Courtesy of Bran Mak Muffin

[Scene: The Kitchen of CristopheroColombia. The stoves are cold, the cupboards gutted. Smoke rises where history has already burned. Two figures remain: El Presidente, un bad hombre, belly distended and glistening; and Regal Anal, immaculate, tight, smiling like a sphincter. They sit across from one another, surrounded by ashes.]

El Presidente (The Belly):
I have eaten the people, the factories, the children. My stomach is swollen with their applause. And yet I am still hungry.

Regal Anal (The Valve):
You mistake expulsion for power. True sovereignty is not to swallow, but to withhold. I held the nation in my smile, clenched and gleaming. Nothing escaped.

The Belly:
Your smile was constipation. A blockage dressed in cinema. I am the open mouth, the endless feast. I take in all — and so I am the world.

The Valve:
And what remains after you devour it? Only waste, chaos, indigestion. You are a sewer, not a sovereign. I produce order, little pellets of meaning, clean and shaped for the cameras.

The Belly (patting himself, burping ink):
Better to choke on the world than to chew on my words.

The Valve (adjusting his grin):
Better to polish excrement into slogans than to drown in bile.

[A silence. Smoke drifts. The Great McCarthy-zeppelin groans above, casting no shade.]

The Belly:
We are endgame, you and I. Appetite and retention. Mouth and sphincter.

The Valve:
Yes. Between us, the nation is consumed and excreted. Nothing left but the smell.

The Belly:
Then let us toast. To hunger.

The Valve:
To control.

[They raise goblets of molten rhetoric. Offstage, a faint insect-chitter echoes — the last workers scratching at the tiles of the kitchen. The lights buzz, flicker, and fail. Curtain.]