Faced with a looming deadline and an inadequate script, I have been forced to radically revise the script of Let My Sting Be Fatal. Here it is for your viewing pleasure.

LET MY STING SOMEHOW INVOLVE HIPSTERS AND CHARLES MUDEDE

“In When Nietzsche Wept, Irvin Yalom blends fact and fiction, atmosphere and suspense, to unfold an unforgettable story about the redemptive power of friendship.”

-The cover blurb from When Nietzsche Wept.

The play opens on the bench of a bus stop. It is not particularly important in what city the bus stop exists, except that it is winter in the northern U.S., somewhere where snow and cold is not unheard of. The lighting comes from above, as a streetlight, and ideally there is the suggestion of snow on the ground–nothing too heavy, but enough to emphasize that it is winter.

NICHOLAS is standing with his hands in his pockets. He wears a winter jacket and a scarf, but no hat or gloves. He is not looking at MELISSA, who is seated on the bench, bundled in hat, scarf, jacket, and gloves.

Despite being more lightly dressed, NICHOLAS does not look bothered by the cold; as the play opens he is simply looking down the road, perhaps thinking he sees the bus coming. He is still enjoying himself from an enjoyable evening. His back is to MELISSA, who, in contrast, is shivering, and watching him. She had as much fun as he did but is currently simply bothered that it is cold.

CHARLES MUDEDE has not yet entered, but the threat of his presence looms over the stage like a thick pall of smoke.

MELISSA: Is that it?

NICHOLAS: No.

MELISSA: This bus is never coming, Nicholas. We should have walked.

NICHOLAS: You’re just being impatient, Mel.

MELISSA: (Absent but impatient. She has made this correction to Nicholas a hundred times before.) Melissa. And yes, I am impatient.

NICHOLAS: (Amused, sitting.) It’s got to be two hours’ walk home from here.

MELISSA: It’s cold, Nicholas. (Rising, checking the schedule posted on the sign.) What time is it?

NICHOLAS: I don’t know.

MELISSA: (Jokingly, but she is clearly a little annoyed.) Then what good are you?

NICHOLAS: None at all. (Smiles.) We got out at, what, 1 or so? It’s probably quarter past by now. When’s the next bus?

MELISSA: I don’t remember. I think it was at like 2.

(She sits, facing away from him. For a moment neither of them speaks. He rubs his hands together and blows on them–his first sign of noticing the chill. Eventually she turns so that she is no longer facing away. In the distance CHARLES MUDEDE can be heard, but his words are unimportant; perhaps he is reading the New York Times.)

MELISSA: I was glad you invited me out to tonight, though.

NICHOLAS: Hey, it’s nothing. I hadn’t seen you since–

MELISSA: Since I got back from London. I know. And I had fun. Really.

NICHOLAS: Good.

MELISSA: Even if you really should stop wearing those Chucks. They’re beat up in a bad way.

(She is joking, but NICHOLAS is evidently annoyed by this. His next line is spoken with a forced, chilly calm.)

NICHOLAS: And those bag-of-Skittles-on-acid sneakers are any better? You’re such a child. You’re such a child.

MELISSA: I’m glad you noticed my whole fucked-up-childhood motif.

NICHOLAS: Yeah, it’s pretty clever. It kind of reminds me of that new Love Hotel album.

MELISSA: Oh man, you’re right! Hey, let’s just make out until the bus comes.

(They make out. The bus comes. They are too busy making out to get on. The bus leaves.)

MELISSA: Fuck.

NICHOLAS: This is all your fault.

MELISSA: My fault? If you hadn’t been coming on to me I never would have given in to sexual abandon like Amanda Knox!

NICHOLAS: Come on, Mel. This is no time for topical references. This is serious.

MELISSA: Sorry.

NICHOLAS: We’re fucked. Do you want to walk?

MELISSA: I think I’d rather just make out some more.

(They do.)

NICHOLAS: This isn’t going to be a thing, right?

MELISSA: You know what, fuck this. You indie boys and your always worrying about what shit means. Sometimes I just want to shove my tongue down your throat without it having to MEAN something.

NICHOLAS: Oh yeah, like you hipster bitches make things easier with your coy “let’s ride bikes” shit. Oh, let’s play scrabble. Let’s watch cartoons. How the fuck am I supposed to know that’s not code for “I want to stick you with my venomous ovipositor?”

MELISSA: I LIKE CARTOONS, OKAY?

NICHOLAS: Scrabble? Really?

MELISSA: That is clearly code for sex.

NICHOLAS: WE NEVER HAVE SEX AT SCRABBLE NIGHT.

MELISSA: Okay, that’s true.

NICHOLAS: Thank you.

MELISSA: You just really suck at Scrabble. It’s funny.

NICHOLAS: What.

MELISSA: I call my mom after. We played a lot when I was a kid. I tell her how bad you are.

NICHOLAS: I don’t–

MELISSA: We laugh a lot at your expense.

NICHOLAS: I don’t know what to say.

(Pause.)

MELISSA: Do I really have a venomous ovipositor?

NICHOLAS: There you go again. When the fuck are you not being ironic? I mean, who the fuck asks that? ‘Do I really have a venomous ovipositor?’ NO. YOU ARE NOT A WASP.

MELISSA: I’m not? I’m white, dude. My mother is Methodist.

(Another bus arrives. CHARLES MUDEDE emerges. The bus informs NICHOLAS and MELISSA that it is not accepting passengers.)

MUDEDE: The true crime that has been committed here is not inopportune makeouts or venom on Melissa’s WASPy sting, but a continuation of the ancient war between Greek city-states. It is a tale of democracy and tyranny and oligarchy. It is a classically Greek tale, one in which Nicholas can achieve no victory and Melissa will never find her hive. Don’t you see? Your fight takes place not at a bus stop in some poorly defined American city, based on some pretentious author’s experience waiting for hours after concerts, but on the steps of the Parthenon. What is London but the Persian empire poised to strike? And here are the Athenians: their very lives threatened, still they argue over the smallest of details.

MELISSA: You’re right, Charles Mudede. Thanks for showing us the redemptive power of love and friendship.

NICHOLAS: Like that Nietzsche in love movie?

MELISSA: Yes. Let’s have a threesome.

(They have a threesome. The stage lights dim until all we can see is MUDEDE, lighting a cigarette. He begins reading the police blotter in sotto voce as the curtain closes.)

(Fin.)