genre: absurdist drama, one act.

“Playing Easy to Get”
Four characters: SmittenKitten/Madame Theory, Robot/Mr. Softee. Setting: Café with one table, two chairs.


Mr. Softee shows up with flowers. Then he walks off stage. Then he comes back and speaks in tongues.

Madame Theory gets out her sketchbook, turns on some music, starts drawing.

Mr. Softee strips to boxer shorts. He changes the tune(s).

SmittenKitten descends from the ceiling on a string, lands on Madame Theory’s shoulder, takes out a Cosmo magazine and starts reading from “Glowing Skin at Any Age”. Madame finds this unnerving but is bemused. At first.

Robot enters, pulls a chair into the corner, sits and watches.

Mr. Softee and Smitty sneak off to smooch stage left, while Madame and Robot eye each other with increasing trepidation. Petals begin falling from the sky, like motes at first, then a giant dump of petals comes down all at once. Madame Theory falls on her ass, SmittenKitten digs her claws into Madame’s shoulder trying to gain purchase. Ow, says Madame. Mr. Softee disappears in the melee. Robot emerges and stomps past while everyone else is still spitting petal dregs. He orders coffee.

I’m fine, says Robot emphatically at them all. Get. The Fuck. Away from Me.

Madame Theory is trying to pick petals out of her nooks and crannies, but when SmittenKitten hears Robot’s pronouncement, she climbs on top of Madame’s head, fur standing on end, hissing and digging her claws into Madame’s skull.

Ow Ow Ow, says Madame. Can we talk about this?

SmittenKitten, Mr. Softee (buried in petals still) and Robot all answer in unison: NO.

Listen Sister, says Robot, Take a chill pill.

Sister? (Madame takes out a book about Greek drama.) A tradition of characters giving incest a try and then thinking better of it--This is doable, she says.

SmittenKitten meanwhile launches into a girly rant: “Picky my ass you little bastard I’m gonna scratch your eyes out” etc etc.

Madame Theory gets out a gun.

A thudding sound finally interrupts Kitten’s temper tantrum. What’s that?, she asks Madame Theory.

That would be Robot beating Mr. Softee’s head against the underside of the table, she replies.

Jesus. Guess I’ll stop hissing at him then, says Kitten.

Good start, says Madame.

What do you think we should do?, asks Kitten.

Madame Theory cocks the gun, points at the space above her head, blows SmittenKitten to smitherines against the backdrop. Ah well, says Madame, At least I won’t have to worry about how to apply cheek tint—everything has its upside.

She sits down underneath the table with Mr. Softee.
I’m miserable, says Mr. Softee.
Me too, says Madame Theory.
I’m hungry, he says.
([meow] Madame eyespies Zombie-of-Kitten piecing herself back together in the wings with a little toolbox. Madame starts reloading the gun.)
Want some KFC?, she asks. I like thighs best, how bout you?