(A room. Totally unfurnished, except for a gleaming white toilet in the middle of the stage. Two windows. Sounds of explosions and occasional gunfire outside. Two Uzi automatic rifles against the wall. Pete, with a manual in hand, and Sally on stage contemplating the toilet with awed reverence.)
SALLY. Fantastic.
PETE. Amazing.
SALLY. Elegance itself. What does it do, besides the obvious?
PETE. Read the manual.
SALLY. You read it.
PETE. I can't. My left eye won't open.
SALLY. (Concerned) Still bleeding?
PETE. Probably a damaged duct. Tear gas affects the blood flow.
SALLY. Well, comfort yourself with our newest purchase.
PETE. Read me the specs.
SALLY. (Reading) The cyclone flushing system can be operated by remote or sensor control.
PETE. What a wonder.
SALLY. Front and rear warm water injections with pressure variations.
PETE. (Deep satisfaction) So it doubles as a bidet.
SALLY. The seat is heated by temperature control.
PETE. Or would be if we had some power.
SALLY. What good is the power without any water.
PETE. They'll turn the pipes on again once they retake the State House.
PETE. But what good is advanced technology without the means to use it.
SALLY. Have patience. Things will settle down soon.
(An enormous explosion nearby rattles the room. Sally and Pete run to pick up their rifles.)
PETE. Where did that come from?
SALLY. (Looking out of the window) Starbucks. It's totally collapsed. Must have been explosives stashed in that SUV parked on Charles street.
PETE. I bet there's a ton of casualties.
SALLY. At least a hundred. The Occupiers used that coffee house as their downtown headquarters.
PETE. You think anyone survived?
SALLY. Not likely. The place is nothing but rubble.
PETE. (Back to the toilet) What else can this thing do?
SALLY. (Back to the manual) Flushes and refills--faster than normal, of course. And the toilet seat opens and closes by remote control.
PETE. Well, that requires power, too.
SALLY. Yes. Or maybe it can work on batteries.
PETE. Do we have any left?
SALLY. Only the ones in the flashlight.
PETE. I still can't believe that guy wouldn't stick around long enough to connect the damned thing.
SALLY. When you're selling contraband goods, you don't provide installation services. Besides, where would he ever find closet bolts and plumber's putty?
PETE. Yeah, but to just plunk the damned thing down in the middle of the floor like that, and run--
SALLY. Well, his truck was under fire.
PETE. So what did I buy here? A piece of sculpture?
SALLY. Seems so.
PETE. Form without function.
SALLY. Some day we'll get it going.
PETE. A work of art called Useless Crapper.
SALLY. The Japanese are so way ahead of us.
PETE. Well, they're not in the middle of an uprising.
(Sounds of gunfire in the street. Pete and Sally recover their Uzis and start shooting out of two different windows)
PETE. Goddamn military. I thought they had secured the area around the State House.
SALLY. Most of them have defected to the Tea Party Militia.
PETE. And the National Guard? What's their excuse?
SALLY. The National Guard is only reserved for emergencies.
PETE. You don't call this an emergency? With the Tea Party shooting everybody in sight and the Occupiers squatting in every shop on the Hill?
SALLY. Where else could they live?
PETE. What's wrong with Boston Common?
SALLY. Too exposed. It's been a rainy May, and it's gotten too damp to sleep in tents. (She's got a bead on a target outside)
PETE. Well, let them occupy the Four Seasons or the Ritz.
SALLY. (She shoots) There! I got one.
PETE. Tea Party or Occupier?
SALLY. Does it matter? Our mission is to survive.
PETE. So that makes how many today?
SALLY. Thirteen, if you don't count the one I popped in her kneecap.
PETE. I got a truly long ways to go to beat your record.
SALLY. You had a pretty good week in February.
PETE. You mean that Fedex van? That wasn't my doing, that was an improvised explosive device.
SALLY. Which you triggered with a single shot. Awesome!
PETE. Rattled our windows.
SALLY. Lit up the sky.
PETE. An Aurora Borealis.
(Sally hugs him)
SALLY. We still have our amusements.
PETE. We still have our pastimes.
SALLY. I admit I miss the good old days when you could walk down Boylston Street without being shot at. Fairs. Parades. Street parties.
PETE. Cookouts.
SALLY. Still, we musn't romanticize the past. We got a lot of advantages now we never dreamt of then.
PETE. Name one.
SALLY. How about this toilet, for instance?
PETE. It is a beauty.
SALLY. Not a scratch or stain or mark on any surface.
PETE. Well, it is brand new.
SALLY. I think the secret of happiness is learning how to live with things you got rather than longing for things beyond your reach.
PETE. One of the reasons I always loved you, Sally. Your wisdom. You're a wise woman.
SALLY. But was it worth all the money?
PETE. What else would we do with the cash? Fly down to Puerto Escondido for a holiday when all the airports are closed? Buy a new condo when the banks are no longer offering mortgages? Enrol in some graduate courses when all the schools are shuttered up?
SALLY. You can't live without food.
PETER. There are still plenty of groceries available. You just have to wait until midnight when the militia's asleep and the Whole Foods armed guards have left for the day and the nightwatchman has fallen into a drunken stupor. Who needs credit cards when you can jimmy open the revolving door with a good crowbar.
SALLY. Especially when the currency is so inflated.
PETE. So be glad I saw that toilet guy cruising the street, looking for a customer.
SALLY. And offering a good deal.
PETE. Half the price off.
SALLY. I apologize for complaining, Pete. The toilet was a brilliant buy.
(A shot through the window wounds Sally in the arm. She falls to the floor, screaming. Pete starts shooting out of her window.)
PETE. Goddamn bitch bastards. (While shooting) Sally, you all right?
SALLY. My arm is busted.
PETE. I'm tossing the grenade. (Goes over to the corner and picks up a hand grenade; throws it out of the window. Big explosion.) That'll show those fuckers!
SALLY. Good.
PETE. It's our last grenade.
SALLY. How many rounds we got left?
PETE. I'd say about fifty. How's your arm?
SALLY. Must have been a rubber bullet. Only penetrated the skin. Put a plaster on it, would you?
(Pete applies a large bandaid to the wound. He then gently leads her over to the toilet.)
PETE. Here, hon, come over here and sit. It'll be a comfort to you. (He begins to apply a tourniquet to her arm.)
SALLY. It's always a comfort to be near something beautiful.
PETE. Any pain?
SALLY. Just some throbbing. And your eye?
PETE. Much better.
SALLY. Is your vision good enough to read the manual to me?
PETE. I still have one good eye. "The cyclone flushing system can be operated by remote or sensor control."
SALLY. So cool.
PETE. "Front and rear warm water washing with intermittent temperature controls."
SALLY. I love you, Pete.
(He puts his arms around her as he reads further in the manual)
PETE. "Heated seat with alternating intensity."
SALLY. Such a comfort.
(The lights dim and go to black, as the sound of gunfire is heard offstage)