TIME: Present.
SCENE: As the lights rise, we see only the curtain at the front of the stage. There is a large crash far behind the curtain, and the stomping of stumbly feet, quickly accompanied by angry vocal reimbursements of the inconvenience. The cursing continues as a pair of hands begin looking for the way out from behind the curtain; soon enough, FRANK emerges, looking hassled and unhappy to be here, and frees himself of the curtain, standing D.C. He is a handsome, lanky, poorly-dressed scientist--type in his mid-twenties. An ancillary crash is heard backstage and he tightens his lips. After a moment, he begins.
FRANK. Hello. So nice to see you all here. Look. It’s no big secret, and I don’t know what you’re expecting. This is like a story you hear at a party about something you already knew about, or a story where the ending doesn’t give you a big payoff. You know, you listen to a guy for fifteen minutes tell you a story and then he ends it, and you’re looking for a punchline, or a lesson, or something, but it doesn’t come. [Looks as the audience.] Fuck it. Whatever. I was a chemistry major in college. Senior. That was two years ago. I had a roommate. He was the biggest, dumbest, stupidest, most retarded fuck fuck I’ve ever met. He was an all-star, like, super almost-pro football player. His dad’s a senator, he had lots of money, his side of the dorm room was stacked with weights and shitty cologne, he couldn’t have cared less about grades, and, in case you missed my point, I hated him. All semester long I had to do the work of two people: he and him. Under penalty of roughing the roommate I was sanctioned to do his two plus twos while he pounded sorority girls and drank his weight in tequila and stole street signs with his white baseball-capped frat brothers. Again: I hated him. Then comes my final semester and my final project. I had worked on it for two years previous, working out calculations and dreaming up formulas, and in my last semester I put it all together. To add a little drama, Wonderboy destroyed his knee something fierce – something I couldn’t help but smirk at – so he was sitting in our dorm room all through the final semester, feeling sorry for himself and getting drunk. I tell you, Einstein probably never had to work while being force-fed The Dave Matthews Band for twenty hours a day. I finished my project, I put it in the refrigerator to keep over night – I finished it with one day to spare for my presentation – and the next morning I wake up…and that…that dim-witted, drunk, detestable dipshit had eaten it. Eaten it. He ate my science project. And that’s how we arrive here… [FRANK turns his back to us as the curtains part to reveal a stunning city backdrop. The sounds of city life livens the stage, and standing on a riser C.S. is MR SUPERFANTASTIC GUY, Frank’s old roommate, dressed in a yellow outfit with a red cape that billows in the wind. He is in a spectacularly heroic pose, hands on his hips, looking O.R. with a front-page smile. Around him is a gaggle of citizens, all cheering him on and taking flash pictures. After a few moments, from the sky S.L., comes THE BANKER, a notorious villain dressed in an expensive-looking suit complete with an ascot. He has a pencil-thin moustache and a jetpack, and floats in the air S.L.]
BANKER. Mr. Superfantastic Guy!
MR. S. [He comes out of his trance and looks at the crowd with an endearing smile.] Yes? [The crowd suddenly gasps and shrieks in horror, pointing at the scoundrel.]
BANKER. Up here, you idiot!
MR. S. The Banker! Didn’t I put you in jail?
BANKER. I escaped!
MR. S. You escaped? How?
FRANK. [Turns to audience.] Idiots. It’s like they all study comic books to find the worst, most inane dialog. The bigger their superpowers or…super…villainy, or whatever, the lower their standards in English as a language. [He turns back to the action.]
BANKER. [Draws out a small remote control device and holds it behind him as if he’s going to throw it.] I was wondering, Mr. Superfantastic Boob, if you’d like to make…a deposit! [He cackles and throws his arm towards MR. S while pushing a button on the remote control. The crowd around MR. S looks up and begins to scream and drop to the ground, and MR. S looks up as a bank – uprooted from its home elsewhere – comes dropping out of the sky. MR. S catches it without so much as a grunt.]
MR. S. Don’t worry, citizens. [FRANK looks over his shoulder at the audience while throwing up his arms. MR. S calls out to FRANK.] Looks like we’re in another mess, old chum…what should I do now?
FRANK. Throw it back at him.
MR. S. [Laughs.] Excellent choice, old chum! Just what I was planning on doing! [He shoves the bank back into the sky and the BANKER follows it with his eyes, his cackle turning to a worried squeal as he works the remote control frustratingly. He flies O.L. in his jet pack.]
BANKER. Curses! [Exits. From O.L.] Oh, no! Ah! No no noooooo! Ow! [The crowd gets up and cheers as MR. S throws them a thumbs up. He is once again besieged by cameras as he steps down from the riser.]
FRANK. [Turning towards the audience.] That’s how it always happens now. He’s so fucking stupid that he can’t do anything without asking me. The only problem was that back at the beginning of all this, he knew he was stupid, so he decided it’d be best to keep me around. And what am I gonna do? All that “roughing the roommate” stuff. You don’t say no to a guy that bench-presses Jupiter. [MR. S begins to walk S.R. with the crowd following behind him, and they begin to file off the stage into the audience for an exit. FRANK watches them go.]
REPORTER. Mr. Superfantastic Guy, how’d you do it?
MR. S. I defeated him with…me. [As they exit the police enter S.L. with a disheveled and spacey-looking BANKER in custody. They follow the crowd. Just behind them enters
FRANK. [Turns.] Hey.
FRANK. What, the Banker? [Turns again to look at the crowd exit.] Please. Just another wayward soul. [He turns back to
FRANK. Probably.
FRANK. Great.
FRANK. Great.
FRANK. [Suddenly taking a step towards the exiting crowd.] I better go make sure our buddy doesn’t need any help spelling, or something. Later. [He turns and goes after the crowd.