4. CAST OF CHARACTERS:
HAMBURGER: A greasy haired, sunken-eyed middle-aged
prostitute. Anxious. Partook in a male murder rampage
sparked by her pure hatred of men. Lies about her
situation to seem innocent and is convinced the
government was watching her do it.
BIRTHDAY CAKE: Calm and poised African American
woman. Mid thirties. Believes her son was a victim of a
hate crime. Took revenge on the police officer by
torturing his two young children in front of him.
TIC TAC: Solemn and sarcastic young adult. Has
always felt that her classmates cruelly ignored and
overlooked her. Went on a school-shooting rampage for
revenge. Happily turned herself in afterwards and
continues to show no remorse.
PINOT NOIR: Completely ordinary middle-aged woman. No
signs of insanity or delusion. She looks calm and holds
her composure. Left her three children strapped into the
back seat of her car as she allowed it to plummet off of
a cliff. Has never fought her charges or denied her
actions.
(Lights up. A disheveled inmate sits in front
of a sloppy looking burger placed directly onto
a cold metal tray. She sits back, relaxed and
blankly staring at the meal, before opening her
mouth.)
HAMBURGER
I ain’t eatin’ this shit. I know what y’all are tryna do
in there and I ain’t eating this poison. You tryna take
away my moment tomorrow? I know it, it’s happened before.
Last time I ate this poison and had the shits for fucking
weeks. Couldn’t see straight and y’all said I was too ill
and pushed back my date. Y’all tryna make me look like
I’m a drug fucked fruit loop. (Mumbling) tryna push my
date back again. (Yelling) Y’all don’t think I know what
you’re tryna do? Tryna spin me and provoke me, make me
look all insane so y’all can make money off of my story.
I ain’t acting out so you have more ammo for your fuckin’
movies and shit. And I ain’t playin’ your games.

5. (Takes the top bun off the burger and looks
disgusted.)
Oh what the fuck! Y’all forgot the fucking mayo. Every
time they forget the fucking mayonnaise. (Mumbling to
self) Fucking pieces of shit. (Screaming to the people
inside the walls) You forgot the mayonnaise! Treat me
like shit up in here. Every fuckin’ time. Can’t get no
support and now I can’t even get no mayonnaise. (Pause)
Y’all bout to execute a raped woman, you know that? A
victim. Y’all executing other victims too. I hear their
stories. I listen to ‘em. I saved other women and
children from all their pain and sadness and y’all just
gon nuk me like I’m a no good hooker. I fuckin’ did this
world a whole deal of good. And don’t act like I didn’t.
Don’t act like y’all didn’t know what I was doing
neither. Like y’all weren’t tracking me. Like y’all
didn’t halt police distribution around my kill spot for
all them years. I was so obvious by the twelfth y’all
would have to be backward to not know what was happening.
Y’all knew I have this violent temper but y’all still
left me out there. Y’all know I have this demon inside
me. But you never stopped me. (Peers inside burger and
remains disgusted) And now y’all tryna feed me this shit.
This fuckin’ poisoned shit.
(Shoves the tray off the table.)
Those men weren’t victims. They were no good
delinquents. They ain’t never said thank you after, or
bought me a meal. They just pull out and try go on home
to tuck their kiddies into bed. I never met a man who
treated me like a lady with the respect I always
deserved. They’ll buy ya but they won’t love ya. Fuckin’
dogs only after the bone. I wish y’all would just give me
the fucking mayo.
(Blackout.)
(Lights up. A woman sits in the same
configuration as her previous inmate. In front
of her sits a slice of a birthday cake with a
single unlit candle on it. She does not
acknowledge the cake.
BIRTHDAY CAKE
My boy came in first place at his school spelling bee
that day. He spelt the word “inseparability” and beat all
the other kids in his grade. I was so proud of my boy. My
beautiful clever boy. He came bounding down the street
towards me. He was a block away but I could see his proud

6. little face and beaming grin. He had the trophy in his
hands, holding it up above his little head like a
champion as soon as he saw me. The second my boy put that
trophy in the air I saw the gun being raised. (Pause)
They said the trophy had the shape and shading of a
weapon and they couldn’t take any risks. My boy was just
eight years old.
Headlines claimed it was a mistake. That the officer was
taking necessary action, yet my son had more bullet holes
than candles on his last cake. The papers called it a
“right place, wrong time” situation. That’s an
interesting saying, isn’t it? Right place, wrong color
would be a more accurate description. My boy’s name only
made headlines for a week before he was forgotten. My boy
was just another statistic.
He showed no remorse, he was simply doing his job.
Cleaning up the streets of would be thugs. Whitewashing
America and keeping the significant safe. Important
stuff, that is. America’s Hero had two kids of his own.
They were sweet kids too. Beautiful little porcelain
skinned girls. Angels you could say. Grace was about 4
and had the brightest blue eyes you would have ever seen.
Hannah couldn’t have been much older and had picturesque
white blonde curls. I could feel how much he loved those
little girls. I could see it in his eyes as I lay them
out in front of him. These girls had the softest skin I
tell you. And the rosiest little cheeks right down to the
last blow. The skin held that blushing color for a
surprising amount of time once it had been removed. White
skin is so lenient, so willing, so easy to peel. That
wasn’t my initial intention, but it only felt right to
give this lovely man a lesson in Biology. He wasn’t too
aware how similar we all when our coverings can no longer
define us.
It all felt very dramatic. You could barely hear his
pleas and apologies through their screams. Their lungs
were only the size of my palm but boy could they make a
sound. It stopped of course, when the lights finally
faded from their terrified little eyes. I felt alive
again. I could feel my blood begin to flow through my
veins the moment it flowed out of theirs. The clean up
was relatively easy too. A bit of mopping and scrubbing
and that kitchen was as good as new. His petrified face
was all I craved; the rest was just collateral
damage. Necessary action if you will.
(Coldly.)

7. I have no remorse; I was simply partaking in America’s
all-important cultural exchange. Cleaning the streets of
would be racists. They were kids, yes, but so was my boy.
He was just eight years old.
(Blackout.)
(Lights up. A half empty pack of Orange
flavoured Tic Tac’s sits alone on a metal
serving plate. Behind them a youthful yet tough
looking young woman is seated in an oversized
orange jumpsuit. She speaks in a dull and
sarcastic manner.)
TIC TAC
(The girl pops a Tic Tac into her mouth.)
One. It was an accident.
(Inserts another tic tac)
Two. My hand slipped.
(Tic Tac)
Three. I didn’t mean to do it.
(Tic Tac)
Four. Who me?
(Tic Tac)
Five. Couldn’t be.
(Tic Tac)
Six. It’s always the quiet ones.
(Tic Tac)
Seven. What a cliché.
(Tic Tac)
Eight. Her? I did her a favour.

8. (Tic Tac)
Nine. (As though reading a headline) “Promising young
athletes among those caught in high school slaughter
rampage.”
(Tic Tac)
Ten? Well, she once told me my breath stunk.
(Laughs and angrily drops the Tic Tac packet
back on the floor below. Blackout)
(A dainty woman sits before a glass of red
wine. She looks clean and put together. Her
presence offers no signs of insanity.)
PINOT NOIR
I couldn’t keep living like that. Waking up, feeding the
kids, dropping them off. I’m not saying I didn’t do
anything wrong. I’m just saying I had to do it. I know
better than anybody else how much I deserve to be here. I
know better than anyone else. But it was killing me.
Going to work, working, picking the kids up. It could
have been anyone of us. Any one of us. Taking the kids to
practice, feeding the kids, feeding the cat. I had to do
what I had to do, you know? You must know what I mean.
You must know how I felt. Tucking the kids in, feeding
him, fucking him. We all do it. We all have to do it. We
all have payments to make, rent, gas, electric, water. We
all have shit to do; laundry, dishes, the first job, the
second. We’re all tired just laying there, thinking about
it, dreaming about it.
You and I aren’t that different. It could have been you
sitting here. You could have been pushed off the edge.
Completely drained of who you used to be. Used as a milk
maid, bar maid, a maid in general before having to wake
up and make sure the kids are fed and clean and doing
well in school. It may not be the same situation but I
know you have it. I know you have something that makes
you feel like you’ve been muted. That’s keeping you from
what you really want; that keeps you from truly enjoying
your glass of Pinot when the day is through. Yet we
continue to do it. Wake up and go to work to feed the
kids. Or not feed the kids. Or not go to work. But we all
have it. We all have something.

9. It could have been you out there selling your body day
and night, or you just trying to comprehend that the one
thing you live for was taken away. You could have been
born just a little bit off, but not too off that they
give you the proper help you needed. We’re all the same.
We’re all just tired, we’re all just sad but saying we’re
happy. We all have people depending on us. People we
can’t help but disappoint or fuck up in some way. I’m not
saying I’m innocent, or that I was allowed to do it. I’m
just saying I had to do it. I had to do it for me. I
couldn’t keep living like that, you know? That job. That
life. That emptiness. Waking up and feeding the kids,
dropping the kids off, going to work, working, picking
the kids up, taking the kids to practice, feeding the
kids, feeding the cat, tucking the kids in, feeding him,
fucking him, laying there, thinking about it, dreaming
about it. Waking up, feeding the kids, dropping the kids
off, going to work, working, picking the kids up, taking
the kids to practice, feeding the kids, feeding the cat,
tucking the kids in, feeding him, fucking him, laying
there, thinking about it, dreaming about it. Waking up.
Feeding the kids. Throwing the kids off. Fuck work. Fuck
the cat. Fuck him. Fuck it. Living the dream. Finally
waking up.
(She takes her first sip of wine.)
I’m not saying I’m innocent. I’m just not saying I’m not.
(Curtain.)