On Bleeker Street
A seemingly quiet, sunny Thursday Afternoon around 2:15 pm on Bleeker Street...
Jane: Holy Shite Blanche!!
~Blanche drives her wheelchair into the parlour where Jane is reading the Daily Rag, smoking a Players Plain Cigarette~
Blanche: Why, whatever is the matter Jane Dear?
Jane: This! This story here in the paper is absolutely disgusting. That's what it is. ~puff, drag, puff~ Plain, F&%#ing disgusting.
Blanche: What has you so upset in that filthy rag you're reading.
Jane: Blanche Dear, this rag as you call it ~puff, puff~ gives me wide variety of unbiased news and information!
Blanche: Oh Really...like what for instance?
~Blanche wheels back to the kitchen. Jane follows and sits on a stool~
Jane: Like this story right here on Page 11.
Blanche: This is the story that has you so upset I heard you screaming from the pantry cupboard.
Jane: Yes that's the F*^$ ing story I mean Blanche.
Blanche: Well what is it Jane? Let me have it.
Jane: Oh Blanche Darling ~drag, puff, puff~ I would love to let you have it. I'd love to take that wheelchair you sit in like the cock of the rock and pound it to shit with a big sledgehammer!!
Blanche: Sister Dear, you say the nicest things! ~smirk~ So, what is it this time? Has the price of ciggies gone up- again?
Jane: Worse. This fellah in F^#+ ing England is giving his frostbitten toes to some bar up in the Yukon.
Blanche: Whatever for?
Jane: To use in a Gawd-Damned drink. That's what for. It's disgusting.
Blanche: Well, this time I must agree with you. The poor guy losing his toes...
Jane: Feck that Blanche! ~puff, puff~ What a perfectly good waste of Vodka!!
Blanche: Oh Dear. I should have guessed...
