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BlackHole (2005)
BlackHole (2005)
Black Hole
Pong. Oooh fuck, so good. RING. No notice. RING RING. Pong all about Pong right
then. RING RING RIIINNNNGGGG! Cell phone PONG....cell phone fucking PONG! RING RING
FOR THE LAST TIME FUCKING RING! Fine. CLICK-BLEEP, no more Pong...no pause on cell
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Plugged!? No!”
“Yes!”
“Eh?”
“No!”
Around and around the room. At his Pong phone. At the cart.
“83 or 97? No power to the unit? Blargenshit Hall, 808? On it, sir.”
Two hands on the cart. Off. Down a hall. A turn. A near miss. Elevator. Damn, the
elevator is like Pong. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not.
Yes...it...DING. Basement. Rushes out. Down the hall. The cart! Back to elevator -- fucker’s
1
“OUCH!”
Oooh! It opens. Yanks out the cart. Cart has it all: cords, lights, tools, clickers,
clonkers. Back down the hall. And down and down and down the hall. How goddam long’s
the fucking hall? Too long. Finally, the Blargenshit elevators. Cart first. Don’t...hit...the
“The cart!”
Hasn’t left the elevator yet. Good thing to remember anyhow. Yanks the old boy out.
Closes. Empty hall. 808 is visible. This is it. Nothing bigger. Pause, check the hair,
SLLLURG-PAT-SLLLURG, moist. Pause, check self: Converses: black, Socks: black, 501’s:
“Turds! Orange?”
Yes, orange. CRACK! Hand against cart. Thumbs the orange shirt: Do it right, do it
DEVO.
“Suitable.”
Another pause.
Cart to door. Hand to door. DULL THUD. Pull door, a pull door, pulls it. HYDRAULIC
“Plotstein.”
“Call A-Vis?”
“Yes...Flaubert?”
The time to shine. So fucking the time to shine. So. So. So.
2
“Yes. Need the projector today. Seem to be getting no power to the whole blasted
thing.”
Oooh, that was stupid. Hands to the cart. Both hands, firm. Sweat builds. Drips, PLOP
“Huh?”
Bent at the waist. No good. Try one knee? Umm, nope. Both knees, all fours.
Satisfactory. JANGLES. Flips some switches. Tightens some cords. Nothing. Balls! It was
“You rip?”
Flashlight CLICK. Illumination. Huh, things are as they should be. All things perfect.
Good Christ! Was this defeat when triumph seemed certain...necessary? A dream.
The dream!
flashlight to the back pocket, near the hole. Beyond sweat now.
3
“Think we’re out early then.”
“Shut-up.”
DIG DIG DIG DIIIIIIGGGGGG! DUG! Bla-ha! A cord. Damn tangled, but a cord indeed.
“Hmm.”
“Yes, must have a short. Just run this cord to another outlet.”
“THERE!”
Behind the kid with the sideburns next to the kid with the sideburns in front of the kid
with the sideburns near the kid with the beard. On the pillar.
Cord better come undone quick. Pull the loop, the fucking tangle loop. And...NO!
That was certainly the wrong way. THUD. Drops the goddam thing. Loop, pull it, swiftly,
pulls tangle loop, easy and, voile, tangle free. So easy! Surely is the day, the moment. The
4
“Fucker!”
“Dick!”
First plugs cord into unit. Pays no mind to the bent prong, and squeezes snugly
together...TIGHT. Runs the cord along the floor and turns the corner. Not out too far. No trip
wire here. Navigates the desks. Starts at the girl with the matching sweat suit along the
wall.
Cord goes under desk and under desk and under desk. Checks the slack. Plenty of
There! It’s at the outlet. Stop the cord, please, stoppppingggg...guy with the
“Where?”
“Where?”
Moves back. Moving back. To the guy. Down the middle aisle. Back. All eyes on. Just
“There.”
“Yes.”
5
The boy reaches. CRACK! Oooh, fuck! Sideburn against desk hard. Kid’s face goes
flush, good thing he’s under the desk. Sees it. Extends towards it. DULL NOTHING. Extends!
DULL DULL NOTHING. Extends, GRRR, extends! DULL DULL SUPER DULL NOTHING.
“No!”
“Yes.”
Must be a snag. Where’s the snag? C’mon shit-damn snag. Moves back up the class.
“THE cord.”
She steps off cord. Picks gum off face. Cord SLIDES easy.
“Got it!”
Back to the front. Calmly moving. Calm child, move calm. Push the button, be the
hero.
“Fucker!”
“Dick!”
Back to the unit. All eyes fixed. ZZZZZTTTT PIERCING STARES ZZZZZTTTT! Checks the
cord one last time. All is good. Watches the screen and pushes the button. Sweet shit, this is
6
it! CLICK ALL TOO HOLLOW CLICK CLICK FUCKING CLICK! nothing clicks nothing clicks to
“WHAT!? NO!”
“Yes.”
“But it shoulda...”
Students whiz by, past the cart, out the door. FAILURE RINGS.
“Plotstein. Don’t worry about it, Flaubert...You’ll get em’ next time.”
SNAPPING briefcase, and, PHEEEWWW past, Plotstein is gone. All are gone. Alone.
“You know. [NO BUBBLE GUM POP!] You have a like really big rip in your 501’s.”
END