FLOSTRE [sadly watching Kant leave the stage]: Poor chap. I hope he'll get over it.
SOCRATES (the ventriloquist's dummy sitting on Flostre's knee): Never mind him. What about these dancing girls you keep promising us?
[Enter Friedrich Nietzsche, more wild-eyed than ever.]
FLOSTRE: Mon Dieu! Le voilà qui revient!
NIETZSCHE: The dancing girls are dead.
SOCRATES: What?
NIETZSCHE: The dancing girls remain dead.
FLOSTRE: What?
NIETZSCHE: And we have killed them. How shall we comfort ourselves?
SOCRATES and FLOSTRE: WHAT?
NIETZSCHE [patiently]: It's a metaphor. I don't mean we've actually murdered all the dancing girls.
FLOSTRE: Bon sang! I should hope not. This isn't that kind of show. We leave that to the opera.
NIETZSCHE: I'm simply saying that all our philosophy has made the idea of a troupe of dancing girls no longer necessary.
SOCRATES: That's what you say!
NIETZSCHE: The dancing girls no longer have a hold on the imagination.
SOCRATES: Speak for yourself!
NIETZSCHE: But that's an old idea. The point is really…
FLOSTRE: Quoi?
NIETZSCHE [dramatically]: Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us?
SOCRATES: That depends.
FLOSTRE: On what?
SOCRATES: On whether or not this guy is totally bonkers. I know what I think.
NIETZSCHE [ignoring him]: Must we ourselves not become dancing girls simply to appear worthy of this great deed?
[Nietzsche tears open his shirt to reveal a tight spandex vest with a large letter Ü emblazened on the front. He dashes off-stage and almost immediately re-emerges wearing his underpants over his trousers and a pair of high-heeled sandals.]
NIETZSCHE: Behold! The über-dancing girl!
[As he starts to kick his leg up in the air, two burly men in white coats stride onstage, pick him up by the elbows and carry him off.]
SOCRATES: Is it my imagination, or is this place full of fruitcakes?










