Fuga Page #5

---

No,

I don't know what you're talking

about.

I know you were his assistant during

the rehearsals for this opus.

That melody...

I never thought I'd hear it again.

What happened to Montalbn?

I'm sorry. I can't help you with that.

Excuse me, what wood is this

instrument made of?

Fir.

And the accessories

Elm, except for...

Its been played before?

Yes

Where did it come from?

Its... Hungarian

How much?

1.5 million pesos.

Credit facilities?

Yes, yes, credit facilities...

Yes, yes, credit facilities...

Excuse me.

They cannot tell one from the other.

At first they did it on purpose but then

it got out of hand.

They don't know whether one is one

or the other's twin brother.

They're Simon and Vincent or

Vincent and Simon!

I call them by whichever name I

fancy.

That's Tomasito.

He's been here since he was a baby.

He's not schizoid or paranoid.

He's just stupid... jerk... idiotoid.

They say you're hypersensitive,

That you're a genius,

a kind of Wagner.

The thing is, you're just like me. I'm

terrible.

I watch the weather on the TV and I

start crying.

The phone rings and I become a

nervous wreck.

That's how we artists are, so

sensitive,

with dramatic changes of mind.

Excuse me talking so much, but,

mine was an accident.

Oh boy, an accident of nature.

I heard voices and did very violent

things,

Then my family decided to put me

away

to see if I would get over my illness.

And also to see if I'd get over my

gayness

but...

I'm more of a fagot every day.

I love it.

But don't worry, you're not my type.

Guys, let me introduce you to...

Eliseo

What happened to you?

This isn't rice,

It's boiled wheat.

Rice!

Boiled wheat!

Rice!

Boiled wheat!

Rice!

Boiled wheat!

Rice!

Boiled wheat!

Rice!

Neither rice nor boiled wheat dammit!

It's just the same gunge as always.

And leave this democrat alone,

because you are a democrat, aren't

you?

They really cleaned you up, ah...

and this, what could this be?

Nothing

You know all I had to do to get here?

I'm not interested.

I haven't asked you for anything,

I don't know you,

I don't know who you are. Get out.

And you,

who are you going to be?

Looks like a musician

or a mimic disguised as a trumpet,

or a closet queer like all the boxers,

politicians

or f***ing drunks...

who the f*** do you think you're

talking to,

you f***ing high-class fairy...

I don't turn the other cheek,

no way.

I don't give a sh*t that you don't know

who I am...

I know who I am,

and I don't wallow in my own sh*t like

you.

Look at you,

look at you...

look at you,

look at you,

look at you...

Hey, enough... she!

The patron saint of suffering.

The Potemkin battleship of pain.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes