“Real real good to see you down in New Orleans, yeah. Real reet.”
“*Well*, Marty. We’re not *going* to New Orleans as it turns out. We’re avoiding that boat, that dream.”
“Real reet, yeah.” Then bass voiced Marty stops talking to actually listen to The Man.
“Marty Marty Marty,” The Man starts again. “You should have never left Legos to make the new album. You’re not *black* enough, and I know a thing about black. Why you’re — you’re about as black as White Elvis, and that’s not much.” He points to his wig, perhaps still covering the ant saliva from before.
“Listen,” responded Marty, realizing his own hair is really the only black thing about him.
“Yes, good. Arkansas we’re at and Arkansas we’ll stay. The boat and the stream remain empty, devoid of content.” The Mann then stares at the bar. “And what about this setting? So shallow. Where’s the actual bar with a bartender and all.” He takes another swallow of Jack Daniels in disgust. If only all this were a dream.
“Silly love songs.”
“Yeah. Those too.”