Cover

SAM SHEPARD
Tooth of Crime

Sam Shepard was the Pulitzer Prize–winning author of more than fifty-five plays and three story collections. As an actor, he appeared in more than sixty films and received an Oscar nomination in 1984 for The Right Stuff. He was a finalist for the W. H. Smith Literary Award for his story collection Great Dream of Heaven. In 2012 he was awarded an honorary doctorate from Trinity College, Dublin. He was a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, received the Gold Medal for Drama from the Academy, and was inducted into the Theater Hall of Fame. He died in 2017.

ALSO BY SAM SHEPARD

The One Inside

A Particle of Dread

Heartless

Fifteen One-Act Plays

Day out of Days

Kicking a Dead Horse

Buried Child

The God of Hell

Great Dream of Heaven

The Late Henry Moss, Eyes for Consuela, When the World Was Green

Cruising Paradise

Simpatico

States of Shock, Far North, Silent Tongue

A Lie of the Mind

The Unseen Hand and Other Plays

Fool for Love and Other Plays

Paris, Texas

Seven Plays

Motel Chronicles

Rolling Thunder Logbook

Hawk Moon

Title Page

Preface to the Revised Edition

Back in the sixties I was playing with the idea of a war of language—a duel where words were the actual weapons, the bullets. When I arrived in London in the early seventies, a largely unheralded play, AC/DC by Heathcote Williams, struck me as being an opening in that direction. Not only was the language uncanny but it also had the aura of assault about it. Bertolt Brecht’s In the Jungle of Cities was another catalyst, but I wanted to make a totally American rendition and wound up somewhere between the old classic Western and rockstar nihilism. In 1972 (when the play was first performed at the Open Space in London) it seemed to me that rock and roll, as we had known it up till then, was being transformed into a river of sameness. It was beginning to lose its original fire and brass balls, much the same as American cars lost their verve in the transition from the fifties to the sixties. Long story short—the subject was “change,” and I wanted to place each of these characters (Crow and Hoss) directly across the fence from each other. The original production was perceived as futuristic, verging on science fiction, but by 1996, twenty-four years later, it seemed dated to me and somewhat hackneyed. The DJ character felt like a cartoon. Hoss seemed needlessly melodramatic, and the language of Crow had lost its sting. So, again, I set about revamping the entire play through rehearsals at the Lucille Lortel Theatre in New York. This process of rewriting a play while it’s in rehearsal can be nerve-racking to actors and directors, and I’m sure the production suffered as a result, but in the end the play now is less simplistic and has a rhythmic flow that it lacked in its first rendition.

Sam Shepard
July 2005

Tooth of Crime (Second Dance) was produced by Signature Theatre Company (James Houghton, Founding Artistic Director; Thomas C. Proehl, Managing Director; Elliot Fox, Associate Director) and Second Stage Theatre (Carole Rothman, Artistic Director; Suzanne Schwartz Davidson, Producing Director; Carol Fishman, Associate Producer) at the Lucille Lortel Theatre in New York City on December 15, 1996.

Directed by Bill Hart
Music and lyrics by T Bone Burnett
Set design by E. David Cosier
Costume design by Teresa Snider-Stein
Lighting design by Anne Militello
Sound design by David Van Tieghem
Video design by Kevin Cunningham
Musical direction by Loren Toolajian
Production stage managed by Ruth Kreshka and James FitzSimmons
Casting direction by Jerry Beaver and Associates

The Tooth of Crime received its premiere at the Open Space, London, on July 17, 1972.

Directed by Charles Marowitz
Assistant directed by Walter Donohue
Set design by Robin Don
Music composed by Sam Shepard
Music arranged and played by Blunderpuss

Act I

Scene: A bare stage except for an evil-looking dark chair with a high back, something like an Egyptian pharaoh’s throne but simple, center stage.

(HOSS enters.)

HOSS: Song: “Anything I Say Can and Will Be Used Against You”

ANYTHING I SAY CAN AND WILL BE USED AGAINST YOU

People tell me I look like hell

Well I am hell

I got a torture chamber orchestra

At the Delirium Hotel

I got an hallucination rattlesnake

To twist my skill through

You’re my friend

But I’m gonna kill you

Somebody’s got to monitor all this darkness darkness darkness

Somebody’s got to locate the bomb dot com

Somebody’s got to break out through the night so starless starless starless

Those who would overthrow the status quo

Soul like smoke hole in the sky

Gotta cry gotta cry gotta go gotta go gotta go

Target Arab chic MK ultra satellite blowup

Kill the pain let it rain let it rain

I will disengage your mastery
Until all you love is blasphemy
Then I’ll break in through your idiocy
And twist your desire hideously
And when you’re the object of complete derision
I’ll make you a star on television
Then if you want fame at a greater strength
Speak to my girl Friday the thirteenth

Got no background
Got no files
Crawl through the cable black op ground zero no flight zone
All alone all alone all alone

This is a story which is based on a true story
Which is based on a lie

Don’t jack with me Sahib
I’m history
Don’t jack with me Lucille
I’m gone
I’m gone
I’m gone

(BECKY enters.)

BECKY: Choogin, Hoss. Choogin. The short is online. Wanna peek at the toys?

HOSS: Yeah, let’s have a look. Jeweler check ’em out?

BECKY: Clean and blue. Gave his little stomp of approval. You know how he gits.

(BECKY lays out the “weapons” on the floor: Strange-looking devices; weird mixture of swords, guitar necks, microphones, CBs, pistols, etc.)

HOSS: Merc’s set?

BECKY: Greased, lubed, and banging on all eight. Chaser slammed it up to 180 on the old Ventura Freeway. Said she didn’t bark once.

HOSS: Yeah. About time he quit them quarter-mile bursts. That double-throat’s gotta git time to blow out. Holley made that carburetor back then for a reason. Old-time but it still hauls ass.

BECKY: No question there.

HOSS: Chaser fit?

BECKY: I don’t gumbo with Chaser. You know that. He keeps to his own self.

HOSS: You watch him don’t ya? Observe?

BECKY: I seen him chase his bacon around the plate with a fork this mornin. Asked him if that’s where he copped his handle.

HOSS: So, how’s he movin?

BECKY: Same.

HOSS: Did he look inclined to Boogie?

BECKY: He’s always got the horns on for Road Rankin, you know that.

HOSS: Then we’re good to go?

BECKY: I’d best check the Chart Man if I was you, Hoss. The Gazer.

HOSS: How’s that.

BECKY: Just an inklin. A tickle. Won’t hurt.

HOSS: We ironed all that through, didn’t we? Week ago? I thought Meera gave me a green lane? I don’t need hesitation now.

BECKY: Shit shifts, you know. Every two seconds somethin’s slidin. He can’t suss it all. Tell you the damn truth, some a them chart patterns he’s honkin go back to the late fifties. Meera’s antique in a lotta zones Hoss. I wouldn’t bite the whole red apple he throws out, just cause it rolls.

HOSS: Git his ass down here!

BECKY: All righty. Don’t sting my tail just for flaggin a dingo. I’m yer cold bitch, remember?

HOSS: Just buzz his booty! Now!

BECKY: Yabadaba Honk Man.

(BECKY exits.)

HOSS: (alone) Chingaflack! Tickles, inklings, cross-information! I’m good to go, here! Can’t get stoved up by bad help and superstition. I need the points! Can’t they see that? I’m winning in three fuckin states! Controlling more borders than any a them punk Markers. The El Camino Boys. Bunch a slump chumps. Threw down on that whole raggedy tribe back—back when? El Monte Legion Stadium? La Puente? What was it? Done deal. They were sliming. Where’s the history here?

(MEERA enters with BECKY. He carries his divining paraphernalia—strange boxes and electronic projection devices that look all jerry-rigged and somewhat outdated—maybe even an old 45 record player. MEERA gets completely tangled up in the wires and plugs of his equipment.)

HOSS: (to MEERA) All right, slick face, what’s the skinny? Can we move now? Becky tells me you’re hedging.

MEERA: Pretty dicey, Hoss.

HOSS: What! I knew it! I knew it! Week ago you give me green lights! Solid. No question. Now, it’s no slice. What’s the sudden shift?

MEERA: Patterns, Hoss. Meshes. I’m sussing every way I can to keep up but some of my equipment is just getting blown away by all these new waves. I can’t even read some a these ciphers. Watch. I’ll show you.

(MEERA begins to set up his boxes, plugging them in, transferring wires, adjusting screens and keyboards, etc.)

HOSS: I don’t wanna hear this! If we needed new equipment, why wasn’t I informed? I’d be glad to pay for new equipment. I thought we were up-to-date here.

BECKY: A new Gazer wouldn’t hurt.

MEERA: I’m the best there is. Hoss knows that.

HOSS: I don’t know that! I’m running on faith ninety percent of the time. Wing & a prayer!

MEERA: Just take a look at what I’ve got. That’s all I’m asking. It’s come down to techno-improvisation, Hoss. That’s the only way to play it. All the data’s bastard-info now. Vague vectors. Nothing pure. No essence source. It’s all been scarfed and scarred to the bone. Take a look.

(MEERA casts an image through his device.)

HOSS: (staring at image) What’s that?

MEERA: The El Caminos.

HOSS: I didn’t bring you down here to look at pix of Roadkill! I’m ready for a Matar, man. A major Matar! I wanna move!

MEERA: You’ll blow it.

HOSS: I’ll blow it? What do you know. I’ve always moved on a sixth sense. I don’t need your crossed-up, half-assed chart mix! We might as well be staring at box tops from Quaker Oatmeal. Might be more current than this shit.

BECKY: You gotta play privy to the Charts, Hoss. You never went against the Charts before.

HOSS: That was before. When Charts were Charts. Everyone was tuned to E Major back then. The Killing Floor was level. I’m falling behind now! Maybe you don’t understand that! I’m falling behind because I’m still tuned to E Major!

MEERA: Not true, Hoss. No verdo. Lookit this. Take a look-see. (He changes the image again.) The El Caminos are about six points off the shuffle. Mojo Root Force is the only one even close enough to flutter and Mojo’s got no turn of foot. Never had that bottom gear.

HOSS: Mojo? That Fruitcake? What’d he conk?

MEERA: Phoenix, Hoss. He slipped it while the Caminos threw camp, thinking he was outa range.

HOSS: Phoenix? That’s my Mark! I claimed that ticket! He can’t take Phoenix!

MEERA: It’s done, Hoss. Least according to this jibe.

HOSS: That’s against the Code! That’s an out-and-out cry-down against the Code! Didn’t the Keepers chop him?

BECKY: Keepers are getting usurped too, Hoss. Everybody’s on the buyback.

HOSS: When did this shit happen? How come I’m the last to find out?

BECKY: We thought it’d rattle you too much.

HOSS: Rattle me! Nothing rattles me like knowing there’s doo-dah going on behind my back!

MEERA: We weren’t trying to keep it from you. Just treading for the right timing.

HOSS: I’m gonna git that chump. I’m gonna have him clean. Mojo Root Force. He knew Phoenix was on my ticket! He’s trying to shake me. That’s it, is it? Thinks I’ll jump borders and scam suburban shots.

MEERA: I wouldn’t give him a whole lotta credit for strategy, Hoss.

HOSS: Well, I’m gonna crunch his bunker clean through. You watch.

BECKY: You can’t bump against the Code, Hoss. Once a Marker strikes and sets up colors, that’s his turf.

MEERA: Yeah, you can’t strike claimed turf, Hoss. They’ll pop you right outa the game.

HOSS: He did it! He took my mark! It was on my ticket!

MEERA: He’ll just claim his wave system blew and he didn’t suss it til it was too late.

HOSS: Well, he’s gonna suss it now. I’ll get a short fleet together and blow him out. He’s gonna git so spun he’ll think Phoenix is on the other side of the Antarctic.

BECKY: You gonna drop class? Is that it? Run with the Claimers? Sacrifice Solo Rights? You’ll be a Gang Bopper again. A Punk Chump. Exile Bandito Trash. I ain’t runnin with no Exile.

HOSS: I need the points! That Gold Record is not gonna wait for me to get straight with the Code. I’m not coppin to Ethical Suicide here, and miss a shot at a monster Matar. I need the fuckin points! I need a Kill!

MEERA: Best to hold steady, Hoss. This is a tender time. Lookee here. Just take a peep. Bits and choppers, but it scans.

(He throws more images on walls, screens, set, etc.)

HOSS: I don’t need to visio more random road litter! I’m sittin on Ready!

MEERA: Just peek it. Timing. Wrong move’ll set you back a year or more. Charts are moving too fast. Every day there’s a new Star Marker now. You don’t wanna be a Flyby. You want somethin durable, everlasting.

BECKY: He’s choogin, Hoss. Loopy but choogin.

HOSS: He’s dead meat. Look at this Vector shit on the wall! How do you make hide or hair outa this data mush?

MEERA: Patterns, Hoss. Matrix Mesh out there that needs new modes to conjure. I’m playing all this off the wall. Same as the rest.

HOSS: You’re not comin up with an action! A Kill! You’re fartin around in Info-Retard Land while my blood’s on Go!

BECKY: Gotta listen to Management, Hoss. Fingering is everything.

HOSS: Management? This Zoombah can’t even figure out the wiring anymore. Lookit him! Pathetic. Crawling through radio voltage from some lost World War his Daddy can’t remember. Git his ass gone! I need me a Forward Man. Git me a Dee Jay or something. One a the Stand Bys.

MEERA: A Dee Jay?

HOSS: (to MEERA) Git gone, Gazer. You’ve iced up in this crib.

BECKY: You’re not firing him?

HOSS: (to BECKY) You’re the one told me he was buckled!

BECKY: Yeah, but you can’t just shunt him out on the Lone PrayerEE. They’ll dice him up for quick snacks.

MEERA: (gathering up his equipment) I’ll pack it. I was daydreaming a change of scenery anyhow. Stagnation never was my cup of meat.

HOSS: (still sitting) I forged all my early Marks on Ruthless Culls. Ruthless. I’m not going soft now. Gotta kick out all the scruples. Go against the Code. That’s what they all used to do. The Big Guns: Little Richard, Jerry Lee, Duane Eddy, Gene Vincent. They all broke Codes.

BECKY: But they were playing Doo-Dah, Hoss. They weren’t Matando. You’re a Killer, man. You’re in the Big Bang.

HOSS: So were they. Cold Killers. Jerry Lee was called “The Killer.” He even called himself that. Ask Meera. Go ahead, ask him. Ain’t that verdo Meera?

MEERA: (searching for a piece of equipment) What? Have you seen my loodo adapter? Little blue job. I’m lost without it.

HOSS: Pathetic.

BECKY: You’re rompin treason against the Game, Hoss. You could get the Carcel for less than that.

HOSS: Treason, shit. I know my power. I can go on Gypsy Kill and still gain status. There’s a whole underground swell going on. Lots a Gypsy Markers comin up. Ain’t that right Meera?

BECKY: Why do you keep consulting him? You just gave him the ax.

HOSS: I’m not consulting! I’m firmin up.

MEERA: (collecting his gear) I tell you what, Glib Man. This is free. Just before I hit the two-lane. I got nothin to lose by giving you the straight shit now. Shit you probably already got crawling through your skin. Reason you’re so damn itchy and hot to trot. Yer day is down booga. Yer day is already been stepped on.

HOSS: (to MEERA) I might just have your heels chained to a pickup and drag you to Tijuana my own self.

MEERA: That won’t stop it comin. The Game’s bustin up. Any wrench-head can see that. The Game’s too small now. Can’t contain true genius. Next genius is gonna be a Gypsy Killer. You sussed that down the middle. What you omit though, and for good dang reason, is the Mark itself. That, you left neatly clean outa the picture.

HOSS: (to BECKY) Get this dogmeat outa here!

MEERA: That Mark is you, booga. None other. It’s already in the jam. Done business.

HOSS: (to BECKY) I want a Dee Jay in here! One a the big ones! No standby. An original. Kidnap him if you have to! Get him here.

(BECKY goes to escort MEERA and his equipment offstage.)

MEERA: It’s been sweet, Hoss Man. A sweet run. Some dandy kills that I could trace my brand to. I can see me getting minced soon’s I cross the moat. That’s only natural. But it’s gonna be a waltz in daisies compared to what you got comin.

HOSS: Get him gone!

(BECKY escorts MEERA off. HOSS left alone.)

HOSS: (alone) Not premonition! Don’t get tagged in that key. Not suspicion! Shadow mode. Bring it back. Bring it home, Hoss. Murder. Just plain murder. Blood. It’s simple. Do the simple thing.

(HOSS goes into Song: “Make the Metal Scream.”)

MAKE THE METAL SCREAM

I see telepresence
Placeless space
Birdcage on a loop baby
Total waste

I feel greed infection
Tears of steam
It’s the Jesus channel baby
Make the metal scream

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.

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