Q.: It is gravely disconcerting how unlike you are to a serious pretender. Divertissement is the number one 
       priority of your abject ventures. Nothing’s more important for you than to be whimsical. Your ideology
       is based upon paronomasia. Irreverence is your main signal of virtue. That’s how you try to compensate
       for your pokerfaced serenity. Let me tell you something funny. You are not a Buster Keaton flick but 
       a dilettante clown on real skid row. The Beggar of Osh. And it makes me sad.
A.: I am waging my demonic battle with the sword of Humor. It is my only gift and I couldn’t appreciate it 
      more. I’d sell half of my kingdom for a jest.
Q.: You are a fraud in every aspect of the crystal ball. A real bum is usually alcoholic. Or handicapped at
       least. Praise the Lord, you’re neither at this point. You are begging out of conviction. Profiting from 
      the final need.
A.: Begging is the fairest exchange known to the Untermensch. A work like no other. An allegory of the 
       human condition.
Q.: Leave me alone with your pompous hyperboles. You do not work because you cannot. You would do 
      anything but nothing you’re able to. Begging is your form of art. A quirk of the Author. 
A.: Do not disqualify my integrity. That’s all I got. I do not work because I don’t want to! I am an untamed    
      beast of the urban Zoo. Hiding in the basement of the Atheist Church.
Q.: If you wouldn’t adore yourself so much, we’d be better off financially. You are too dignified to work for
      the money. But not to sell your girlfriend to the bondage. Right now I’m a boss girl so you can have 
      your breakfast. And contemplate about cosmic espionage all the livelong day.
A.: You flatly misinterpret my unseemly mindset. I do not despise wealth like a stupid communist. The 
       Dollar Sign has always been my ultimate emblem. I am an arch capitalist committed to free trade. But 
       no one would hire my empty hand. I’m cast out of Paradise due to irreconcilable differences. I’m 
       bankrupt because I have nothing to sell. I never had a worthwhile idea. I am a self-conscious parasite
       nagging for some change. A shattered symbol.
Q.: You are so afraid to waste your precious time on normal labor that rather do nothing. An all-time
       waiter in the wasteland of shadows. A man without résumé. No skill, no craft, no credit. A prototypal 
       Welfare casualty. And an exploiter of women. Not a most engaging curriculum vitae.
A.: My life is an unsolvable riddle. I wonder day and night but cannot get it straight. It must be some 
       genetic defect. No cure for the sick.
Q.: Stop lamenting your screwed-up destiny. You’re a ne’er-do-well but aren’t born to lose like your teen
      idols. Rise up and get things done before it’s too late.
A.: I’ve heard that one before. It is Osh’s favorite ukase. Ignoring that he didn’t give me drive. Or just forgot
      it. In Osh you cannot trust. I feel like an aborted foetus. The end of a line. Neither master, nor servant 
      but a third awful kind. An illegal alien playing the universal refugee. On stage or off it makes no
      noticeable difference. I’ve pledged my afterlife to New Jerusalem.

Q.: Your vague disclaimer won’t amend your bad repute. All of your life you’ve been looking for excuses. 
       You’ve turned emigration into overnationalism like water into wine. Nothing can deter you from 
       mystifying your misfortune. You’re a fiddler on the roof.
A.: Although I’ve lost my war for 1984, they haven’t confiscated my rod of irony. I can see it all from above.
      It doesn’t make any sense but I find it hilarious.
Q.: You’re but an unlucky bastard by my opinion. Faking suicides to prolong his vegetation. All blackmail, no 
      action. Your requisite rationality is the shield of a coward lurking in the dark.
A.: I ain’t no mad prophet of doom. I’m bringing you a brand new horizon. I despise sacrifice worse than 
       abomination. A stand for nuclear reincarnation and treason to the Earth. I wanna be a star of Aurora.
Q.: Luciferian ambitions of a counterfeit Dracula. Why don’t you take a look in the mirror? There is no one
       there. You factually are the last citizen of the world. Uneducated and uncivilized. A mutation gone awry. 
       The worst joke ever cracked.
A.: I gave up long ago to control my desires. I’m not ashamed of angels, not afraid of ghosts. I’m not a 
      prisoner, I am a free man. I submitted my soul to the black light.
Q.: Don’t talk to me beside the point. A castaway vagabond like you can’t organize a beggars’ convention. 
      The walls of society are impenetrable for your devious idealism. Your streetwise colleagues don’t care
      who they are. They don’t suffer from identity crises.
A.: You wouldn’t believe me how I envy them. I would abandon all my hopes to reach that oblivion.
Q.: You must be kidding. Spiritual cramps won’t eliminate the empirical pain. You are an obdurate
       illusionist and that’s what makes you so awkward.
A.: I am an exorcist of reality. I never fall for the visions of the Bardo. I am progressing consistently 
     against the clock. Never turn back and don’t regret nothing. I see the purple flame at the end of the 
     tunnel. I can hear the last laughter of the Antichrist.
Q.: Can’t you as well see what a travesty you’ve turned into? Your scorn towards your workmates is 
     tremendous. You’d never give them a dime even if you had. You call it dialectic, I call it hypocrisy. In
     any case, it’s a terrible contradiction.
A.: I adore old-school clochards a lot. I’d gladly enforce on them free housing. But the criminals insinuate
    everywhere. They have no place in the rustlers’ syndicate. 
Q.: It must be pretty hard on you to belong nowhere with your inflated vanity. Nobody deserves such
    mortification. At least you refuse to face yourself. Too preoccupied with your formidable phantoms.
A.: I consider it a military assignment. I’m a one-man army and this is my training. At least I have a private
    commander. I am my own victim and no god to blame. I am that I’m not. The breathing antithesis.

Q.: So you do believe that true beggars are born and not become it? That one’s social status is sheer 
      determination? Such fatalistic notions have no scientific evidence. It is a poetic falsification of the
      genetic lottery. A reincarnationist rip-off.
A.: Worse than that, I do not believe they were born at all. All I know is what I see. My picture is frozen 
      like a dream. Those barnacles have always been there, anytime, anywhere. An integral part of the
      eternal scenery East of Eden.
Q.: So would you remove them if you were the major of a nice city?
A.: Like I say, only the delinquents. As long as there’s no basic income, begging is a civil right. The 
      heaviest and worst paid job on the common market.
Q.: You are an irrecuperable gagster, substitute salvator. Mocking at your own kismet like a blithering 
       idiot. Can you tell the difference between chance and hazard yet?
A.: My conviction is not based on experiences. I don’t need to know the truth to tell its opposite. I can 
      objectify my innermost sentiments. Facts have never influenced me. Once homeless, always
      homeless. No golden palace could deprive me from that sensation.
Q.: That’s why you do not deserve anything. You have comfortably settled at the bottom. You are 
       impoverished because you despise wages. Revolt against the natural order of the construction site.
       Those that don’t work shall not eat. The primal imprint is agricultural. You can’t cheat on Moloch.
A.:  In the Socialist Kingdom you don’t work for salary. Creation is a privilege and its own reward. I’m
       only the maladjusted archetype of a post-monetary collective. But I am an eminent labrat. Begging is 
       my signature gesture. It signals the rebirth of reproduction.
Q.: You’ve really made an abominable transformation in seven short years. To turn from Russian spy 
       into a stateless mendicant is a farce of profane logic. The most jarring resolution ever. Money is a
       bitch you have to get by force, baby groom. She won’t suck on your phallic symbol for nothing.
A.: I have no spare energy for romancing the devil. Ownership doesn’t turn me on. You are living with
       the simplest man of the Pandemonium. Decency is my malediction. I have no right to fight
Q.: The problem is that you’ve positioned yourself outside the circulation. You never had an income or
       paid any taxes. You couldn’t open a bank account if you had something to depose. You expect Heaven
       to nourish you like a bird of the fields. Miracles can’t be planned. You have no reasonable economy.
A.: The problem is that money’s attracted by the rich. I am an offensive applicant. I can’t appreciate first 
      aid. If not all then nothing. That’s been the motto of my begging life. I’m horrified of gradual progress.
      Too impatient to make a start. What would I do with a hundred dollars?
Q.: You could maybe invite me for a dinner. Something you’ve never done. Or buy some new lingerie. 
      Just to feel less miserable for a moment.
A.: I’d be lost very fast on the minimum scale. Penury is my primal inspiration. I must do what I have to 
      against all the odds. I’m a tragic hero of an insipid comedy.
Q.: It only is your anguished apotheosis of the castigation. If you really want to showcase your unreal 
       estate you’d better conceal the verity behind your kranky performance before the patrons of targeted 
       venues. No one will give room to a self-righteous vagrant. Your bizarre conception of a serial banquet 
       is a project of no name. Neither amusement, nor subversion. An unidentifiable subject matter.
A.: The profile of our gig is traditional dinner-theatre sold as a situationist intervention. One hour every
       night at our reserved table. Loudly discussing our wedded life in the spotlight like we’d do in private.
       Boldly admitting we’re doing it for the free dinner. And plead for donations for a Trade Union of the
       Bankrupt. The idea is more frantic than Cabaret Voltaire.

Q.: So that’s why you dub yourself propagandadaist. Imitating Lenin in Zürich ever since exiled. But  
       cannot consummate your outlandish message in any shape or form. You’re only doing this because
       couldn’t stand up and give a proper speech. Masochistic sarcasm won’t counterpoise your lousy 
       downfall’s underlying melodrama.
A.: Though amplified in the interrupted background, we shall sound like talking to ourselves. The 
       intimate dialogue of an arguing couple involuntarily overheard. An intrusion of someone’s privacy.  
      Rather inconvenient experience for the dining public. Shocking the bourgeois shall be the Leitmotiv
       of our casual improvisation. A counterrevolutionary act of brainwashing. It could turn the
       established hangout the choicest place in town.
Q.: I am little fond of your grandiose scenario, Spiel! Don’t you think I’d deserve a greater role than to
      be your clueless sidekick? Abused to let your mean spirit soaring high?
A.: Don’t worry, Gina, our altercation will be profoundly equalized. Your protagonist is much more 
       fleshy and challenging by the way. Besides, you’re in négligé against a geek ideologue. If I break a 
      glass in anger, everyone will take your side. Our trans-mission is plainly subliminal.
Q.: I don’t like your vulgar dramaturgy either! What should be the eventual purpose of our random chatter?
      The hot dog our croquey duette are taking for a walk.
A.: The topics will arise on the given day’s pretext. Like commenting a news channel on the couch.    
      Unrestricted and uncensored with no structural pattern. The global tension in a private capsule. Always
      new, always the same. Never predictable. The purpose is to promote Antichristianity in a most seditious 
       manner. This way I could say anything I wouldn’t dare to a direct audience. Insinuation is the Word.
Q.: Knowing your metapolitical views, the outcome would be quite predictable. Your pathetic demagoguery is
       a  recipe for instant disaster. Chances are we’d be arrested for hate speech on the opening night. And 
       banned from ever appearing again.
A.: I can be but myself but you will have to act. Yor duty is to disagree whatever I state. You have to perform 
      the voice of the people. We can win the game if you can make me lose. But the truth shall prevail.
Q.: I’m also concerned about the poster you’re recycling for the fun fair. Isn’t it too severe for the catchy 
      title? And the Burger King crown you intend to wear…
A.: Ours is a dying theatre flying in the face of postmodern avantgarde. A concept born from existential
      necessity. An aesthethical (!) trouvaille of sweet revenge. Begging for attention to Götterdämmerung.