[Carol stubs out her joint in the gigantoid, triangular marble ashtray. She holds the smoke she's inhaled in her lungs, holds it, holds it, and then she exhales. She tucks the blunt into her bra, exciting all the boys lined up out front the stage. Carol tosses the current capital up into the rafters. She eyes it, the capital, watching for it to rebound, bounce back, land. It rises up. Very cool]
Motherfuck. Alycia Quaker's capital has been tossed up. Best of luck, cousin. I have good feelings about this one. Good feelings.
Unfortch, Lisa's capital, My Husband Blenheim has been flushed. Sorry. I went to the toilet and flushed it. No showy display of "Sorry, don't want yer shit," but yeah. And, hey...
[Carol looks over the capital spread out on her desktop]
We've got John Krieg's An American Odyssey. Might really shock our monkey. We shall see.
[Carol shoves the ass end of her joint into the mess pooled in the gigantic marble ashtray at her elbow]
We're going to send Krieg's An American Odyssey up to the Terminal...somehow. It's a long fucking capital, but I think it's got some umph, savvy?
[Carol grabs up the capital and crumbles it up and holds it in her fists and she does a few dance moves, shakes her ass. She holds the capital up above her head and attempts a moon walk. The capital jettisons from her fists and shoots up beyond the rafters and the mirror ball. It has been received. Carol, breathing heavy, puts her hands to her knees and pauses, waits, calms]
[Carol rolls up the current capital. She twists the rolled up capital, making it a wreck, a ruin. She coughs. She coughs again. She frowns. She drags her ass out of the pilot's chair and crawls to the glass tiles. She places the capital on the glass tiles, she spreads it out. She leans back, disassociating. She grabs up and then slams down the current capital, and the tiles heat up, like some sort of stove, right? She's sitting on the tiles, and before her she roasts the current capital, its edges furling and blackening. And it does burn]
We, fuckers, raise Veronica's Lost Souls to the Terminal.
[The capital goes complete ash, wafts of dust drifting, like ghosts]
Wow, Carol, you've been busy. Glad to see blood's still pumping in the veins of TQR.
Which reminds me, there's a new cap for me to review that I've been neglecting. Look at it there, festering, ignored. It might be a rough diamond worthy of a Pullitzer. Such excitement in the sheer possibility of it. I'm almost tempted not to spoil the thrill of anticipation by, you know, actually reading it.
[Carol spreads the current capital out on DePlancher's desk, like a deck of cards, She looks over the capital. Takes her a while. Examining capital is a time consuming job. It will sometimes take days, homey. Sometimes it might take weeks. And we can't find Doomey. So...]
We've got Grondo's Dream Girl on the fucking burrner, bitches. okay?
[She taps the first page with her fingertip, she leans in close and examines. She hms and huhs and fucks and sucks air in through her teeth. And she looks over the room]
Van fucking Halen! Where the fuck you at? Where's Boligard? Where's fucking DePLancher?
[Carol shoves David, he lands up against the wardrobe]
Six feet, fucker. Are you trying to kill me?
[Carol puts her mask on. It has stitched, sewn lips on it, with a stream of blood droplets leaking out the left corner. She grabs up the current capital and starts rubbing it into the desktop, back and forth]
Grondo's Dream Girl has been rubbed and erased and refused and nodded no at, cousins.
[Dave slaps down the current capital on DePlancher's desktop]
Okay. So we decided, in the current flow of history, we do not want to publish this shit. Not saying it's shit. And we're talking about Mark Towse's The Cleaner, okay? And hey, my mouth is spicy, can't help the fucking expletive's coming out of my gorgeous mouth, sweet-tush. Is there any way -
[Dave looks over at Carol]
- we can get video up in here. I would fucking love to see our capitalists, Carol. And I would love to do a fashion sort of thing. A show. An extravaganza.
[Dave shoves the unwanted capital off the far edge of DePlancher's desktop, and the capital goes all Deliverance, with Burt Reynolds in a fucking raft going over a falls, his leg ripped open, and the capital lands on the tiles, sickeningly dead and gross. Dave stands and looks over the far edge of the desktop]
[Carol relaxes into the pilot's chair. She sparks her lighter, lights the tip a joint that hangs dangerously from her lip]
We need a goodstuff, folks!
[She's not so much shouting as emphasizing]
[Her chest heaves, might be she's having some sort of attack. She, after a few moments of calming waves of her hands, clockwise, and then counter clockwise, relaxes her lips and sinks her sweet ass deeper into the seat of the pilot's chair]
We are jettisoning Jason Corner's Reason to the far corners of the universe.
[Carol grabs up the capital and tosses it like salad]