Are you the Messiah? Am I? W.'s drunk and confused, and I am drunk and confused. What's gone so wrong with our lives? How did we end up where we are? What are we doing here? What will we ever do? There's been madness and compromise every step of the way. We should hang ourselves immediately.
What's it all been for? Where will it lead? Could it ever lead anywhere? No! It's led us nowhere. It's always and already led us nowhere. And here we sit, two idiots alone with their idiocy. Oh God how did it get to this? At what point did we lose our souls? When did we give up all hope for cynicism?
These are the End Times, we are agreed on that. We're men of the End, of the Very End, a dreadful symptom, a dreadful malady. And it's not as if our extinction will make the world any better. It's not as if we could hang ourselves and be done. Everything's on fire and we're on fire. The oceans will boil away, the sky will burn red ... What's the point of it all? Where else could it go? How else might it have been otherwise?
Are you the Messiah? Am I? Is W. really the Messiah for me, and I for him? Would the Messiah ever wear a shirt like that? Would he ever wear those trousers that are flapping round your ankles? The Messiah wouldn't buy his clothes from Primark, says W., he's sure of that.
W. wishes he hadn't left his suit behind at a bus stop in its carry case. He was going to get it dry cleaned, he says, his Messiah suit. He always looked like Gary Glitter in his Messiah suit, I tell him. Like Gary Glitter on trial. But I looked like M.C. Hammer in my interview suit with its tapered trousers, W. says. What were you thinking when you bought it? The Messiah doesn't wear parachute pants.