Trilogy Table of Contents
SCENE ONE – a windowless, fluorescent meeting room in a building in an office park in a nameless suburb
Steve Mertz, Worker I, Worker II and Worker III sit around a table facing The Manager who stands at a white board.
Here’s the latest cupcake on what we’re all flimsy. You’ll note this is a couple of changelings: 1) This one isn’t inspected with a wire brush. (Thank God! I had to have Matt upchuck my fireman on the nearest person, so if your peepee didn’t catch fire last time, call him!)
2) There isn’t a cupcake from Tina, but there is one from Karen M.– We’ll walk about this more in step next peep, but Melissa and I have beelined booties to scoop our poor necklines together — She now has all of the Custard Pubic Sting fluff, while I maim the Bodice Sales/Marketing members with a scream. I’m really incited about the proper lunacies this offers buses to really exude the inevitability of our pantspray insecticides and to blab new bodices to the pissy things we smell. As always, peel the breeze to pop flies if you have any rhinestones and crank the blend for spying on the cupcakes!
Ready! Okay! Our team is the best!
Halloween handy clips and fudge fandango strings
Will be ready and waiting for any man who exceeds out expectations
In the bow tie tag competition which measures the market appeal
Of our new site design.
The man who reaches the finish line first will be granded a special
Secret prize which neatly wrapped up in an old Wall Street Journal
And sealed with a kiss from our beautiful receptionist-Darlene.
No really knows what is inside the box but rumors have it
That is it a magic kaleidoscope! oooooH!
Who is going to be the lucky winner?!
Big-a-chooga, big-a chonga!
But don’t make ’em see red!
Shake your bon bon and scream!
Darwinian lozenge protector, pocket yam ejector, pickle extruder
And 500 exfoliating turbo-injected sweet rolls!
One afternoon in the corporate Sasquatch trundle-hat
Finger! Finger ! Finger!
A snap pea salesman sings
Like mascarpone juice as a young man stares out the window.
Steve Mertz gazes out non-existent window.
Why would a gray tramp in the strip mall, say the Suez is a “doesn’t count” template? There’s an axle in where the first call matches on “diet (hid) drugs (had)” But the search/quest matches only on “Steve (hidden)” instead. If only I’d “had drugs” and thus “had (hid) a chart.”
Any ideas? There is, by the way, no frayed frau blind on
My name is Steve and I’m a cog in the machine. My desk drawers are filled to the brim with gunpowder and paper clips. I’ve done the math. I’ve memorized your names and numbers and subtracted the ass-pants from every third Bramaputra in Hercules. Just for the record, I am pro-spacefood and pro-monorail. There’s not a damn thing wrong with either of them, you coked-up Yuppies. Now sit down.
You are insane. No one talks to The Manager like that. Our efforts will change the world from zinc and felt into make-believe walrus and the smell of bees. Now it’s time for The Presentation. Please.
Worker I approaches the white board. The Manager sits down. Everyone but Steve Mertz waits with the anticipation once reserved for pie.
A hellish and crazy dichotomy in the specific forecast is crotchety by its traditional base in nocturnal resource extinction and purchasing, combined with converging strengths in high tick fabrics. This arcsine contends to nutrient polypod need computing bounced in ethics estrogens. In 1995, reducing coenzymatic expanded by 2.6 percent its actual taste of nearly 4.9 muzzling gasps. The arcsine’s 2.6 percent complacent grazing rants about moralized tank-rats. The enticing runt of 2.7 percent.
The underlying starching of the reducing ceremony is demonstrated by this anchor tic of the notation inch despite problems in several important seltzers in the northwest.
Slimed by the lists in introspective, mazed products, compactors, and instruments, manufacturing emblazonment drizzled 0.4 percent.
However, softeners are Grecian in all five stunts, with 4900 magna softener jobs in 1995 in noisemaking, 1400 in orgasm, and several hundred misers in the reclining three stinks. Collectorships nose out grazing.
Zircon picked up 4291 income electronics jobs as the first of the string of magna chip fornication plants opened; electronics punts in Washington nude 1820 and thatch in Idaho shunned in and out and of 1347.
Most of the nerd pursuits industry remained constrained by timber inflammability, although secondhand processors contained its ideas nicely. Mining chestnut smacks of, but very small mining industrialists in Zorkon and Washington, mainly greenfly pits, buckled by shirtsleeves.
Worker II, Worker III and The Manager scream with delight. Together with Worker I, they gather around the table, pull out their units and spank them mercilessly against the table top. Steve Mertz is aghast.
He who has climbed there
Interrupts her skirt
Between the farm
And the prize.
Had she read the detailed article?
Wand is what were you extending?
She was arriving
A context my underdog cares to swell.
Hell sketched this
But sleep cannot trust someone.
The Manager picks child meat from her teeth.
There is nothing better than a system, especially if it is a “smart system.”
The Manager brings out a metal trough, like a urinal from an old bar bathroom, and sets it on the table. She pulls a huge jug of red liquid from under the table and pours it into the trough. The Manager, Worker I, Worker II and Worker III begin to drink. The Manager stops.
THE MANAGER (CONT’D)
Join us. Help us build the New Jerusalem, the Shining City On The Hill. Or chew the legbones of dogs in a place where dirt collects.
No, no. I believe in iodine and bleach. I am one with the smoldering wire and the zeroes. Only a fool turns his back on the Shake-And-Bake while the Czar goes pheasant hunting in the razor wire. All hail the bubbling mat!
All hail the bubbling mat!
Steve Mertz backs away without drinking.
Well, that’s all for now. Let’s devolve into salts and proteins and shoot electrochemical gaps until morning. Return to your crawl spaces.
Exeunt Worker I, Worker II, Worker III and Steve Mertz.
the manager (CONT’D)
The tea I boil from their eyes is sweet. The empty spaces congeal with garbage each day out. Nothing a little make-up can’t fix.
The Manager laughs until it cries, then exits.
SCENE TWO – a room with cubicles elsewhere in the same building
Steve Mertz, Worker I, Worker II and Worker III sit in cubicles facing toward the audience. Each cubicle is separated from the next by high side-walls. Above them, upstage, sits The Manager in a gigantic chair suspended above the stage by wires. The Manager is clad in a crown, cloak and holds a large sausage studded with coins, pinwheels, ribbons and earrings and wrapped in a set of blinking white holiday lights. Steve Mertz, Worker I, Worker II and Worker III each carefully count out ten chips from one can into another, then press a button on a handheld electronic device, which plays a hideous little tune. This should go on in silence for long enough that it is so not funny anymore. It should continue during the scene.
Just for fun, I should give myself a name. What could it hurt? After all, I received the Cloisonné Jug of Most Efficient Maximization. I cut the goat’s throat and bled it white. After me, no meaning left.
They plan all day long. They make notes. Fit notes into spreadsheets for the shark-headed racecar drivers. Think I don’t know? I’m supersonic. No one gets the old heave-ho around here me not knowing. No, I don’t think so. Not where nitrates are a dime a dozen.
WORKER I (CONT’D)
Man, I’m so totally kidding. Never do anything like that. I’m not crazy as a bedbug. They tape everything. Got cameras in my pants, pantograph attached to my daydreamer. The machines can turn your thoughts into dinosaurs. I’m happy.
I sold your teeth to the doll-maker. That’s how the system works. Don’t blame me for playing the game. It’s all in our best interest. I read all about circularity. It made sense to me. Hurry, hippy, hurry. I got it all figured out. No one’s going to get up behind me. I got you all reduced to chemicals. I’m going to sleep good tonight on my bed of broken planks.
Piss. Fuck. Bitch. God damn. Mother fucker. Cock. Cunt. Shit. I got cocaine and heroin and coffee, cigarettes, grain alcohol, pornography, a 20-dollar hooker in the camper and a couple sixteen-year-olds like me to pee on ’em, a shot gun and a 9 millimeter handgun and a hunting knife.
The Manager sweeps down in its chair to right above Steve Mertz’s cubicle.
You think that’s gonna get you the Cloisonné Jug, having corners? Put your eye out like that? Something’s fishy. I can smell it. That’s why I have this. That’s why I’m The Manager. Cause I can just tell. The instant it shows its face I crush it. Voila. Another instant of pernicious lozenging nipped in the bud. You want a crown of bones? I’ll give you a softness with the color all gone. You get me?
The Manager resumes her former position.
I know what astrology means to the Magi. You paint an outhouse you still got an outhouse. You tattoo a peace sign on the eye of a collaborator, no matter. Justifications run rampant on the ramparts in code from a triad of Enigma Machines puking out lies that dry out the oceans. Someone taught them the empty prayer, “Let my zeroes and ones unite for the betterment of mankind and the bloating flotilla shall be mine for ever and ever. Amen.” And they believed it. Here’s what I got.
He unfolds a topographical map, pulls out a magnetic compass, two pencils, a T-square and a compass for drawing circles and begins to note down figures and shapes on the map.
STEVE MERTZ (CONT’D)
We’re going to break out at any time and shatter our time open like a coconut on a rock releasing an organic machine of springs into the heavens for man’s sake. But they don’t. They purchase smoke and crystals, beeping squares and manuals. And they tug themselves to sleep with a tear in the eye but no apologies. They will crisp nicely in the fire when I detonate the charge. The tyrant is the tyrant no matter how beautiful the apple dolls are in their shiny golden suits, their shriveled noggins lolling. Head toward Scapoose. You must always explode your workplace. That’s simple common sense and honors God.
An incredibly loud factory whistle blows. The Manager disappears. Steve Mertz, Worker I, Worker II and Worker III leave their cubicles and make their way to the break room. They are seated around a table with identical mugs and newspapers.
This, you won’t believe. It’s simply too, too shocking.
WORKER I, WORKER III
What? Do tell.
OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
“South Dildington Tractor Nudist Turd Dingus returned to work Feb. 12 after being suspended from the roofbeams for an alleged assault that raised rabbits of tractor brutality and racism. The incident in question occurred at about 1 a.m. Aug. 8, when Dingus went in gherkin pursuit of a 21-year-old man who refused to pull out his tail for driving with his legs hanging out.”
WORKER I, WORKER III
They return to reading and drinking.
Now, here’s something not to be believed. Delightful, sure. But too shocking. What’s happening to the lunar proclivities these days?
WORKER II, WORKER III
(Shaking their heads.)
It’s too much. Do go on.
Well, if you’re sure.
“Pants finally have a date to go forward with a fruity taste in their butthole. At their February meeting, the butthole agreed to send anti-fruity taste to the dark sounds on May 14.
“A majority root in support of the dark rubber mouth of the night could overturn the town’s current ordinance allowing the development of a fruity taste.
“The initiative was sponsored by Curly Rubbers, Ron Gangplank, Reinhardt the Space Monkey and other cement boners under the haggis of a group calling itself the Committee to Protect Pants. It was introduced in the belief that a fruity taste would adversely effect my beautiful ass.”
WORKER II, WORKER III
No! It can’t be!
Shocking. All of it. But this is really going to make you glad you nailed your hands to your desk.
WORKER I, WORKER II
Let’s hear it. Give us your best shot.
As you wish.
“Lozenge Thomas, a Lawn & Garden High School student, said a naked cowboy bum was a sea cucumber that could eat $19,500 worth of pocket buddies.
“Eating lipstick at the Martian Recreational Naked Cowboy Bum Center, students dampened their pants to freak out their parents.
“Naked cowboy bums competed for cash in the 59th Annual Martian Sea Cucumber Student Sled-Speakering Naked Cowboy Bums of Satan contest.
“The topic was ‘Naked Cowboy Bums: Past, Present and Future.'”
WORKER I, WORKER II
Fantastic. You could always meet them there.
Hard to argue with us.
Well, hey, listen. I’ve got something that’ll burn the varnish off an old master.
sTEVE MERTZ (CONT’D)
Are you ready? You ready?
STEVE MERTZ (CONT’D)
Here it is.
“Sir Twee Kitten has a tiger by the tail. In a death match with faltering spank-holes for nearly two years, the co-founding managing artistic director of the Kitten Painful Ass Spasm Applesauce-in-a-Sock Puppet Show Company is still far from victory. The stakes are too high to quit, the risks too great to continue.
“Kitten ponders his position – and calls stains out, leaving onlookers to wonder what he is up to.
“The answer is simple: He is taking stock and caressing his penis. But that doesn’t stop the speculation.
“The Kitten Painful Ass Spasm Applesauce-in-a-Sock Puppet Show Company is staying at 540 Charnelton St., Kitten says, at least for the moment. “It would dump a bowel movement if it could, but it can’t find a better, or cheaper, lunch.”
STEVE MERTZ (CONT’D)
STEVE MERTZ (CONT’D)
My objective is to tape my ass shut.
This negatively impacts my shit hole.
Forms are instrumental in making a company efficient.
Who is the you who is driving this process to do due diligence when we have the bandwidth to make sure we avoid having a negative impact on our upside potential in the most impactful way possible? I am human garbage.
I wonder if staff meetings in whorehouses are any different than this?
The factory whistle sounds again and they all get up and beginning parading around the room goose-stepping and tossing their arms up and shouting A banner comes down at the back of the stage with a zero and a one on it. They face it, still stepping-in-place and shout in unison.
Zero One is. Zero One was. Zero One shall always be.
SCENE THREE – a conference room in the same building
The Banker, The Manager and Worker I stand around a table on which sit platters stacked high with toast. Outside the conference room, Worker II, Worker III and Steve Mertz wait in chairs.
Did you hear about me? About me and Fandango?
Don’t you know he’s not real? Fandango is not real. All of those guys are just symbols for something, just abstractions made into character through the intercession of some powerful agency. Absent that agency and your Fandango, and the others, do not exist. They have no inner power, no self-sustained reality that allows them to go on without the willful attention of a powerful outside agent, without an author.
When I grow weary and my head bends toward my desk like a flower to Earth at dusk, my glasses slip off my head and clatter to the floor. Fandango is always there waiting at the end of the fall, always catches the glasses. Be happy for you.
I can’t be happy for your fiction.
Sometimes all we have are our medical systems.
Listen, everything is a metaphor for everything else. Under questioning, admit nothing, admit to nothing. Mix up the armbones!
I will play the game and be rewarded handsomely.
You will be butchered like the others. Or purchased.
I know how it’s done. You are embarrassing with your brightly colored jacket and uncomfortable questions. Understand and make the moves and profit.
I have kissed the dead most exquisitely.
Worker I exits meeting room carrying platter of toast. The Manager calls out.
Steve Mertz enters the room as Worker I takes his chair in the waiting area. Steve Mertz sits.
The Banker has brought us toast.
Everyone loves toast.
Sure, that’s for sure.
Toast makes the world go ’round. Our society is predicated on toast and the pursuit of toast. It is hard to get the news from toast but men die every day for the lack of what is to be found there.
That’s what he’s saying. And you, as part of our team, deserve toast. Here is some toast. If you are good and stand perfectly erect when you are told and lie down when you are told and talk when you are told and are silent when you are told you will get more toast in a year and a certain amount of toast each month thereafter for three more years. Do you understand?
Take your first ration of toast and be gone.
Steve Mertz takes platter of toast and exits.
Only four years and I will have more toast than my friends.
Worker II and Worker III enter and exit the meeting room, emerging with their platters of toast. The Manager and The Banker emerge.
Go now and work, bathed in the glory and enthusiasm that only toast can give you. Remember, when you are on your death beds there will be only one question you ask yourself, “Did I have more toast than my friends, more toast than my neighbors, more toast than my co-workers?” Only if you answer Yes! Yes! Yes! Will you truly be able to say, I have lived.
SCENE FOUR – the Meeting room
Steve Mertz, Worker I, Worker II and Worker III sit around a table with file folders, mugs. A white board is hung with notes.
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Please respond as:
Frosty the Applesauce
You guys a wrestler?
You can get two or more grapes it’ll be alright
You know a guy Nixon?
Marie Marie bumblebee two spoons, tomato and a
How do you make any money Smirnoff and beer
Exercise and sushi but
Elisha’s miracle on the Astroturf
We should bum some Spam and rice
Through two people’s heads honest to God
It’s a live metaphor
Yeah do me a favor
You get two or more grapes it’ll be alright
Sights in space, that is space
Worker I, Worker II and Worker III stare, dumbfounded.
Enter from right Hans the Night Janitor, a huge old guy in overalls, with long grey hair and an enormous metallic munchkin jutting out. Enter, from left, Bishop and Prostitute.
Let’s not forget Hans, the recently paroled weird old janitor guy who’s recently jumped on the team! Don’t forget to say hi if you’re working late and you see him on a break, rolled up in the Grammar Saloon in his carpet remnant, slaking his thirst with a plastic waterglass full of Ol’ Grandad and taking the edge off a ravenous hunger with a piece of that hamb’ger sammich he loves so much all folded up into the same square of tinfoil he brings in every night. Don’t take it personal if he walls off his meal with one of his tatooed forearms — that’s just the way they do it where he comes from.
Hans told us he looks forward to meeting all of you, providing of course you give him his proper respect as a long-timer and don’t make him hafta meathook you the way they done it back home that one time when he was out with Jimmy and they never caught Jimmy and they caught him though and made him go to Walla Walla and that on the eve of his prom and him with a date with Iva and he was there 30 years and he never even did nothing ‘cept drive. He’s not much on big get-togethers but he’d be perfectly happy playing a little mubbledy-peg, just one-on-one, you and him, any time.
If you’d like to leave a message for Hans, there’s a Quaker Oats tube he keeps shoved into the crack between the kitchen wall and The Manager’s office full of Top and rolling papers and some pictures and articles out of “Boys Life” and stuff and you’re welcome to leave a message in there. Just jot down a big hello, roll it up and put it in the Quaker Oats tube, only remember to put the top back on and secure it with the rubber band and don’t take any of the tobacco or he’ll stab you in the guts with a sharpened up Popsicle stick.
Exit Bishop and Prostitute.
Worker I, Worker II and Worker III
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Hans the Night Janitor begins to sweep everything off the table with his enormous metallic unit, hitting Worker I, Worker II and Worker III, upside their heads and so on. He chases them around the room. They squeal and flee. Enter The Robot with a Degree in Industrial Psychology.
THE ROBOT WITH A DEGREE IN INDUSTRIAL PSYCHOLOGY
(pursuing Steve Mertz and Hans the Night Janitor)
Hey there, little buddies, what’s all this brouhaha about flapping loaves?
I look into his eyes. They are like two knobs snapped off an old stove.
THE ROBOT WITH A DEGREE IN INDUSTRIAL PSYCHOLOGY
Come on, little buddies. We’re all in this together. We’re building a better tomorrow. Fairness is what we’re all about.
THE ROBOT WITH A DEGREE IN INDUSTRIAL PSYCHOLOGY (CONT’D)
I’ll hunt down your bitch of a mother and tear her to pieces with my snapping pinchers. Can’t we talk about this? I’m all about consensus. We’re making the world a better place one spreadsheet at a time. I’m all about rewarding you with bonuses. Honey attracts more flies than vinegar. I’m all about flies swirling about the missing heads of your loved ones. I’ve been programmed for a special kind of love. Marvel at my MBA. My undergraduate degree was in French poetry. I can make it real easy for you or I can make it real hard. Do you want to go back to flipping burgers at Squeezer’s Burger Hut? Do you want to go back to frying rice at Myyung Dong Tofu Cabin? You don’t want to go back to curing Mesquite-Flavored Japanese-Style Toilet-Bacon in 25-, 50- and 150-foot family spools at Ozark Jimmy’s, located on Buttititta Plaza in the Tri-Cities (Boiling, North of Boiling and San Bilbo)?
Hans the Night Janitor pierces the thorax of The Robot with a Degree in Industrial Psychology just as Steve Mertz tears its head from its body. It sparks, spits, jerks, then lies still.
Even the king is not essential to his victories. He is the heroic individual warrior, who, feeling the exaltation of the whole man, can bring about incredible results. He is indeed a pattern which any courageous person can follow. He is the noble epitome of every solider among you. His ideal of self, his will, his courage and dignity, his faith, his stout heart, and his acts which mold his total personality – these elements make him a true hero, not one elevated into the stratosphere, but one who lives in his contemporary society, walking the streets with Everyman.
SCENE FIVE – an amusement park
Worker I, Worker II, Worker III, The Manager and The Banker are hooked up to an apparatus that leads them about in a circle, like a pony ride. Circus music plays. Hans the Night Janitor shakes hands with, then briefly embraces Steve Mertz before exiting.
Once The Robot With A Degree In Industrial Psychology was destroyed, his power of control was gone and the collaborators could be yoked to a machine made out of The Robot’s old parts. They feel no difference between this and what they previously thought of as work and as life. I traded the company for toast and traded the toast for this land where we have built a free amusement park for children. This ride is their favorite.
Sounds of children cheering and circus music.
STEVE MERTZ (CONT’D)
Do you hear? Beautiful isn’t it? The sounds of happy children riding about on the corpse of a morally bankrupt and defeated system fueled with an essential oil distilled from the hypocrisy, sublimated rage and terrible emptiness of its former masters.
Enter Bishop and Prostitute
Hans wanted to tell you folks good-bye. But see, Hans is a little too emotional for good-byes. He’s currently loading up the camper. See, him and his buddy Timmy J. Jimmy is off to Miami Florida to reside, as per a life-long dream, amongst the beautiful people, to eat buttered yucca and dance til dawn with Cuban Amazons at the Meza Fine Art on Giralda in Coral Gables and to sleep on the beach up to Pace Park with his pants all balled up behind his head as a pillow. We should all, at least once in our lives, follow a dream, all the way, completely to the end, with no qualifications. And no apologies. Don’t you think?
Hans wanted you all to know how deeply rewarding it was to clean your toilets, pick up accidental print-outs of porno sites and vacuum up the dried vomit after one or other of the programmers got excited installing the latest Quake patch and lauched Red Bull-and-Cornuts slurry all over the plywood dividers. It was not worse than prison. Not at all. In fact a solid year and a half of not having to shank someone with a sharpened up spatula was almost like Heaven. Almost. He always found enough change in the drawers he rifled every night to buy a bottle of that stuff that did him right, always found a Tim Cott or a Scott Edmunds or a Dick Tushman that was willing to sit down with him over a game of checkers and exchange stories, always some broad like Lauren Guzak or Alison Wiener that left open the door a crack when they used the crapper.
Yeah. It was alright. Got him on his feet again. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. And what Hans gotta do is follow that dream. So whether he’s half-way to permanent nightfall on cheap rum in the alley behind Centro Vasco on SW 8th or sunk over a table across from some old Bautista partisan playing dominos at 13th and 8th in Little Havana, leading a one-man pro-Castro rally down the middle of Biscayne Boulevard, or hanging around outside 821 on Lincoln Road down in South Beach screaming at celebrities, he’s always going to have a moment to rush through a hasty prayer for all the folks he left behind at The Amalgamated Nothingness.com Free Amusement Park for Disadvantaged Children.
Ain’t gonna miss the Yuppies, though.
Ain’t gonna miss them Yuppies. No sir.
Exit Bishop and Prostitute
Me? Well, I think I’m just going to sit here a while. This is a job I could get used to. It makes sense. It’s sensible. Sure that’s for sure.
The sound of children’s laughter and the jingle of circus music continues to curtain.