Pitchfork

ANNOUNCER: Right, then. Well. Okay. Erm... yes. So, welcome back from that, and let's get right back into the swing of things with a game we like to call Party Quirks. This game is for Josie... Josie, if you'd come down to the floor there, then. Yes. Now, of course, the others have their assignments there-- Josie is hosting a party and her job in this game called Party Quirks is to guess the identities of her guests. From their quirks, if you will. Which is why this game called Party Quirks is, uh... called that. Yes. So. Off you go then.

JOSIE [tidying and singing]: Da-da-da-da... hmmm... dancer for money, do what you want me to--

(DOORBELL rings. Josie opens the door to find RYAN with his shirt on backwards.)

RYAN [bugging eyes]: Hi, Jo--

JOSIE: Ah, go sit down, you Aging War Criminal in Hiding in a Florida Retirement Home, you.

(Raucous laughter from crowd. RYAN looks hurt and shocked.)

ANNOUNCER: Well, yes. Nicely played, there, Josie. Must have been his accent that clued you in, there.

(DOORBELL again. This time Josie finds MIKE, whose hair is tousled and glasses smashed. He has dislocated his left shoulder, and his arm dangles loosely. Additionally, his socks are mismatched.)

JOSIE: Well, hullo there. Come on in.

MIKE [eating]: Ah, you have cheez balls. My favorite.

JOSIE: Well I've had enough of you, Mr. Trapped In A Collapsed Mine For Nine Months Who Clawed His Way To Safety Only To Find His Wife Had Married Another Man. Take yer cheez balls and get out!

(MIKE shrugs, grabs another handful of snacks and slouches back towards his seat. ANNOUNCER, disoriented, looks back and forth. DOORBELL rings again. Josie flings it open to find GREG, who looks completely normal. He steps in.)

GREG: Bugbear come eat skin and pull your hair.

JOSIE: Well, would you like a small quiche instead, um, Your Highness?

GREG: No thanks, I've eaten. I am a baby coiled in jellyfish velvet, murmur liquid bubbles. You are sugar raptures in the salty corpse of a boy. Could I have a Sprite?

JOSIE: Sure, ya Drunken Beat Poet. Here.

GREG: Thanks. Watch the moon, it rise and fall, turn to dust and choke us all, seas are blood and poison red, bloated death and lost their head! Cheers!

JOSIE: Yeah, bottoms up you, ya... um, Opium Addled Gypsy Violinist. No? Really? Um, hey let's put on some music. How do you feel about half-assed bedroom esoterica?

GREG: Sounds great! I see a spider! He's gotta lotta charm! A barbed wire grin, he will cause me lots of harm! Hey, this music is pretty good, but it doesn't have enough meaningless, gratuitous sound effects for me. You got anything with, like, a heartbeat and some spooky cast iron gate noises? You love this carnage!

JOSIE [brightening]: Yeah, okay, here's one of my favorites. They're called Confit of Entrails-- sorta flat, recycled darkwave living in an artificial state of prolonged adolescence, with a seriously unresolved Xymox complex. They use the word "soul" 417 times in this one song alone!

GREG [soto voce]: Wow, these guys really expose the tattered shreds of the human condition! You love this carnage!

JOSIE [growing confident]: You like? I thought it might remind you of your own work. [Winks]

GREG [arms flowing around head]: Yeah, it's awesome! Chrysalis spun by demons! Red lines coil 'round my belly! Nectar-fed and pounding, pink velour astounding! Mitosis your psychosis!

JOSIE: Um, hey--

GREG: You love this carnage! You love this carnage! Heaven in the palm of my hands! Umbili--

JOSIE: Hey! Beat it, Tara Vanflower!