Issue 3 TOC
 
Compound Fracture


Lieutenant T.T. returns to his chair and the stagehands reappear and pull him offstage left again.  Everyman Kyle pulls out into traffic again and picks up the cell phone.

EVERYMAN KYLE:  Hey.  Sorry about that.  Could you hear that?  He gave me the same shit last time.  (in a dopey voice) “Everybody makes mistakes.  I just happened to catch you this time.”  Fuck that shit! ...  I’m sorry, baby.  I’m sorry.  I’m not angry at y--

Everyman Kyle looks up in his rearview mirror.

EVERYMAN KYLE: Are you fucking kidding me?

Lieutenant T.T. and the stagehands burst onto the stage once again.

LIEUTENANT T.T.: Wee-ooo!  Wee-ooo!  Wee-ooo!

EVERYMAN KYLE:  Baby, I’m going to have to call you back.

Everyman Kyle hangs up the phantom cell and tosses it onto the passenger seat.  He pulls over.  As Lieutenant T.T. writes in his ticket book and types on the keyboard, Everyman Kyle holds a hard gaze on the rearview mirror and tensely grips the phantom steering wheel in his hands.  Finally Lieutenant T.T. approaches the upstage side of Everyman Kyle.

LIEUTENANT T.T.: License and registration.

EVERYMAN KYLE: You have it!  Twice!

LIEUTENANT T.T.:  Sir.

EVERYMAN KYLE: You are a fucking robot.  Can you appreciate that?  You’re just going through the motions, doing things “by the book” so you don’t have to think at all!

Lieutenant T.T. ponders this.

LIEUTENANT T.T.:  Wow, sir.  I never thought about it like that before.  I guess you’re right.  I don’t really need your license and registration again.  But I will have to give you the ticket.

EVERYMAN KYLE: For what?



 
 
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