Small Block - Act One

500 orders a month was manageable. 5,000 is my place. Embrace intelligent, order fulfillment with ShipStation. The only platform combined in order management, where-house workflows, inventory, returns and analytics in one place. What used to take five separate tools, ShipStation does in one. Go to shipstation.com and use code Start to try ShipStation free for 60 days. 1, 2, 3, say, believe small blocks. Small block written by Ashley Lauren. Thank you for listening to Small Block. Please note that there is adult language throughout that is not suitable for young listeners. Furthermore, there are a few items that might be triggering for some readers. These include suicidal ideation, discussion, transphobic language, homophobic language, minor instances of fat phobic language. All phobic language is used intentionally for thematic reasons. It is not used without thought or due to either naivete or bigotry. Thank you again for listening to Small Block. Now, onto the show. Interior P's bathroom evening. Holes Violet starts. A mostly bare chin with a solitary black whisker. P. 14. Muscular but fluffy with padding. Face to the counter-length mirror, squins at his chin. He wears a purple beanie, gray hole t-shirt, jeans, flannel around waist. Razor swipes the chin bare. meticulously swipes again. Again. He picks up a small spiral no pad and a pen. He shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. He writes intensely, pauses, takes a deep breath, continues. He generally lowers the pen to the counter. Hand trembles. He reaves the note silently, face resigned. Nearby, old Swiss army knife, cordless foam, polo cologne. P. Flexes his arms, drops them dejectedly. His gray shirt creases along the underside of his peck. It pulls it taught, but the crease reappears when he lets go. He tears the shirt off quickly, frantically dons a black t-shirt for the bandobituary from the floor. His body was barely exposed. Pulse the tee taught, let's go. The black hides his body better. Piece brace polo on his inner wrist, rubs his wrists together, then dabs his neck and cheeks, wipes the excess on his tee. He studies the crisp new shirt. His face softens. His hand moves toward the knife. But instead grabs the phone. He exhales. Pauzes the CD boom box, violets stops, dials. Ring nevermind, he hangs up. Reaches for the knife. Ring, the foam glows orange. P checks collar ID. Davidson, it's kev, 14 half Japanese, peas bestie. Off screen for the scene, P answers. You know in calma where axles like when you said that no one's listening, why your best friend drop a dime? Again with that shit. I called you, I'm definitely listening. I know. I know. Axel lies in that song anyways. It's so easy to be social, it's so easy to be cool. My fucking ass. Please. P shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. You thought much about the dance? Why? You think Beck says a date? Cut a chill about Beck's man. You're my best friend now. You, not her. And you're cool as shit. Yeah? Well, known as school thing so. Especially not Beck's. If Carla was here, I'd take her to the dance and then everyone's see. Why are you asking anyway? P hesitates. Dude, do you like someone? Kev's dad screams in the background. Hang up. I need to get on AOL. It's P. He can tie up someone else's line. Kev's tone changes. He sighs, then talks quietly. I wish I could live with my mom. 10 more seconds and it'll be no CDs for a month. Thank God for school. Don't let him pollute your soul, man. We herex. Right that shit. Nine. Click. The line goes dead. People's a beaten up chrome zip-o from a drawer. He tears the note from the notebook. The top spirals a trench of torn edges. Only half the page is remain. P returns everything to the drawer except the zip-o. He likes the page on fire. Drops it in the sink. P leaves the bathroom as the flames ash up the page, eating backwards into the words starting with, all you love I, sorry on. Interior P's bedroom continues. Metal band and movie posters line the walls. Candle mass. Imagine a uniform, 1931. Pantera, Batman, etc. Over the bed, framed full-size back to the future poster with various signatures in silver ink. Corner, electric guitar, practice amp, dumbbells. The note VO continues as P walks to the bed. It in lie, I'll bed my maid I. Stay, should I why reason any C can't I? Sorry on. Love I everyone too. Notes to aside my. On the desk, modeled allureian, yellow sports disc man, CDs. There's a photocopy flyer that reads, Pantill homecoming 94 middle school dance. P picks it up and sits on the bed. He looks to the desk, a framed recent photo of P with a half Japanese boy the same age in front. Behind it, P pulls out a second framed photo, P, younger, and a girl at a water park. In the photo, P's eyes are red as if he's been crying, but he smiles joyously. The girl's mouth is open in a huge laugh, her arm protectively around P. P gazes at the picture and smiles. He looks to the dance poster in his other hand, face growing complicated when, beep, beep. The smoke detector wails, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, P runs to the bathroom, replacing the photo half hazardly. The picture's toppled face down, the second on top of the first. Interior, P's kitchen, short time later. P enters, his dad, 45. Removes a large crepe from the stove and lays it alongside another on the center island. Nearby, seared beef tenderloin, mushroom duck cells, pate de fwagra, puff pastry, prosciutto de parma. Tutsi on the 32 inch CRT TV. Dad scrunches his nose. You've fallen to a vat of cologne? Pea flushes, he sniffs the air. Dad lays prosciutto in a tight, even pattern across the crepes. Your mom reminded me of today's significance. Pick a place, anywhere you want, except sushi. Great. That's not dinner. Dad laughs, as he layers duck cells onto the ham. I think not. One of the OR nurses, Christine, is getting married. She loved the cake I did for our surgical tech. Been studying for the test? Yeah. Dad stops spreading pate on the duck cells. Looks up. Swear. Remember when we went to see this? Best picture in 1983 nominee, Jessica Langwin, best sporting. Dad glances at the screen. Dressing up as a woman used to mean you were a Nancy, but he gets the girl, so good on him, I guess. Some like it hot, too. Jack Lemmon and makeup, ghastly. Dad moves the tenderloin on top of the pate, then delicately encases the beef in the layered crepe. He pulls over a baking sheet with a layer of raw puff pastry. Seems like a lot of work for steak. Dad looks at Pea like he's a fucking idiot. A wellington is a body, an ecosystem. Tenderloin is tender, but there's no fat, no flavor. You have to put flavor around it for it to come alive. First, what do we have under our skin and muscles? Organes. Thus? He looks at Pea expectantly. Pea stares back blankly, dad size. Thus pate de fwagra rich, creamy, earthy. Then duck cells, mushrooms, more earthiness, then the parma ham, salty, fatty, then the crepe. You need to contain the juices, the essence of the beef. Trap it so the outside, the puff is entainted. The result? Dad points proudly to the lower oven. The light is on, a golden Wellington with exquisite lattice baking. Is a showstopper? Look at that glorious little football. And the tenderloin, the heart, is perfectly isolated and protected. Pass me another. Pea gets a doctor pepper, and a raw tenderloin wrapped tightly in plastic wrap from the fridge. Holy crap, there's like 15 more tenderloins in here. It's a wedding, not happy hour. You had the St. John's, and if you're right, went well. Definitely. You better be taking this seriously. St. John's is, uh, now that's a school. Brenda Nash told me there's a dance this Saturday. Mom, 48 healthy, but thin, enters with a wrapped present. Happy birthday in Japanese tonight? Not this year. Mom looks at dad, pleased, but curious. You don't get full at sushi. A dance, huh? Not sure if we're going. Dad looks up excitedly. We? Me, Kevin, Dizzy. Dad and mom exchange looks. Football will be good for you. Pea nods at the screen. There's other ways to get girls. None of them seem to be working. Change this shit. Pea flips through channels methodically. New shirt? Gift from Kev. Dad, do you like my shirt? This, this, the best Jack Lemmon in this. Now that's a performance. You seen it? Pea stops the TV on the apartment. Best picture in 1961. You took me to Casalinda. Mom hands Pea her gift. Pea tears the carefully wrapped paper. He unfurls the present. A black, entombed band t-shirt. Entombed, sweet. Pea starts pulling it over his shirt. Mom shoots a good natured. You kidding me, look? Pea glances at dad, focused on cooking. He rips off his old shirt and pulls the new one on hastily, purple beanie in place. Dad glances up. I thought you were going to get diet, Dr. Pepper. Pea rapidly tugs down his shirt to hide his body. As dad unwraps the tenderloin, places the beef in the pan. It sizzles. He removes the other Wellington from the oven. Perfect. Gorgeous. That a tester? Dad smiles mischievously, slices it proudly, pushes the slice to see. The beef is medium, a healthy, uniform pink. His face contorts in rage. Pea's a shit oven. Calibration's drifted again. I should've gone with Viking. I fucking knew. The shit looks nice, but inside it's rubbish. He opens the trash and shoves the whole Wellington in. You don't want to taste it? Beef's overcooked, ruined. Never be as good as it could have been. Let's go to dinner. I can't leave. I'm behind. On TV, the apartment's Dr. Dreyfus pleads with Jack Lemons backstored a grow-up and be a mench. Words to live by. OK, call pizza. I feel like pizza. Any toppings you want. Interior pontil, welches classroom next day. Hand painted, homecoming 94 signs adorn the walls. The rooms divided into a quiz show arena. Two arcs of desks, flanked Mr. Welch's 34 desk. Replete with lectern. True 90s style. Battle of the sexes. Boys left. Girls right. Becks. 14, punky, overweight, and confident as fuck holds the baton. She's older now, but is clearly the girl from Pees Deskvoto. A large homecoming dance poster is offset behind her. Joan of Arc. Correct, Becks. Tie game. Girls cheer. Boys grumble. OK, OK. One point bonus for getting the final question correct. Charged with heresy for spiritual visions, she claimed fueled her quest. What secular activity earned Joan of Arc charges a blasphemy? Dressing like a soldier. More specific. Pea, tiny smile, purple beanie, just so eyes backs and tentally. Dressing like a male soldier. The girls take the lead. Woo! The girls who the boys turn to Pea as does Becks. Peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep. Pea waves them down. He smiles at Kev from the desk photo. As captain, I elect Kev to answer. Peep passes Kev the baton. Boys grumble. But a few show support. Kev smiles his time to shine. The category is movies. Girls groan, boys cheer. Kev slumps. Peep slaps him on the back. I got you. Peep meets eyes with Becks. She smiles at him. Peep shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. What barbershtray sand movie? Mr. Welch's words dripped away as a flash of silver catches Pea's eye out of the window. A delorean drives down the street. Pea's eyes widen. Kev's hand nudges them back to the classroom. They whisper. Holy shit. I think it's Lens Yenzel. Sorry. Lens Yenzel. Holy shit. I think it's Yenzel. Peetern's back to the window. The beautifully utilitarian steal of the delorean contrasts with the greenery around it. Dude. Strison probably a star's born. Five seconds. I swear it's Yenzel. Four. You're terrible at movie stuff. I'd be shocked if it was Yenzel. What was the exact question? Kev looks at Pea stunned. Three. What was the exact question again? Sorry, Kev. Got to answer now. One. Kev glances frantically at Pea. Pea gives him a thumbs up. A star's born. Silence as everyone waits. Pea looks out the window. The delorean's gone. He turns back to class. The film that garnered barbershtray sand, the first ever directing golden globe for a female director in 1983 is... Pea's head tilts back into spare. Yenzel. That's right, Pea. Yenzel. Girls win. No homework next week for you. Yeah. The girls erupt in joy. Kev gazes at Pea. She wakes playfully at him. Kev drops his head. He glairs at Pea as does Dizzy. 13 half Vietnamese, half dorky, half cool bull cut. The other boy's science frustration or mudder disapproval. Way to go, Kev. Pea looks guiltily at the visibly angry Kev. Mr. Welch, one more question. Sorry, Pea, game's over. They got one. Bex raises her eyebrow at Pea. Mr. Welch ignores him. Enjoy the three-day weekend. Hope to see you all at the game and, of course, at the dance. Let's crush St. John's this year. We're due. Come on, Mr. Welch. Be a Mensch. You know, I also heard rumors of a surprise at halftime just saying... Mr. Welch, wings. Is it because Bex is a girl? The class goes silent. Bex glairs at Pea. His face makes plain. He knows that it was the wrong thing to say. The bell rings. No one moves. Your team captain, Pea, you could have taken the question, but you gave it to Kev. It's a question you should have and would have gotten. Just like I gave Bex a question, she should have gotten. And she did. That was me being a Mensch. Now it's your turn. Bex, girls, don't let Pea spoil your victory. Who? The class house and laughter. Interior, Pond Hill hallway, a couple minutes later. Pea walks toward Kev, who shoves books into his locker. Homecoming dance posters on the walls, along with homecoming decorations and team signs. A classmate, Zach walks by, as does James. Kev, leave movies to Pea, bro. Yeah, follow Pea's lead next time. Pea arrives at Kev's locker. Dude, I'm so sorry. Thank God Carla doesn't go here. I die if she'd seen that. Martha and Janet pass as well. To Pea. Go crawl back in your hall, you chauvinist pig. Mind your own holes, Feminazi. Scowling, Dizzy joins Kevin Pea as Martha and Janet leave. You sound like a St. John's creep. Good luck finding a date to the dance, Pea. Is the girls hating me and not you? Be it the game tomorrow, big dog. Brit, 14, handsome, quarterback energy, at his locker with Tiffany, 14, thickly athletic, solid, and a couple others. Brit throws Pea football. It's wide, but Pea gracefully leaps and catches it decisively in one hand. Fuck St. John's. Pea spirals the ball back to Brit, who smiles. My man. Kev shows a book into his locker with a clang. Pea's eyes signal to Brit. He nods towards Kev. It'll cut your way next time, Ken. Brit nods at Pea then turns back. Kev mutters to Pea. Sure. Ken will kill it next time. Girls laugh. Pea looks, backs with friends. He pulls his purple beanie down, hides behind the locker door, as she passes. Yeah, but I got to work tomorrow. Safe. Pea pulls his head out. Bex, Jubilant walks by a parade of homecoming dance signs on the wall. The fuck, Fag? You know, every useless fact about every stupid movie exactly like whatever it was. There was a delorean outside. Dizzy's face instantly shifts. Kev is speechless. How fast was it going? Was it cool? Yes, super cool. You made me lose to Bex of all people over delorean? Of all people, huh? Pea's eyes close. He turns. Bex stands. A homecoming dance sign to her right. Worried deep down that me and Pea are still best friends behind your back? Pea reddens. He glances at the dance sign. Small crowd gathers. No need to keep us separated, Kev. Yard's free. Come out and play. Bex. Is it because I'm a girl, Pea? Oh. Crowd ooze. Pea and Bex meet eyes. He breaks first. Bex walks away victorious. Yeah, you're lucky or a girl? Bex flips her middle finger without turning. I am lucky. I'm a girl. Dizzy. Pea watches Bex pass another homecoming dance sign. Every step taking farther and farther away from it. He shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. Heffer. Kev glances at Dizzy. Slams his locker shut. The sound blends into a loud distorted power chord from Pea's guitar in Dizzy's garage after school. Pea guitar, Kev bass, and Dizzy drums practice for their metal band, Shadow King. Cool blend of thrashing groove. One, two, three, four. And the sea of faces master at the back. Boy the band to miss surrounds me. Can't come up black. Pea harmonizes for the chorus. It is deep from sunlight in a game I cannot win. Drowning no shit for all I'm worth. I'm nothing left within. See the surface from below, but still I call my form. He screams, oh I am on broken. Dizzy's snare crack, crack, cracks as the band kicks back in. The new part's more technical, heavier and less accessible. Hey, hey, I'm not feeling it. The band stops. Check this. Kev plays a deeply simple bass groove. He's not impressed, but tries to find a way in. He plays a complex thrashing riff. Hey, ah. Too much. Kev restarts. Pea plays a less complex death metal riff. Three, four. No. No. No. Mirror, me. Three, four. He dies, but mirrors Kev's groove close enough. Yeah, that's what people want. You hear that band corn yet? They rock. What about Pantera, Carcass, Machine Head, Dream Theater even? You can't play Dream Theater. Divine intervention came out last month. Know how many times I've heard it on the radio? I haven't. And that's Slayer. They buried fucking Slayer. Know how many times I've heard blind by corn yesterday? Fuck radio. Shadow King needs to make epic shit that changes people's lives. Dizzy, you don't want to sell out? But I'd like to sell. I'm with Kev. Peelix guiltily a Kev who smirks, pee conceeds. He plays the simple riff. Kev joins on bass. He plays a very simple beat. Pees eyes focus on his capel jack. The metal sleeve distorts Pees' reflection. The tubular jack resembles the Bontet. Dizzy's mom Mrs. D makes in Dizzy's kitchen, short time later. Mrs. D puts the Bontet in a Tupperware with a few others. The wrapped, tied, green banana leaves are uniform. She spreads a banana leaf on the counter, adds rice. Large containers of food nearby, homemade mac and cheese, Spanish rice, grilled chicken drumsticks, salad. Pea and Kev walk to the CD player. Costumes? Like make up and stuff? We need an image. Can we play some tunes, Mrs. D? Okay, but no girl! Mrs. D invitates death metal growls. Peel abs. Kev hands a McCorn CD while I fucking the Bontet. Research. Are those the things we had for Lunar New Year Mrs. D? Mrs. D nods. Bontet? Image isn't music man. I don't want to be kiss. Which track? 7. Kisses problem is they took the make-up off. If they hadn't, no one would have known what they really looked like. Problem solved. Kisses problem is that they suck. Bagpipes play. Dizzy enters. Mrs. D adds mong beans. What's this gay shit? Dillet! My bad. Fellas. What's this gay crap? Thank you. Peel hands Dizzy the CD case. Kev stares as Mrs. D lays pork belly onto the beans. Dizzy's eyes almost leave his head looking at the CD case. Whoa, there's a track called Faggot? Play that next. Every band does t-shirts and jeans now. No one has a look. I like this. Bagpipes? Better than Pees music. Mayhem and some of the black metal bands wear corpse paint? See? Not make-up. Corpse paint. It conjures something. Images a huge part of music. It says stuff. I want the music to say stuff. Dizzy eyes a tupperware of spring rolls. Only green vegetables are visible through the translucent wrapper. No shrimp. In the middle protects Betta. Is there for Uncle Chris to bite? Better when they're on top of the other stuff. Taste them first. Mrs. D wraps and ties the bon tet. A band shouldn't look like chess club. And a band's music shouldn't sound like checkers. Mrs. D assembles a new bon tet. Dizzy reaches toward the mound of them in the tupperware. Mrs. D slaps his hand away. Hey! He's not for Uncle Chris. All the other foot is for you. Why does he need bon tet in October? He doesn't have much time. Maybe when I'm dying, I'll fucking get one then. Mrs. D stops. Silence. Dizzy's demeanor shifts. Pea and Kev know the drill. Pea quietly grabs three sodas from the fridge. Kev discreetly retrieves a CD. They exit to Dizzy's room, moments later. Pea shuts the door lightly. Multiple de lorean and metal bed posters on the walls by the bunk bed. Japanese Sega Genesis. Big 90s computer tower. 32 inch CRTV. Close strewn. Super soakers waiting for summer. Pea gives Kev a coke classic. Opens a doctor pepper. The sprite remains for Dizzy. Kev grabs it instead. She's gonna woof his ass. Kev takes the pontill yearbook off the desk. Maa, mom's just supposed to love you. Imagine if his dad was here. Kev flips idly through the yearbook. He stops abruptly. Eyes burning at the page. I bet she thinks I'm so stupid. Mrs. D? Kev holds up the yearbook. Jabs it toward Pea. A large, candid photo of Bex smiling. A butterfly resting on her open palm. Bex, man. Bex. I don't want your old best friend to think your new best friend is a dumbass loser. Do you really care what she thinks? Do you? Pea hesitates. He looks down. Kev smiles rooffully at the silent confirmation. Tosses the yearbook on the bed. I bet she's jealous. Kev smiles. He pops open the sprite, sips quietly. Pea stares at the yearbook as if he can still see her. Interior Dizzy's room, evening, later. Dizzy enters with a doctor, pepper, Coke, and sprite. Put your dicks away, fags. Yes! Obscure your penises, fags. He nods at his mom's tacit approval, shuts the door. Kev grabs the sprite from Dizzy's hand and opens it. Hey, Coke, we get it for you. Kev takes a long swig. Dizzy snatches the remote, jabs it. The movie unpauses. Ace Ventura on the TV. Aicing his bathroom, Ace realizes that the female detective Einhorn is actually the Miami Dolphins kicker he's been trying to locate. In revelatory joy, he exclaims that Einhorn's a man, which he repeats immediately in revulsion as the horror of their kiss dawns on him. I love this part. Disgusted, Ace plungers his face, vomits excessively, and acts out other phobic hijinks while the crying gameplays. Pea, Kev and Dizzy laugh so hard they cry. Interior Dizzy's room later, a knock on the door, misses D-enters. On TV, Einhorn visibly shell-shocked, stands motionless as Ace rips off her skirt. Looks normal, then Ace solves the mystery. He spins Einhorn around, her tucked penis outlined in panties. He exclaims, That's why Roger Pidakters dead. He found Captain Winky. The crying gameplays, the entire police force dry heaves. The boys laugh hysterically. Did she call to the bathroom in her underwear? The boys laugh even harder. No, Mrs. D, she used to be a man. Still is a man. So that's her penis. What's it doing in a butt? Kev, purple-faced, falls over laughing. Dizzy turns red. Mrs. D waves her hand at Dizzy. He pauses the movie, staring longingly at the sprite as Kev drinks. Going to Uncle's back tomorrow? The boys try to hide their excitement. When do your boys want to go to the death set today? Philip's been talking about it for weeks. P and Kev, I dizzy, who flushes. Don't y'all kinda want to go? Yeah, us standing around while they play poser crap, like the sign and all that she wants. Sounds great. Well hang, laugh at the posers. It could be fun, dude. Or we can hang here. More fun. Okay, you all decide. Mrs. D closes the door. Pokes her head back inside. Woman, man. Pineses are always in the front. P bites his lip. Kev slaps the hand over his mouth. His face turns more purple. His body heaves as he stifles a laugh. The boys stare at each other. The front door finally closes. They erupt and laughter. Sheep pounds the bed. The impact blends into the sound of Kev's feet running toward the bathroom in Dizzy's house night, short time later. Kev belines towards the bathroom. Right as Kev gets to the door, Dizzy sprints past, locks it. Kev bangs on the door. Dude, I only have one pair of underwear. He brought one pair of underwear for a three night sleepover. Yellow waterfalls, yellow waterfalls, yellow waterfalls. Rushing streams of pee. You're in, you're in, you're in. Use his parents' bathroom. Kev looks at the closed door of the far bathroom. He bangs on the door in front of him again. Oh, amazing how much piss I have left. I think I never. And? I'll say it was my idea. You got a death wish, dude. Kev runs into Dizzy's parents' bathroom. Interior Dizzy's kitchen moments later. The fridge door opens, pee grabs a doctor pepper. He leans against the fridge, stares at the back wall. It's only a door in glass panes. Effectively a big window. The patio is unlit, but the small pool faintly glows. The kitchen light transforms the glass into a semi-transparent mirror, both inside and outside visible. P-stairs at his lackluster reflection. He mutters to himself. As if the becks would go the dance with you anyway. He raises his sleeve, flexes, no definition, other arm. You look like Arnold's gay pool boy. People's asleep down, shirt taught, Dizzy enters, smiling. Where's Kev? The other bathroom. Dizzy's lips curl. Both you fuckers know to stay out. My bathrooms for guests, public. The other is private, off limits. Who are their dark secrets in there? He was gonna piss his pants. He beat ants. Full-on-vogue. Dizzy laughs, looks out the large back window. Give me any Coke, but Coke. Imagine how freaky it would be if some dude appeared outside right now. Peatoss is a sprite. He examines his reflection in the glass. Kev, like 44. Tough. Man's man used to play football. A faint image appears outside the glass, intensifying. Long hair, but it's thinning. Not sure if he'll ever go fully bald, but you can see the skin through the hair. Pathetic. Cleaned shaving, but his face is that grey beard shit. It's ugly. God, he's ugly. As if in slow motion, the man shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. It's rough, staccato compared to pee. The image briefly overlays Pea's reflection. As it slowly shifts back to the inside part of the glass, then disappears. Pea just says purple beanie, then eyes his doctor pepper. You're mom ever buy diet? Dizzy crunches his empty can against the counter. He opens an outstretched hand to pee. I meant like some deranged homo-pervert who breakin' in butt-fuck you and Kev. Pea hands Dizzy a fresh bright. Well, I'd make sure you got butt-fucked first and last. Pea-ness! Pea and Dizzy scream. Dizzy's unopened sprite falls exploding against the floor. Kev saunters in, loose and relaxed, a fountain of sprites spraying next to him. Kev licks a little off his hand. So who's getting butt-fucked? Exterior driveway, short time later. The basketball bounces against the concrete. The boys play tips on the adjustable full-size hoop. Pea dribbles. Only Pea wears a shirt. Kev and Dizzy's tees lie in a pile. Pea's flannel is tied around his waist, purple beanie, a bit sweaty. I'd still fuck her. Gross, dude. I know one doesn't have some bitch tied up in a well. She's hot. Her cock wouldn't bother you. I said I'd fuck her and not marry her. Can you imagine dating a perv like that? I want a freaking bed, not a freak when we're at the store. I'd rather kill myself. Who cares if no one knows? You're gonna be gay. You should be a fucking man about it. I'd kill myself, and then I'd have the most epic funeral mix CD. From whom the bell tools? Played out. Marshful number? Sick track. But not as sick as my handle. Pea drives left, sidesteps Kev, then twists past Dizzy. The ball kisses the backboard, bounces off the rim. It misses. Kev leaps forward. Airborne, he tips the falling ball up toward the basket. Bounce, bounce, bounce. It drops in. Back to 11, bro. No one rock at a funeral. Cemetery gates. Yes, Pantera's my shit. Pantera's I'm broken, shatters the night. The boys turn their collective head in unison. A de l'Orient, sleek and silver turns onto the street. The windows are down. The engine rumbles. A woman, 42 drives. The muscular guitar's defiant, bluesy metal groove provides the perfect foundation as the singer screams the song's chorus. I'm broken and herit my life. God damn! Wait! Peace sprints towards the car. He's at the end of the driveway. The car isn't going to stop. Dude, we're gonna get killed! Pea launches forward in front of the car, purple beanie flying. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. It's not stopping. It's not stopped. Scree! The brake squeal. The car stops. Just enough to be safe. But definitely enough to be dangerous. Good thing we settled the funeral next tape. The purple beanie's on the street. Pea Tug's a shirt taught. His ponytail briefly visible. Pea and the woman at a standstill. She's sitting back. Bade largely in shadow. Slivers of light illuminate her half smile. I'm Pea. That's Dizzy and Kev. I've, uh, we've never been this close to a delorean. Dizzy embles slowly. Entranced. Can I touch it? The lorean lady? Miss World. Go ahead. Miss World leans forward. Dark hair, a similar color to peas. Flennel, mid-drift tank. Yellow scarf around her neck. Dizzy runs his hands over the car as if it's magic. Flux capacitor hiding in there? Miss World chuckles. Sure is. But who knows if it works. Take us for a ride and find out. Nice try. But it's a bit weird for an adult to take three teens she just met out for a ride. Plus, it's a school night. Three days weekend. You do synchronized swim, too. We're in a band. Got a tape? Might be a little heavy for a girl. The delorean rumbles to life. Miss World puts it in gear. Piece steps forward, touching his knees to the bumper. Sorry. I say stupid things sometimes. Don't ask him about barris-triza movies. Miss World laughs. We don't have a tape. Our stuff's a thrash-groove death metal hybrid. But both sweetened and floored a death metal. If that means anything. Handsome corn. So, Megadeth, Slayer, maybe Arise, Aris, Sepul Torah. I'm assuming pre-black Metallica. Mixed with Pantera and machine head. And for death metal, what? Early entombed and obituary? The maybe morbid angel. Oh, and some corn. Peek, Kevin Dizzy stared her mouth to gabe. Girls aren't always what you'd think. The delorean reverses. Piece chances are fading. He takes a deep breath. He sings. Kev cringes at the totally embarrassing earnestness. Memory of summer has long passed. Crawling through the mud and silt. The rain never washes me clean. Incrested in clay, the seed can still flower. But the sun has forgotten my name. The delorean stops. A dog howls. What's that? Lyrics I've been writing? Miss World assesses P. He puts the purple beanie on his head. Not bad. Might've earned a ride. We'll see. Your parents around? No. Kev smacks Dizzy's arm. That was stupid. Will they be here saturday night? We'll be at the dance. No, we won't. Miss World looks at P. P. Surveys' friends. We might be. Kev glairs at P. Dizzy looks at Kev. My girlfriend Carla's not in town. You could go as a girl. Thank you. Going without a date sucks. Anyone you'd like? Dizzy shakes his head. He turns, walks around the car in awe. Kev goes to the basketball hoop. Miss World eyes P. Delorean turns into a pumpkin soon. P glances guiltily at Kev. He shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. Miss World smiles playfully. Looks P. Square in the eye. My biggest regret is the amount of regrets I have. Careful Dizzy. Couldn't see you. P. Nodz taking in her words as Dizzy steps back from the car. Miss World smiles coily at P. You going back? P. and Dizzy watch her shrinking tail lights fade into the night. End act one.