Just Having a Real Gouda Time

We’re back with a new show, and we’d like to give a big shout-out to the people of Milwaukee! Thanks for letting us bring our goofiest show to you all!

This week, we’re poking fun at tourists, and maybe at ourselves—we all took some snacks home, to be sure. Check out our latest script below, and keep an eye on this page for more stories. 

The lights come up, and three people enter the stage. Two of them are wearing cheese-shaped hats. 

“I just cannot believe we’re getting to see all this cheese up close and in person!” one woman says, clapping her hands in excitement. “I mean, sure, I grew up on a farm, but like, getting to see the whole process in person? So cool. I really think I was… Fon-due a visit.” 

The man puts his arm around her shoulder, adjusting the massive cheese slice on his head. “It truly is gouda to see.” 

The third woman sighs, putting her whole body into the motion of it. “Guys, you’re seriously embarrassing me. This was supposed to be a fun little friend trip. I know everyone else bailed, but you guys aren’t really that into cheese, are you? Lisa, you didn’t even grow up on a farm!” 

The woman scoffs. “You’re gonna really have to butter-cheese me up if you’re going to accuse me of lying, Joan.” 

“You guys know that’s a football thing, right? People aren’t just super-fans of cheese?” 

“You gotta brie kidding me!” 

“Sammy, I know we just got here, but if you two keep up the cheese puns, you’re going to need a Milwaukee personal injury lawyer because I’m about to personally injure you.”

“Wouldn’t you need, like, the police first?” Lisa says, then considers that. “ Edam-it, I don’t have a joke for that.” 

Joan pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Did you guys plan this or something? I don’t know if I can stomach these jokes the whole time.” 

“Alright, you want the truth? We’re actually mice in disguise,” Sammy says. “We’re just super into cheese because we’re mice, and we just wanted to have a super cheesy, fun little trip. We thought you might appreciate it.” He sighs, hands on his hips. “I guess we were wrong.” 

Joan stares at them for a long moment . . . then bursts into laughter, “That’s so much worse than your goofy cheese puns, oh wow! Fine, fine, you guys can do your goofy couple stuff, but at least try out some new material with the puns, would you? And you don’t have to come up with a goofy reason for wanting cheese. Just, you know, ease up on the jokes.”

“Hey, these jokes are nacho for you. Nacho—” Lisa frowns. “Well, I’ll work on it while we’re on the tour, let’s just get a move on!” 

The three turn away from the audience and walk away, revealing that Lisa and Sammy do, in fact, have long mouse tails behind them. The lights dim. 

Alright, we had promised we wouldn’t get too out there with the jokes, but these cheese puns are too good not to share! If you missed us in Milwaukee, though, don’t worry—we have future shows planned for our little troupe. Just keep an eye on your local theatre space for us! 

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The Customer Is Always Right!

And we’re back once again with a brand-new skit! A big thank you to all our fans who came to visit, who said hello after the show, and who told us what they liked. Your feedback helps us make our show great. 

This week, we’re stepping away from the family drama and moving into retail drama. This goes out to all our fans who have had any run-ins with especially difficult customers—let’s just hope you didn’t have one of these.

The curtain opens on a woman in a pharmacist’s coat, humming to herself as she fills prescriptions. A woman in an outfit one could only describe as “loud and pink” comes up to the counter and begins ringing the bell over and over, without stopping. 

“Ma’am, I’m right here.” She steps up to the cash register, then snatches the bell. “May I help you?” 

“Uh, yeah, that’s kinda your whole thing.” She sniffs. “I’m here to pick up my medication.” 

“Right, and your name?” 

The woman sneers. “Ugh, you doctor types, always trying to steal my information.” 

“Ma’am, please, I can’t look up your prescription until I have your name and date of birth.” 

“You know, you’re never supposed to ask a woman her age.” 

“I’m sorry, but that’s my job.” 

The woman sighs and huffs, but she gives the information, glancing out at the audience before leaning far over the counter and whispering it to the pharmacist. 

The pharmacist thanks her, then disappears into the back to get the medication. She returns with two small bottles. “Alright, now, the instructions are printed on the bottles, but you’ll need to take these as needed whenever you have symptoms. You’ll just—” 

“Could you do something about the bottles?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“The bottles! Ugh, if you’re going to give me so much trouble, I can just take my business elsewhere. You’re not the only compounding pharmacy in NY, you know.” The woman stresses the acronym, as though making a point. The pharmacist’s face says she doesn’t know what that point could be. 

“What do you think is wrong with the bottles, ma’am?” 

“They’re that awful orange color! It’s like, prison, but for pills. That’s super messed up. Maybe you could put it in a blue bottle? Like, why orange?” 

“Ma’am, we don’t carry an assortment of pill bottles. You could always put them in your own bottle, though, when you’re home.” 

“I guess. Ugh. What else?” She shakes the bottle. “These taste good, right? Because, like, the stuff I was taking before just tasted bad.” 

“What were you … wait a minute.” She reads over the list of ingredients. “This is just ibuprofen! This is over-the-counter pain relief! Why would you request it here?”

“Uh, because it tastes gross, duh! If I get a little headache, I don’t want it to taste bad to fix it.”

The pharmacist pinches her nose and counts slowly back from ten. “Fine. Okay. Whatever. Just take your medication and go.”

“Ugh, rude! Believe me, I’ll be contacting your manager.” She turns on her heel and stomps out.

“Believe me, so will I,” the pharmacist mutters, and the scene fades to black. 

We’ve all known a difficult customer or two, right? Let’s just hope they weren’t that difficult. Thanks again to all our viewers—we couldn’t do it without you. Tune in next time for more skits and sketches.

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A Heinz Field Breakup

We’re once again honored to have such a great group of people coming to our shows. We’ve been on the road a lot, lately, and we’ve seen a lot of people who could use a good laugh about family law and the wild and weird people we call family. 

This week, we’re focusing on marriage and on the dangers of getting a little bit. . .competitive. 

A voice rings out over the stage as the lights come up: “And that one is heading right out of the playing field, folks! Heading right up and over the outfield, it’s going, going . . .”

A couple stands up, both reaching for it, and the ball thunks down in the woman’s mitt. There are cheers and shouts as the commentator mentions the great catch. The man frowns, sitting down quickly. 

“Look, honey!” She waves the ball in his face. “I got it! You think he’ll sign it?”

“I don’t know, ‘probably charge you for it.”

“Oh, don’t be a grumpy Gus. Maybe next time, you’ll catch it.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, ha ha, I’m sure—” 

“And there goes another one, folks, coming in hot!” 

The two stand up again. This time, the ball bounces off the mitt of a nearby spectator, then into the woman’s mitt.

“Aha! Two for two!” 

The man huffs, “Janice, that’s cheating.”

“I don’t know why you’re so grouchy. You didn’t even play baseball.” She preens, proud of herself. “Besides, that’s just luck, Babe. . .and you’re lucky to have me.” 

“Janice, you didn’t either, so don’t even start that with me.” He stands up, arms straight at his sides. “You know, you just have to do this every time.” 

“And, what is that supposed to mean?” 

From behind them, someone shouts, “Hey, down in front—” 

“Mind your own business!” they snap, then turn back toward one another. 

“Look, I can’t help that you’re a spoil sport.”

“And, I can’t help that you brag and strut around like you’re some pro! You’re just out here in the stands like the rest of us.” 

The bat cracks against a ball once more, and the two turn. 

“Would you look at that, folks! Another one, heading straight for the stands!” 

“Oh, I got it, I got it!” Janice stretches out for the third one—until her husband puts his mitt over her and catches it. She gasps. 

“That’s not fair!” 

“You have two, so I don’t know what’s so unfair about it.” He grins, turning the baseball in his hand. “Hey, you think they’ll sign this?”

“That’s it! You are so petty, and rude, and I won’t stand for it anymore!” She steps up to him, poking his chest with one finger, “You just can’t deal with the fact that a woman is better at catching baseballs than you.” 

“That’s ridiculous. I want a divorce.” 

“Fine! Hey, any divorce attorneys in the stands? Anyone know anything about getting a divorce in Pennsylvania?” She turns this way and that as people groan and roll their eyes, as though they’ve seen this play out before. The hot dog vendor stops.

“Hey, don’t look at me, lady. I know way more about slinging hot dogs in the stands. How about this, though, you toss in an extra two dollars for a hot dog, I’ll throw in a second free, for your husband.” 

“But, hot dogs are two dollars.” 

“I’ll throw in some mustard, too, just for you.”

She gives him and hands him the money for the hot dogs. The two sit in silence with their dogs for a moment. 

“Well, that’s a pretty good hot dog.” 

“Yeah. Hey, you wanna do this next weekend?” 

“See you there, and bring your mitt.” 

Sometimes, love finds a way through even the tensest of situations. If you’re ready for more oddballs catching foul balls and other fun characters, check out our other showings and whether we’ll be in your area soon.

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A Little Behind

We’re back after another trip across the states, and we’re excited to debut another exciting skit. We’ll also be performing on some larger stages in the next few weeks. Keep your eyes peeled and your calendars open for new performance dates coming to your area! Until then, enjoy the story of a couple friends who get a little stuck. 

The curtains open to the sound of a revving engine, only to reveal a car stuck in the mud. 

“Ugh, give it up, Alison, we’re stuck.” The speaker sighs and crosses her arms. “This is ridiculous. Now we’re going to be late for sure.”

Alison sticks her head out the window. “We’re not! We have one hour, twenty minutes, and fifty-six seconds to get there, that’s plenty of time.”

“Ugh, why did the boys leave me with the math major.”

Alison honks, startling the other girl. “I heard that, Mandy! They should be back in a second anyway. They left approximately one hour, three minutes, and thirty seconds ago.”

Voices reach them somewhere off stage. “So, bad news or good news, girls?” Two men enter the stage, looking sheepish. 

“Bad news,” both girls say. 

“Okay, so, that gas station we passed is very closed.” 

“The good news is that we got a signal, but the tow truck won’t get here for another hour or so.”

“That’s not very specific.”

The others shoot a look at Alison, then collectively sigh. 

Mandy shakes her head. “Okay, so, we’re probably going to be late. Alison, I guess you go with Brad this time to call the convention people and tell them we’re going to be late. Allen, you stay with me, see if we can push the car a little farther.”

Allen nodded, shaking his head. “I knew we should have left earlier. My sponsor said so.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to make it on time.” The other two leave the stage, hurrying off with their phones in hand. 

Brad and Mandy push and huff, trying to move the car, but it doesn’t budge. Brad sighs and sits on the bumper. “Maybe we should have called a Charleston car accident attorney. They’d be able to help, right? At least, I think we’re still in South Carolina.”

“Brad, we didn’t crash, we’re just stuck.” 

“Yeah, but I nudged the bushes a little. Maybe they could help.”

“Look, whatever we do, we’re already late and we’re going to be in big trouble. I guess the Convention for Procrastinators, Untimely, and the Perpetually Late can go on without us, but my favorite speaker was going to be there.”

Another car pulls into view, this one with an older woman. “Oh dear, could you kids help me? I’m heading to this convention a town away, and I think I’m running a little late. Could you point me in the right direction?”

Mandy and Brad glance at one another, surprised by their luck, then begin to laugh. 

More Shows, More Skits 

Thanks again, dear readers, for keeping up with our little show. We should be announcing our newest tour dates soon, so keep an eye out for posters, flyers, and posts about our newest shows. And don’t worry—our cast is always timely and rarely dull. So keep reading and keep watching for our next shows!

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But Who Will Get the Kids?!

First of all, a big thanks to everyone who came out to see us last week. It was a great show and, more importantly, it was a great crowd. 

Now, we’re turning our attention to a custody agreement between two farmers who made their money and moved to California. They’re now having a dispute over who’s getting what. Enjoy, and stay tuned for more shows.

A lawyer sits at his desk, neatly dressed in a suit, and makes some notes before his phone rings. “Yes? Right, the McDonalds. They’re a little early, but send them in. Maybe I’ll get an early lunch break out of it.”

He hangs up, and almost immediately, there’s a knock on the door. Two more people enter, this time dressed in boots, overalls, and straw hats. 

“Well, how-dee-doo, Mr. Harrelson! I know we’re here a touch early, but as my papaw used to say, ‘If you’re early, you’re on time, and if you’re on time, you’re late.’”

The woman sighs. “Sal, let’s not waste the man’s time, here. We’re just here to talk about the kids.” She held out her hand to shake. “I’m Isabelle, and Sal here’s my ex-husband.”

“Right, I see you’re here to discuss the custody agreement, then?’ He shook her hand, then motioned to the chairs, and the two sat. The woman sits her bag on the floor, where it visibly rolls. Mr. Harrelson leans over his desk. “Everything alright in there?”

“Aw, yeah, you know how kids are.” 

He blinks. “Right. You’re welcome to let your kids out any time, Ms. McDonald, but let’s get started discussing your custody. Mr. McDonald, it says here that you agreed to a joint custody agreement, where you and your former spouse will each get them a week on, then a week off. Are the kids happy?”

“Oh yes, one place to romp and play and headbutt each other is just as good as the next, ain’t it?” Sal chuckles. 

“Well, I certainly hope not. I wouldn’t want some poor kids getting head injuries.” 

The couple laughs. “Mr. Harrelson, you are a riot and a half. But, yes, all that’s correct, but I’m looking to get more time with the kids. They’re getting older, and I’m looking to settle down a little. I’m starting a petting zoo.”

Isabelle shakes her head. “Well, I’m hoping to change the agreement to get more time with my kids. I raised them, and I was thinking about opening a yoga center with the kids. Those are really getting popular, and I think I could do something real special with it.”

Mr. Harrelson frowned. “Well, I can’t say I’ve heard of that before. I’ll have to ask that you look into that before you make any decisions, considering child labor laws, but—”

“Now, Mr. Harrelson, hold on just a second,” Sal says. “Are you telling me you thought we had children?”

The attorney stares at them. “Yes, that’s generally what child custody means.”

“No, no, we’ve got kids!” Isabelle beams, then uncinches her bag. A tiny goat clops across the stage. “Better than children by a long shot, if you ask me.”

Mr. Harrelson was silent. “You mean to tell me that you two Beverly hillbillies came all this way, just to find me out of any family lawyer in Rancho Cucamonga you could have picked, over goats?”

“Well, when you put it that way—”

“I’m going to have to ask you two to leave.”


Mr. Harrelson stood, shooing the protesting farmers and their goat. He’s nearly headbutted for his efforts, but soon, he’s alone again. He slumps into his chair, then picks up the phone. 

“Jean? Yes, I’d like you to cancel my goat yoga appointment for today. Yes, I’ve definitely had enough barnyard shenanigans. You can stop laughing now”

He hangs up and sighs as the curtain falls. 

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It’s All a Metaphor… for Divorce?

It’s that time again—time for another installment of your favorite comedy troupe! This week was incredible. The audiences were great, and we’re so excited to bring this project to even more places this year. 

If you’re interested in more announcements, keep an eye out for more information in our next skits published here. 

For now, we’ve got a brand-new sketch for you all. This time, we’re getting a little bit literary with a critic and their spouse, who’s thinking about getting literal about a divorce. 

A couple sits in a living room, each tending to their own business. The woman wears typical modern wear, while the husband is wearing a smoking jacket. A pipe dangles from his lips as he reads the newspaper. 

“You know, it’s incredibly droll, really, Maria.”

Maria sighed, glancing up from her own book. “Yes, Charles?”

“For a woman with your mind, you certainly enjoy reading those…”

“Those what, paperbacks?”

“Mm, yes, those.” He chuckles sensibly. “I mean, I suppose you don’t read with the critic’s eye, which I suppose is my curse to bear, but—”

“Alright, that’s it.” She slams her bookmark into place and stands. “I’ve had it up to here with you!”

“Metaphorically, of course.” He smiles confidently at her. “Dear Maria, what has set your heart to flight? You’re usually so—”

“Just stop talking for a second!” She rubs her temples. “Do you know how exhausting it is to live with someone who only talks through the lens of Umberto Eco, or James Joyce?”

“They are our finest.” He frowns. “My dear, I simply don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“I’m saying that you better shape up, or I’m filing for divorce.” She crosses her arms, staring him down.

He crumples immediately, sliding out of his chair and onto his knees, begging. “Oh, Maria, is your heart so cold? I could not stand to live without you!” He scoots forward on his knees, and she steps back. She glances at the audience with a smug look. “Maria, you are my Helen of Troy, my Catherine Earnshaw, my Lo—”

“Alright, you can stop there. You know how I feel about Nabokov.” She sighs. “This is a pretty pathetic sight.”

“In that it inspires pathos in you, which begs that you reconsider?”

“Something like that.” She taps her chin. “But you know, you’ll have to really shape up.”

“Anything, my love.”

“Well, first of all, lose the smoking jacket.”

“But it is a symbol of refinement!”

 “Then wear a suit when we go out, this is ridiculous.” She sighs, studying him. “You really changed your accent when you got that job doing book reviews for the local newspaper, but we’ll work on that over time. We’re also going to have to change your reading materials.”

He shudders at the thought. “If… If it will please my love, my soulmate, my—”

“Alright, I get it.” She sighs and helps him out of the floor. “Oh, the pipe has to go, too. You don’t even smoke.”

He looks around, then sighs. “Alright, but I think marriage counseling would also be appropriate. Perhaps they might even agree with me on the importance of decorum and a literary mind.”

“Yeah, well, until then, we’re going to get you started on some books your readers will actually want to read about.”

He splutters, indignant, but he lets her take his hand and pull him toward the door. “Well, I can’t imagine anything more worth their time than the classics, but go on. What do you have in mind?”

“Hm, I’m thinking about… Have you ever heard of Twilight?”

He looks at the audience, horrified, before the lights dim.


Thanks again from the whole family for the well wishes, the ticket sales, and the great attitudes, folks. Next week, we’re taking to the great outdoors for our show. See you then! 

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A Rodeo Replacement

And we’re back with a show all the way from Oklahoma City! We at Daniel Jensen Family Law thought about performing some of the classics, of course, but instead, we’re bringing you an all-original skit. 

And of course, it’s about the noble rodeo clown. Check in soon for news on our next location—we’ll be seeing you soon. 


The curtains open on a small diner across the road from the offices of a family lawyer in Oklahoma City, with a booth packed full of rodeo clowns—perhaps more clowns than any diner booth was really made for. One picks up a sugar packet and dumps it in their mouth, which gets a big laugh. Finally, though, one of the clowns hushes the rest.

“Alright, alright, I know we’re here to eat, but let’s focus on the real problem at hand: Ernie.”

“May he rest in peace,” the others intone, placing a tiny hat with a flower in the brim on the table. 

“Well, let’s not get too sad. He’s moved on to a better place.” The clown slumped. “And he’s probably making better money as a psychologist than he ever made working with us chumps.”
“I didn’t even know he had a degree.” The clown across from her shrugged, downing a little cup of half-and-half, then grimacing comically. 

“You kidding? I’m a certified accountant, but you know, the job market.” The clown turns to the audience, putting her hands on her hips and tilting her head with a dramatic look of surprise. “Anyway, we gotta find somebody else who ain’t too afraid to go nose-to-nose with a bull.”

The small crowd of clowns erupts in debate. Over the general noise of arguing, a few choice candidates arise. 

“Call up Trailer Park Dan, he’s always a good time!”

“What about that Uber driver we called? He loved it when all six of us climbed into his four-seater, right?”

“I know this stage actor who might be in town! The way he plays Hamlet, he might as well be a clown already.”

“Alright, quiet!” When the crowd kept shouting suggestions, she stood, spraying a few in the face with her lapel flower. Finally, they were silent, cowed by their leader. “Alright, alright, I hear you guys. But, I think we need to think about this real careful-like. We want someone to outlast Ernie.”

“May he rest in—”

“Alright, it was funny the first time, but let’s focus.” She stared into her coffee cup, thinking it over. “You think we could get him back?”

Another clown stood, reaching into oversized pants held up by suspenders. Loud honks, whistles, and crashing sounds play before he finally pulls out a cell phone. “I could look up his office, see if he’s in.” The other clowns honk with excitement as they type. “Oh!”


“He’s just down the street. Two blocks from here, even.”

The head clown stands up, startling one of the other increasingly-frustrated patrons. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get him!”

The clowns tumble out of the booth, honking and laughing and running down the street. The curtains close. 


If you missed our show, or if you’re not in the area, don’t worry. We upload these synopses for our shows regularly, keeping you in the know for our biggest projects. So, if you’ve missed us, check us out here for more of the laughs you’re looking for. 

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Navigating Pennsylvania . . . And a Marriage?

It’s been another exciting week with Daniel Jensen Family Law. The crowds are really eating it up, so we want to thank you all for your support and for your laughter.

This week, we took things outside the courtroom and onto the road! This week features the Pennsylvania backwoods and a couple who are having a little trouble dealing with it. Without further ado, enjoy the show!


The scene opens on a couple in a car. A man is driving, while a woman is sipping a drink labeled Coffee Corp. The cup is full of whipped cream. Both of them are dressed in well-tailored, expensive clothing.

“That’s it. We’re totally lost.”

The woman hums to herself, flattening out the edge of her bright pink dress. “Well, we’ll have to come across something eventually. Like, a gas station or something, so me and Tina can get our refills!”

A Chihuahua peeks out between the seats, its muzzle covered in whipped cream, before ducking back down.

“Of course, you and Tina,” he grumbled, gripping the steering wheel.

“Oh, don’t be so fussy-wussy!” She coos and pinches his cheek. “You were totally pumped for camping this weekend.”

“I think they call what we did ‘glamping,’ and that’s definitely not the same.”

“Hmph. Well, I had lots of fun, grumpy pants. We didn’t even get lost once.”

“Because you insisted on using that GPS, instead of roughing it like the old days.”

“Didn’t people get, like, dysentery in the old days, or eaten by bears and stuff?”

“Ugh, sometimes you have me thinking about just going my own way. Out on the open road, all on my own, all rugged, cool . . .” He trails off, with a twinkle in his eye. The car shakes as they drift off the road a little, before he corrects it.

She looked at him, sipping her drink. “Was camping so bad that you’re talking divorce?” She doesn’t sound particularly concerned.

“I ought to be in charge, you know, trailblazing through the backwoods with nothing but a map and a compass. None of this modern-day nonsense.” He turns the air conditioning up, until it’s blowing his hair back.

“Is there even, like, a divorce lawyer in Pennsylvania?”

There’s a long pause “Alright, I’m going to have to ask why you think that.”

“Aren’t they all Amish or something?”

Jake rubs his forehead. “Not the whole state, they’re not.”

“Oh. Well, maybe that’s okay, then.” She shrugs, completely unperturbed. “It’s not like you could afford to divorce me anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, I’m the owner of, like, the biggest law firm in the state. So even if I represented myself, I could totally take you on.” She giggled.

Jake pulled a long face. “You just can’t let me win, can you?”

“Psh, that’s my whole thing, silly!” She leans over, pecking his cheek, then leans back and yawns. “Oof, all this riding along has me just exhausted. Be a doll and keep super quiet, would you? Oh, and wake me up when you see a gas station. I bet Tina has to tinkle!” The dog yips from the backseat.

When her headphones are in and her eye mask is on, Jake sighs. “Marry into money, they said. You’ll never work another day in your life, they said…”

The lights fade on the couple, and the sketch ends.

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An Electrifying Divorce!

What a great show this week! Today, we’re looking at divorce law as we travel through the great state of Wisconsin. This week, we’ll be putting on regular shows about one of those power couples you all know and love, and no, we’re not talking about Kim and Kanye. Read on to check out the story for our latest sketch..

James Islington, a local Milwaukee divorce attorney, files his papers and sighs. Off-stage, muffled shouting can be heard, and it’s definitely getting closer. He stands and goes to the door. “I should know better than to schedule these types on Mondays,” he mutters before opening it.

“Mr. Islington?” Frankenstein’s monster, played by Tom Bree on stilts, frowns at the lawyer.

“I—Yes, that would be me. Who—”

“We’re here about our appointment.” His bride, just as tall, nudges him in, and the two men stumble back into the room. She follows with her arms crossed over a stylish white gown. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“Oh, you can’t!” He scoffs at her, turning away.

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs.—”

“Monster. Frankenstein S. Monster. Your secretary said you were free, and frankly, I don’t think we can wait much longer anyway.”

The lawyer sits uneasily, motioning to the chairs. The towering couple ignores the gesture. “Well, what can I help you two with?”

To his displeasure, they both begin speaking at once.

“The spark is gone!”

“He thinks I should cover up my stitches better, like some social media model.”

“She refuses to see eye-to-eye with my family.”

The Bride frowned at him. “Oh please, Victor is a hack, and you know it.”

Frankenstein gasps, turning with a wounded look. “How dare you speak that way about my father!”

She rolls her eyes. “He’s my father, too, idiot, if you want to call him that. And, I hardly think stitching together whatever you happen to find lying around the graveyard can be called parenting.’”

Frankenstein’s monster points at his bride. “See? She’s always like this! She just refuses to listen to reason.”

James puts his hands up, trying to placate the eight-foot-tall monster leaning over his desk. “So, you two are having some . . . marital disputes? And, you no longer wish to work things out?”

“That’s right.” The bride sniffs, haughtily. “I’d say I was seeking alimony, but every time anyone mentions doing anything useful, he groans and shambles around. Very unprofessional.”

Before Frankenstein can speak, James puts up a hand. “Alright, alright, I understand. Let me get the paperwork, and I’ll get you two ready to file soon enough. It’s kind of funny, though, I never expected a pair like you two to settle in Milwaukee.”

“We’re here for the culture.”

“Of course.” He shuffled some papers around, then chuckled to himself. “And, you know, here I thought the books says you two were made for each other. Literally.”

The two paused, glaring, as though they can’t believe he’d say such a thing. Then, they both approached his desk.

“What do you think this is, some kind of arranged marriage?”

“My wife is her own woman!”

The shouting continues as he puts his hands up, as if to protect himself from the shouting. The shouting then fades with the lights.

In the darkness, a nasally voice speaks. “Mr. Islington?”

The lights come up as James sits up, alone and bleary-eyed. His hair is a mess, and a page is stuck to his face.

“Mr. Islington!”

“Yes, yes, what?”

“Your next clients are here. Did you fall asleep at your desk again?”

He pauses for a long, long moment. “No, but tell them to reschedule. I’ve had a little . . . shock, today. I think I need to lie down.”

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