Fran Carlen, p.2



SKIT I

Dirk: Still scribbling?
Lil: Scribbling—Christ!
Dirk: Gin?
Lil: Mm-hm.
Dirk: With…?
Lil: With gin. Gin with gin.
Dirk: Tiny fizz?
Lil: Stiff! Fill it with gin!
Dirk: Right.
Lil: Twit!
Dirk (mixing drink): Plink plink plink. Dirk’s kirsch… Lili’s gin.
Lil: Bring it!
Dirk: …fixing this twist. I’m finishing—
Lil: Dirk’s spilling it!
Liz: Still fighting?
Lil: I think fighting is thrilling.
Liz: Isn’t it insipid, criticizing him?
Dirk: I’m winning!
Liz: Chilling tidbit.
Dirk (sipping kirsch): I’m tight.
Lil: Ripping.
Dirk: Drink, Liz?
Liz: Milk.
Dirk: Milk? Bit prim.
Lil: Dirk, Liz is six.
Dirk: Milk it is (mixing it). Spritz? I’m kidding!
Lil: I’m finding this tiring.
Dirk: Did I blink?
Lil (swigging gin): Wimp.
Dirk: Witch.
Lil: Prick.
Liz: This is sick.
Lil: I’m driving him wild.
Liz: Nipping his id?
Dirk: I’m winging it.
Lil: I might kill him first.
Dirk: Thinking big!
Lil: I’m thinking bright pink lipstick, g-string… I’m thinking
I’ll ditch him.
Dirk: Bright spirit? I insist.
Lil: I’m blind.
Liz: If living is this simplistic I think I’ll skip it.
Lil: Nihilism is…
Dirk …kitsch.
Liz (whistling): It’s midnight. I’m splitting—with Liszt.
Liszt: IRF! IRF!