A well-dressed man sits at an organized mahogany desk. He cries, "Next!" A grungy scamp scuttles in, looking around the room and seems startled to see another person in the room.

MAN: Please sit. I don't have your name.

SCAMP: Styles. Um. Stevie Styles.

MAN: Interesting. And you're here for?

SCAMP: The, ah, mugging position you listed on Craigslist.

MAN: Oh yes. That job has been open for quite some time. Do you have experience mugging people?

Mugger with a mask and gun
(Professional headshot by Luciano Sorisio / GettShott Images)
SCAMP: I worked in a carnival booth once in junior high. Then I dropped out to work on my jazz-pop-metal band.

MAN: Excellent. That empty Triscuits box covered with permanent marker, can I assume that's your résumé? Please pass it to me. (Man reads.) Ah, you live "In Gramma's House." Well, you'll have to have me over for dinner sometime. If you were to get it, what do you see yourself doing with the mugging position?

SCAMP: I, uh, I think I have a lot to offer to the robbery profession. Maybe I could learn the trade, then possibly manage my own team of muggers and pickpockets. Eventually and essentially, I'd, um, like to use this as a bridge to my true calling…

MAN: Which is?

SCAMP: My true dream is *cough* to open up a combination meth lab and cockfighting ring.

MAN: Splendid. So you're an ambitious fellow?

"I feel like you enunciate your words too well. Mumble more on the street. Understand?"SCAMP: I don't…I don't know what that means.

MAN: If you could stand please, with or without a weapon, pretend to mug me.

Steve stands, puts his finger in his pocket and shuffles to Man.

SCAMP: Give me your fuckin' money.

MAN: And if I don't?

SCAMP: You're gonna git hurt.

MAN: But my dear friend, I've worked so hard for this currency.

SCAMP: I don't give a fuckin' shit. I got kids. Addicted to crack. That's expensive.

MAN: Have you thought of seeking social services?

SCAMP: Look man! I'm serious here. I'll fuckin' cut you.

MAN: But that looks like a revolver in your pocket.

SCAMP: It's a, um, a gun dagger. Like a Swiss Army Knife.

MAN: Quite dreadful. Here's my wallet. (Man hands Steve nothing.) End scene. Nearly perfect my good man. Bravo! (Man claps.)

SCAMP: Really? It felt natural.

MAN: You're quite the master of improvisation. Although, I feel like you enunciate your words too well;  I could actually understand most of the things you said. It kind of takes the fear out of it. Mumble more on the street. Understand?

SCAMP: I don't know what those big words mean, sir.

MAN: Could you possibly work while on a heroin binge?

SCAMP: You got some?

MAN: What type of place do you think this is?

SCAMP: An office?

MAN: Precisely. We generally give you one weapon to start with. Would you prefer a letter opener or a broken bottle?

SCAMP: I can find bottles on the street.

MAN: Talk to my evil secretary and fill out a W2 form please. You're going to find yourself at the top soon enough, young chap. Cheerio.

SCAMP: Did you just call me gay?


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