Characters
Sam, the artist
Matt
Doc
Matt: You’re deeply disturbed. There’s no
other way to put it. I can’t even look at this. This is a prostitution of art
to the most deplorable degree. Where did you get all of them?
Sam: Hospitals. Abortion clinics.
Matt: What, you stole these?
Sam: No, I bought them. Some people donated.
Matt: Who let you buy them?
Sam: I already told you.
Matt: That’s sick. They ought to be
arrested. In fact, I have it in mind to report all of you to the
authorities right now.
Sam: Wait.
Matt: What!
Sam: I didn’t kill them.
Matt: That hardly matters.
Sam: But that’s the point.
Matt: What’s the goddamn point? You’re not
making any sense! There is no point. Don’t you get it?
Sam: It was important that I did this—people
need to see this.
Matt: What people? Anyone who comes to see
this is just as sick as you. It’s people like you who give artists a bad name!
Sam: Please, think of what you’re saying.
Matt: Why should I think of anything?
You
obviously didn’t think before you put this atrocity together. It’s—no, you’re—beyond reprehensible. I’ve never believed in the god or devil, but
you—you’re the devil incarnate!
Sam: They were already dead...
Matt: And this is the respect you pay them?
Look at them, their faces—it’s grotesque!
Sam: You’re beginning to see.
Matt: The hell...!
Sam: You’re beginning to see their faces.
They’re still human.
Matt: They’re fucking
babies for
chrissakes! Dead fucking babies! They are rolling over in their fucking
graves now... actually no, excuse me, they can’t do that because you’ve got them
laced up in a pile in a fucking frankfurter cart! What kind of sick fucking
joke is that?
Sam: I wasn’t making any joke. It’s a serious
piece of work.
Matt: What do you think their mothers would
say if they could see this?
Sam: Most of the mothers are dead too. Or
they killed them. Or the father killed both of them...
Matt: Shut up! I can’t hear this anymore! So
what you’re saying now is that that gives you license to objectify them
on top of the fact that they’ve already been murdered? Have you no shame at
all?
Sam: I’m very proud of this. It’s taken me
years to learn how to embalm and retain the horror...
Matt: Horror! Horror is right!
Doc: Sam! I’m so glad I caught you!
Sam: Hi Doctor.
Doc: This is it, I see. Wow. Wow. No, not
wow. It’s breathtaking.
Sam: I’m glad you like it.
Doc: I don’t think one could ever really use
the word “like” here, Sam.
Sam: Doc, this is Matthew.
Matt: Can I ask, what kind of doctor are you?
Doc: I’m a doctor of philosophy. I moonlight
part-time as a psychologist.
Matt: Oh good, I’m glad, because this woman
needs help.
Doc: Who?
Matt: The one who put this vile and offensive—thing—together.
Sam: Please, don’t insult them like that.
Matt: Insult? Holy shit!
Insult?
Doc: Please. Both of you. Give me a moment
to quietly consider this.
Matt: Oh Doc, please, just be my
guest.
I think you might be just as sick as she is.
Doc: I beg your pardon?
Matt: Nothing. Fuck it. You heard me. You
don’t need to be a frigging mindreader or some hoity-toity licensed practitioner
to see how genuinely disgusted I am. I want to vomit.
Sam: Maybe it’s the smell that’s getting to
you. There’s still a faint formaldehyde odor I couldn’t totally eliminate...
Matt: It’s not the fucking formaldehyde! Are
you so goddamn blind you can’t see anymore? Clueless! I never met anyone so
clueless in my whole... Did you have a bad childhood—is that it? Doc, are you
her shrink? Does she have some leftover childhood issues she’s trying to work
out with this?
Doc: You need to be aware that doctors are
not at liberty to compromise patient confidentiality by disclosing personal
information. However, even though Sam is not my patient all I will say about
her is that she is very psychologically fit—very much so—and above and beyond
that, displays extraordinary talent and vision.
Matt: Sam, what is it? Did you have an
abortion? A miscarriage? Did you accidentally kill your baby sister? Come on,
you can tell me.
Sam: No. I had a happy childhood.
Matt: Well, I mean you must have had some kind
of violent thoughts then, right? I mean, this is not the work of a very
settled mind.
Sam: I feel fine. You heard what the Doc
said.
Matt: Yeah, okay. I think I’ve heard enough.
Doc: Matt, do you know anything about the
Holocaust?
Matt: Of course I do. That’s a stupid
question. Everybody does.
Doc: Do you ever think of the horror of war?
Or the subtle wars that go on every day between people like you and me, or the
ones fulminating just below the surface?
Matt: Look, I’m not here for a history or
Psych-101 class. I know what I see. And this is disgusting. Someone ought to
set fire to this place, both of you along with it.
Sam: Listen to yourself, what you’re saying.
Matt: Yeah, I do listen. And it seems the
only other things listening are the four rotting walls and a pile of dead
fucking babies.
Doc: Sam, did you get a call from the channel
today?
Sam: Yeah, we’re set for tomorrow.
Matt: Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?
Doc: Well if you really want to know, Sam is
going to be pushing this cart down the Fifth Avenue business district during
rush hour. She’s going to stop in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and then set
fire to her work. It will be a symbolic pyre.
Matt: They are going to film this? What! For
who?
Sam: The news.
Matt: This is a sick publicity stunt. You
can’t possibly get away with this. All the mothers, the women, they’re going to
lynch you for it.
Sam: Then let them. It will be part of the
statement I’m making.
Matt: No! You’re no artist! You’re just a
sick fuck, and I’m not going to let you do this!
Doc: You can’t do anything about it. The
wheels are already in motion.
Matt: The hell they are! Get out of my way!
Sam: Hey! Stop! Don’t touch it! No!
Doc: Where do you think you’re going with
that?!
Matt: Fuck you! You’re not going to get away
with this shit! You! Get the fuck out of my way, you hear?!
Sam: Doc, wait! Let him go!
Matt: Can I ask, what kind of doctor are you?
Doc: I’m a doctor of philosophy. I moonlight
part-time as a psychologist.
Matt: Oh good, I’m glad, because this woman
needs help.
Doc: Who?
Matt: The one who put this vile and offensive—thing—together.
Sam: Please, don’t insult them like that.
Matt: Insult? Holy shit!
Insult?
Doc: Please. Both of you. Give me a moment
to quietly consider this.
Matt: Oh Doc, please, just be my
guest.
I think you might be just as sick as she is.
Doc: I beg your pardon?
Matt: Nothing. Fuck it. You heard me. You
don’t need to be a frigging mindreader or some hoity-toity licensed practitioner
to see how genuinely disgusted I am. I want to vomit.
Sam: Maybe it’s the smell that’s getting to
you. There’s still a faint formaldehyde odor I couldn’t totally eliminate...
Matt: It’s not the fucking formaldehyde! Are
you so goddamn blind you can’t see anymore? Clueless! I never met anyone so
clueless in my whole... Did you have a bad childhood—is that it? Doc, are you
her shrink? Does she have some leftover childhood issues she’s trying to work
out with this?
Doc: You need to be aware that doctors are
not at liberty to compromise patient confidentiality by disclosing personal
information. However, even though Sam is not my patient all I will say about
her is that she is very psychologically fit—very much so—and above and beyond
that, displays extraordinary talent and vision.
Matt: Sam, what is it? Did you have an
abortion? A miscarriage? Did you accidentally kill your baby sister? Come on,
you can tell me.
Sam: No. I had a happy childhood.
Matt: Well, I mean you must have had some kind
of violent thoughts then, right? I mean, this is not the work of a very
settled mind.
Sam: I feel fine. You heard what the Doc
said.
Matt: Yeah, okay. I think I’ve heard enough.
Doc: Matt, do you know anything about the
Holocaust?
Matt: Of course I do. That’s a stupid
question. Everybody does.
Doc: Do you ever think of the horror of war?
Or the subtle wars that go on every day between people like you and me, or the
ones fulminating just below the surface?
Matt: Look, I’m not here for a history or
Psych-101 class. I know what I see. And this is disgusting. Someone ought to
set fire to this place, both of you along with it.
Sam: Listen to yourself, what you’re saying.
Matt: Yeah, I do listen. And it seems the
only other things listening are the four rotting walls and a pile of dead
fucking babies.
Doc: Sam, did you get a call from the channel
today?
Sam: Yeah, we’re set for tomorrow.
Matt: Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?
Doc: Well if you really want to know, Sam is
going to be pushing this cart down the Fifth Avenue business district during
rush hour. She’s going to stop in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and then set
fire to her work. It will be a symbolic pyre.
Matt: They are going to film this? What! For
who?
Sam: The news.
Matt: This is a sick publicity stunt. You
can’t possibly get away with this. All the mothers, the women, they’re going to
lynch you for it.
Sam: Then let them. It will be part of the
statement I’m making.
Matt: No! You’re no artist! You’re just a
sick fuck, and I’m not going to let you do this!
Doc: You can’t do anything about it. The
wheels are already in motion.
Matt: The hell they are! Get out of my way!
Sam: Hey! Stop! Don’t touch it! No!
Doc: Where do you think you’re going with
that?!
Matt: Fuck you! You’re not going to get away
with this shit! You! Get the fuck out of my way, you hear?!
Sam: Doc, wait! Let him go!
Doc: Sam, I’m so sorry. I tried...
Sam: It’s okay, really.
Doc: You sure?
Sam: Yeah. They’re in Matt’s hands now. All
of them. He’ll take care of them, I know. He needs to do this. He always did.
