Dramatis Personae
James Hedgegood, Esq., a damn lawyer
Mildred, saucy law office receptionist with enormous breasts
Tommy Joe, a supportive neighbor having some familiarity with the judicial system
Chris O’Connor, me, a strikingly handsome ultra runner
Norm Klein, race director, blackguard, rather short
Dave Combs, aid station captain, scoundrel, possibly even a pirate
Craig Slagel, a guy, about 6 foot, maybe 6 foot 1.

Scene:
The law offices of James Hedgegood, Esq., a northern California attorney specializing in emigration law. Hedgegood had planned to practice immigration law, but on finding the market saturated, hit upon the idea of emigration law. He arranges for people to leave the country legally, making suggestions on where to stay and what to see while they are out of the country. Toronto is a big hit. It is late September, almost dinner time. Chris O’Connor, a failed ultrarunner, and his neighbor, Tommy Joe, enter the office…

MILDRED: You can’t go in there, you don’t have an…

CHRIS: (hoarsely) No matter, we’ll only be a minute. (Limps heroically toward Hedgegood’s office door.)

MILDRED: Oh my, you’re so handsome… so heroic. Gosh, it’s really, really hot in here. (Mildred flushes, reaches across her desk to the intercom to alert Hedgegood, takes off her shirt, revealing her ample bosoms as she licks a popsicle in a suggestive manner.*)
*Artful, plot-supporting nudity included to ensure Hollywood big shots purchase the play for film adaptation starring Leonardo Dicaprio – and not Ben Stiller -- as Chris.

HEDGEGOOD: (To Tommy Joe) Hello, ma’am. (To Chris) You’re a strikingly handsome man, most likely to be portrayed in the movies by actors such as Leonardo Dicaprio, Clive Owen or even Brad Pitt, but under no circumstances Ben Stiller. Praytell, what do you need my services for? Dost thou yearn to see Toronto in a law-abiding manner?

TOMMY JOE: My friend here has written a letter which needs to get to the president of these United States through proper lawyerly channels in jurisimpudence. Homeland Security is threatened at the very least. Terrorism, maybe anyway. There’s not a word of it exonerated and it concerns disrespective people oughtn’t be mixing in the polite company of good and decent folk such as ourselves, sir. Tell him what the letter says, Chris. It’s an excellent letter made up of astounding quality. Very educated-like.

CHRIS: (wheezes) Thank you, Tommy J…

TOMMY JOE: Astounding quality, this letter.

HEDGEGOOD: I look forward to hearing it.

TOMMY JOE: Never heard the like of it before and probably won’t again. It’s that good a quality. Isn’t that so, Chris?

CHRIS: (croaks) Yes. It’s a brilliant bit of rhetorical.

HEDGEGOOD: Well, I’m all aquiver with anticipation, I can tell you that much. On the edge of my seat.

TOMMY JOE: Forgive him. He lost his voice during the incident. And who wouldn’t have done the very same, what with all he’s been through? I’ll have to read the letter to you. After the president reads it, probably it’ll go direct to the National Archives for conversation under one of those glass boxes they use for important documents. For prosperity, you understand. Gawd amighty declare it so.

HEDGEGOOD: What exactly does this letter concern, mister…? Uh, mister… ?

TOMMY JOE: Ludbutter, Tommy Joe Ludbutter. His name’s O’Connor. Chris O’Connor. That’s “o-r,” not “e-r”. We’re neighbors-like.

HEDGEGOOD: Ludbutter.

TOMMY JOE: Ludbutter.

HEDGEGOOD: Really?

TOMMY JOE: Yes, really.

HEDGEGOOD: Ludbutter.

TOMMY JOE: (glowers) Do we have a problem?

HEDGEGOOD: Gracious, no. A noble ancestry’s behind it, I’m sure.

TOMMY JOE: Came over on the Mayflower, we did. Anyway, Chris here wrote this letter after almost being killed by the negligee of one Norm Klein and also possibly Mr. Dave Combs. It’s in the letter. Shall I read it?

HEDGEGOOD: By all me…

TOMMY JOE: I’ll read it then. Chris?

CHRIS: (nods)

TOMMY JOE: (clears throat, strikes a dramatic pose with the letter at arm’s length in front of him, the other hand on his hip, proceeds)

“To the Grand President of These Most United States of America, greeting, withal and etcetera and etcetera:

Sir, Please bomb the hell out of Norm Klein and also perhaps Dave Combs.

Yours truly and humble servant in spite of I did not vote for yourself on account of your policies vis-à-vis everything, and etcetera,
Chris O’Connor”

Cuts straight to the heart of the matter, that does, doesn’t it? Pure genius. Very scholastic. I added a flourish or two. We feel -- that is, he and I do -- that it may be too incisive, needs some fleshing out. We’re not sure how best to address the bleeding nipples, for instance. Legally speaking, I mean. The nipples.

HEDGEGOOD: Bleeding nipples?

CHRIS: (nods)

TOMMY JOE: Bleeding nipples. An uncomfortable subject to many, but my wobbly friend has bravely considered bringing it to the nation’s attention. It’s a chafing thing, I'm to understand.

CHRIS: (voice cracking) Hundred miles… ran ninety… shirt’s ruined. (falls over)

HEDGEGOOD: Chafing?

TOMMY JOE: Chafing. And like he said, the shirt’s probably ruined. He loved that shirt. Ask anyone. If they say otherwise, they’re a liar. A bald-faced liar. Nothin’ lower than lyin’ bout a shirt.

HEDGEGOOD: Gentlemen, what on earth is this about? This isn’t my area of expertise. Who are Norm Klein and Dave Combs? What do they have to do with bleeding nipples?

TOMMY JOE: Nothing less than persecutors, those two. Scoundrels. You sir, are familiar, I pursue, with the sport of jogging and the area known as Granite Bay and its environments? Well, sir, Mr. Norm Klein put on a footrace there for them as likes to jog a long ways, such as the victim here. Norm called it the Rido El Dago Enduring Run. Apparently, not content with just the debrading of nipples, Mr. Klein also disseminates against Eye-tallyuns. (points to Chris on the floor) Was bleeding from the nipples within a few miles of the start, I’m told.

HEDGEGOOD: How far? Did he say one hundred miles?

TOMMY JOE: (visibly proud, preening almost) One hundred miles. Though due no fault of his own, and entirely owning to the black hearts of the aforesaid and aforenamed, my friend here was unable to complete the distance and is suffering from a pronounced state of on-wee as a result. Plus, his nipples are sore and it stings when he takes a shower. I can hear him moaning all the way in my back yard, which is catty-cornered to his’n.

HEDGEGOOD: Ennui? Ennui is actionable in Oregon, I think, but not here in Califor…

TOMMY JOE: He’s not looking to ligitate. There’s too much of that going on nowadays. What he’s perused of is a straight up bombing campaign. He’s a tax payer. He’s entitled to a bombing campaign. Nothin’ fancy – no B-1 stealth or anything, a coupla B-52s’ll do the trick. It’s just a matter of getting this letter to the right people, and as his lawyer, you will see to that. He was not expecting to bleed from the chest and it was not right that when he arrived at the… at the… at the… (to Chris) What’d you call those things?

CHRIS: (on the floor still) Aid stations.

TOMMY JOE: At the aid stations. Them aid stationers just pointed at his chest, which is where the nipples are and they made comments about vaseline and bandaids and in consequences, he felt humiliated by it. Naturally, he was unable to finish the race because he felt so low. Blackguards, all of them, for their mockery of so good a man as this.

HEDGEGOOD: Are you sure he wasn’t just inadequately trained and is now casting around, looking for a scapegoat?

TOMMY JOE: GAWDAMIGHTY, I’M AN APPEASING MAN OTHER I’D TAN YOUR BACKSIDE, I WOULD! Do you know what his jogging buddies call him now? Do you, huh? Tits O’Connor! That’s right. Tits!

CHRIS: (from the floor) Tits. Yup. That’s me. Tits O’Damn-Connor. That’s ‘o-r’ not ‘e-r.’

TOMMY JOE: Why do men have nipples anyway? What’s up with that? Far be it for me to criticise the Big Fella, but designed properly, you wouldn’a had nothing to bleed from in the first place, my friend. You should write an epistle to the Almighty Himself on the matter. You ain’t broke, Chris, just poorly designed. It’s the difference twixt a Ferrari and a Yugo -- you bein’ the Yugo. No ‘fense.

CHRIS: My wife tells me I’m a bad design regularly, so none taken, friend.

TOMMY JOE: On second thought, maybe it’s best not to provoke the Final Judge of all things, even being it’s about what’s to my mind a genuine design flaw in the male anatomy. Could be you’d be inviting one of them Job situations upon yourself all over again. Pox and pustules to add to your 'braded chest there. Anyhow, He’s prolly got a good lawyer Himself. I ‘magine there’s resources available up there more’n equal to our Mr. Hedgegood down here. Pray for guidance, anyhow. Pray for guidance, my friend.

CHRIS: Amen, TJ. Amen and amen.

HEDGEGOOD: (leans over to his intercom) Mildred, would you come in here please? We’re mired in dialogue.
(Mildred enters, wearing a bikini, high-heels, and carrying a steno pad.)

HEDGEGOOD: If Norm’s responsible for the race which put Mr. O’Connor in this condition, what’s Mr. Co… Colu…

TOMMY JOE: Combs. Dave Combs.

HEDGEGOOD: Yes, Mr. Combs. What’s his role in this tragedy?

TOMMY JOE: He colluded with Norm. What he did was, he kicked my friend here out of the aid station at mile 77, causing him to go another 13 miles when he was particalully achy. He said… he said… What’d he say, exactly, my floorbound friend?

CHRIS: (rasping) He said, “Get out of my aid station.”

HEDGEGOOD: But isn’t that a rough sort of encouragement? A kind of tough love meant to gird runners’ loins to face the hard miles at the end of these things?

TOMMY JOE: Excepting the bosomy Miss Mildred there, this is a family drama, Mr. Lawyer Man, and I’ll kindly thank you to refrain from such lewd talk.

CHRIS: Dave was wearing a bandana on his head. Scared me. He looked like one of them pirates.

MILDRED: Pirates? Oh, I LOVE yoga!

TOMMY JOE: Can’t stand the stuff, myself. Lactose intolerable. Makes me gassy somethin’ awful.

MILDRED: I can do ‘Downward-Facing Dog.’ Here, I’ll show you! (Mildred assumes a curious position for a law office) Oh, no! My pendulous and heaving breasts have fallen out of my bathing suit! Whatever will I do?

HEDGEGOOD: Hollywood should be on the phone any minute, though in all fairness, there really ought to be some gratuitously naked man here somewhere.

TOMMY JOE: It’s bitter tasting too, even if you stir up the kind with the fruit at the bottom.

CHRIS: You know, I was doing pretty well there for a while. Felt good in spite of the bloodletting.

HEDGEGOOD: It happens that way sometimes, I hear. How was training?

MILDRED: How did I spill a bottle of massage oil all over me? Now I’m all but naked and glistening!

TOMMY JOE: What I’m sayin’ is, a wise man’d avoid lightin’ matches anywhere near me if’n I eat that stuff.

CHRIS: Well that’s it, see. There wasn’t any training to speak of. Couple long runs is all. But you know, I was enjoying the whole thing and I was an hour ahead of my pace for the last time up’n til about, say, mile 75 or so. On good legs, I think I could’ve nailed it.

HEDGEGOOD: Didn’t have good legs, though, huh?

CHRIS: No. Didn’t have ‘em. Tell you what though, it was fun seeing all my pals out there, and golly, it was neat when I got anonymous text messages offering to pace me. I agreed via text message to someone pacing me only I didn’t know who it was.

HEDGEGOOD: Was Craig, wasn’t it? Good guy, that Craig. I mean, or so I hear.

CHRIS: Yeah, good egg. Twelve miles he carted me around. Next time. Next time.

HEDGEGOOD: That’s my concern, Chris. Next time. As your attorney, I’m paid to see things the lay person might not see right off. I have to say here that I think the case against Dave is particularly weak. Norm’s an open and shut case -- bomb him back to the Norm Stone Age. Your nipples alone condemn the man. And hell, if we don’t do it, the French will. But Dave’s innocent in all this near as I can tell and I suspect the president will see it similarly. Anyway, Norm gets bombed to kingdom come, there won’t be a next time, see? Bombs are what we lawyers call a deterrent to race direction. Stops race directors cold, Chris. Stops ‘em cold.

CHRIS: I ‘spose you’re right. Between you and me, the whole letter was Tommy Joe’s idea.

HEDGEGOOD: Then let’s you save that letter and talk instead about the legal departure from this country by you and your friend Mr. Ludbutter on a fun-filled trip to Toronto, Canadia.The airport Hilton has a particularly good breakfast buffet included in the normal room rate. Fully legal, of course. Miss Mildred will escort you.

TOMMY JOE: (in background now, to Mildred) Oddly enough, I can tolerate cheese just fine. It’s the yoga and most th’other milky products make me fartatious. Hey, is that a naked man -- possibly Dean Karnazes -- across the street?

Curtain.