; do anything.
<br>
Bill- Really.
<br>
Monica- We tested out various kinds of sleaze. American are not ready for anal penetration of dogs generally. Treason didnít go over well either.
<br>
Bill- Thank God.
<br>
Monica- They want you to go to church more. It doesnít matter what church. It should have a lot of White people and be white, very white, with maybe a bell tower. And Hillary should wear a hat.
<br>
Bill- She hates church too. Weíre both atheists. We thought of being satanists but it seemed too tacky.
<br>
Monica- You donít have to do any of this. You have to be suspected of doing it. With media coverage. People claiming they saw you do it. Subpoenas and special prosecutors accusing you of doing it. A parade of people coming out of the woodwork, the gutter, and the sewers to say they did it- with you.
<br>
Bill- Thatís okay. Just as long as I donít have to do it. I have a sense of honor, Monica.
<br>
Monica- You think lying is honorable?
<br>
Bill- I just lie in public. Thatís politics. I always tell everybody the truth personally including my wife. Lying is my job.
<br>
Monica- Bill, this whole country is based on lies. None of it is even close to honorable. We live off the slavery of others, we cheat and steal whenever we can, we work for a world of strangers, we have affairs with the lovely moron fit for us when we canít get machines, and we like to do things that mean nothing, cost less, offer emptiness and lead nowhere. Donít talk to me about honor. You and I are running this country. Weíve got to be worthy of America.
<br>
Bill- Well, youíve got a point there. Well, what do you want me to be accused of now? Selling out the Untied States to Korean banks?

<br>
Monica- Nothing so trivial, Bill. Youíre going to let me give you oral sex.
<br>
Bill- A little ruckus down Mexico way, huh? All right. Okay, lets set the thing into motion. I guess theyíll be special prosecutors, court battles, the whole bit, right?
<br>
Monica- Bill, you have to do it. For real. Now.
<br>
Bill- What are you talking about? I never do anything bad for real. Thatís the deal. Otherwise, I quit.
<br>
Monica- You canít quit, Bill. Theyíll assassinate you if you donít have oral sex with me. Itís let me open your zipper or die, Bill. Think about it. Then Iíll undo the zipper.
<br>
Bill- (laughing uneasily) I know why youíre saying that. You want to play a trick on me. You know thereís video camera all over this office. Youíre going to get a copy of the tapes, show them to your people, and say, look what a boob you got to be president; all I had to do is say a few slick words for him and I opened up his zipper and gobbled his pecker. Maybe youíll even bite if off and show it to them for an encore.
<br>
Monica- Iím not kidding, Bill. (A pause.) We ran a whole study of whether America was ready for accusing you of anal sex with your wife. It was one expensive market research job. We questioned thousands of people.
<br>
Bill- I can tell you the answer to that, Monica. America is not ready for anal sex. No sir. Weíre going to cause an epidemic of hemorrhoids. And for what? To use some kind of Preparation F or whatever? Probably made in China, right? So itíll be reconstituted rat shit. I really donít think so.
<br>
Monica- We were thinking of something profitable like that. So was China. But it didnít fly, Bill. People didnít like gays in the miliary; they might think you and Hillary were weird. We canít have that.
<br>
Bill- Weíre about as normal as pizza and egg rolls. You canít get more American than us, Monica.
<br>
Monica- Theyíre all for oral sex though.
<br>
Bill- Let them do it. I donít care. Hey, Iím just the President. I know enough to stay out of the way when Americans get an idea whose time has dome.
<br>
Monica- Youíve got to let me gobble you, Bill, for real.
<br>
Bill- I donít even let Thanksgiving turkeys gobble around here, Monica. This is a place on the up and up.


Monica- Weíre talking about politics, Bill. If we get real pictures of us with me doing the gobbling, then leak it bit by bit to the media, you will be the most popular president in history.
<br>
Bill- Well, I always wanted that.
<br>
Monica-Americans love oral sex. They canít get enough of it. But they think itís a little bit on the dark side. They need somebody like you to make it fashionable for them. People are going to be celebrating your administration all over the world after we do this little number here.
<br>
Bill- Itís wrong. I wonít do it. Iím not afraid of assassination. If it was good enough for John F. Kennedy; itís good enough for me. You can have them kill me. If I donít live by my word to my wife, I deserve to be dead. Iím not a man.
<br>
Monica- You know, we really donít need you for these tapes. Bill. We could make a hologram of this office, of you, of me, and leak that. It would never be quite as authentic but Americans donít care. They want to believe the worst about you.
<br>
Bill- then why do you want to do it, Monica.
<br>
Monica- I was offering you something real. Sleazy, stupid, meaningless, but real. I thought it would create a bond of reality between us.
<br>
Bill- Iíve always treated you professionally, Monica. Iíve never taken advantage of you. Youíve always had my respect. I think we have a bond thatís based on not having sex. Iím surprised you think otherwise.
<br>
Monica- Enough professionalism. Where are the cameras?

Bill- (pointing at the walls vaguely.) Theyíre all over the place. Look, canít we fake it with a cucumber and sour cream?
<br>
Monica- We could. But Ií a classy woman, Bill. Iím insulted you donít want some sexual relief from me.
<br>
Bill- I donít want to insult you. Iím a married man. Iíve made my vows. I take honor and honesty seriously.
<br>
Monica- This is American politics. Donít talk to me about virtue. Open your zipper.
<br>
Bill- All right. (He tires to open his zipper. It is stuck. Nothing happens, He tugs at it but fails to open it. ) I canít open the zipper.
<br>
Monica- Whatís the matter with it?

<br>
Bill- Itís a Chinese slave labor zipper. It doesnít work half the time. Now itís not working at all.
<br>
Monica-Let me try it. (She tugs at the zipper to Billís pants but canít get it open either.) Godamn Chinese slaves. You ought to be American made zippers, Bill; this is pathetic.
<br>
Bill- We donít make zippers here anymore. We were undersold by the Chinese slaves. There isnít an American zipper company in business.
<br>
Monica- Well, weíll have to cut your pants upon with a scissors or a knife. We need the video tapes.
<br>
Bill- Right over there on the desk.
<br>
Monica- (She picks up both a scissor and a knife but neither of them cuts Billís pants.) These damn things donít work either.
<br>
Bill- They were made in China too.
<br>
Monica- How the hell do you urinate?
<br>
Bill- I open my belt, let my pants down, take them off, and then I piss. It usually works.
<br>
Monica- Well, open your belt.
<br>
Bill- This is a new belt. Direct from China. I donít know whether I can open it, Monica.
<br>
Monica- Iíll open it with these scissors. (She ties but they donít work. She throws them on the ground after a while in frustration.) We canít go at you from your cuffs.
<br>
Bill- Not unless youíve got a hell of a tongue.
<br>
Monica-We could always burn your pants off. But is it worth it?
<br>
Bill- You canít do that either. These are fire resistant Chinese pants.
<br>
Monica- Well, how the hell are you going to take them off?
<br>
Bill- I don;ít know. Maybe acid. But theyíre acid-resistant too. Itíd have to be strong acid.
<br>
Monica- Let me give a tug at your belt. (She tugs but nothing happens.) What kind of animal is this leather made from?
<br>
Bill- Grey rat. They dye it a darker color. People think itís mink.
<br>

Monica- Youíve got a whole arsenal of weapons to destroy the world. Couldnít any of them open a belt?
<br>
Bill- not that I know off. I donít want to hit myself with an atomic bomb to take off my pants.
<br>
Monica- What about a smart missile?
<br>
Bill- Iím in these pants. D you think Iíd program a smart missile to attack myself. Iím desperate but Iím not that crazy, Monica.
<br>
Monica- Well, maybe we need to think about faking it. Letís look over those cucumbers.
<br>
Bill- I have to order them from the deli/ theyíre green cucumbers. Do you think the America people will accept a president with green genitalia?
<br>
Monica- We can always paint them with strawberry ice cream.
<br>
Bill- Ií pretty fair. I think we ought to try vanilla.
<br>
Monica- Pickles and ice cream. And Iíve got to look as if Iím enjoying myself. This is going to be harder than I thought.
<br>
Bill- Iím one eighth Chinese. Maybe we ought to make it caramel cream. Or butter pecan.
<br>
Monica- Are the pickles sour or half sour? I donít think I could do this with a really sour pickle.
<br>
Bill- Weíve only got sour pickles. I could order out. Thereís a deli in downtown Washington run by some Korean people that makes wonderful half sour pickles. Theyíre almost sweet.
<br>
Monica- Korean? Itís probably hot. Very hot. They pickle everything in hot pepper. I might gag and throw up with a pickle soaked in hot pepper and strawberry ice cream.
<br>
Bill- And weíve got to put the sour cream on the mixture on top of it afterwards.
<br>
Monica- I feel like throwing up right now. Thatís disgusting. You sure you canít open that zipper?
<br>
Bill- well, Iíll give it a try. (He tires and looks at her with frustration, a peace of metal in his hand. )The zipper fell off.
<br>
Monica- Thatís good. Open your underpants and letís do it.
<br>

Bill- My underpants have a zipper too. (The phone rings. Bill picks it up.) Hello, Hillary...Howís that village in Africa? ...You got frostbite? You canít get frostbite in Africa. You sure youíre in Africa? It looks like Africa? How do you know? From the walruses and polar bears? Honey, I think youíre pilot took a wrong turn somewhere. Maybe heís drunk...What am I doing here? I broke a zipper. It just fell apart. Chinese stuff. Yeah. What can you expect? A slave doesnít care whether anything works. Yeah. Honey,. How to you open one of those zippers? Forget about the zipper? Work at the belt? I canít open it; its that tough grey rat leather the Chinese always sell us. Whatís that? Cats hate rats, get a cat to rip it open? You always did have the brains in the family, honey. (He hangs up.) How the hell can we get ourselves a hungry cat who likes to mangle rat skin?
<br>
Monica- You donít have cats around the White House?
<br>
Bill- Weíve got them but theyíre fat and lazy. Well fed. Necrotic, too. Theyíll never tear my belt off. We need something more predatory than the cats that hang out around here.
<br>
Monica- Why donít we go to the zoo?
<br>
Bill- Are you trying to get me killed? They got lions and tigers there. Even if they could do it, Iím sure the Secret Service would kill any lion or tiger that attacked me.
<br>
Monica- Really.
<br>
Bill- Monica, itís hopeless. You better use the holographs. Itís not that I donít respect and admire you. I just canít get my pants off.
<br>
Monica- All right, Bill, Iíll talk to our computer people. But Iím disappointed.
<br>
Bill- Iíd like to dirk a toast to our friendship, Monica. (He moves to the table to pour liquor for a toast.)
<br>
Monica-I donít want to dirk rat piss. I donít need an aphrodisiac.
<br>
Bill- Hey, Iím pouring you the good stuff. This was given personally to me by Hao Kao Wao, the mayor of Beijing.
<br>
Monica- Beijing hasnít got a mayor.
<br>
Bill- Well, he was some kind of big honcho there. If Beijing had a mayor, he would be it. This stuff is really good. (He pours two glasses of the liquor. Monica sips it cautiously.) What do you think?
<br>
Monica- Cat piss. Iíve got to throw up, Bill.
<br>

Bill- Iím feeling a little nauseous too. But I can control myself. (Exit Monica. He walks to the exit to make sure she is gone. He may hear the sounds of somebody throwing up. He moves toward the exit, smiling and singing to himself, shaking his head. He notices Sechel and Zhlog.) Who are you?
<br>
Sechel- Life.
<br>
Zhlog- Death.
<br>
Bill- Listen to her barf. Not pretty, is it? Thatís what a lot of women do when they give oral sex. Poor Monica. She didnít even get the satisfaction of having me in her mouth. All she got was cat piss. Maybe thereís a God in heaven and if he donít have virtue, he watches over us all. (The phone rings. Bill picks it up.) Hello? Hao Kao Wao?...Look, youíve been giving me rat piss, cat piss, and I donít know what else to serve to my friends. I wouldnít exactly consider that an act of war but itís damned unfriendly...Youíre going to send me another bottle?... All right, but it better be booze. (He hangs up. The phone rings again.) Hello. Hillary? ...I told you it wasnít Africa....Youíre in Africa now?...Thank God....Theyíre eating tamales and shooting pistols at each other?...That sounds like Sweden...The African papers say youíre a Lesbian?...Thatís politics, donít worry about it. Weíll get the African Lesbian vote...Well, weíll get some kind of Lesbian vote...Youíre horny and you canít wait to come home and sleep with me?...Hey, thatís good, thatís good....Will you bring me a bottle of duty free liquor home, honey? Yeah, something French like retzina wine. Weíre going to have a party. (He hangs up.) My wife.
<br>
Sechel- Of sorts.
<br>
Zhlog- Youíre alone, Bill.
<br>
Bill- I guess I am. So is everybody else. Weíve done away with the extended family the nuclear family, any family. We donít come from anywhere. Maybe we always wanted to forget that. We are what we want to be. I donít know what that is. It might be life; it might be death.
<br>
Iím an Arkansas boy from way down South
Where the honky tonks serve raw booze
The girls at the bar have a hell of a mouth
And nothing I do is news.
<br>
I think you two angels did that to us. Iíve heard about you, Life and death, isnít it? Which is worse? Both of them could only come form you. Nothing human could hate us as much. We have no land, no family, no memory. We are trivial beyond good and evil. We will find a way to even worse things to you. (Exit Bill.)
<br>
Zhlog Did you like the music?
<br>
Sechel It was sort of ordinary. We've been in many worse. Remember the third planet from Arcturus? That was terrible.
<br>

Zhlog Well, these characters were all exiles from some old place that treated them like dirt and didn't want them. There's always
going to be something lowlife about a national epic with people
like that.
<br>
Sechel The people that came closest to the Truth were Washington and Jefferson. After that, they just got crazy.
<br>
Zhlog- Truth is your game, not mine. You're the Angel of Light. Well, where shall we go next, Zhlog? To the Pleides?
<br>
Sechel- To Andromeda. (They smile at each other, pause and exit.)
<br>
The End.
<br>

<br>
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