Soft jazz music plays, a smoky haze permeated by candles set in red holders.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Welcome once again, lover. I have truly missed you,
but the ache of our time apart is nearly as sweet as having you with me once again. You know it,
I know it, even the curtains might know it by now, but let’s all say it together…
Welcome to Daphne’s Deathbed. It’s so good to have you here. We’re broadcasting to
you live on the only frequency that matters, little ol’ 432-19: The Experience, and this week
we’re lucky enough to be hosted by the swingin’-est little club this side of the Canadian border,
The Honeypot.
A brief moment of business before I get to the pleasure of our leisure together… just a
few items, nothing the both of us can’t handle together if we try hard enough…
Number 1 - Although we appreciate any and all of the support you’re giving our little
“Lover’s Wall” initiative, we have to remind you that any photos clearly showing their subject still
living will not be able to be included in the wall. Now, I want to be very clear that this doesn’t
reflect in the slightest on the skills of the photographer, but is merely a desire for artistic integrity.
You all understand, I’m sure, and again, we do of course appreciate all the support.
Number 2 - Our long time producer, Alice Stilwell, has been missing for almost 7 months
now. If anybody has any information on their whereabouts, we ask that you continue to mind
your own business if you know what’s good for you.
Number 3 - The Biannual Deathbed Daphne Charity Dance location will be revealed in
exactly 43 days, 21 hours, and 9 minutes, exactly. Anybody wishing to participate or force
somebody else to participate against their will should glance up at the dark side of the moon at
that appointed time, note what you read, and follow the further instructions. As always, good
luck, Dancers, it’s gonna be a bloodbath.
And that’s the business, at least for today. We did it together, and I daresay it might’ve
even been halfway enjoyable. But then again…I’m an optimist…
But you aren’t here for optimism, just like you aren’t here for business. You’re here for
one reason and one reason alone…
Love.
And we…of course…will oblige……take it away, Joe…
The music swells and fades into a phone call between AVERAGE JOE and MS. DAPHNE.
AVERAGE JOE: Hi Daphne. I’m just…uh, sorry, little nervous. I’m Joe. Long, long time listener
to the Deathbed, and I, uh, I have a problem. I’m in a little situation. A love situation. I need
some help.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Of course you do, sweet thing, of course you do and
I’m here to help you, but I need you to be brave for me, Joe. I need you to be brave and show
Ms. Daphne right where it hurts.
AVERAGE JOE: Okay, okay I can do that.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Why don’t you start right at the beginning for me? Paint
me a little pain picture, and let’s dig into it, let’s get this little necro-nose cut right off our little
face and see what’s underneath. Go ahead.
AVERAGE JOE: It’s your basic love gone bad scenario. Two people, one meets another, one
gets their heart broken. But that’s all preamble….I’m sorry, I’m bad at this, FUCK, fuck, God, I
suck, why do I even TRYMS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Joe…Joe…oh my goodness there’s a lot of pain inside
you, isn’t there? But I can only help you if you can tell me what’s wrong. Bite your tongue, Joe.
AVERAGE JOE makes a muffled noise of affirmation.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Harder, please.
A muffled whimper.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Are you bleeding, Joe? Are your teeth red like a child
playing with lipstick?
AVERAGE JOE: My teeth are loose…
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Tell me Joe. Tell me your story. Make it worthwhile.
AVERAGE JOE: I started sleeping outside since we couldn’t be in the same house. Can you
imagine? Your own house, and you can’t even sleep in your own bed, or take a nap on your own
couch, or pass out on your own kitchen table. And I couldn’t figure out WHY.
Like…fuck…
That was the thing that was really driving me crazy at first. I never got a good goddamn
reason WHY any of this was happening. But then I started sleeping outside and oh buddy, oh
little buddy boy Johnson did that all change.
See, I don't know if you know this, but there’s a thing about being outside a house in the
dark and that’s that you can see just about everything inside and can’t nothing inside see you
back.
She…Ms. Daphne I need you to believe me now…she was talking to the mirrors. And
there was something in the mirrors that was talking back.
And that’s when I stopped feeling crazy. And I started feeling angry. Because it’s one
thing to be replaced, but to be replaced by something in your very own mirrors is a whole new
level of disrespect that I found myself simply unable to tolerate. I knew that it was time to have a
frank and adult discussion about boundaries, the future, and what would and would not be
accepted.
I think…if this whole situation really put anything into perspective for me, it’s that I’m just
not a very good listener. I think back on that night and I can’t seem to remember a single
important word we said beyond a gradual angry crescendo. All I can seem to remember is that
behind her, just over her shoulder, in the glass of the window…I was looking at a face.
And I remember thinking, “huh…that’s how I must have looked…”
And I think I had good intentions…
And I said, “be together then. Go. Be. Happy.”
I don’t think I actually pushed her that hard. Like, if I had to take a lie detector test about
it, I think I’d pass because I definitely didn’t push her that hard.
When I look back on it it’s weird too, because part of me thinks I went outside to look
right away, and another part of me thinks that I might’ve pushed on her a little. Just a little. And
I’m pretty sure I didn’t, but if I did it was only because she was suffering and I wanted to…you
know…end things. But a part of me thinks that I just went outside.
It’s weird when bad things have happened to a neck, isn’t it? What I mean is, we tend to
have a very…instinctual reaction to neck trauma. There’s also something about breaking a
window that puts you right back into your little 8 year old shoes. And there’s something about
hanging from somebody’s hair after they’ve been partially defenestrated in order to remove it
from the body, using the shattered glass in the frame as an ersatz set of canines, that makes
you reluctant to…well... I mean, that’s a lot of work.
So here’s the problem, Ms. Daphne, I’m a little eccentric with my dress and appearance,
and I follow my heart in just about everything, so I cut a few holes in my belly and in my chest
and wove the hair through them in a corset-style pattern until the head was snug up against my
little belly-button. I think it looks amazing, and I can even accessorize with twice the makeup
and head-based jewelry, but I’m running into problems dating.
When I have a shirt on, as I often do in a first date scenario, the head presents as
something of a bulge underneath what I’m wearing, and women tend to think I’m 30 to 50
pounds heavier than I actually am, and they don’t wish to be with somebody of my size.
My question for you, Ms. Daphne - how can I find somebody that will look past the
superficial exterior and see me for me?
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Joe, first of all I want to compliment you on your
bravery. That’s a very emotional story, a very raw story, and I think we all appreciate you sharing
that part of yourself with us.
Joe, I need you to stand up right now. Are you sitting? If you’re not standing, stand on
up, grab the receiver or the phone cord and make your way to the nearest mirror. Are you there,
Joe? Are you in front of a nice big mirror?
I need you to stand in front of that mirror and look yourself in the eyes, Joe. I need you to
look yourself in the eyes and tell yourself these three words, okay? You look at yourself and you
say, “I deserve love.”
Say it, Joe. Look at yourself and say it.
AVERAGE JOE: I deserve love.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Every day, Joe. Every single day until you believe it in
your bones. If you do this I promise you, and you know I won't lie, I promise you that you will
attract that perfect and ever-so-special somebody. Say it again, Joe.
AVERAGE JOE: I deserve love.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Again.
AVERAGE JOE: I deserve love.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: We’ll be right back after this quick message from our
sponsor.
The sultry jazz swells and fades. A stark electronic pulse begins. Behind it, the stamping of
thousands of feet in unison. At the end of each of MADELINE TAYLOR’s lines there is some sort
of retort from a firearm/weapon. MADELINE TAYLOR speaks into a microphone overlooking the
great crowd in front of her, bodies moving and marching toward unknown and faceless death.
MADELINE TAYLOR:
And if they fall in front of you, you will not stop moving.
And if they beat you with their fists and their feet you will not stop moving.
And when your legs grow tired and blood flows from your nails you will not stop moving.
And when your mind loses its loose grip on sanity you will not stop moving.
And because of how much you love me, you will not stop moving.
And because of how much you hate yourselves you will not stop moving.
And for all of this there will be no happiness.
And for everything you’ve done there will be no redemption.
And so it ever was.
And so it shall be.
The electronic pulse splits and dissolves, unpleasantly.
Brief pause.
In the silence, a heartbeat.
Behind the heartbeat, the smoky jazz begins again. The heartbeat fades away.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: Welcome back, my love. I’ve got a gift for you. The
thing I know you need and something you might even want on top of it all. Let’s you and I
just…indulge…
Of course it’s poetry, darling. What else could it possibly be?
This will be new to us…
But tender I think.
And possibly even sweet.
For you, now.
WORMBAIT JONES:
I stand with a single finger on a button that will destroy everything. I press it in so deeply
that my knuckles stretch and my pulse rattles in my fingertip and I just might be leaving my
fingerprint embedded in the plastic.
An identical button lies across the small room. When it is depressed, there will be
something of a flashbulb, and then a good great darkness.
Try as I might, stretching arms and legs and hands and feet and fingers and toes, I
cannot depress both buttons at the same time.
Aw.
Shucks.
The hallway outside the small room is lined with hang-ed remains, queuing peaceably.
Each holds a small section of rope and a lingering unhappiness directed at a knot that
eventually failed.
So long as I continue to eat my soup, I will take in my vitamins and my minerals and my
nutrients. Nutrients are essential for fingernail growth and fingernail growth is essential for
depressing both buttons at the same time.
Outside the doorway that stands outside the hallway outside the small room, there lurks
a great dark beast with large and golden eyes. When I picture its face, I see it great and stupid,
as it constantly gnaws its tongue and spits tobacco juice near to the dainty hooves on which it
toddles along.
Call me crazy, I guess, but this is what I’d go ahead and call a real bitch of a situation.
But it’s like Homer said - “Do it for her.”
Musical Interlude - Bessie Smith - Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home
JANIE BOO: No, it’s fine. Sure. Make me a victim in the last one and then pull me back in right
after one of the most famous singers of all time, the goddamn Empress of the Motherfucking
Blues –
Feedback. Aggression.
JANIE BOO: You wanna talk about love, huh?
Yeah, that shit’s goin’ around…
Something in the background. Maybe a one note piano. What is this, a *clipping* ripoff? Get it
together.
JANIE BOO: That wasn’t poetry, was it?
That wasn’t like any poetry I’ve heard.
Sounded like a big dramatic boy wanting to punch the ejector seat button with a fist like
a cartoon character.
“With a fist like a cartoon character?” What the fuck are you making me say?
Talk normal.
Or…
OR
No no no don’t just toss it to a little artsy interlude–
The piano is joined by drums. Some bullshit from an old movie plays in the background.
JANIE BOO: Confusion isn’t a replacement for substance you self-aggrandizing wanna-be
intellectual facade –
A short, dark, electronic guitar riff begins.
JANIE BOO: It’s not layers if they don’t contain anything, you’re just stacking nothing like turtles
and pretending you’re God–
A bass riff rounds out the song.
JANIE BOO: Lenny - bullshit.
Anthropos - bullshit.
Painting - bullshit.
Apathy - bullshit.
Gravity - bullshit.
Cobwebs - bullshit.
Voices - bullshit.
Something of a chorus occurs.
JANIE BOO: Misanthropy isn’t vulnerability or the truth no matter how much you might expect it
to be the safest option.
Hiding behind a mask doesn’t work when there isn’t a face to place the mask upon.
The quasi-song cuts.
JANIE BOO: You couldn’t do it, could you?
A DEEP DARK VOICE:
I’m-gonna-put-you-in-a-box-and-then-I’m-gonna-close-the-box-and-you’re-never-gona-get-out-of
-the-box-that-I-put-you-inA few big hits.
A bit of quiet.
JANIE BOO: What a sad and lonely little fuck you are.
Radio feedback. We return in the middle of MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO’s final
monologue.
MS. DAPHNE DE-LAURII SAMARANO: …-cause of course the Deathbed is all about
connection. True and honest human connection, with the makeup removed, and the lights laid
low, and just the two of us…together again.
You know how much it means to have you tune into little ol’ 432-19: The Experience, but
I’m afraid here at The Honeypot the chairs are being turned up onto the quiet cloth covering the
tables, and one by one candles sputter and die. Velvet shadows pool around our ankles, urging
us into the cold air and the waiting night. We wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome, of course.
Until the next time we meet, I have only one request of you, my love:
When,
Under your beautiful fingers,
Their pulse slips into nothing,
Look to the New Moon,
Think of me,
And smile.
I am, of course, Ms. Daphne De-Laurii Samarano, this was, of course, Daphne’s Deathbed, and
it is, of course, time to say goodnight.
Genuine Radio Broadcast 432-19 HZ.
END.
