H By John Keefe
Scene 1 A dingy, sparsely lit basement beneath a strip club. Perhaps pounding music beats through the ceiling. There are stairs to the left that go up to the club proper, and a door in the back right corner, possibly to more storage space. In the center is a table, and two chairs, with two men sitting on opposite sides. One is HORSE, short, mustachioed, in a white, stained tank top. He is handcuffed. The other is MIKE. We cannot see his face very well. A third man, LOUIS, stands in the corner, arms folded. MIKE Horse, listen, you’re one of my favorite dagos... Horse twitches. He is trying to hold it together. You know what I say, right? What we all say? Stick with the crew, you get bumped into a new tax bracket. We look out for our own. As in, financially. It’s Christmas every day with the family. Horse stares dutifully ahead, as if lobotomized. Horse, we love you. We love you so, so much. Sexually, emotionally, romantically...artistically. He grabs Horse’s face. Horse flinches. Look at these jowls. You are a pretty man. I don’t know if that nickname comes from above or below the belt but I’d believe either. Pause. He releases Horse. But Horse, you know the addendum, right? To our idiom? The...what, post-amble to our motto? You love us, we love you back. You fuck us, we fuck you harder. We are doms, here, Horse. Not subs. Pitchers, not catchers. We work our little titties off here at this fine gentleman’s club, catering to any and all manner of Caligulan perversities. Horse, ve haf vays of makink you talk! And when we fuck you, we will pick a hole and you WILL be surprised. HORSE I don’t have it. Mike leans back. MIKE You don’t have it?
HORSE I don’t have it. MIKE You don’t have it? HORSE I don’t have it. MIKE You don’t have it. HORSE Not right now. MIKE Well, much like my dick in your wife, the plot rapidly thickens. Horse looks away to Louis standing in the corner. Louis does not react. Pause. Mike pulls out a fresh pack of cigarettes, pulls off the plastic, lights one, as he speaks. God, Horse babe, why do this? Why? We feed the serfs. We do. It hurts me, honest and for truly, when the lowly folk are all "let them eat cake" or whatever. Jesus H, man, you’ve been with the program five months now. Woulda thought you’da learned. We gave you the employee manual right? Did he get the manual? LOUIS He got the manual. MIKE You sure? Did you give it to him? LOUIS Give it to him right now, you want me to. MIKE You hear that, Horseface? Louis over yonder’s gearing up for some extra credit. Now, school is still in session, so we’ll give it a hold-off, but for serious, Horsey, you should present what you’ve learned to the class, lest I let fair Mr. Louis get extra-curricular on your ass. Horse seems about to speak. Beat. Another beat.
MIKE (shaking his head) We have so many flavors of dick with which to sodomize you. It’s like a box of Crayolas. Jimmy upstairs, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, bats for the pink team, and has a thing for squealers and body hair. He attends to his duties with the fervor of, in his words, "a gay Dr. Mengele" and if that doesn’t tell you everything you’d ever want to know about him, I don’t know what will. I myself am not averse to putting from the rough when the mood takes me. Louis over yonder could suffice if you’d like to get pounded by an honest-to-God minority. Hell, we could get Sasha down here with the big pink steam-powered strap-on. I mean, she subs in the club most nights, but she can switch. I think she’d like to read your back tattoos for once, and that dildo is NOT FDA approved. That thing’ll shatter like an Ikea table. HORSE I don’t have the stuff, Michael, I swear to almighty God. Mike leans forward and we see his face clearly for the first time. He has quite a collection of scars. His cheek has been slashed open, his forehead has shrapnel marks, and his nostrils have been split, all healed poorly years ago. MIKE Horse... Who. Has. My. Heroine? HORSE My wife. Mike leans back. Blackout.