Rufus cries softly into a wineglass late at night. A computer sits open before Rufus upon which he has just binge-watched a full season of Archer.

Rufus: How did this happen? Why?

Rufus shuts his computer, slurps wine, and lets the tears roll down his cheeks.

Dermot: Are you talking to me?

Rufus: Dermot? Where are you?

Dermot: I’m under your bed!

Rufus: Under where?

Dermot: Underwear? Yes, I’m wearing underwear! Should I not be? Are you?

Dermot climbs out from under Rufus’ bed.

Rufus: Under there, what were you doing under there?

Dermot: Mine are silk; what are yours? A cotton and plastic blend?

Rufus: Yes, but it doesn’t matter.

Dermot: Like hell it doesn’t matter; have you even made art in silk undergarments?

Rufus: Didn’t a poet say, “A glove upon the hand touches the cheek.”

Dermot: Well, not exactly; but, that’s provocative on many levels.

Rufus: I think a poet did.

Dermot: I think the poet said, “A rose by any other name smells as sweet.”

Rufus: But cheek rhymes with sweet, so I must have quoted the next line.

Dermot: I’m almost certain that you did.

Rufus: Never mind about what poets said or didn’t say!

Dermot: Okay.

Rufus: I’m crying, Dermot! Just crying! My heart bleeds!

Dermot: That is why I’m here: tell me everything!

Rufus: Have you even watched the TV show Archer?

Dermot: I don’t watch TV; I’m an intellectual.

Rufus: Someone stole my life, Dermot. The whole plot of the whole thing is… ME. Who would do this? How did they know?

Dermot: Who is they?

Rufus: Writers! I don’t know! Whoever created the TV show!

Dermot: Writers are an ugly blemish on the ass of the universe; they’ve been causing problems for thousands of years.

Rufus: I don’t know what I’m going to do; how will I go outside, talk to people, produce artwork under these existential conditions? I’m distraught!

Dermot: I don’t know, Rufus, but that’s why I’m here: I’m your guide. Your helpmate. Your support and comfort. Your light when all other lights are extinguished!

Rufus: But, but, but!

Rufus begins crying afresh.

Dermot: That’s it! Have a good cry!

Dermot gives Rufus a big hug and caresses him on the back.

Rufus: I thought I w-w-was aboriginal!

Dermot: Hush, hush.

Rufus: I want to b-b-be aboriginal!

Dermot: Do you mean original?

Rufus: That’s what I said.

Dermot: I believe you said aboriginal.

Rufus: I don’t think I did.

Dermot: Hush; you are distraught, confused, and blubbering!

Rufus: I’m not b-b-blubbering!

Dermot: Between the two of us, you CAN be an aborigine, but don’t say so in public.

Rufus: Why not?

Dermot: Because there is a woke mob out there prowling around seeking whom they can devour and this is just the kind of thing they will pounce upon and sink their vicious little teeth into.

Rufus: I’m an artist, so that means I have to push the envelop.

Dermot: The envelope.

Rufus: Exactly. So, maybe I AM aboriginal. Maybe that’s how I can take my life back from Archer!

The end.