Punchline (Demo)

1. Welcome to the shitshow!

ACT ONE

Every story has a hero.

And that hero is usually a beefcake in women's clothing, gelled to the brim hairdo, and always saving the day from whatever shitshow is happening nowadays.

But Gregory Hanz hasn't worn even the slightest resemblance of a lace panty, nor has he grown his hair further than two inches.

In fact, Gregory couldn't even defend his own mother from a gang of thugs if his life depended on it. Gregory is a Christian, which I suppose makes him "good" in the eyes who think religion isn't the most popular scam invented by a guy on a cross. (Spoiler alert: it totally is)

If humble beginnings had a Senior year photo taken, Gregory Hanz would fill an entire page with the 90s backdrop geometrical shapes and pore-enhancing camera quality. But Gregory wasn't always the pizza-face, metal-mouth, shit-grinning, goody-two-shoes who wore his grandmother's checkered sweater to class.

Gregory used to be a child model before growing the pedo-stache. Before puberty messed up his vocal cords, Gregory was already on GAP ads, making money and saying no to drugs—and strangers with lollipops.

Gregory was even one step closer to becoming a child actor, auditioning for Stuart Little as George Little, but was denied the role for not being blond or "enticing" enough—creep much?—looking like the bastard cousin from the Addams Family.

Despite his parents' efforts to milk fame from Gregory, the kid still acted like "one of the poor kids."

Atheists enjoyed Greg's company since he didn't shove his Christianity down anyone's throat.

Nowadays, Greg works at the veterinary clinic in Manhattan, his modeling days over. Greg spends his evenings suturing kittens and sending aged, mortally ill shepherds to dog heaven.

Needless to add that Gregory was not a social butterfly. This is why as of this evening, he has been staring at the wall clock multiple times, calculating the hours until he leaves, and hoping no one comes barging at the last minute with a dying canine.

Diego Alejandro just called him last night.

Gregory was already in his crummy apartment, in his white shirt and boxers, praying to a wooden cross when the call came through. Gregory's first thought was that it was his mother calling him from his childhood home in Connecticut, probably asking for money. His second guess? Dr. Shulks, from the consultant for a last-minute schedule arrangement.

People seem to need Gregory these days since it was hard to find someone so dutiful and committed as him.

Gregory peered at the blare on his dated iPhone on his desk. Seeing the number unknown, he decided to pick it up anyways, not thinking directly about who could have called from the other line at 10 pm.

"Gregory speaking,"

That day, when Gregory was starting as a novice in Dr. Shulks's clinic, his ready-to-retire assistant showed Gregory the ropes on how to communicate with people accordingly. This lesson stuck to Gregory as somewhat polite and well-mannered, making the receiver feel comfortable. He even stuck that discipline into his lifestyle, pretty sucky when making friends with someone who seemed pulled out of the fifties era of bigotry and fedoras.

"Greg?" The unrecognizable voice asked at first. "It's me. Diego."

"Oh my gosh, is this really happening?"

"Sure is! How you've been, buddy?"

Lonely, Greg had wanted to say.

"It's been forever since we graduated from college," Greg said instead.