pt 29: TRADE WINDS

Scampi: You know what time it is?

 

Peter: I believe it is approximately two p.m.

 

Scampi: It’s time to start counting down the snowflakes.

 

Peter: What snowflakes?

 

Scampi: They’re on their way.

 

Peter: Are you gesturing at the advent of winter?

 

Scampi: The season is upon us.

 

Peter: What season?

 

Scampi: The season of DEMOCRACY!

 

Peter: Like, pumping your fist in the air?

 

Scampi: That’s right. DEMOCRACY is on its way. I can feel it in my teeth.

 

Peter: My teeth hurt.

 

Scampi: You should brush them more often.

 

Peter: I do brush them often.

 

Scampi: With a toothbrush I mean. And paste.

 

Peter: This may or may not be the correct interval to mention that I see no evidence of democracy or snowflakes in the air.

 

Scampi: I’m not sure that was the correct interval. I will make a note of your suggestion, and address it in due course.

 

Peter: Thank you.

 

Scampi: Speaking of snowflakes, I am finding the air uncommonly warm.

 

Peter: Yes, it buffets us about with its uncommon warmth. We are truly blessed.

 

Scampi: We are.

 

PAUSE.

 

Scampi: I have made a pot of tea. Would you like some?

 

Peter: No thank you.

 

SCAMPI DRINKS HER TEA. IT IS UTTERLY DELICIOUS.

 

Scampi: This tea is delicious.

 

Peter: I have no doubt.

 

Scampi: I do. I am plagued with doubts. They shimmy with me across the floor. They steep in my cup.

 

Peter: Oh.

 

Scampi: Have you ever looked out, way out, to the edge of the water?

 

Peter: Yes.

 

Scampi: Me too.

 

Peter: You’re looking a little queasy.

 

Scampi: I am?

 

Peter: Yes.

 

Scampi: It’s the waves. They’re swamping me.

 

Peter: Oh. Perhaps I will have some tea after all.

 

Scampi: Help yourself.

 

PAUSE.

 

Peter: You, ah—

 

Scampi: Don’t say it.

 

Peter: Right.

 

Scampi: Your hands are still so delicate. They are like moths.

 

Peter: Um.

 

Scampi: They’re practically phosphorescent. I can tell you’ve been reading lots of books.

 

Peter: How can you tell that?

 

Scampi: From your hands. They’re as delicate as your synapses.

 

Peter: There’s nothing delicate about my synapses.

 

Scampi: Of course not. Your synapses are firing a sixteen gun salute as we speak.

 

Peter: How terrifying.

 

Scampi: For my part, I salute your synapses, and their utter lack of delicacy.

 

Peter: I think I’m getting a migraine.

 

Scampi: It’s all that gunpowder going off in your hippocampus.

 

Peter: [SHUDDERS.]

 

Scampi: That was theatrical.

 

Peter: Yes well.

 

Scampi: Can you feel the wind on your face?

 

Peter: Why wouldn’t I?

 

Scampi: As we have previously discussed, you have hair growing out of your face.

 

Peter: So what?

 

Scampi: So maybe you can’t feel the wind. I don’t know anything about it.

 

Peter: I can feel the wind.

 

Scampi: Can you feel it rifling through your beard, looking for secrets?

 

Peter: No. There are no secrets in my beard.

 

Scampi: If I had a beard, I would fill it to the max.

 

Peter: With secrets?

 

Scampi: Yes. It would be the ultimate piggy bank.

 

Peter: Well, good for you.

 

Scampi: Thank you. Covert operations are my specialty. What direction is this wind coming from?

 

Peter: It’s coming from the far side of the world.

 

Scampi: It smells a bit like yesterday.

 

Peter: Yes. This is due to physics.

 

Scampi: Tell me.

 

Peter: Tell you what?

 

Scampi: Something I don’t know.

 

Peter: First I will have more tea.

 

Scampi: Go ahead. I’ve got all day.

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