Sean Tarjoto
Creative Writing II
Policoff
Mar. 5, 2000

(A dining room in a nice house.  A long dining table is surrounded by Marc, Ronald, Betsy and Mirand.  Mirand is tied to a chair with everything from twine to phone cord to garden hosing. He also has some duct tape on his mouth. On the table are five steak and potato dinners, none fully eaten. The chandelier is swinging, producing a sort of dizzying kalediscopic luminescence.  Betsy is sitting down with Ronald while Marc has his back turned toward them. He is facing out the window.)

Marc: What time is it?
Betsy: (stares at the wall clock) Eleven-thirty. 
Ronald: He’s only a little late
Marc: No, he’s not. He’s a half an hour late. Where the hell is he... (Mirand mumbles) Shut him up.
Ron: He didn’t say anything...
Betsy: We should probably feed him his dinner. It’s getting cold.
Marc: Christ. 
Ron: (grabs a fork and knife and begins cutting some of Mirand’s steak) 
Betsy: I’m going to the kitchen. 
(Betsy exits)
Marc: (glancing over his shoulder) What the fuck are you doing, Ron?
Ron: (still cutting) I’m feeding him.
Marc: We’re going to kill him, Ron.
Ron: So it’s his last fucking meal, Marc.
Marc: Jesus. (looks back to window) Come on.What time is it? (no one answers. Ron is still cutting the dinner.) I said what time is it?
Ron: Jesus, just look at the clock, Marc.
Marc: (turns) Where’s Betsy?
Ron: She went to the kitchen. 
Betsy: (exits the kitchen suddenly, holding a glass of water) Here, hon. (to Mirand) All that sweat must mean you’re quite thirsty. Oh. Duct tape. (rips it of him)
Ron: Shit.
Mirand: What the hell is going on?!
Marc: Oh my god. Shut him up.
Betsy: The tape’s not very sticky anymore...
Ron: Hey pal, just take it easy. 
Betsy: You’re still not done cutting that steak?  
Ron: It’s tough.
Mirand: What the hell... 
Ron: Well done. 
Betsy: Mmm? What did I do?
Ron: What?
Mirand: Oh my god, Jesus Jesus Jesus you people are insane...
Marc: (glances at the clock) This is fucking ridiculous.  Hey, (smacks Mirand on the heat) Where’s the phone?
Ron: (puts down fork and knife) Who are you calling?
Betsy: (to herself) Ghostbusters.
Marc: (hits Mirand again) Hey. Pal. Ya hear me? Where’s your fucking phone?
Mirand: I-it’s in the kitchen...
Betsy: I’ll go get it. (Betsy exits)
Ron: Marc, who are you calling?
Marc: Who the fuck do you think? (peeks out the window) Jesus, I hope those aren’t neighbors.
Ron: What?
Betsy: (comes out, a cordless phone in hand) Here, Marc.  I dialed him for you.
Ron: Marc?
Marc: (grabs the phone, begins pacing the room) Answer. Answer, you... Hey! Hey, what the fuck is this you’re a half ... you’re what? What?
Ron: What happened?
Marc: Shit. Okay, well, the car’s okay, right?... Right?! (Marc sighs)
Ron: Marc, what happened?
Marc: Okay, okay, just get out of the hospital and get over here... I don’t care, take the fucking bus!... All right, bye.
Ron: Marc!
Marc: Shut up! I have to think.
Betsy: (takes the utensils, starts cutting some steak up) Here, hon. It’s cold but you’ll need it tonight.
Mirand: What? 
Betsy: Open wide. (stuffs Mirand in the face) 
Mirand: Mffpht! Stop it!
Betsy: (picks up glass) Oops, sorry. Here... (spills on Mirand)
Mirand: Ahh! What are you doing!?! Stop it!
Betsy: Sorry. 
Marc: Okay, I need some help.  Get him to the back, put him in a garbage bag.
Mirand: What?!
Ron: What?
Betsy: Okay. (exits through kitchen)
Ron: (stands) Marc, what happened?
Marc: (on his way out) He was in a fucking car accident.  The car is totaled.  We need a new plan...
Ron: What?! The car is what? No... (moves after Marc) 
Marc: Yes, so listen up... (exits, Ron follows)
(Mirand is alone. For a moment, he hesitates, and then seizes the opportunity to escape, violently trying to thrash his way out of the chair.  He falls over, scoots over to the dinner table and begins jostling it.  Soon, a dinner knife falls.  He turns around, grabs the knife, and begins slicing the twine off his wrists.)
Betsy: (enters, holding a garbage bag. She sees Mirand) Hmm. 
Mirand: Oh god, please... let me go.
Betsy: Hon, I think I like you. You’ve got balls.
Mirand: What?
Betsy: (kicks Mirand in the crotch, and then pushes a plate over the table, onto his head. Mirand is knocked out.) There we go. (Betsy bends down with the garbage bag)

(Lights out, end Act I??)