Scampi: Ok, Peter, let’s get some things straight.

 

Peter: My mouth is like, full of pizza.

 

Scampi: Why are you talking that way?

 

Peter: There is pizza sauce on each one of my fingers.

 

Scampi: Disgusting.

 

Peter: God, I feel good.

 

Scampi: You rococo thumbprint.

 

Peter: What?

 

Scampi: What’s up with your freshly minted tackiness incarnate?

 

Peter: Is this what passes for belligerence these days?

 

Scampi: You know what’s hilarious? Someone trying to say shit while his mouth is full of nasty old pizza.

 

Peter: It’s funny you should mention that.

 

Scampi: Oh yeah?

 

Peter: Yes.

 

Scampi: Why?

 

Peter: I think you know why.

 

Scampi: Maybe you don’t think at all.

 

Peter: I think that I am eating pizza instead of talking to you.

 

Scampi: I think you’re wearing suspenders.

 

Peter: Yes. You’re correct.

 

Scampi: You anachronism.

 

PETER STUFFS HIS MOUTH WITH SHITTY PIZZA.

 

Scampi: It looks good on you.

 

Peter: Tomato?

 

Scampi: Another time.

 

Peter: Melted cheese?

 

Scampi: No, the trappings of the past.

 

Peter: Oh?

 

Scampi: They’ve trapped you, all right.

 

Peter: Hm.

 

Scampi: But that suits you.

 

Peter: I’m gonna get a cellphone and a girlfriend. Once I’ve got a cellphone and a girlfriend, I’ll never get off either.

 

Scampi: Yeah.

 

Peter: I will drive the word pedestrian right through your cerebral cortex with a darning needle. I’m gonna paint this town taupe with mediocrity.

 

Scampi: I bet you’ll miss the ocean when you’re gone.

 

Peter: What ocean?

 

Scampi: You thrive on that shit. You like missing the ocean sixty four percent more than you like swimming in it.

 

Peter: Whatever, Scampi.

 

Scampi: You’ll be licking the salt off your skin.

 

Peter: My skin is none of your business.

 

Scampi: And you’ll remember how it carried you.

 

Peter: Perhaps I will be using my newfound social capital to purchase a flotation device. This will likely carry me far more efficiently than the unpredictable saline depths.

 

Scampi: Yes, Peter.

 

Peter: I’m glad you see reason.

 

Scampi: I do.

 

Peter: Good.

 

Scampi: I see it floating away.

 

Peter: I often neglect to shave.

 

Scampi: We are a delicate race.

 

THIS SILENCE WILL GO UNEXPLAINED.

 

Peter: My eyes are changing colour.

 

Scampi: They always do that.

 

Peter: So, what’s the big problem with me eating pizza? I’m not allowed to feed myself?

 

Scampi: No.

 

Peter: Is that it?

 

Scampi: No, that’s not it.

 

Peter: Well?

 

Scampi: Well, nothing. I don’t even know how tall you are.

 

Peter: I am six feet tall.

 

Scampi: That’s what you say.

 

Peter: It is.

 

Scampi: Go to sleep, Peter.

 

Peter: I’m already sleeping.