500 Word Dialogue Contest 1: Chip & Har
“For a while I thought that the guns were just more efficient.”
“Better at killin, they level the play'n feeld.”
“Guns were the same as swords, were the same as clubs, were the same as a strong pair of hands. And that is exactly what I’m talking about. You gotta work to be strong enough to wrap a blistered and beaten set of fingers around your bosses neck. Us men have been fighting since before men had guns and sharp tools, but we’ve always had hands, Chip.”
“What’s yr point? What’s the reason fer sayin we love to kill, think about new ways’a killin and will find a way to do it? You’n I know this shit’sa les move on. Finish yr coffee. Les get on the road.”
“But, why do we do it, Chip? Why do we find solace behind the trigger of a gun? Why? Why? I’ll tell you why.” He shook his head and shot a long, slim finger in front of this eye. “But listen to me goddamnit. Chip, it’s simple: as we pull away from cleaning up the horseshit left behind out our well-oiled wagon wheels and jump behind the fake wooden wheel of some cheap imported rice-eater, we get lazier. As we continue to accept Stephen fucking Hawkins, saved by and savior of modern science, as part of our benevolent society and bend over backwards to accommodate his wheelchair needs, we get lazier. One of our four national engineers designs and builds a ramp into every government building, into every house, into every bank and St. Burger’s in god damned America 7 million out of 7 million and one Americans is taking that easy access ramp instead of walking up the steps. And at the bottom of the steps is an ashtray at the top of the ramp is a bench. Fuck, man. So we build these wonders of modern life, pagodas of convenience, and we find ourselves weaker and weaker. We expect work arounds for all our problems to come from the 2% of the world that caters to us. We stop walking up those steps and our calf muscles start to be about as useful as beef jerky, we have to resort to lying prone on our couches that seem to swallow us whole like the hungry mouths of the Titans, watching some vacuous TV show telling us that our bodies are rotting away and giving us corporate answers. But, we all know deep down inside that the answer is obvious - just get up, just get the fuck up and live your life, pump your bike to work, go running with your fucking spotted mutt. Shit, read Rimbaud in the park, lying on a dandelion in the tall clean grass, under the warm renewing sun. We all know we’d …”
“Har, you know thas …”
“Stop killing each other if we enjoyed life as much as we should. The guns, their natural byproducts of laziness.”
“Har, Ju’shut up an’ eat yr coffee.”
“Better at killin, they level the play'n feeld.”
“Guns were the same as swords, were the same as clubs, were the same as a strong pair of hands. And that is exactly what I’m talking about. You gotta work to be strong enough to wrap a blistered and beaten set of fingers around your bosses neck. Us men have been fighting since before men had guns and sharp tools, but we’ve always had hands, Chip.”
“What’s yr point? What’s the reason fer sayin we love to kill, think about new ways’a killin and will find a way to do it? You’n I know this shit’sa les move on. Finish yr coffee. Les get on the road.”
“But, why do we do it, Chip? Why do we find solace behind the trigger of a gun? Why? Why? I’ll tell you why.” He shook his head and shot a long, slim finger in front of this eye. “But listen to me goddamnit. Chip, it’s simple: as we pull away from cleaning up the horseshit left behind out our well-oiled wagon wheels and jump behind the fake wooden wheel of some cheap imported rice-eater, we get lazier. As we continue to accept Stephen fucking Hawkins, saved by and savior of modern science, as part of our benevolent society and bend over backwards to accommodate his wheelchair needs, we get lazier. One of our four national engineers designs and builds a ramp into every government building, into every house, into every bank and St. Burger’s in god damned America 7 million out of 7 million and one Americans is taking that easy access ramp instead of walking up the steps. And at the bottom of the steps is an ashtray at the top of the ramp is a bench. Fuck, man. So we build these wonders of modern life, pagodas of convenience, and we find ourselves weaker and weaker. We expect work arounds for all our problems to come from the 2% of the world that caters to us. We stop walking up those steps and our calf muscles start to be about as useful as beef jerky, we have to resort to lying prone on our couches that seem to swallow us whole like the hungry mouths of the Titans, watching some vacuous TV show telling us that our bodies are rotting away and giving us corporate answers. But, we all know deep down inside that the answer is obvious - just get up, just get the fuck up and live your life, pump your bike to work, go running with your fucking spotted mutt. Shit, read Rimbaud in the park, lying on a dandelion in the tall clean grass, under the warm renewing sun. We all know we’d …”
“Har, you know thas …”
“Stop killing each other if we enjoyed life as much as we should. The guns, their natural byproducts of laziness.”
“Har, Ju’shut up an’ eat yr coffee.”