A cast of hundreds streams silently onto a decadently-decorated stage. Quietly, they chant, "Now is the time." More and more flow in, filling the stage with human bodies. The chant grows ever louder, building and building to almost epic proportions.

Having reached a climax, it begins to fall. The crowd drops the chant mid-sentence, and saunters off the stage, taking set-pieces with them. Through gaps in the curtain, the director can be seen arguing with union leaders.

No set pieces remain.

A woman enters from stage left in confusion; a man from stage right. The man knocks on an imaginary door. She pretends to open it. They sing.

Wife: At last, you're here, I thought you'd never return. Evidently my well-being is none of your concern.
Husband: Woman, I 'been drinkin' that's all I care's about. If'n you can't accept it, you'd best be getting out. If you plan on staying, you could get me a beer. I'd like to get so drunk that I could barely even hear.
Wife: I refuse to be your unpaid maid and slave. I hoped perhaps you'd drunk yourself to an early grave!

The husband stumbles to the floor.

Husband: Crap, I did a faceplant. Could you lend a hand?
Wife (hauling him up): Oh for goodness sakes, I need a husband who can stand.
Husband: While you lifting me up, do you mind scratchin' an itch?
Wife: Scratch it yourself.
Husband: Ugh. You're such a lousy b[road].

She pretends to carry the husband into an adjacent room. This is their imaginary living room. Two people, a man and a woman, pretend to sit on a couch.

Wife: Hi Jill and Tom, this is my husband. He's a drunkard, and a poor provider.

They look uncomfortable. An awkward silence ensues, broken (or enhanced) by the Husband throwing up all over the place. Back to singing.

Husband: Honey, I think I barfed on the carpet. And maybe a little on your guest.
Tom: I guess this is hello.
Jill (aghast): He's ogling my chest.
Wife: I suppose I should've told you, in case you didn't know, your boss came by to talk to you, and maybe let you go.
Husband: Well bring the b[onehead] in here, I don't have all stinkin' week.
Wife: He's the one you barfed on, you lousy, home-wrecking freak.

An awkward silence ensues, broken only by the entrance of a 5-year-old child.

Child: Daddy, why are there needles in my bed?

End of Scene I

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