This series will feature monologues from students part of in-class improvisational work from the course “Improvisation for Writers,” which debuted in the Atlanta campus this past fall. A fun, exciting improv writing course that will be offered again in the Spring 2020 quarter.
The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
by Taylor Conley
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM – NIGHT
BILLY BOB, late-twenties, covered in dried blood, and missing several teeth, sits in a metal chair handcuffed to a table.Across from him is OFFICER TOBIAS, a middle-aged policeman who looks completely unamused. Billy Bob speaks in a thick Southern accent.
BILLY BOB
So I was sittin’ there out on the porch, smokin’ my after dinner cigarette, when my dog came up to me and started talkin’. She said, ‘Billy Bob…’ Except it was more dog-like? Kinda how that African- American fella on that ghost- hunting cartoon talks. Dooby-Scoo, or whatever it is. Man, that chick with the glasses sure was smokin’, huh?
Anyways, my dog comes up to me and she says to me, she says, ‘Rilly Rob, rour rousin-rife ris ruck rin ra rell.’ Now, in case you don’t speak dog, that translates to, ‘Billy Bob, your cousin-wife is stuck in the well.’ Let me tell you, buddy, this was a shock to me. First of all, I’d just talked to my cousin-wife not two minutes prior! My lighter was out of gas, so she lit my after dinner cigarette with the lighter she usually only reserves for her birthday meth pipe. God, that woman is so good to me.
And number B, I don’t have a well! Still, I followed F. Scott Bitchgerald, that’s my dog’s name, and she led me to the lake behind my house. That lake keeps me up all night, what with all the bubblin’ and glowin’ it does. The government men in the yellow hacky-sack suits says it’s supposed to do that, so I don’t ask no more questions. If Mr. Trump is okay with it, then I’m okay with it. Climate change is a myth, remember that.
Anyway, my dog kept tuggin’ on my pant leg tryin’ to get my attention. That’s when I noticed my wife-cousin floatin’ face-down in the lake. Just to clarify, I have a wife-cousin and a cousin-wife. My cousin-wife is my first cousin, Shelby.
My wife-cousin is my cousin cousin Denise. Cousins and first cousins are two different things, officer. Bet you didn’t know that. So, I tell my dog, ‘F. Scott Bitchgerald, that’s my wife-cousin, not my cousin-wife! Stupid dog!’ Well, F. Scott Bitchgerald got real offended at that, since, of course, she is of the female species, and she ran off to do emotional woman things. I believe she was menstruatin’ at the time. Suddenly, Denise popped her head up from the lake and started yellin’ for me to come help. She said something was grabbin’ her.
Well, I consider myself to be a funny guy, a comedian of sorts, so I yelled back, ‘What part are they grabbin’? Better not be the part that belongs to me!’ I thought it was pretty good, but I don’t know if she agreed or not because she got pulled underneath the surface before she had time to give me feedback. After that, I blacked out.
When I woke up the next morning, my mouth was full of bloody meat. I thought that was weird considerin’ I only eat my steak extra, extra well done, but it tasted good anyway. When I was finished, I went to have my after breakfast cigarette, but I noticed it felt heavier than usual. There were crumbly, rock-looking bits coming out of it. That’s when I realized, my after dinner cigarette hadn’t been a cigarette at all.
It was bath salts wrapped in toilet paper. Also, I murdered and cannibalized my wife-cousin, or at least that’s what they told me when they arrested me in Alabama after chasing me across state lines. I don’t know where my cousin-wife, Shelby, is, but I’m sure that bitch had something to do with it. Eh, it don’t matter, I was itchin’ for a change of scenery anyways. Y’all got pork rinds around here?
