This is one of two one-act plays written for a workshop in L.A.
SCENE: A small apartment in the South Bronx section of Manhattan.
Stained and peeling wallpaper, a small window with a paper shade, torn and taped back together, shutting off the view. An unmade cot, an old sofa with a blanket carelessly thrown over the cushions. A stack of milk crates filled with books and pamphlets—a pile spilled over onto the floor. Newspapers, clothes, and empty Chinese food containers scattered everywhere. The shabbiness and disarray are something just short of squalid. Behind the sofa is a tall bookcase that conceals an opening in the stage left wall, in front of it is an old steamer trunk. In the back wall, center, is a door with an assortment of sturdy locks and deadbolts. On one side of the door is a framed picture of Lenin. On the other side is a yellowed Art Nouveau poster commemorating the October Revolution.
Sitting In a tattered wing chair, reading a book, is GOLDBLUM. He is a man in his late sixties, long, gaunt, with a craggy face. His eyes are hidden behind thick glasses. Rummaging through the old trunk is MULLET. He is about the same age as Goldblum but more robust. His face is broad and permanently flushed. His hair is thick. His eyes, unusually far apart, have an unnerving intensity.
MULLET: (grabbing something in the trunk) Ha! Never thought I'd see this again!
GOLDBLUM: (nose in book) Find something?
(MULLET pulls out a stick of dynamite. The paper wrapping is dark with stains)
MULLET: Thought it was lost forever
GOLDBLUM: (looking up) What.... Oh, not that awful thing.
MULLET: Awful? That's right, awe-full. It's power, Goldblum. It makes us
powerful Think about it. Think of the havoc. Think of the—
GOLDBLUM: Mullet, do we have to go through this again? You can't go around indiscriminately blowing things up. It's irresponsible. Out of context.
MULLET: You mean it offends your petty bourgeois sense of decency. You intellectuals are all the same. You know that! All of you. Sit on your flat asses, while it's real proletarians like me who have to do the dirty work and rouse up the masses.
GOLDBLUM: Like you roused them up when you dynamited Mrs. Fishbaum's shed? Do you think that was an appropriate symbol of capitalist repression?
MULLET: Destruction of private property is fundamental to the cause. Or have you gotten so tied up in abstractions you've forgotten? (holds up stick of dynamite) "Let the ruling classes tremble!" By the way, what was it doing under all these books? I know I didn't put it there.
GOLDBLUM: Well, I...
MULLET: You hid it, didn't you!
GOLDBLUM: It was in your own best interest.
MULLET: (outraged) My best interest! Now that's the limit. My interest! What does my interest have to do with anything! Or yours either! You traitor! You... you running dog! What about the interest of the revolution! Huh! What about that!
GOLDBLUM: Calm down, Mullet. It's not a big deal.
MULLET: Oh it's not, eh! Well then, I'll tell you what it is. It's the last straw! That's what it is! I've had it. Day after day, year after year, you and your blabbering about political economy and class struggle and Hegel and Engels, and I'm just an ignorant worker and what do I know! Well, I know this! (brandishes the dynamite in Goldblum's face) This will do more in a split second than you've done in twenty years.
GOLDBLUM: Are you through?
(MULLET goes over to a heap of clothes and starts flinging them around)
MULLET: Nothing personal, Goldblum, but come the revolution it's not going to go well for you. Things like this don't get forgotten. When it's time to settle up the score, we'll remember how you drawing-room theorists tried to hold the rest of us back. (pulls an old jacket out of the heap)
GOLDBLUM: What do you mean, "The rest of us?" There hasn't been anybody but you and me since LaFarge left. That was years ago.
MULLET: That's what you think.
(He puts on the jacket and shoves the stick of dynamite into his back
But they're out there, all right. Just waiting for somebody to come along and set them on fire.
GOLDBLUM: And you're going to find them, right?
MULLET: I am.
MULLET: Wherever workers are struggling to throw off their chains, that's where I'll be. You won't talk me out of it. Don't even try.
GOLDBLUM: Wouldn't dream of it.
(MULLET goes to the door and starts unfastening the locks.)
MULLET: It's going to hurt me, Goldblum.
MULLET: Having you shot. But it's going to be necessary. You understand that, don't you? We can't allow obstructionists in the new order. Not even friends.
GOLDBLUM: (patiently) Of course not.
(MULLET opens the door and steps out.)
MULLET: Then I'm off.
GOLDBLUM: (calling after him) Oh, and Mullet. On your way could you stop by Fong's and give them a few dollars. We're behind. We don't want the deliveries cut off.
MULLET: (from off stage) Okay.
GOLDBLUM looks at his watch, then resumes his reading. After a moment an explosion shakes the set. GOLDBLUM gets up, goes to the door and looks out into the hallway. Voices start shouting in the distance; a siren begins to wail. He makes a movement to go out, then hesitates, obviously afraid to leave the apartment. With a sigh he closes the door and goes back to his chair. He picks up the book again.
MULLET enters through the concealed opening in the stage left wall. His hands' face and hair are powdered white. He sneaks around behind Goldblum, stretches up, leans forward and raises his arms.
(GOLDBLUM lets out a yelp, drops his book and jumps halfway out of his chair)
GOLDBLUM: (furious) Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing now!
MULLET: It's a joke.
GOLDBLUM: Well it's not funny!
MULLET: Ahh..., northing's funny to you.
GOLDBLUM: And what are you doing in that ridiculous makeup?
MULLET: Didn't you hear?
MULLET: The explosion. The dynamite went off right in my pocket.
GOLDBLUM: There, now you see why I tried to hide it from you.
MULLET: I don't suppose you remembered to turn the stuff.
GOLDBLUM: What are you talking about?
MULLET: Turning it. You're supposed to turn dynamite every now and then so the nitro won't all seep into one spot. Makes it unstable. But I don't suppose your scholarly books go into that sort of thing.
GOLDBLUM: You wouldn't know if they did.
(He looks accusingly at Goldblum.)
GOLDBLUM: Now what?
MULLET: Well, aren't you going, at least, to apologize?
GOLDBLUM: I'm not. It serves you right. You're just lucky it didn't blow you to pieces.
MULLET: It did.
(GOLDBLUM reaches for his book)
GOLDBLUM: Mullet, you've made your point. You don't have to labor it with a stupid prank.
MULLET: (getting serious) It's no prank, Goldblum.
GOLDBLUM: (trying to find his page) Look, you're really starting to irritate me.
(MULLET stands there and glares at him.)
GOLDBLUM: (perfunctorily) Oh, all right. I'm sorry. Are you satisfied? It won't happen again.
MULLET: Little late for that, isn't it? I mean, you can't kill me again if I'm already dead.
GOLDBLUM: (sarcastically) Oh, I get it. You're dead. You're some kind of ghost now.
MULLET: I suppose. Don't know what else I could be.
GOLDBLUM: You could be a pain in the ass, that's what. Now cut it out.
MULLET: Don't believe me?
GOLDBLUM: Don't be an idiot.
MULLET: Touch me.
MULLET: Dare you.
GOLDBLUM: Mullet, I don't want to touch you. I've never wanted to touch you. It's not natural.
MULLET: Look, I'm not exactly me anymore, understand? Go ahead, touch. See for yourself,
(MULLET holds out his white hand. GOLDBLUM glances at it, then does a double take. He looks at it more closely. Cautiously, be reaches out and touches it. A jolt runs through his rigid frame.)
GOLDBLUM: (with a gasp) Good God, Mullet....
MULLET: Blown to smithereens. You should've seen it. There’s bits of me scattered from South Bronx to The Palisades.
(GOLDBLUM puts his hands on his head and looks down at the floor.)
GOLDBLUM: (to himself) I'm going insane.
MULLET: That won't change anything.
GOLDBLUM: Ghosts can't exist. They can't. They're not substantial.
MULLET: Yeh, well thanks to you the substance part of me just got pretty well done off.
GOLDBLUM: (to himself) It's a figment. That's what it is. A chemically induced disorder of...
MULLET: Now just a minute. If I was a figment, I wouldn't know I was here, would I. So that doesn't even make sense.
GOLDBLUM: (to himself) I have to get a grip on myself.
MULLET: Goldblum, stop trying to ignore me.
(GOLDBLUM clutches his book and tries to read)
GOLDBLUM: (to himself) Get focused. Stop imagining things.
MULLET: Come on....
GOLDBLUM: (turning pages) Let's see..., let's see.... "That reason is the sovereign of the world; that the history of the world, therefore, presents us with a rational—"
MULLET: (getting annoyed) Can the Hegel, Goldblum. It's no use. I'm not going to go away. This is my home too.
(GOLDBLUM looks up from the book. He is starting to seem a little unhinged)
GOLDBLUM: No..., no..., it's not! Shelter is an accommodation to physical needs. Without corporeal existence you can't—
(He suddenly stops, looks at the floor again and shakes his head)
GOLDBLUM: (to himself) Ohhh..., what am I doing.
MULLET: Getting hysterical. Now look, I've got an idea. You say I'm not here, right?
GOLDBLUM: It's a physical and logical impossibility.
MULLET: And, of course, I say I am. So listen, why don't we get somebody to come in? Then they can decide if I'm really here or if you're just crazy.
(GOLDBLUM shakes his head. )
MULLET: Oh, come on. I mean, if I'm really here, then you've figured things out all wrong. And if I'm not here, then you've gone stark raving nuts. If I were you I'd want to know which it is.
(GOLDBLUM just groans)
MULLET: But who...? Hmmm.... Let's see.... Ah! Why don't you call Fong's? You can order some lo-mien, And when the delivery guy gets here we'll —
GOLDBLUM: No! Not him. If he gets spooked he won't come anymore.
(Goldblum seems surprised at himself for having responded so rationally)
MULLET: One of our friends?
GOLDBLUM: We don't have any friends.
MULLET: Well, maybe somebody who used to be a friend. Get them to do it for old time's sake. For the revolution.
GOLDBLUM: Or spite.
MULLET; How 'bout Bronson?
GOLDBLUM: See me undone at last.
MULLET: If we can find him.
GOLDBLUM: Who? Bronson! He tried to kill me, remember? Kept going off on that Socialist Worker line, and when I denounced him for it he came after me. Said he'd break my skull if he ever saw me again.
MULLET: Oh. Well, we'll never sort it out if we're both dead.
GOLDBLUM: He was wrong. He had to be corrected. Just couldn't take criticism.
MULLET: Bet you did it real diplomatically, too.
GOLDBLUM: Diplomacy's for Social Democrats. How about LaFarge?
MULLET: He was on his way to the hatch when he left the group, remember? He'd probably see me whether I was here or not. What about Sonja?
GOLDBLUM: Sonja! That bleeding heart liberal socialist. Not under my roof. Besides, she co-opted years ago. Married that degenerate art dealer. What's-his-name. Remember? Showed herself for what she really was.
MULLET: We don't need her for her political opinions. Just to say whether I'm here or not.
GOLDBLUM: I don't like it. It's fraternizing.
MULLET: Oh, come on now, you'd like to see her again.
GOLDBLUM: Probably gone postmodern, or some crap like that.
MULLET: Admit it, you kind of had a thing for her.
GOLDBLUM: I didn't. Anyway, we don't even know where she is.
MULLET: East Side.
GOLDBLUM: Probably Scarsdale or New Rochelle or...
MULLET: East Side. East Sixty-Sixth.
GOLDBLUM; How do you know?
MULLET: Sent us a Christmas card. Remember?
GOLDBLUM: Christmas card! God, what was she thinking. Anyway, that was years ago.
MULLET: We're still here. Maybe she's still there. Might as well try. Nobody else in their right mind wouldn't wring your neck if they could get their hands on it.
GOLDBLUM: I'll think it over. (picks up bis book)
MULLET: What are you doing?
GOLDBLUM: Look, I want to consider this before —
MULLET: (getting angry) What! Now wait a minute. I know what you're up to. You're not going to consider anything. You want to pretend nothing's happened: every thing's still the same.
GOLDBLUM: Mullet, I haven't done anything. I'm not the one that went out and blew himself up. Got that? I don't see why I should have to be the one who has to deal with it.
MULLET: Oh. Blame it on me. Fine. Only I'm not the one who hid the dynamite and let it go bad. As far as I'm concerned you're the one who got us into this mess. But if you don't want to deal with it, that's Okay with me. I just have to work it out about being dead. But you, you've got a real problem on your hands. You know that? A bunch of problems.
GOLDBLUM: Such as...?
MULLET: Well, for one, you still don't know if I'm really here or not. And even if I am, I'm still dead. And since I'm the only one who ever had a job, that means no more pension. Unless you think you can pass yourself off for me at the bank.
GOLDBLUM: I'll work something out.
MULLET: Oh, such as...?
GOLDBLUM: I don't know. I'll think of something.
MULLET: No you won't. There's nothing to think or. Face it, Goldblum, the gig's up. You're just going to hang around here with a dubious ghost till somebody comes around to throw you out for not paying rent. Now, you going to call Sonja, or do you know some other old comrade who might still harbor a charitable thought for you?
GOLDBLUM: I want to think about it.
MULLET: Okay, Okay. Think about it. (goes over to the steamer trunk ) I got all the time in the world, (starts looking through the contents) Wonder what else is in here.
(GOLDBLUM tries to read.)
MULLET: It's because she's a woman, isn't it.
GOLDBLUM: That's ridiculous.
MULLET: I mean, it's funny. I mean, you never had a girlfriend, did you.
GOLDBLUM: I don't want to talk about that.
MULLET: I mean, even Lenin had a girlfriend for Christ sake.
GOLDBLUM: Lenin had a revolution, too. Things worked out better for him.
MULLET: Well, I guess it's too late now.
GOLDBLUM: For a revolution?
MULLET: For a girlfriend, (pulls an old revolver out of the trunk) WOW!
GOLDBLUM: What's that.
(MULLET holds up the revolver.)
GOLDBLUM: God, Mullet, will you put that thing away before you hurt yourself. You don't learn, do you.
GOLDBLUM: Why not?
MULLET: Hurt myself. Can't hurt myself, (looks down the barrel) I'm beyond
GOLDBLUM: Well you're making me nervous.
MULLET: Needs some oil and a good cleaning.
MULLET: Relax. I wasn't going to shoot you till after the revolution, remember? (puts the gun on the floor) Now what about Sonja?
GOLDBLUM: I'm not going to call her.
MULLET: Coward. You had a thing for her, didn't you.
GOLDBLUM: Mullet..., she was a bourgeois sentimentalist trying to put a little meaning into her life by playing at revolution.
MULLET: She seemed pretty sincere.
GOLDBLUM: Sincere? Yeah, she was pretty good at that one. She could ooze sincerity. Spew it out like there was no end to it. But she couldn't discriminate. Think with her brain.
MULLET: Not your type, eh?
GOLDBLUM: Look, I tried to make a Marxist out of her. But she couldn't grasp it. Couldn't get past her stupid bourgeois preconceptions of the proletariat. "The poor downtrodden of the earth," and "Shouldn't we be doing more to help them?" I explained to her — how many times?— revolution can't thrive on sympathy, (he starts becoming animated, and as be talks he gradually works his way out of bis chair and onto his feet) Sympathy, charity, good works: these only placate the oppressed. Make the bourgeoisie feel like they're redressing the inequities if their system while they maintain the status quo. But revolution— (he straightens up and takes a lecturing stance) Revolution—the final obliteration of an unjust system. Revolution is fostered by provocation. (he seems to grow in stature — his clenched fist strikes at the air) It's not our aim to spread oil on troubled waters. Our aim is to churn them into a maelstrom; a ragging vortex of struggle. Then swell the curled waters 'bove the main, and into the onrush of history's inexorable dialectic!
MULLET: (applauds) Ahh..., you were good, Goldblum. You were.
GOLDBLUM: I was teaching people that a better world meant being part of that process.
MULLET: I specially liked the water stuff. Kind of gives a theme to the whole thing, you know?
GOLDBLUM: (sinks back into his chair, he seems exhausted from his dithyramb) It wasn't some charity social for fashionably bohemian ladies who wanted to ease their consciences.
MULLET: Of course not. Look, she just wasn't right for you. It wasn't your fault.
GOLDBLUM: I don't know....
MULLET: Well, Okay, maybe you were a little overbearing.
GOLDBLUM: But an art dealer? How could she? Some greedy mountebank, gulling his clients with aesthetic snake oil.
MULLET: That bad?
GOLDBLUM: That bad? merchandising the products of alienation as investments for the ruling class. It's perverted.
MULLET: Still, it's not like he was a Trotskyite, or one of those cranks from the Spartacus League.
GOLDBLUM: Might as well have been. This wasn't just abandonment, it was...
MULLET: Sounds to me like you're bitter.
GOLDBLUM: I'm not. I'm just stating the facts.
MULLET: Oh, come on. I haven't seen you this worked up since you got ignored by the McCarthy committee. And you've held it in for all these years? Do you know how bad that is for you?
GOLDBLUM: Oh, so now you're a psychiatrist.
MULLET: No, it's just obvious. You should hear yourself.
GOLDBLUM: (sarcastically) I see. And would you like me to lie on the couch now and tell you how I wanted to screw my mother when I was six. Or would you like to indulge me in some other sub-rational idealist fabrication.
MULLET: Take it easy. I just think this is something you need to deal with. I mean, face it, you've never been exactly on the ball when it comes to your emotional life.
GOLDBLUM: I've kept it under control. That's a virtue.
MULLET: That's bullshit. You're just out of touch. For years you've been pissed off about loosing Sonja to some jerk, and you never even would have known it if I hadn't pointed it out. Now we have to do something about that.
GOLDBLUM: I'm not going to call her,
MULLET: Nah, I've got a better idea. We'll get it out of your system.
GOLDBLUM: This better be good.
MULLET: It is. You'll like this. Stand up.
(GOLDBLUM pulls himself out of the chair, and when begets to his feet. MULLET hands him the revolver.)
MULLET: I'll be what's-his-name, the dealer, Okay? Now you paste one right here. (points to his forehead)
MULLET: Hey, it isn't going to hurt me. And you'll feel a lot better. No kidding.
GOLDBLUM: I can't shoot you!
MULLET: Not me! Pretend I'm him! Come on, you've got to get this out of your system. It's eating you up.
GOLDBLUM: (looking at the gun) I can't. I've never even fired one of these things.
MULLET: Boy, some revolutionary. You pull the trigger. That's all. Just pull the damned trigger.
GOLDBLUM: You're serious.
MULLET: Don't talk. Shoot!
GOLDBLUM: I can't—I can't do it.
MULLET: Okay..., Okay. Try this. You're Stalin, got it? Decisive, lethal, God-all-powerful Uncle Joe. And me, I'm a kulak. See? A low-down, money grubbing, counterrevolutionary kulak. You know what you got to do.
(GOLDBLUM holds the gun at arm's length)
MULLET: Come on, I spread disaffection, hoard food, collaborate with interventionists, screw your girlfriend...
(At the last words GOLDBLUM turns his face to the side and fires. MULLET
makes a theatrical gesture of clutching his chest, then drops to the floor
with a groan)
GOLDBLUM: (almost in shock) Mullet...
(MULLET hops back to his feet)
MULLET: Nice work. Feel better now?
GOLDBLUM: (collapsing back into his chair) I don't know. I don't think so.
MULLET: You sure?
GOLDBLUM: I don't know. I feel something.
MULLET: What's it like?
GOLDBLUM: In my head. Tight. Like I can't—
MULLET: Oh Jesus! You're not going to have a stroke on me!
GOLDBLUM: I don't know. I feel strange.
MULLET: Well look, don't panic! Got that! Just relax!
GOLDBLUM: I don't know... it's like— (there is a knock on the door) What's that!
MULLET: (sotto) It's the door.
GOLDBLUM: (sotto: starting to panic) Who is it?
MULLET: (sotto) How should I know? Maybe it's the guy from Fong's.
GOLDBLUM: (sotto) But nobody called
MULLET: (sotto) I know, but—(another knock)
COP: (from off stage) Police. Open up!
GOLDBLUM: (sotto) The police?
MULLET: (sotto) I can hear.
GOLDBLUM: (sotto) Terrific... we manage to hide out here for twenty years, and now you get the police onto us.
MULLET: (sotto) How do you know it was me?
GOLDBLUM: (sotto) Well who else—
(A more forceful knock.)
COP: (from offstage) Come on, open up in there!
MULLET: (sotto) You gonna try and hold them off?
GOLDBLUM: (sotto) Don't be stupid. How could I... (he realizes he's still holding the gun) Jesus Christ!
MULLET: Go down a hero. Make me proud.
(GOLDBLUM looks around, then stashes the gun under the cushion of his chair.)
COP: (offstage) Hey! What's going on in there!
GOLDBLUM: Just a moment, officer.
MULLET: (sotto) You're going to let em in?
GOLDBLUM: (sotto) Of course I am.
MULLET: (sotto) Well if you think you're going to finesse your way around them, you better pretend I'm not here—in case I'm not.
GOLDBLUM: (going to the door) Great... just great...
(GOLDBLUM opens the door, and a young, uniformed patrolman, bursts in. He has his gun drawn and appears to be nervous.)
GOLDBLUM: Can I help you?
COP: (taking in the scene) Everybody Okay here?
GOLDBLUM: Well... yes. I... I guess so. What's the problem, officer?
COP: Had a call about gunshots. You hear anything?
GOLDBLUM: No... no... not here.
COP: You sure now? No shots? Nothing unusual?
GOLDBLUM: No.... Everything’s been perfectly usual. Honest.
COP: (holsters his gun) Yeah? Well'p, it's probably nothing.
GOLDBLUM : I'm sure that's it. I'm sure there was just a mistake. Somebody's imagination.
COP: Yeah, still, we got to check it out, you know? I mean, somebody makes a report, we check it out. That's how it works.
GOLDBLUM: (impatient) That's good to know.
COP: Yeah, well, most of the time it's nothing, you know? But the other times? Let me tell you, you wouldn't believe the kind of shit we see. I mean, makes you wonder about people, you know? I mean, like this morning, get this, some idiot goes and blows himself up right in the middle of the street. That's it. Just blows himself up. Breaks a few windows and scares the shit out of people, and that's it. Doesn't really wreck anything, doesn't even take anybody with him. Just blows himself up. I mean, what kind of a wacko does a thing like that, huh?
GOLDBLUM: Maybe it was an accident.
COP: Yeah, right, some accident. Like maybe this guy was some kind of accident, you now? But hey, I gotta run. Check the other tenants and make a report.
GOLDBLUM: Well, thanks for stopping by.
COP: No trouble. And you're Okay, right?
GOLDBLUM: Just fine.
COP: And your buddy there? How 'bout him? He doesn't look too good.
GOLDBLUM: (shocked) Him!
COP: Yeah. You Okay?
MULLET: Flu. (coughs)
COP: Yeah? You know, that can be dangerous at your age. You seen a doctor?
(MULLET coughs again—this time to keep from laughing)
MULLET: No. I think the worst of it's over.
COP: Well, you got to be careful with these things. Look, why don't I give you a number you can call for senior health services—
MULLET: No, really—
COP: No, really, the department wants us to be more coordinated with community services. Helps with our image, you know? Makes us more effective. (feels around his uniform for a notepad) You got something to write on?
GOLDBLUM: I don't think you—
COP: How 'bout that over there?
(The COP heads for a pile of books with some papers on the top.)
GOLDBLUM: I don't think you need to—
COP: What's all this? (starts looking at the book titles)
GOLDBLUM: Ah... it's... ah...
COP: What are you guys, communists or something?
MULLET: Who, us?
GOLDBLUM: (with the resignation of a condemned man) Yes, we are.
COP: Ah..., I was just wondering. I mean, a some people collect this stuff, you know?
COP: Yeah, no kidding. It's like cold war nostalgia. Hot stuff.
GOLDBLUM: I see.
COP: Good money. But you're the real thing, eh?
GOLDBLUM: We are.
COP: Wow... I'll bet you've seen some times eh?
GOLDBLUM: We have.
COP: Yeah.... Guess the world must seem like a pretty strange place now.
GOLDBLUM: It does.
COP: I mean, MacDonald's in Moscow, Pepsi in the Beijing, all that?
GOLDBLUM: All that.
COP: Well'p, gotta go. (writes a number on apiece of paper and hands it to Mullet) Here, take this. (looks at Mullet's hand) Damn, you look like a ghost.
MULLET: That's about how I feel.
COP: Yeah, I know how it can be. Hangs on for weeks. Well, if you're not feeling better, give them a call. It's what they're there for. (starts for the door, then notices the portrait on the wall) Hey, that's Lenin, isn't it?
GOLDBLUM: (hesitantly) Yes...
COP: Thought so. You know, you guys ought to hang onto that. Could be worth something someday.
MULLET: We're counting on it.
COP: Well'p... have a nice day.
GOLDBLUM: (half in a daze) Thanks...
MULLET: (starts laughing) Ha! Now what do you think of that? Huh? I mean, am I here or what! And hey! did I blow myself up or what! There you've got it, irrefutable proof straight from one of New York’s finest. A true public servant. Ha!
(GOLDBLUM has gone into a sulk)
MULLET: Hey, come on Goldblum, it's funny.
GOLDBLUM: I'd think you'd be embarrassed.
GOLDBLUM: Some idiot, a wacko. What kind of an epitaph is that? Face it, you had a stupid, meaningless death.
MULLET: Boy, what's eating you?
GOLDBLUM: And when did we become passé? Quaint? Collector's items!
MULLET: Well at least we know you're not crazy. At least I'm really here.
GOLDBLUM: That's the worst of it. You're really here. So, I guess you'll be moving on now that you've made your point.
MULLET: Oh, I don’t know. I mean, there’s no rush, is there. All the time in the world, really. I was thinking maybe I’d stick around for a while. You know, won’t be all that much longer, eh old man? Not in your condition. We can set off together. Like the old days. Spread some disaffection amongst the heavenly host, a little sedition here and there. It’ll be great fun. Wouldn’t want to be left out now, would you Goldblum.
(GOLDBLUM sighs and puts his head in his hands)
MULLET: You feeling Okay?
GOLDBLUM: Not really.
(GOLDBLUM leans back in his chair and closes his eyes)
MULLET: You sure? Hey, no pressure, understand? I'm not going anywhere without you. Count on it. Hey, and wherever that ends up being, you can bet there's going to be bosses and goons, and won't they be surprised when the two of us show up. We’re a pair we are, you with the doctrine, me with the tactics. Just too bad we don't have any more of that rotten dynamite, that'd be a real kicker, eh, Goldblum? eh...? Eh...?
Lights fade out