A GENTLEWOMAN'S GUIDE TO LOVE AND MURDER

Act I, Scene 2

Y/N begins the shift enraged. Alexander is actual garbage, you think. I deserve better than to sit around, letting him whore it up in our own apartment. It is busy at the diner. Employees are singing to please the customers. Tips are fine. Y/N can't focus.

"You look like hell," a familiar voice says. It's your best friend and regular customer - the legend herself, Persephone. "Rough week?"

"You could say that," you reply as you pour a shot of Jose Cuervo, Persephone's usual.

"Girl, talk to me." She downs the shot, no chaser.

"I just - Alex is, well..."

"Alex is..." Persephone gestures for you to continue, but also she wants another shot.

"I think he--" you go silent, barely holding back tears. The chatter of the bargoers seems to subside as you dramatically admit, "I want to divorce Alexander! I think he's cheating on me!"

A collective gasp runs through the bar. Persephone's eyes widen in shock.

She responds, "I hope that he burns," and downs another shot of tequila.

"I can't do this on my own. I need a lawyer."

Suddenly, a loud crashing sound fills the room. You look around, and a group of figures emerges from a shadowy corner and slowly makes their way towards you, menacingly snapping their fingers in unison.

"A. . .lawyer, you say?" says one of them in a sing-songy voice. He's wearing a suit and a fedora. You distrust him immediately.

"Um. Yes?" you answer.

"All I care about is love," he sings.

"I. Um. I want a divorce though."

"Sounds like you. . .both reached for the gun?"

You ignore him because the group of figures, still snapping their fingers in unison, has begun to circle around you. Sweating nervously, you glance around for Persephone. She looks like she's in a trance. Hypnotized by the perfect synchronization of the groups' snapping. You desperately struggle against the power of their synchronized snapping. You almost give in. Your eyes begin to glaze over. Then, suddenly remembering the way that Hamilton, your husband, forgot your name, your goddamn name, you snap out of it.

"Who are you people?" you finally manage to ask.

"We." Snap. "Are." Snap. "Lawyers." Snap.

"Wait. What?"

"That's right, Y/N. It's time for you to make your jellicle choice."

You stare blankly.

"Pick a divorce lawyer. Duh."

They continue to circle around you relentlessly. How can you even know if any of these people are real lawyers? Why were they waiting in a shadowy corner? You don't want to come across as desperate, but you really want to divorce Hamilton. Like right now. You hate him a lot. He threw away his shot with you as soon as you realized how self-centered and obsessed with his legacy he is. You once again bring your attention to the "lawyers" circling you.

"I--" you begin, but are interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. You turn to look at the bar, more confused than ever. Standing atop the bar in a triumphant pose, arms outstretched, is a man-like creature with moldy? or just green? hair and a black-and-white striped suit. Ropes that hang from the ceiling are tied around his arms. How long has he been up there? His stench hits your nose before you can fully process what is happening. He sloppily unties the ropes from his arms and jumps down from the bar to look at you.

"We're going way down, Hadestown, to find you a lawyer," he says creepily.

"What?"

"A graveyard. We're going to a graveyard. Let's go."

It's Hamilton.

Ha. Gotcha.

It's actually Beetlejuice.

He stares at you intensely with sunken, yellow eyes (seriously, can we get that guy an orange or something? Do they have scurvy in the Underworld?) and a rotten smile plastered across his face.

"This is the part where you applaud." He says in a scratchy voice. "An entrance like that takes a big Broadway budget."

The voice is a bit much. He's trying too hard.

"Didn't your show get cancelled?" You ask.

"That's why I'm here, bitch." Beetlejuice retorts. "I'm out of a job. But I heard you needed a lawyer."

"Are you a lawyer?"

"Not technically?"

"That's encouraging."

"Well If you want a good lawyer... You're going to have to go to Hell."

Smelling his stench, you respond "I think I'm already there."

"That was just rude," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "But you're right. Follow me to Hell."

*One long, stinky, strobe-light infused, and slightly horny journey to Hell with 8 time Tony-Award Losing Beetlejuice later*

(Comedy ensues.)