Mother:  Eric
Father:  Gary
Alex:  Tim
Refugee:  Cricket
 

(F/X:  Sounds of interior of car, in the rain.)

Alex:  Look mother!  Look at the refugees.

Mother:  Yes, I see them.

Alex:  But they look so wretched.  Can we take one home for that poor Mr. Jenkins?

Mother:  What d’you want one of them for?  Nasty smelly things.  Keep driving, Roger.

Father:  Yes, dear.

Alex:  But Mother...

Mother:  Shut up!  Shut up and do your Latin!

Alex:  But Mother, I’m not learnin’ Latin.

Mother:  Why not?  It was good enough for me when I was your age.  All the aristocratic children were learnin’ Latin then.

Father:  But dear, your father was a slave.

Mother:  Shut up!

Father:  Yessir, he was a special kind of slave, but I don’t need to tell you that.

Mother:  Latin was all my old dad would speak to me when I was young.  iyi aksamlar, he’d say.  Tesekkür ederim.

Alex:  That’s Turkish, mother.

(F/X:  Sound of slap.)

Father:  Ow.

Mother:  Sorry, dear.  I meant to hit the brat.

(F/X:  Sound of slap.)

Alex:  Ow.

Mother:  Don’t you talk back to your mother that way.  Now do your Latin.

Alex:  Not learnin’ Latin, mother.

(Pause)

Father:  Yessir, a special kind of slave.  Tell me the story about how you were conceived again, dear.

Alex:  Look, Mother.  The refugees are hungry.

Mother:  How can you tell?

Alex:  Mother, they’re eating one another.

Mother:  If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s cannibalism among the lower classes.  Oh well, bloody good riddance if you ask me.  Keep driving, Roger.

Father:  Yes, dear.

(Pause)

Alex:  Mother...

Mother:  What is it now, Alex?

Alex:  I have to go to the bathroom, Mother...

Mother:  Well, you know where it is.  Down the hall and to your left.

Alex:  But Mother...

Mother:  Don’t you talk back!

Alex:  But we’re in the car, Mother!

Mother:  Right!  That does it.  Pull the car over, Roger.  I’ll wallop that boy something good.

Father:  Yes dear.

(F/X:  Car stops.  Car door opens and then slams.)

Mother:  Get out of the car, young man.

Refugee:  ’Ere, now, this ’un ’ere looks like good eatin’.

Mother:  Let go of me, you ruffian!  I’m a woman of good birth!

Alex:  But Mother, Granddad was a slave.

Father:  He was a special kind of...oh dear, Alexander my boy, they’re eatin’ your old ma.

(F/X:  Pause during which dire cannibalistic noises are heard.)

Father:  Well, let’s get home, then.  Conjugate me amo, amare.

Alex:  Not learnin’ Latin, Father.

Father:  Right.  Turn on the radio then.