a Clashing Black audio production
in conjunction with Goth Mafia
script by Ian Ton
|page 1, 2 ,3, 4, 5, 6
ACT 1 SCENE 3
Scene III: Out Fitting
[Before heading to the club, Alice and Monica stop off at
Alice: I know I shouldn't place so much importance on
my appearance,but, Monica, will you help me get ready
for the club?
Monica: Really? You mean it? We've only known each
other a few hours, and already you trust me enough to
take charge of your looks--
Alice: --which don't really matter to me--
Monica: --the side of you that you present to the world--
Alice: --the world that matters less to me now than
it did before Happy Hour--
Monica: --and you trusted *me* to pick out your club
ensemble, *me* to forge your armor. Alice, I'm... I'm touched.
Alice: Let's just say that if I'm going into the pit and
I want people to be more afraid of me than I am of them,
I could do worse than to pattern my look after yours.
Monica: And your outlook, too; you just wait.
Right then, Wonderland, firstthings first.
What's wrong with what you're currently wearing?
Alice: Nothing-- it's all black, isn't it?
Monica: Mistake number one! We'll have to get youpast this
superficial hang-up on mere color and on to the more
substantial issue of what lies against your skin.
Alice: A dermatologist?
Monica: No-- fabrications!
Alice: If it's material you're talking about, this cardigan
is perfectly comfortable.
Monica: Stop and think about this for a moment, Alice.
Picture it: there you are in the club. The strobes are dim,
the goth boys and girls are puffing out more smoke than the
fog machine, and the bass is pounding like a seismological
event. And there *you* are in the middle of it, wearing a
double-knit sweater and denim jeans. You try to strut your
angst, you push your body to the limits, and suddenly you're
sweating silver spoons. Two minutes into "Temple of Love,"
you're so tangled up in damp yarn you look like a dolphin in a
commercial fishing net.
Alice: Well then, cardigan off. No point looking drowned.
Monica: Not so fast... the "Drowned" look is actually one of
your many options. You just have to make sure it's "Drowned"
and not "Bedraggled."
Alice: Any non-aquatic options?
Monica: Lucky for you, I've done this sort of thing before.
Here, look at some file photos.
[sound of a book, laminated pages flipping]
Hmm... how about "Fresh from the Grave?"
Alice: Torn sheets and muddy boots... nah, too predictable.
Monica: Let's see... "Death Warmed Over?"
Alice: Yikes! You should have called that one "Hypothermia."
How did that girl get her lips that particular shade of blue?
Monica: I locked her in the back of a Good Humor van
for three hours.
Alice: Hmm... maybe I'll save that look for summer, then.
What's this one?
Monica: That would be "Overdose." I was really proud
of the way the faux needle tracks turned out on this one --
the trick is to find somebody who doesn't find inkwell
pens too ticklish.
Alice: How'd you get her to drool like that?
Monica: A shot of Novocaine and a Nick Cave
Alice: These all sound pretty advanced to me. Let's just
get back to the whole "fabrics" issue. What are the
Monica: Alright; when selecting a club ensemble, there are
three points to keep in mind. Point number one--
Monica: No, mobility. This is a club, remember. You're
there to dance; and if you're not there to dance, you're
there to dodge and evade those who are. So, lighter fabrics
in abundance, heavier materials in fetishistic accessories.
Point number two--
Monica: No, sequencing. A club outing can involve numerous
changes in climate between your house, the ride over, and
the first steps on the floor.
You want to be able to add, drop, and switch layers as necessary.
Point number three--
Monica: No, mixed messages. The perfect outfit is both
a come-on and a warning, mysterious and revealing, sophisticated
and slapdash. "Maybe she's made that way, maybe it's murder."
Alice: As long as we're killing time, can you find some
clothes for me, please?
Monica: Right! Here's where we begin-- fishnet!
Alice: Fishnet stockings?
Monica: Fishnet everything! Try on this long-sleeved top.
Alice: Yikes! Do you have anything with fewer holes
in it? Like, none?
Monica: If this top didn't have *any* holes in it, how
would you get your arms and fingers through it?
Alice: It's not *my* arms and fingers with which
Monica: Don't worry, this is just the foundation.
[rustling] There-- how do you feel?
Alice: Like a bag of oranges.
Monica: Good, good... just concentrate on being
acidic instead of juicy. Speaking of which, time to
squeeze. Here, put on this corset.
Alice: Hell no! I'm perfectly at ease with my figure!
I do not bow to popular notions of thin and fat.
Monica: Shoot some smack, Alice. It's not the presence of
fat, but the appearance of *flesh* we're attempting to
conceal here. Besides, not only does the corset suggest a
sado-masochistic contempt for the merely physical,
but it also protects the ribs while elbowing up to the bar.
Alice: Well, I guess... [creaking, cords tightening, etc...]
Monica: And while this is going on, we'll just toss on
a few layers of black lace [whispy sounds], some strategically
placed leather strips [whip cracking sound], a collar [chain sound],
some velvet ribbons [whisking ribbon sounds], novelty rings
from a gumball machine [cha-ching!], and a really tall pair
of bitchin' black surplus combat boots, knee-high, low-heeled
[clunk, clunk]. A few moments to tuck and adjust, and...voile!
Alice: Oh my goth...
Monica: Indeed-- and best of all, it's comfortable, simple,
and legal in this part of the country. Here, check yourself out
in the full-length mirror.
Alice: This looks familiar, somehow... the overall effect
reminds me of something.
Monica: What you're probably seeing is the essential you.
That cardigan was a small aspect, but it muffled too much.
What image do you see now?
Alice: Fishnet top, whalebone corset, hook-and-eye boots... I see...
Alice: A dolphin.
Monica: Wonderful! Alright, jail-bait, let's hit the sea!
[Cue song: "Putting on a Fit" by The Only One Orchestra,
to the tune of Irving Berlin's "Putting on the Ritz":
If you're dead
And you don't know
How to go
Why don't you go rigor mortis?
Putting on a fit.
Full of angst,
If it's so
Why don't you throw your painted mitts?
Putting on a fit.
Moaning in an apoplectic stupor,
Trying hard to look like Alice Cooper
Pick and ankh
The way to go down in the pit,
Putting on a fit.
Putting on a fit...]
[Monica fades back in...]
Monica: Whoops, almost forgot. Now that
you're clothed, we can do make-up.
[Sound of heavy tackle box hitting a table top.]
Alice: Oh my goth...
[Fade music back up and out, on to scene IV]