TrueDragon's Lair

(From a collection of my theater tales that I have affectionately titled “The Staircase to Nowhere”)

In the darkness that embraces us, all I can hear is his breath, now coming in short, warm gasps in my ear. My hands remain steady as I quickly unbuckle his belt with dexterous speed, pulling off his pants as he fumbles with the buttons of his skintight shirt. As he steps out of his slacks, I straighten and shove his hands away, undoing the buttons myself. I rip it off his sweaty, muscular chest as he reaches for me, steadying himself against my rough handling. My hands move down again, first lifting one of his legs and helping him into a new pair of pants, and then thrusting a wife beater over his head. Next comes a shoulder-length wig and dark mustache. He dashes away from me but I race after with the gun, stopping him at the point of no return—marked only by a line of light on the floor, as uninviting to me as it was appealing to him. I thrust the weapon into his hands, and he throws a grateful glance my way. He then crosses over that line as I stand panting on the side stage. I take a moment to smile grimly, like a mother who dresses her child in nice clothes in hopes that someone, someone with the mistaken notion that she cares, will kidnap him. Turning, I sigh as my eyes rest on the scattered remnants of the actor’s last costume, which covers the floor of stage right. It is truly amazing what amount of mess can accumulate in fifteen seconds. This promised to be a long night.