HOSS: (sings to himself) “I’m walkin the floor over you. I can’t sleep a wink, that is true.” (He stops and moves then stops again, as though listening for something. He sings again.) “I’m hoping someday—that you’ll come back to me.” (He stops and listens again then sings the last line.) “I’m walkin the floor over you.” (He stops, listens.)

END ACT ONE

Act II

Scene: The stage is the same.

(CROW enters.)

CROW: Song: “The Rat Age”

THE RAT AGE

I was conceived in a behavior station
Light years from civilization
I was born in oblivion
Half Balinese half Libyan
My father was a vector
My mother was a spector
As Earthmen battle for their skins
I come down with the aliens

Is this not the rat age
The demented photostat age
The time of no room
Separate
We’ve broken the genetic code
And left it bleeding by the road
Where murderers loom

You’ve changed your face you’ve changed your scent
You’ve even changed your fingerprint
Image is anything

But with all this electricity
You can’t change your publicity
The lies the many sing

Down in the greedplex
Under a spike of light
Stop at the slave port
Enter the death resort
No stimulation
Nothing but mono thought
Resimulation
Depop but don’t get caught

I dream to surf the rodeocean
Negotiate meaning with no emotion
If the kill is clean you still got time
To hone evil on the tooth of crime

I’m sober on the grapes of wrath
While running down the psychopath
Is this not a cruel world
Good morning little schoolgirl
It’s the rat age
The rat age
The rat age

(CROW moves about, thoroughly surveying the space, then finally flips himself onto HOSS’s chair. HOSS enters. Pause.)

HOSS: Sleuth tells me yer ridin a ’58 Impala.

CROW: Razor, leathers. Very razor. Still in the style jam? Next we’ll be reminiscing Bob’s Big Boy, no doubt. Annette Funnycello.

HOSS: Old habits break hard.

CROW: You don’t break ’em, you chop ’em off.

HOSS: I didn’t invite you in here to get schooled, bug boy!

CROW: You didn’t invite me, period. I’m yer Backdoor Man.

HOSS: Oh—So, Mr. Willie Dixon still remains on your list? You’re not so far removed as I thought.

CROW: You can stretch yer imagination from here to the starry host and you won’t come near to whiffin me, Mach Man.

(Pause.)

HOSS: Look—I didn’t expect any generosity of spirit or anything. I know yer blood-game. Ruthless is a simple deal. A dumb deal. I’ve been wound tight to it since the days of the old Gas Wars. I just thought—(pauses)

CROW: Now that’s yer breakdown right there, Leathers.

HOSS: What’s that?

CROW: “Thought.”

HOSS: All right—you want a bida? Something wet? Might as well kick this out.

CROW: (laughs) Couthie! Benign! Lush in sun time gotta smell of lettuce or turn of the century. Sure, Leathers, squeeze on the grapevine one time.

HOSS: White or red?