I see blowdown damage
Static kill
Mean square displacement baby
Just for a thrill
I got no protection
No regime
Come electrocute me baby
Make the metal scream

I’ve seen his face so many times
I know him blind
Not enough action
Not enough satisfaction
By the time I trace this shakedown
I’ll be redesigned
No piracy
No privacy

I got all the angles
Impicture force
In deformation baby
Without remorse

I got no reflection
To redeem
Come and lacerate me baby
Make the metal scream
Make the metal scream
Make the metal scream

(BECKY enters with RUIDO RAN, the Dee Jay, who carries with him a whole different collection of ramshackle electronic divining equipment.)

BECKY: Snagged Ruido, man. Straight off the ruffle. Didn’t have my patch out there two seconds and bam, he comes in loud and clear.

HOSS: Ruido Ran and the Radio Jam!

RUIDO: That’s him, Slim. Heavy duty and on the whim. Backslappin sidetrackin, finger-poppin, reelin-rockin with the hot tips on the picks in the great Matando!

HOSS: You don’t still have a show, do you? I mean, is there such a thing as “On the Air” anymore?

RUIDO: You jackin my flaps, Pony Man. Ruido Ran never left the Air. Ruido never touched down.

HOSS: Yer not still playing shit like “Wipe Out” and “It’s a Lover’s Question,” are you?

RUIDO: Clyde McPhatter gained Sainthood, booga. Did you drop that one? Johnny Ace? Immaculate. Unworldly. Jackie Wilson. Heaven-born! Rufus Thomas—

HOSS: All right, all right. Just give it to me straight. Am I risin or fallin?

RUIDO: A shootin star niño. High flyin and no denyin. You is off to number nine!

HOSS: Show me what you got. Show it to me clean. Last Fool I had in here threw a lotta dung on the wall and hoped some of it might stick.

RUIDO: I can suss it. True Professionals are getting scarce and scary, these days.

HOSS: How’s your equipment? Up to scratch?

(RUIDO sets up his gear and begins throwing images up on the walls.)

RUIDO: (as he works) State a dee Arc, Slim. State a dee Arc.

HOSS: I don’t expect predictions or nothing. No Omen Sign. I don’t need that. Just the straight scam.

RUIDO: I’m a Dee Jay, man. Born and bred. Diviner’s not my game.

HOSS: All I’m lookin for is the natural landscape.

BECKY: Bebidas, boys?

HOSS: Yeah, bring us somethin red.

BECKY: This should be some slick shit.

(BECKY exits. RUIDO keeps casting images on the walls, overlapping, as HOSS watches.)

RUIDO: Okeedokey, here’s the Stand on the National Band. Figment this. Game’s clean for now. Solo is the word. Gang War is takin a backseat to the Honcho Singles. Low Riders are way outa the diamond and You is in, Slim. In like a stone Mata-Man.

HOSS: Don’t stroke me, Ruido! I can exile your fanny just like the Meera. I want it straight. Just show me how it’s movin.

RUIDO: Easy, Pony Man.