. . . “What the fock was she going on about?” Krieg asks sadly.

“That was Lucky’s monologue from Godot,” I go before G or T or anyone else can grab first dibs on this. I’m wondering, of course, since I always think everything’s about me, if T1 was triggered by my Pozzo obsession.

“Waiting for Godot?” Krieg asks. “Samuel Beckett?”

“Indeed,” G says. “I wonder who she’s channeling. Seems an odd choice for final words.”

“I confess I’ve never seen it,” Krieg says. “I read about it, I know the basic story. Guy never shows up. Typical guy story.”

“I’ve seen a few productions in London,” Luxe says, still filming. “It can be great with the right cast.”

“But what’s the point?” Mir complains. “Why the fuck would she do Godot?”

“Well, the opening of Lucky’s monologue is about how God doesn’t give a shit about us and can’t communicate with us, nor we with Him,” T goes.

“Exactly!” says Mir. “Him! God the Father is dead, has been dead since at least Nietzsche. Who gives a fuck? Godot is from an eternity ago! This is the post-apoc! That was a moldy oldie. Which fucking midget was this, Sunny or Cher?”

“Right!” I go. “I couldn’t remember their names, I was calling them Thing 1 and Thing 2.”

“So which one was this?”

“How the fuck can anyone know, Mir? They have no distinguishing characteristics. It’d have to be grokked.” I look around: no takers.

“Dieter is telling me he loves the play and the monologue and he thought this was a great performance,” Krieg says.