Maya Dardel Page #6

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and I wasn't born here.

- You should

go back to teaching.

- Except I don't like

my power so defined,

institutionally circumscribed,

I like raw power.

- That sounds like something

that someone very

young would say.

- You're right, of course.

That's what happens,

whatever I say sounds false.

Talking about death is a

lot like dividing by zero,

you know, because it generates

these error messages.

- I know, my father...

- and it's not even a romantic

illusion about

posterity, either.

It's a sober judgment

of the very meager value

of my books weighed

against the even

more obscenely meager

value of my person.

Toughen up, Ansel.

The things I do are merely

mildly horrible and cruel.

I'm actually maybe fond of you.

And furthermore your mother's

probably lovely,

sympathetic even.

You're probably dead

wrong about her.

Everyone should hear how

miserably misperceived they are.

Communication would be

less of a Clusterfuck

if everyone knew how much

of a Clusterfuck it is.

- Hello?

- Ansel?

- Hi.

- You're coming tomorrow.

- Yes.

- Good.

I have something for you.

One can look at it

however many ways.

One's time alone.

A succession of

isolated instances,

or 10 years in a row of 10.

One 10 year moment,

or 10,000 ax heads hitting wood,

or whetstones hitting ax heads,

or my heart beating

half a billion times.

Then there's the speed of light.

- F***.

- F***.

- F***.

- F***.

F***.

F***.

- I'm saying, no, I'm saying

that everyone is a hypocrite,

is, you know, especially

someone who says she isn't.

- You can say whatever you like.

I won't

sit here and argue with you.

Only uncertain

people have to argue.

F***.

- Hello?

- Who the f*** is that?

- Uh.

- Let me help you out with that.

No, come on, you're going

to hurt yourself, alright?

Come on.

Give me the ax.

- Okay, okay, okay, okay.

This is homoerotic and fun,

but let's do something else.

Let's raise the stakes.

On your way up

here, did you notice

a broken green gate four

gates down from mine?

My wacko neighbor?

- Is this the guy who

likes to fire off his gun?

- Exactly.

Anyway she woke up one morning

- with an erection.

- - She?

- And claimed

the few feet of land

right before my gate

belonged to her.

- This is a woman who

likes to shoot her gun?

- Yeah, why not?

The second amendment should

be only for women, actually.

Anyway, one night she

chainsawed down my mailbox

to add to her ex-husband's

hoard of junk.

- Did you call the cops?

- I was going to take her

to court, but I forgot.

But now that you're both here

with all this male aggression.

I'd like you to run

over and get my mailbox.

Whoever brings the mailbox back

moves into first place.

- I don't think it's a,

I don't think it's a good idea.

Wait.

- I'm getting the f***ing

box, you go back with Maya.

- No, I thought

that the best strategy

would be to have a strategy.

- Yeah, I have a strategy.

- Okay, but I

think it's important to

not strike her as,

as aggressive, you know.

- Okay, whatever.

- The ax, oh.

This is just really bad

planning, it's just really bad.

I mean, we should

just ask her for it.

Hello?

Excuse me, is

there anybody here?

- FBI.

- Oh, god!

Oh, we're friends.

We, we're, we're neighbors.

- Secret service, BIA.

There goes everything.

Suck my dick.

- Can you put

the, put the gun down?

- State your business.

- I promise, I come here

with, with good intentions.

I'm friends with Maya Dardel.

- Oh, that b*tch.

She drives up my

road, up my ass.

Now I'm a very private person.

- But um.

- I'm a people.

- I'm here to make peace.

Uh, I know about the uh,

the land dispute and uh,

I'd like to offer you, uh,

$300 for um, Maya's mailbox.

- Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, wow.

You can't buy a whole country.

Sh*t.

- Sure, sure.

- Oh, worry, Billy.

Right, I forgot the plan.

The plan, the plan, the

plan, the plan.

Oat bran.

- What?

- Oat bran.

A man was sentenced to death.

What, what?

Okay. We gotta move.

- Move.

- Okay.

- Move move move move.

- We can, we could

talk this out...

- Go, go, go.

- If you want.

- This way.

Move it, move it, move it.

This is the paradox of

the unexpected hanging.

It's from the 1950s.

As the crocodile said himself,

you can't know which

day you're gonna die.

So it can't be next Sunday.

- Why not?

- Ah, because. The

judge says the hanging will

take place on one of the

seven days of next week.

You will not know which

day you'll be hanged.

You'll be hanged on a

day you don't expect.

- Hello.

- But on Thursday, to the

prisoner's huge f***ing surprise,

the hangman arrives and says,

I'm gonna hang you in an hour.

- F***.

- Please, please don't kill me.

- Kill you?

- Jesus Christ.

Ah!

What?

I, I told you then, you

chose not to hear me.

So I let you play

a little longer.

- Are you serious?

- Mm hm, he wins, you lose.

You lost the first

time you came up here.

Then what the f***

have I been doing

up here making this

pathetic baby look bad?

- Ansel is a better

writer than you are.

He's not pathetic,

he's just sheltered.

What's so horrible about that?

- Are you f***ing kidding me?

- It's never been

a real competition.

I've been using you to

see if Ansel's capable.

I need someone who can defend

the posthumous Maya

against your type.

They'll try to make

me into unstable

or hysterical or who knows what.

They'll butcher my books,

they'll rape my dead body.

They'll turn me into Plath.

- You wish.

- You see?

You see.

- What about the money

I've spent on gas?

You know I skipped work

again last Thursday.

Are you saying I get nothing?

- You got to f***

me, didn't you?

- Oh, what an honor.

I'm just lucky I took

that initiative, you know,

because you would have just

left me with blue balls.

You know, I don't even

think you're even gonna

have the cojones

to kill yourself.

- Take a step back, Paul.

I don't like you hovering.

- Oh, you don't

like me hovering?

You're never gonna

kill yourself.

I know you, you'll

rot up here for years.

You just, you just wanted

some attention from some guy

who would never look at

you on a city street.

So you hide up here

like a little witch,

you do your make-up oh so

carefully and you lure us

up here to lick your

old p*ssy, because, hey,

I don't see any f***ing

hot young 24-year-olds

f***ing up your local

monopoly on womanhood.

Are you f***ing serious?

- Out, you're out.

You don't talk to me like that

in my own house, you're out!

- I'm not out. You're out.

- You're out.

Ansel!

- Get the f*** back!

- You're out, out!

Get out!

Out!

- I'm f***ing sick of you!

- Get off of her!

- F***, f***!

You f***-ups.

I'm not even violent, I,

you know what, you

get what you deserve.

I don't know anyone with

one ounce of testosterone

who wouldn't f***ing defend

himself from you lunatics.

Are you okay?

[Paul screams

I'm f***ing outta here.

Sociopaths!

- You need to

navigate this exactly

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