A L’il Bit o’ Dabney…

Debbie’s eyes grow large. She grabs the pillow behind her head, hops up, or at least, hops up as well as someone that’s 9 months pregnant can, and pretends to smother Rick.

DEBBIE
Alright! You asked for it!

RICK
(laughing)
OH NO! I’m DYING! HELPME! HELPME!

 

Debbie looks around, as if she’s going to get caught. She takes the pillow off and shoots Rick an innocent smile. He’s laughing, heavy. He reaches for her, and she does it again – dives in with her pillow-of-death.

DEBBIE
So you gonna’ rub me with that itchin’ ass thing again? Huh?

 

RICK
(muffled through pillow)
NO! NO! I GIVE I GIVE!

 

DEBBIE
Who’s the boss!

 

RICK
I AM!

 

DEBBIE
HUH? I couldn’t hear you! WHO’S THE BOSS!

 

RICK
(laughing)
TONY DANZA!

 

DEBBIE
Oh, screw you!

Debbie pushes all of her substantial weight down onto Rick who reaches up, grabs her arm and kicks his legs. Debbie is laughing herself.

RICK
Seriously!

DEBBIE
Seriously, who’s the boss?

She doesn’t let up, but Rick’s legs do. His arms fall to his sides.
Suddenly Debbie’s demeanor shifts. Instantaneous buzz-kill. She pulls the pillow away from Rick’s face. His eyes are shut, his mouth slightly open, drool dripping down the corner, making a beeline for his ear.
He doesn’t move.

DEBBIE (CONT’D)
Baby? Come on now! Stop playin’.

But Rick’s a redwood – rigid, non-moving, unwavering.
Debbie’s eyes wiggle in her sockets. She starts slapping him in the face: easily at first, but steadily harder. But none of it makes a difference.

DEBBIE (CONT’D)
Rick! Don’t do this! You’re fine! RICK!
She starts to cry. What does she do? She doesn’t know CPR, she’s not a doctor. Then the phone on the nightstand catches her attention. She leans over Rick’s face, his nose between her now extremely ample bosom, and grabs the phone.
And just as she does, Rick’s dead, lifeless arms spring to life. He wraps them around her and motorboats into the smiling puff-paint kitty like it’s the X marking the spot.

Debbie yells.

RICK
HAHAHA! Who’re you gonna’ call?

Like a yellow-jacket on a sweaty Texas day, Debbie pounces, slapping rick hard across the face, and throws herself to bed’s edge. Her crying has now reached level-10 sobbing. She runs into the adjacent bathroom, slamming the flimsy plywood door in its hinges.

Embarassed and left alone on the bed, Rick lays in the disheveled sheets, contemplating what the hell his next move could be.

Debbie’s loud yelps of sorrow lilt through the room, diffused by the doorway between the two rooms.

Rick realizes he can’t sit idly by any longer. With a deep breath, he gets up, slides off the bed, and marches to the door.