PAUL: Don, they need us. They need us bad!
DON: What? Who? Paul! It’s two-twenty in the holy morning!
PAUL: Time is of the essence, Don. Of the essence! Winter waits on no man nor woman nor child.
DON: You’re making no sense at all. None!
PAUL: Do paramedics make sense when they pull people from car wrecks? Do fire fighters make sense when they rescue cats from trees? Do house painters make sense when they pee in your cellar?
DON: House painters? I’m going to count to three Paul. Either you explain yourself by three or Colorado witnesses its first successful axe murder of the new century.
PAUL: Winter, Don. There’s not much time left before the Colorado winds hit us. Hit us hard. But hit them harder. Harder than hard. The poor women with no winter clothing to speak of. Not more than a mere stitch to their names, Don. They’re bound to freeze right to Popsicle death if we don’t do something fast!
DON: Who? Who are you are talking about?
PAUL: Dancers, Don. Erotic dancers. Have you ever seen one with more than a g-string to her name? Of course not! And it came to me just 30 minutes ago in the midst of wanking to quality Balinese donkey porn. Get ready to cry, Don. This is going to break your heart. You see, no one cares. No one cares at all. No one ever cares. That’s why they never have fur coats. Never even have pants or tops. No one cares but us!
DON: Us? What have we to do with it? We didn’t steal their clothes.
PAUL: Don’t you see, Don? It’s our duty. Our obligation to society. Our chance to give back something of what’s been given to us. We must round up the money to buy warm clothes. Furs and jeans and warm tops. If we don’t….if we don’t then no one will.
DON: There’s been a weed wacker at work scattering your brains! The women have clothing. For gods sake, do I really need to explain this to you? The women have coats. They just don’t wear them on stage.
PAUL: You’re wrong about that. I’ve seen the dressing rooms. Just baby-doll lingerie, French maid outfits, and the occasional chicken outfit borrowed from some Baptist preaching man. We’re both poor, Don. We don’t have the money to buy clothing, the clothing they desperately need. But there’s still time to do something about it tonight. Do something right now.
DON: You’re thinking of knocking over a convenience store, aren’t you? You poor, stupid fool! You think…
PAUL: Not a store, Don. South Nevada Avenue. Prostitution. Right now’s the prime time for it. I used to work in sales. The gods know I’d rather not do it, but this is serious. I’ll pimp you for five Jacksons a wham, bam, and stand up straight and tall again. We’ll grab some Vaseline on our way there. I think you’d best put on Becky’s party dress, too. And smear some beet juice on your lips and buttocks. Johns pay more when your pretty and alluring like that.
DON: Me? What about you? Why in hell’s crotchless panties aren’t you going to whore yourself? You’re the bumble-weed who thought of this?
PAUL: It wouldn’t make sense. You’re the only one who can do it? The only one who can risk STDs.
DON: I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Wait…it’s you. I can believe it. STDs? Why can’t you yourself risk them too?
PAUL: Think it thorough, Don. I did. I’m celibate, you see. Celibate. Simple logic. How on earth can a celibate man contract a STD? He can’t, that’s how. He can’t or he wouldn’t be celibate. And if he’s celibate, then he can’t be having sex. Ergo, you’ve got be the whore, because I can’t have sex. Simple logic.
DON: I take it back. Everything I said about your brain scattering grass like a weed wacker. Your weed wacker, Paul — it’s not even turned on. Your motor is dead. Dead!
PAUL: But you’re wrong about that, Don. You’re as wrong as a raccoon trying fuck a chipmunk in a tornado in a forest fire. What you don’t…Don? DON? Damn it, Don! When are you ever going to get a new phone? Yours has gone dead again. Just like last time, yours has gone dead again.