They’re a volatile mix, a Molotov cocktail; pure dynamite, but on stage it works.
Jimmy’s rapid-fire patter, Vic’s yards of charm. Vegas’s favourite double act! But all straight guys tire of custard pie in the face every night.
Vic starts drinking, hitting the bar before rather than after the laughter, stinking drunk when curtain goes up, eyes spinning like a slot machine.
Vic’s sloppy, not slick; slips up, stumbling towards punchlines. Jimmy, sick of his shit, hisses he quits.
Vic knows he’s a nobody without his buddy. Fingers the pistol in his pocket.
Decides to go out with a bang.
Jimmy’s rapid-fire patter, Vic’s yards of charm. Vegas’s favourite double act! But all straight guys tire of custard pie in the face every night.
Vic starts drinking, hitting the bar before rather than after the laughter, stinking drunk when curtain goes up, eyes spinning like a slot machine.
Vic’s sloppy, not slick; slips up, stumbling towards punchlines. Jimmy, sick of his shit, hisses he quits.
Vic knows he’s a nobody without his buddy. Fingers the pistol in his pocket.
Decides to go out with a bang.
