CHAPTER THREE
Inside the packed waiting room of the main studios where the Krusty The Klown show emanated from, a teeming pile of aspiring acts, comedians, actors, magicians, stunt-men, were all pacing themselves across the cold and barely air-conditioned corridor. Some were talking to themselves; some were riding Harley Davisons across the corridor and cartwheeling off of the vehicles as they moved along.
Others were testing their stand-up routines on the row of disinterested people who were far too occupied with mentally preparing for their own inevitable audience inside the pitch and audition rooms. Chief among them were Sideshow Bob and Snake, both wearing bowler hats and rather rough looking wool sideburns and mustaches
Amongst the impatient were screen-writers, each submitting their works to the people sitting opposite them. Bob found himself lumbered with one, its writer anxiously elbowing him, trying as best he could to get him to read it.
Bob twiddled through the pages.
"Empty, void of substance" he replied
"You're looking at the blank side of the pages"
"I prefer to call this side of the act the 'snow shift'" said Bob, "An empty canvas is a fresh opportunity, and I'd suggest you make use of that landscape"
Snake had become otherwise engaged in a different conversation with another anxious act
"So, you're like, a satirist who can't put any effort into the satire?"
~"Every time I cut the joke about my 28 year old son being appalled at the Munchkins song playing over a Thatcherite's death, the audience pick themselves up for the applause, and I'm like, don't you dare try that"
"You shut them down before they can give you props?" Bob, who was seated on the other side of the satirist.
"I prefer to label it as 'not giving them a vote', I don't believe in voting" said the Satirist
"Gah, Russell Brand politics. I'm staying, like, far out of reach with you here" Snake replied, and cut off the conversation.
"Do you have our cards ready?" Bob asked Snake
"Yeah" said Snake, taking out two identification cards, forged, and handed one to Bob. It read "Bob Tzachor". Snake's card read "Snake Walther"
"Bob Tzachor? Snake Walther? You're not exactly giving our aliases any range here"
"I'm trying to balance simplicity with that complex jargon man. Goes hand in hand with the attitude I've preparing for our act"
"This is not THE act, this is the subterfuge" said Bob, "When we pitch our concepts for the series, we have to mix it in with several key targets. The demographic, the content, and the budget"
"Kids wallets are full" said Snake, counting on his fingers
"Simplicity in itself"
"I try my best" remarked Snake
"Rows D to E? The producers will see you now" said a kindly voice over the intercom
Bob and Snake got up and approached the door. Snake turned his back to it and put his hands together, forming the shape of a gun.
"What are you doing?" said Bob.
"This goes all the way back to my college days, I'd always storm right in showing as much force as possible. It made anyone that saw take immediate notice. Some, like, even threw money at the sight of me doing this. It might not have been for artistic reasons, but it helped instil confidence in the routine"
"We're trying to show run, not show off" said Bob.
"Bah" sighed Snake, and placed the fleshly gun to his temple, "triggering" it in perfect timing with the opening of the door. The two stepped inside.