A Dead Lay

I don’t know why the idea for this sketch popped into my head this morning, but it did.

BOB and ALAN are sitting at the bar having drinks.

BOB

So, I’ve been thinking…

ALAN

Ok.

BOB

Nevermind.

ALAN

What?

BOB

No, don’t worry about it.

ALAN

What? No come on, what’s on your mind, buddy?

BOB

Meh…It’s kind of difficult to talk about.

ALAN

Jesus, what’s wrong?

BOB

Nothing’s wrong.

ALAN

Then what is it?

BOB

(deep breath)

I’ve been thinking about having sex.

ALAN

Ok, nothing crazy about that.

BOB

With corpses.

ALAN

Woah. What the hell.

BOB

See, Now you’re judging me.

ALAN

Just so we’re clear: You’re talking about necrophilia.

BOB

What? Jesus Christ, no!

ALAN

Whew, good. Because I thought you just said you wanted to have sex with dead people.

BOB

I did.

ALAN

Jesus, Bob!

BOB

What?

ALAN

I just said, “You’re talking about necrophilia,” and you said, “No.”

BOB

I’m not.

ALAN

Yes you are.

BOB

No, I’m not.

ALAN

Uh, yeah you are.

BOB

Isn’t necrophilia using velcro to like asphyxiate people mid-coitus?

ALAN

No! Necrophilia is engaging in sexual congress with dead people.

BOB

Oh, then yeah, I’m totally talking necrophilia.

ALAN

Bob! What in the hell are you thinking bout?

BOB

I thought we just cleared that up.

ALAN

Yeah, but why? I mean, Christ, man! What on earth would possess you to even consider such a thing?

BOB

I dunno. You know how it is–

ALAN

No, I don’t.

BOB

–you’re sitting at your desk at work. You’re thinking about sales reports, then the mind wanders.

ALAN

To having sex with the recently departed?

BOB

Get off my ass, Alan. What do you want me to say?

ALAN

That you don’t actually want to have sex with corpses.

BOB

Hey, the heart wants what it wants.

ALAN

No, Bob, it does not. The heart does want to have sex with dead people. No one’s heart ever wants to have sex with dead people. Ever.

BOB

But, Alan–

ALAN

Ever, Bob.

BOB

Alan, listen to me, there have been documented cases of–

ALAN

I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Bob. You’re my friend, and I love you, but I am not having this discussion with you. You are not having sexwith dead people and we are never discussing the subject again. Understood?

BOB

Al–

ALAN

Understood?

BOB

Fine.

The two drink their beers silently for a time.

BOB

How’s your mom?

ALAN

She’s doing ok.

BOB

The cancer treatments are going well?

ALAN

(beat)

They could be going better. Why do you ask?

BOB

No reason, just asking. Concerned friend and all that.

ALAN

Yuh huh.

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

BOB

So she’s going to pull through.

ALAN

Yes, she’s going to pull through. (beat) Why do you ask?

BOB

I told you, just a worried friend.

ALAN

Ok…

BOB

You know, you’re mom is a really attractive woman.

ALAN

Oh, Jesus Bob!

BOB

What?

ALAN

You want to have sex with my mother when she’s dead!

BOB

No I don’t! Why would you think that?

ALAN

Why would I think that? What do you mean why would I think that? You talk to me about wanting to bang corpses and then you ask me about my dying mother?

BOB

I thought you didn’t want to discuss that ever again.

ALAN

That’s it, I’m leaving.

BOB

Come on, Alan, sit back down. Let me get you a beer.

ALAN

No, Bob. I’m leaving. Good bye.

BOB

(calling after)

Do you have an aunt? Is she feeling healthy?

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The Darkling Plane, Chapter One

This is the first chapter of the second draft of a book I finished in January of 2001. This book introduces the characters in my book Our Own Devils which I’ve been reading on my MoPod Podcast .

 

It was the most pleasant December I could recall in a long time. There had been only the slightest hint of snow since November had first arrived and it had fled almost as soon as it had touched the ground. Afterwards, the temperatures went far above the regional average. Now it was almost two weeks until Christmas and I was sitting on my apartment balcony sipping on beers while locally raised beef sizzled on my grill.

While it was my grill I was doing little else than sipping on said beer. My friend, Trey Daniels, had liberated the mat from the restaurant he worked at and was overseeing its proper preparation. Mike Lincoln was sitting beside me in a collapsible canvas chair. He had generously bought the beer we were all drinking. My only contribution was the balcony and the grill.

“You’re awfully quiet,” said Daniels to me as he flipped the steaks over on the grill and added a liberal amount of seasoning to them. He had also brought the seasoning to the grill out but it was his own special blend that had never been inside of the restaurant.

I shrugged. “I guess I just don’t have much to say.”

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