Monday, March 28, 2011

#73 King, Queen, Knave by Vladimir Nabokov

Lights up on a large, bright bedroom. Franz and Martha lie naked on the bed. They have just finished disporting themselves. Franz, wears a pair of tortoise shell glasses.

Martha: How shall we kill him? Poison? A gun?

Franz: Yes. I want you.

Martha: Later, my love. We must find a way to kill my husband, who is also your uncle.

Franz: Right. (Pause) Wait. What are we talking about?

Martha: Oh, Franz, you’re such an idiot. Perhaps that’s why I love you.

Franz: I feel like I could kill for you.

Martha: Yes. About that, how shall we do it?

Franz: Well personally I prefer the couch…

Martha: Concentrate, Franz!

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