The Birth and Death of L. Ron C. Getty

The phone begins ringing again


C: Whose in earthly kindness could possibly be attempting to reach us here of all places?!
K: A smarge party?
C: erth gasco. Mobe over two-lilah, or else the gard is barley.
K: Pad be trim (with hands raised to sides, palms up, face uncertain) Bad be nigh. (stares to her side and begins filing her nails)

The phone continues to ring. The two men who had taken the coffins to front stage begin to take notice of the ringing. Meanwhile C has stilled, closed eyes and head begins to lower slowly. K continues filing her nails intently. The two men slowly rise and very slowly find their way to the coffins while feeling visibly outward and staring out toward the audience. When the two have finally reached the coffins they shall quickly pull C and K into their respective interiors and shut their lids. Violins shall rise to a tumult and quickly cease. In the aftermath of an airy rev erb, the phone shall continue to ring. The two men shall assume position aside the stage, the door shall open wide and bright--the phone shall now continue ringing at an audibly lower volume. A shadowed silhouette of a figure appears as if displaying something between his hands. From the light emerges a largely built male, with greased hair, and full blood red two-piece suit, red suede shoes. As he approaches the coffins slowly and in a zig-zagging fashion it becomes aware that he is displaying a sleek looking black cell phone along with his enormous smile and widened eyes. He shall bring himself between the two coffins stopping just afront them. The stage shall darken with this man in a spotlight. The coffins shall be lowered to the floor, the backdrop shall be changing to a dreary autumn afternoon, presumably it is raining, the leaves rustle, the black-clad mourners align the two coffins, the man in red assumes an air of utter solemnity and dire seriousness...he shall push the talk button.

MIR: (in a wispy romantic voice) Have we balding heat with me in here?

The throng of mourners suddenly emits a cacophonous fit of undulating sobs, their heads shall bob in their grief-stricken sorrows. MIR shall stare off into the distance, the phone lowered. While slowly raising the phone to his face again, the mourners' moans shall dull, the stagelight dimming...soon it is darkness, the wind blows a sussourant tune, the leaves still rustle, the rainfall softens, dull flickers of light portray the guest of lightning