_HIM and ME are sitting in their powder-blue '84 Cadillac Sedan de Ville. The caddy is parked in the garage. They have decided to smoke themselves to death._ ME: Hey, turn on the radio, will ya? HIM: Sure. _[turns it on]_ ME: What the hell is that? Movie soundtrack music? HIM: No, asshole. It's Shostakovich. Shut it and give me another shmoke. _Me fingers another fag out of the pack, and gets one for himself too. In the stale car air, they sit and smoke._ ME: _[with washed-out sarcasm]_ Gosh, this sure is grate muzik. Are we dead yet? HIM: Not yet, asshole. Change the fucking station if you hate it so much. _ME fiddles with the knobs, but no matter what the needle says, the music remains the same. It's on every station! And it curls up, relentlessly, and back in again upon itself as does the smoke, escaping from their two pairs of lips, changing the taste and smell and color of everything in their tiny, terminal, zero-velocity world inside a tiny, pent-up, sealed-in, useless world._ ME: You know what? HIM: What? ME: I really fucking hate you sometimes. HIM: Whatever. _There is no end in sight._