Monologue inspired by the quote:
‘Jesus Christ! What? Like a Medium?’
By Marcia White.
Michael’s Monologue, he’s in the Gents, talking to himself in the mirror, pacing up and down.
Why does he do that? My customer! Moves in right before the kill. Fat, lazy bastard, time he retired. Bully, not a mentor. Thief. If I can’t meet my targets, I’ll be out of a job. Poor mum.
And sis, God knows what she’s up to. ‘Learning how to talk to the dead?’ If she manages to get through to Dad; he can’t help. Didn’t help when he was alive, why would he bother now? He’ll have forgotten we ever existed. Only interested in sex and booze. No doubt chasing some young thing. He’ll never change.
He terrorised her; ignored her; made her ill. Sis you need your head examining.
Deep shit! If I loose this job, there’ll be no money coming in. I hate the place: bloody job. If it wasn’t for the company car, I’d be out of here. That bastard pinches my commission. And those beer drinking, womanisers: Jesus Christ, what a bunch? The stench of cheap aftershave makes me vomit. As for their sick jokes.
What else can I do? Hate every minute of it. Fuck Dad and his women, hope he’s in some hell hole! Sorry Mum.
What a mess? Holy shit, her operation’s tomorrow. Can’t go job hunting now. Get back out there, before they notice I’ve gone. Next time that bastard muscles in on my customers, I’ll tell him his flies are undone, and his phone’s flashing porn through his shirt pocket. Here goes. I’ll look after you Mum. What else can I do?