It was another grim day in the Cmmdr’s kitchen. The Ensign, hooked up to an IV drip of ridoxaphexaline, the chemically produced synthetic compound found in oats, sat at the small table staring at his cell phone. The Cmmdr trudged in, sat, and let out a low moan that wouldn’t have been out of place in the eighth circle of Dante’s Inferno.
“What’s on the docket?” asked the Ensign.
“Angelina Jolie is coming over at ten to mouth-coat my cock meat for an hour, then lunch with Russel Crowe, and at two Mike Medavoy and I have a round of golf.”
A dry chuckle escaped the Ensign’s beaver-trap of a face. He stared out at the morning glare. The Cmmdr moaned again. Time ticked by.
“I can’t figure out why I want to be in a business I despise,” the Ensign said.
“I feel like I’m a dart board,” replied the Cmmdr, his lard-like visage contorted in angry despair. He rose and went to the fridge and pulled out a hunk of cold sausage and shoved it in his mouth. Then he grabbed some chocolate chip muffins, covered them with butter, and proceeded to stuff them into his mouth. Then he washed everything down with a tumbler of half and half.
The Ensign sighed. “I should be doing something.”
“Like what?” asked the Cmmdr.
“Anything but this, sitting here, watching you eat.” He unhooked himself from his oat drip and left the room. The Cmmdr sat down again. Five minutes passed. The Ensign returned.
“Where did you go?”
“I went to the garage.” The Ensign dropped some pages from a script on the kitchen table.
“What the fuck are those?” asked the Cmmdr.
“Some material I have to prep,” the Ensign replied.
“Material? For what?”
“A television show.”
“You didn’t tell me you had an audition!” The Cmmdr was choking, the dregs of the half and half bubbling up from his gut, dribbling over his chin like seal cum.
The Ensign ignored him, and proceeded to look at his lines.
“I don’t know, some new vehicle for some young actor.”
“What’s the role? Is it a lawyer?”
“Yes,” said the Ensign, who began to sob uncontrollably.