Scampi: Isn’t it funny to you how a map can look like a bloodstain?
Scampi: You heard me.
Peter: It is meet to point out that I heard the words, but was unable to glean their meaning. In this context.
Scampi: Oh, this is how we’re talking today?
Peter: Pardon me?
Scampi: I ain’t the Pope. I ain’t the state o’ the nation. No pardons dispensed here.
Peter: I think you may have misunderstood the term “State of the Nation”.
Scampi: I am a mixologist.
Peter: I see.
Scampi: Remember the Communist blob?
Peter: I believe that was ‘bloc’.
Scampi: Just a big red blob on a map. And now what?
Peter: Perhaps we should identify the appropriate cartographic terms before continuing.
Scampi: Nonsense. You never have any fun.
Peter: [pensively] No.
Scampi: See? Ghastly.
A GHOST STROLLS PAST, SELF-CONSCIOUSLY WRINGING ITS HANDS.
Scampi: What a world.
Peter: Wait, what’s going on here?
Scampi: I dunno. Nothing.
Peter: Did the power just go out?
Scampi: Who cares? That’s what I say.
Peter: You certainly do.
SCAMPI TOSSES A TEN-GALLON HAT IN THE AIR.
Peter: My head. It spins.
Scampi: That’s not your normal sentence structure. Are you okay?
Peter: [dubiously] I suppose.
Scampi: Here we are, the kings of supposition. And no electric lightbulbs, to boot.
Scampi: That could be cathartic. Electric lightbulb-booting.
Peter: There is no need for violence.
Scampi: What about violins?
Peter: Well, yes. Violins yes.
Scampi: A full string section, of course.
Scampi: So you wouldn’t say, Ah history, the giant bloodstain?
Peter: I have never said such a thing.
Scampi: I have.
Peter: We are all aware of this.
Scampi: Good, good. This is an awareness program, after all.
Scampi: Speaking of which, garrigue.
Peter: What’s that?
Scampi: Do you know what that is?
Scampi: Do you?
Peter: Not particularly.
Scampi: That’s what it is. Low-lying scrub. You know, like foliage. In the Mediterranean Basin.
Peter: Ah, the basin.
Scampi: Scrubs and shrubs. They change the taste of the air and the taste of the wine.
Scampi: A covering over the hills, running down to the sea.
Peter: I know what scrub is.
Scampi: One wouldn’t think so, to look at your neck.
Peter: I bristle at such remarks.
Scampi: I can see that.
Scampi: I couldn’t get out of bed today.
Scampi: Or perhaps I could. I can’t remember.
Peter: We all have beds. And difficulties.
Scampi: I suppose if this is a dream, I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. How shall I tell?
Peter: I thought we had abandoned this line of inquiry.
Scampi: You would say that, as a dream-figment. Trying to throw me off the scent.
Peter: Consciousness is not a children’s mystery novel.
Scampi: There’s no need to be so severe about everything. It’s not The Pilgrim’s Progress either, you know.
Peter: I am not a puritan.
Scampi: Don’t tell me. Tell them.
Scampi: I dunno.
Scampi: You seem a trifle skittish.
Peter: [skittishly] I am not.
Scampi: Mm. It seems darker.
Scampi: The world. The weather.
Peter: We are preparing for a healthy bout of condensation, I would say.
Scampi: I concur.
Scampi: Will we ever be heroes, Peter?
Peter: Why would we want to be heroes?
Scampi: Why wouldn’t we?