I Might Be Nothing

Arthur is wheeling his bike to the Gare de Lyon.

Terence is perched on the saddle with Prong on his shoulder.

Everyone's looking, says Terence.

That because they think you're about to fall off, says Arthur.

I AM about to fall off, says Terence.

Don't worry, I've got you, says Prong.

Prong's got me, says Terence.

Arthur goes over a bump in the footpath.

Terence falls off.

You should have warned me, says Prong.

Arthur stops.

Are we there yet? asks Terence.

Not far, says Arthur. You can walk now.

They walk the rest of the way to the Gare de Lyon.

Except for Prong who now sits on the saddle.

So far the trip to Barcelona is going quite smoothly. 

....

Meanwhile Sweezus is knocking on Jean Paul Sartre's front door.

Jean Paul Sartre opens the door.

Bonjour, says Jean Paul Sartre.

Remember me? says Sweezus.

Bien sur, says Sartre. It was only nine years ago.

Jizz! Was it? says Sweezus. No wonder I thought you might be...

Might be what? asks Sartre.

Nothing, says Sweezus.

I might be nothing, says Sartre. Sadly that's how it is with me nowadays.

Yeah, but nothing's probably better than being dead, says Sweezus.

Ah! says Sartre. So you thought I had died.

No, says Sweezus. Boss told me you hadn't. That's why I'm here. Otherwise...

Do come in, says Sartre. 

Sweezus goes in.

Choose yourself a seat, says Sartre.

Sweezus looks at the seats. 

There are two armchairs, a two seater couch and a window seat loaded with cushions.

He chooses an armchair, expecting that Sartre will sit in the other.

Sartre heads for the window seat.

Shit! How will this interview go if he sits over there? 

Have I sat in your favourite armchair? asks Sweezus.

I'm not going to sit here by the window, says Sartre. I'm just looking for the newspaper.

You read the newspaper? asks Sweezus.

Rarely, but I've spotted a fly, says Sartre.

He finds the newspaper, rolls it up, and starts stalking the fly.

It's over there, says Sweezus pointing.

Keep still! says Sartre.

I was just pointing, says Sweezus.

And the fly is no longer there, says Sartre.

Sorry, says Sweezus. 

Sartre keeps stalking.

Wanna hear a fly joke? asks Sweezus. 

Is it in English? asks Sartre.

Yeah, says Sweezus. What do you call a fly with no wings?

Je ne sais pas, says Sartre.

A walk, says Sweezus.

You will have to explain it, says Sartre.

Fuck. Now Sweezus will have to explain his lame fly joke to Sartre.

Because Sartre didn't get it.

But the fly did. It starts laughing, and so is too slow to escape the rolled up newspaper of Sartre.

Whack! 

And the fly is no more.