HUXLEY: TAKE THIS BLEEDING MUZZLE OFF!
(CLANCY takes off HUXLEY’s muzzle. HUXLEY takes an unfathomably deep breath. Pants. HUXLEY tips his hat to Clancy, letting his dog ears flop down.
HUXLEY: I have much, much, much to thank you for lad. You can’t fancy what a wild ride I’ve had; every time I think it’s over, it isn’t. Every time I begin to drift to the other side of nowhere, a new alarm clangs, rousing me from my bleak hole. WHY WON’T THEY LET ME REST IN PEACE!
CLANCY: Come on Mr. D., you can do better than that. Are those supposed to be your dog ears?
HUXLEY: Yes, and remarkable what one can hear. Even though I’m a full furlong away, I’ve heard every word uttered at that “pizza party,” and if I hear one more, I assuredly will go clean daft—
CLANCY: Give me those.
(CLANCY yanks HUXLEY’s ears; HUXLEY yelps, snarls, snaps.)
HUXLEY: Are you completely satisfied now?!
CLANCY: NO! If you’re not Mr. D—then who are you?
HUXLEY: Thomas Henry Huxley, man of—
CLANCY: But he’s dead!
HUXLEY: You have a sharp scalpel, my boy, I see your incision well. How can a man of science—a man who devoted his life to driving a stake in the heart of all sentimental, supernatural, and spurious stories—become a go-oooo--go...getter? A go...gooo-figure. A go-go-go—
CLANCY: Ghost.
HUXLEY: Precisely! Once again, much obliged.
CLANCY: So what are you? Ancient, dead science-dog-man?
HUXLEY: You’re adapting to this splendidly, but you can call me Huxley for short.
CLANCY: Huxley. Is this some sort of guerilla counseling deal?
HUXLEY: Gorilla counseling . . . oh, that’s rich.
CLANCY: Did my parents hire you?
HUXLEY: Your parents, I assure you, know nothing of me.
CLANCY: Then who sent you?
HUXLEY: My dear boy, I wasn’t sent; I was called.
CLANCY: Yeah, but who called you?
HUXLEY: You, of course.
CLANCY: I didn’t call you— Mr. D. called you. He’s the guy looking for you! He actually knows something about you, this. He’s your guy.
HUXLEY: He is unequivocally: not my guy. I need someone with fire and fight, not some sickly academic. It was the same with Darwin: strong mind, weak constitution.
(CLANCY exits, calling; HUXLEY roots through CLANCY’s backpack.)
CLANCY (off): Mr. D.! MR. D., where are you?! Mr. D.! I found your dog. Huxley’s over here! (CLANCY returns, grabs backpack. HUXLEY munches on something.) What the hell, man?
HUXLEY: I’m ravenous, worked up quite an appetite—
CLANCY: Shit. The dog ate my homework...
HUXLEY: It isn’t very good. Exceedingly lean on substance, what in the world is it?
CLANCY: Some bogus paper Ms. Henslow gave about belief. Or what I’ve been “conditioned” to believe, which is stupid because I don’t believe in shit.
HUXLEY: Perhaps it’s your non-belief that’s being tested.
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