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Bikes. Parts. Chaos.
Surly Theatre
a subsidiary of
Fly By Night Industries
This One Time, Me'n These Guys
An Ongoing Drama
Time: The morning after, & way too early. Scene: The poor man's party pit down by the river. Empty cans are strewn about and the fire has burned down to lukewarm ash. There are several lumps in sleeping bags scattered about, and bikes hanging from trees. T-Boy is curled up by the fire, shivering in denim print lycra shorts, a silver faux-fur shrug, and a Colnago cycling cap. Flasky, after a restless collapse into dreamless sleep a few hours earlier, creaks open his lid... Flasky: Oooohh.... Dat hurts. Are any of you lumps awake? Hey! Sleeping-Bagged Blob #1: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Flasky: My hinge is sore. Brauer, rub my hinge! Sleeping-bagged Blob #2: Flasky, go to sleep. Flasky gets up, scratchess his belly, rubs his hinge a bit, then stumbles over to the fire, where he kicks T-Boy. Flasky: Jebus, you look like one of Liberace's poops. What a buncha lightweights. Hey! Get up, you tool! T-Boy does not wake up but instead begins to whimper and twitch, looking like a dog dreaming about running. Flasky: Wake up fool! Let's go get some breakfast. One of the lumps begins to move. A face appears in the folds of the sleeping bag and a groggy voice speaks. Blob #3: Shut up, Flasky. Go to sleep, dammit. Flasky (muttering): Stupid eediots. I gotta take a leak. Flasky goes down to the river's edge, yawns, stretches, and barfs into the water. Flasky: That's better. I could eat a whole pancake. He begins rummaging through the messenger bags and backpacks lying about. Flasky: Lessee.... camomile tea.... socks.... a bag of mulch... earrings... water bottle... schnauzer.... waffle mix... Lamisil... acid washed denim jacket... wallet sized pictures of Pat Sajak... ah, here we go: firecrackers! Flasky throws several packs of Black Cats on the dying embers. He watches from on top of T-Boy. One of the fuses finally catches and Flasky leaps down to hide behind T-Boy. The first firecrackers crack and pop, then the rest erupt into a cacauphony of explosion, jarring everyone awake and upright. Everyone except T-Boy, who remains asleep and dreaming. Brauer: What the hell is wrong with you Flasky!? Flasky: Hey sissy boy! Good morning sweet cheeks! Well, you're all up. Let's go get breakfast. The lumps groan and collapse back to the ground. Several loogies are hawked up and spat in the general direction of Flasky, who artfully dodges them by standing still and heckling the again-unmoving lumps. Flasky: You couldn't hit a barn, you toad lickers. I haven't seen that much spit flying since your mom came over for dinner! Brauer gets up and walks over to Flasky, his arms folded, a look of merciless annoyance etched on his face. Flasky: Hey guy! Finally decide to take me to breakfast? Ees about time. Jeez, put on some pants, wouldja? No one wants to see all dat. Hey! What are you doing!? Leggo my eggo, yo! Brauer picks up Flasky and hurls him as far out into the river as he can. The sound of Flasky's receding voice is silenced by a punctuative “SPLOOK!” as he hits the water. Brauer gets back into his sleeping bag and within minutes is snoring again. T-Boy wakes up, stretches, finds some wood for the fire, and speaks: T-Boy: Anybody else hungry? Let's go get a taco. No one answers. T-Boy shrugs, gets on his bike, and rides away, his leaf-plastered faux-fur shrug shedding leaves and twigs as he goes.