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This is a rough draft, so not everything is perfect.
Summary: A man tries to deal with the not-so-raw grief of losing his brother in a suspected homocide
[The year is early 2001, right after Y2K, PARIS RAINSFORD, a wealthy actor and playwright is sat rigidly in the chair that faces the coroner’s desk. The desk is barren with only a few papers, the thing that’s taking up a lot of room is a boxy first generation Macintosh.]
*Note: The desk and chairs are the only thing onstage at the moment, a single spotlight shines on the two actors.
[Paris checks his watch, a new Rolex and looks at the coroner with a look of utter boredom. The coroner is signing a sheet of paper; a death certificate.]
PARIS: Don’t coddle me with your sorriness, we all know this is your job, for God’s sake.
CORONER: [He gives the latter a look of confusion, and then his expression softens] It’s normal to be in some sort of shock when these sorts of cases do come up, Mister Rainsford, especially considering that he was your brother.
[Paris scoffs and studies the certificate, reading aloud the filled in section that tells the cause of death]
PARIS: They stuffed him in a dumpster, that’s it? You think they would have been a little more creative, considering the “circumstances” [He makes air quotes and laughs, peering over the edge of his glasses, looking for a smile from the coroner, maybe a grin. The coroner only sighs and takes out a contact book, flipping to a doggeared page]
CORONER: Sir, your behavior shows denial, and that leads me to believe that you need some rigid counseling. [He hands Paris the sheet of paper, with a gentle smile before getting up to leave] Please take care of yourself, maybe watch the Yanks? They’re on tonight at seven.
PARIS: Likewise. [The door closes, the coroner leaves. Once he leaves, Paris throws the sheet to the ground] Asshat. Some naked mole rat thinks he knows what’s good for me. Tough luck.
*At this point, the scene would change; the desks and chairs would be gone, leaving only a single spotlight on PARIS. He proceeds to sit on the edge of the stage, his head in his hands.
PARIS: You know how when you’re a kid, everyone says they know exactly what’s good enough for you. Look at me, I’m thirty two and people are still makin’ the goddamn decisions for me. He got himself into trouble, not me, I just got loaded with his repercussions. [He laughs] Not like I have to do much except shove him in a box and pretend to look sorry.
*Another spotlight comes ontstage, revealing a surprisingly well-dressed teen in a tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses.
TEEN: First off, jackass, it was a suggestion, no one’s telling you to do it. Thought you had enough sense to figure that out. [He sits down next to Paris and kicks his legs out childishly.] So..what’s up?
[Paris stumbles to his feet in shock, and begins to take a look at the teen, realizing it is his younger brother, the one that is dead, he starts to laugh again.]
PARIS: You’re try’na play with me, Adonis. You’re dead, so stop bein’ weird and go back on Route 666 or where ever people like you go.
ADONIS: Like you? Well, I thought you knew what people like you do, Paris. You go out and make people laugh and cry, only from stuff you write on those crappy legal pads. I’m doin’ that, I’m bein’ like you.
PARIS: But that isn’t what you are.
ADONIS: It’s what you wanted me to be.
[Paris freezes for a moment, realizing the similarites between he and his brother, in the way that they are dressed, at least]
PARIS: But you aren’t me.
ADONIS: Have you not realized that we’re in your head?
PARIS: [he shoves his hands in pockets and rocks back and forth on the heels of his shoes]
ADONIS: You’re the worst at being subtle, you know that?
PARIS: [Looks out onto the audience] No.
[Adonis sighs and takes out a depressor stick and flashlight. He takes Paris by the collar and shines the light directly in his eyes. Paris, in return, shields his eyes]
PARIS: Stop that, Donnie. Jesus. What do you think you’re doin’?
ADONIS: Looking for a diagnosis; my only assumption is that you’re in denial. But we’re gonna need further testing to narrow it down. [He sticks the tongue depressor into his brother’s mouth] Say “Ahhh”, dipshit.
PARIS: What d’you have, a PHD in Dumbassery? It sure isn’t paying off.
ADONIS: You’d be surprised at how much Satan likes my services, he’s one of my regular accupunture patients.
PARIS: You believe in that stuff?
ADONIS: About as much as I believed in Al Gore. But it pays the bills.
PARIS: What bills do you have to pay in Hell?
ADONIS: It’s best that you don’t know.
PARIS: Fair enough.
[A moment passes between the brothers as they stand squared off, facing each other. Paris suddenly lifts his glasses and covers his face, beginning to cry]
ADONIS: I can’t change. You’re seeing what you wanna see, Paris.
[Paris grabs Adonis by the collar and shakes him]
PARIS: I wanna know why you died. You really think that I didn’t care about you, Donnie? I molded you into the perfect guy. I molded you into everything you needed, and you had to end it in a dumpster?
ADONIS: You molded me into what you wanted. You were talkin’ to yourself earlier about how tired you were of people makin’ decisions for you. What about me?
*The lights dim as both of them sit back down on the edge of the stage.
PARIS: Aw, God, God, God. Donnie, why didn’t you tell me when you were with me, why didn’t you say anything?
[Adonis gives him a look of confusion, and then smirks]
ADONIS: You been watchin’ a little too much Boston Legal, eh? Those lines are in every single episode.
[Paris wipes the tears from his eyes and turns away, still crying softly]
ADONIS: It was an accident, he didn’t mean to hit me. He was just some freaked out sixteen year old, who clocked some fool with the grill of his Lexus.
[Note: This line should be spoken softly]
PARIS: And..you ended up stiff with Chinese Take-out leftovers?
ADONIS: At least I didn’t end up like Al Gore.
PARIS: He isn’t dead.
ADONIS: My point still stands; I’m here now. What do you wanna do before I hit the road?
PARIS: The Yanks are on at seven.