The setting, a room underground, where the nasties hang out. The time, just after four pm, on a November day. The weather outside, a change from Southern California; there are clouds in the sky.
There should always be clouds in the sky, Beecher thinks.
The actors, just more pieces of shit. One stands, walks over to the other, and smiles a crazy grin. The second backs off slightly, remembering all too well what kinds of antics Beecher's capable of.
The crazy one speaks. "The color of the sky is grey."
See, when you're labelled the crazy one, you can say anything you want. You can rant and rave and slobber and say anything. You're free. You don't own your own mind, so you have no responsibility.
"Beecher, what's your crazy motherfuckin' ass doing in here? This a vamp bar."
Supposedly, when you're evil, it works the same way. We'll see.
"The vamps still like cock."
The word 'cock' means to tilt, to skew. Things are always skewed, just like the head-vampire's hat. Adebisi still hasn't given up those stupid looking hats.
These two actors, they're a wicked combination.
"Oh, you still sellin' yo'ass."
Whoring is a profession often adopted by those people abused or held down throughout their life.
"Nah, I've branched out. Got portable dildos. I sell sex toys now."
There are probably over a hundred different types of dildos, and at least a hundred different fetishes. Many of them are identified by the DSM-IV to be malignant.
Well. That makes sense.
"Whatever."
A versatile word, Poet thinks. He wants a new pen. He thinks about killing Beecher, and taking his. But, then Keller would have his balls, without a doubt.
With all things in doubt, it is strange to say, 'without a doubt'. But. Keller's like that.
"The color of the sky is grey."
Beecher feels it bears repeating. He hasn't gotten the significance, yet.
"What the fuck does that matter?"
This, see, is the question that no one really wants to ever ask. You're a brave motherfucker if you manage to choke those words out.
There ain't never an answer, y'see.
"See, you're down here in the sewers, you can't see the sky. There's too much cuntass sunshine in southern California for any of the demons to go up during the day. But I'm telling you. The color of the sky is grey."
His voice is a little louder, now. The sewers smell like rats. Southern California never tasted so foul.
"And?"
Yes. And?
"And. That's a gift to you, Poet."
Strange present-exchanging rituals are the cornerstone of Western Civilization. Forget democracy. Forget laws. Forget the 'right'. It's all about Christmas in July.
"What do you want in return."
There's the eternal truth.
"Write me a poem, homie."
A white man, trying to use slang, just doesn't cut it. You hear them, walking around uptown in cities all over the Americas, feeling their pain and feeling their problems, all summed up in those stupid little slang words that most self respecting gangstas wouldn't touch.
Toby has a beard. Poet lets it go.
"You ain't my bro, Beecher. You're fuckin' crazy."
Out of the mouths of vampires, truth is born. There's irony, for you.
"So? Come on. I like your poetry."
Flattery will get you everywhere.
"There ain't no po-etry in this town no more, Beecher. Ain't no sky, and ain't no me, and ain't no ever afters. I ain't seen a sunny sky since before OZ, man. How can I get any poems from nothin' but grey?"
Ahh.
And Poet sighs, and Beecher downs his drink - yes, he's drinking again. Bad Toby. No chocolaty goodness when you get home.
But then, brown skin has only turned you cocked, hasn't it? Keller ain't no bar of chocolate.
"The color of the sky is grey."
It still bears repeating. This, you see, is the theme of this piece. This is the bulb, the flash, the thing that Toby has to say.
"crazy motherfucker. I know that. You told me."
This is Poet, not understanding.
"It's the same color as my insides."
Toby can't really see inside himself. But he sees enough in the mirror to know that things have been burned out well.
"You're still fuckin' crazy."
This, too, is an important theme.
"And you're evil."
It often gets overlooked that 'evil' is not on the DSM-IV as a malignant disorder. Masturbation, phobia of spiders, being a fag, being afraid of snakes, water, rocks, a hundred other things - probably even raving about frogs - they've all had their own sections.
But the fact that Poet is currently evil wouldn't even register.
"Got that right."
Toby gets a lot of things wrong.
"I gotta split. Keller wants me."
Now there, there's absolute truth. Keller, out and about on this fine afternoon, does want Toby. In bed. On his back. And then, on his front. And then he wants to roll over, and throw an arm behind his head, and get stoned to forget about all those things they can't change.
Keller is a firm believer in the survival mechanism.
"You and him still fags?"
It's a straightforward and honest, if nasty, question.
Toby doesn't answer so honestly.
"We're still human."