THE CAT-WOMAN SNIFFS, COLLAPSES IN SLOBBER. "I'D SAY SHE'S ON DRUGS," A PASSER-BY SAYS. THE CAT-WOMAN REARS UP A DRIPPING HEAD AND GLARES AT THE CURTAINS IN THE WINDOWS OF THE NEARBY TENEMENT- FINE PUCE DOILIES STITCHED ALMOST FLAWLESSLY TOGETHER. THE CATWOMAN SQUARES HER SHOULDERS, SNIFFS, AND COLLAPSES IN DROOL. EVERYTHING SEEMS CONFUSED.
Mark and Albert finish the table and move to the chair. The chair is hulking, for a chair, awfully massive in a stern-oak way that Mark and Albert have noted Italian things have. Our workers fret and correct, until finally, gracious though sweating, they've filled in the grooves.
"Now it's time for a little boom, don't you think?" Mark says.
"Why I guess," Albert says. "Though don't you think we should finish the bed?"
"The bed," Mark says, and the two move on into the bedroom.
Graciela arrives while Mark and Albert are fixing the bed. "Looks like a spacious hoe-down," she says. "Wouldn't have dreamt of similar speed in my spankingest dreams," she says. "Now what say we have us some boom?" she adds.
"We noticed the toilet," Albert says.
"The toilet," Graciela says and the three move into the bathroom. Mark and Albert get down on their knees and adjust the valves. Then they fret and correct until finally, pleasant though wet, they've eased the fluids.
Graciela's impressed. "I've got some fine boom," she says.
Mark and Albert withdraw from their suits and sit on the rug. Graciela opens a jar and Mark stabs the crosier. Albert wheewhizzes and studies syringes: "A mighty fine box of these do-hards, I'd say."
"Not precious," Graciela insists. "Just 'that which we lose,' just 'truck,'" she says.
Mark tries it first. It works and he saunters bodily out to the laundry. Graciela and Albert go ahead, find consciousness eased. Mark returns.
The three talk.
First there is some talk about motion, that is by Graciela.
Then there is some talk about death, that is by Mark.
Albert and Graciela hush Mark up.
Albert speaks on truth and the way we admire the truth. He is descended of Aztecs.
Graciela butts in with a discourse on love and how love is all motion.
Then the three ease up and enjoy.
"You know," says Mark, "it's a long-standing falsehood that things die by stricture. For really, people attack bluegills, fishermen don't."
"People attack..."
"... bluegills..."
"... fishermen don't. And if everyone saw...." Mark is happy.
"This is not a bad trip," Albert says.
Mark discourses on baldness.
"You've gained weight," Graciela says, to Albert.
"Not a lot," Albert says. "I've gained some weight--not an atrocious amount, just the amount one visualizes easily in the youlive-at-home visualization experience. The you-live-at-home visualization experience."
"Not me to judge," Graciela says.
"I don't either," Mark says.
"Let's fish," Albert says.
"Let's fish," Mark laughs.
Albert laughs.
Graciela laughs loudly.
(At that point Graciela, suddenly quiet, asks the two men to strip off their shorts, which they do, and some attractive mammalpinning goes on and the three are involved in their stuffs, losing trouble of flat awareness--but a dire yet humble presence ekes out its draught from the bouncing of flesh.
(The curtain falls....)
THE CAT-WOMAN PULLS A FOOT UP, PUTS ANOTHER FOOT DOWN, AND THEN TWO HANDS, AND PUSHES HERSELF TO HER FEET. EVERYTHING SEEMS CONFUSED. "TOURETTE'S," SOMEONE SAYS. SOMEONE ELSE NODS: "PAST LIFE SINS." "SHE'S A PSYCHIC," SOMEONE SAYS. SHE TURNS AROUND AND AROUND AND HARANGUES THE CROWD. SHE LOOKS UP AT THE TENEMENT HOUSE WITH A SURGE OF SELF-SATISFACTION. THEN SHE COLLAPSES IN DROOL.