By A.F. Winter

 The scene is a dark and musty house  in some metropolis in America.   The room is filled with newspapers which are piled up to the ceiling.  You can hardly walk through the room except where there are aisles made in the piled paper.

Lights up.  The stage is deserted except for the newspapers, then we hear a sneeze.

Bob:  (Emerging from behind a pile.) God damn it, why don't you clean this place up?  It looks like a pigsty.

Roy: (entering) What the hell are you yelling at me for?  It's your turn to vacuum.

Bob: Don't hand me that malarkey, it's my turn to do the dishes, it's your turn to vacuum.

Roy: It isn't, I'm telling you.

Bob: Sure, sure it is.

Roy: You’re wrong, I'm telling you, you’re wrong.

Bob:  I don't care what your telling me!  I'm not nearly as wrong as you are.

Roy: You are!

Bob: Don't you say I am!

Roy: And why the hell not?

Bob: You'll find out.

Roy: Are you threatening me?

Bob: Who's asking?

Roy: What, are you blind?

Bob: Oh so now I'm blind am I?

Roy: You said it,  not me.

Bob: You’re damn right I said it,  you don't have the balls to say it, do you?

Roy: All right,  I've had enough.

Bob: You've had enough have you?

Roy: What, are you deaf also?

Bob: So now I'm blind and deaf,  what's next?

(They both glare at each other.)

Roy: All right I'll prove it to you.

Bob: What?

Roy: It's your turn to vacuum.

Bob: Blind and deaf people shouldn't have to vacuum!