[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?