The Next-Door Neighbor (or The Domestic Serial Killer Monologue)

 

 

The Next-Door Neighbor

 

(or The Domestic Serial Killer Monologue)

 

Genre: Dark Comedy, Absurdism, Dark Stand-Up.

 

Author: Benjamín Gavarre

The Next-Door Neighbor (or The Domestic Serial Killer Monologue). © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

GAVARREUNAM@GMAIL.COM

 

Dramatis Personae (English)

THE COMEDIAN (35 years old)

An impeccable man of magnetic charm, with a billboard smile and a natural, disarming poise. He possesses overwhelming confidence and an almost surgical devotion to order, neatness, and silence. Standing before the audience armed only with a steaming cup of coffee and a microphone, he sets out to dissect the absurdities of life in a gentrified apartment complex. Yet, beneath his polished front and friendly next-door persona lies a disturbing fascination with the habits, the secrets... and the sudden disappearances of everyone around him.

 

THE NEIGHBORHOOD FAUNA (Invisible Voices of the Building)

• The Performance Artist (3rd Floor): Eccentric, nocturnal, and circus-trained. She fills the elevator with the scent of violets and rotates nightly guests as casually as she mistakes apartment doors at 3 AM.
• The Airshaft Stoner: A culinary mystery living across the narrow air vent; an unwitting spectator who made the mistake of looking a little too closely.
• The Nosy Neighbor: The building's hawk-eyed inspector; an expert in scanning clothes, trash schedules, and heavy plastic bags.
• The Cellist in 201: A lover of late-night rehearsals and endless utility complaints, whose loud presence eventually evaporated into thin air.
• The Fleeting Roommates: Transient souls who arrive with grand promises, stack up unpaid bills, and vanish into the night, leaving only fossilized remains behind.

 

 

 

(STAGE LIGHTS TURN ON. Blaring background music—a sultry, mournful jazz that suddenly cuts out. The comedian—a young, impeccable 35-year-old man, magnetic, with a billboard smile and overwhelming confidence—steps onto the stage with a firm stride and stops at the microphone. He holds a steaming cup of coffee and stares fixedly at the front row for a few uncomfortably long seconds.)

 

THE COMEDIAN:

Good evening. Or terrible evening. Depending on the case…

 

(Smirks, with a disarming, ironic charm)

 

I live in a 30-unit apartment building… 30. They’re all pretty much tiny—around 400 square feet. Back in the day, they sold them as "luxury suites," then rented them out as studios… and since it’s in a heavily gentrified neighborhood, rents have gone straight through the roof, like we’re talking Soho prices… And it’s not Soho, it’s Bushwick. But hey, because I’m very prudent, by the time I was 20 I already had enough cash saved up to buy mine outright… Paid in full, cold hard cash… Don’t ask me how I did it. It’s a wonderful place for human coexistence, as long as you consider "coexistence" a synonym for listening to the neighbor in 3B at three in the morning. Anyone here live in an apartment building? Raise your hands.

 

(Points to a young man in the front row)

 

You. The guy in the leather jacket. Don’t give me that look like your building is a sanctuary of spiritual peace. What do you hear at night? Footsteps? Screams? Milk boiling over because nobody’s watching it? The washing machine Mr. Manriquez turns on at midnight because he won't have time tomorrow to wash his… dress shirts? Don’t answer, it’s a rhetorical question… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with overly personal questions. But tell me… Do you also dream that an intruder walks into your place and tries to slit your throat? Don’t answer… I’m joking, haha.

The truth is, apartment buildings have a certain charm… especially those where neighbors are six feet away, separated by paper-thin drywall. It’s absolute heaven for anyone who loves knowing when the woman next door is blending an oat smoothie… or when the guy in 407 got his zipper stuck…

 

(Takes a few steps toward center stage, gesturing with elegance)

 

Let’s be honest. Starting with those charismatic, attractive, delightful neighbors you’d actually want to meet, but who are never home… They’re never home because those charismatic, attractive neighbors… don’t exist. Let's face it: all we have nearby—about two feet away behind a sheet of cardboard—is that mysterious individual who forces us to peek discreetly from window to window, barely five feet across the narrow airshaft. An airshaft that, luckily, has windows so gossipy you can tell if your neighbor’s sandwich is boiled egg again, or if he switched it up to egg… and sausage.

Now, peeking through that tiny air vent holding your breath is a nasty habit that isn't right—it’s definitely not right. It’s not ethical to monitor when his "supplies" arrive—supplies that barely last him two hours, whatever they are—nor is it good to find out that when the effect wears off, filling the entire 3rd, 4th, and 5th floors with a very distinct aroma of weed… the starving neighbor proceeds to devour three pizzas, two packs of instant ramen, a gallon of milk, and an entire jar of Nutella… Mmh. I don’t crave those binges myself… Just watching him eat fills me right up… Oh, and no, I wasn't spying on him. But when he realized it and caught me watching him watch me… well, he got spooked. A few days later, that place was back on the market… Who knows what happened to our little stoner neighbor… He knew too much, though… Boy, could he eat.

A few days later, a female performance artist moved in. These places get snapped up in a heartbeat, even with rents orbiting the International Space Station. Yep, a performance artist. She does "living art." She sets an egg in front of an audience, then brings a different guy home every night—not the egg… one of those guys with two… eggs. This girl, Barbara, comes home insanely late, past four in the morning, stumbling without ever falling because she’s a circus performer, always accompanied by a new recruit. She captures them, I think; seduces them with her fantastic egg-laying act… And then, six feet away from me, she proceeds to hatch it with the help of whichever guy is on shift… A different set of eggs every night… Sometimes three… Though come to think of it, the one laying the egg is always her; she must have spares, I suppose… I’ve bumped into her in the elevator several times; she always smells like violets, and her date is always someone new. But she picks them so similar: they always stare up at the ceiling like it’s crawling with spiders… Me? I can’t stop looking at their pants—you know, right at the fly, checking if their two eggs are still hanging in there.

 

(Laughs naturally; completely unfiltered and unabashed)

 

Yes, I admit I’ve waited in the hallway pretending to fumble for my keys just to greet her with a daytime soap opera smile: "Good evening, neighbor. How’s contemporary art treating you? The performances? I’ve heard you have quite the creative capacity—as if organic, sensitive material were emerging from your innermost self." And she just looks at me with glassy eyes, smiles, and says: "Art hurts, neighbor." And I think: "Yeah, but I bet continuous performance art in your bed with a different guy every night must hurt too."

Apparently, I’m not her type… I think she suspects I don’t share her passion for the new frontiers of theater, performance art, and installations of broken chairs climbing toward the Universe… She knows I do monologues and other things… Well, she doesn’t know that… Well… You try to be a polite, tolerant neighbor who doesn't complain about her noisy night life… and what do I get in return? Egg-laying Barbara mistakes my front door for her suite at three in the morning, pounding and demanding I get out of HER apartment… So I had to whisper in her ear: "Listen, I knew you were crazy, but this isn't your apartment. And don't you dare raise your voice at me, because you have no idea what I’m capable of." Barbara never laid another egg. I mean, she stopped living… in the apartment next door… Well, let’s see if my next neighbor isn’t a weirdo, or a toxic flutist, or a drummer obsessed with twelve-tone serialism… Ugh.

 

(Pausa, takes a sip of coffee, and smiles at the audience with complicity)

 

Look, I’ll be frank: I spy on my neighbors… Almost all of them… But I cannot stand being spied on… Let me tell you…

 

(Walks to the far right, pointing at someone in the third row)

 

You, in the third row. Yes, you, don’t look down… You. If you ran into me in the building lobby, you’d say "Good morning" politely like a civilized human being… Wouldn’t you?… No? You wouldn’t greet me because I scare you, and you’d give me an instant head-to-toe scan trying to guess the weight… of my trash bag, which contains something reasonably heavy—anything, a perfectly reasonable weight, nothing out of the ordinary, don't exaggerate—and you’d stand there thinking: "That handsome, polite young man who leaves so well-groomed at eight in the morning... what does he do for a living? He’s always wearing that same black t-shirt with the little bones, those tight jeans, and that weird habit of taking out heavy trash bags at the exact same time as me… heavy bags he loads into his trunk…"

Ma'am, discretion is a virtue. Eyes talk louder than mouths… If you’d be so kind as to stop staring at my… pants… I know I’m attractive, young, magnetic… What? Why are you pointing at my bag? Are you that interested in what your neighbor throws out? Are you interested in the thick plastic… or are you interested in me…? Don’t answer, it’s a rhetorical question…

 

(To the audience member)

 

And of course, you look like you’re about to leave because you feel uncomfortable and intimidated by all this exposure… You can rest easy, but I’ll tell you this… That nosy, gossipy neighbor doesn’t live… in the building anymore… I don’t know, she probably moved to another borough, or moved to Europe. You never know, n’est-ce pas?

 

(Runs a hand through his hair, laughing at himself)

 

Because at 35, you think you’ve got it all figured out. You’ve got an apartment, an espresso maker, a mysterious cactus that survives on sheer humidity and my daily "Good morning, Mr. Cactus" greetings… You think you’re on top of the world mid-way through average human life expectancy… You know you’re doing way better than fine, way above the satisfying, happy lives of regular city dwellers… You’re thriving, you’re happy, until… those infernal noises ruin the few hours of sleep you wanted all to yourself again…

 

(Lowers his voice, adopting a mischievous tone)

 

Because if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that a community sharing their joyous or miserable lives in a building shouldn’t get used to neighbor noise… You tolerate it, like I do; nobody complains, nobody wants trouble, everyone wants peace and quiet… Of course, there’s always that one guy who loses his mind and goes to knock on the door of the idiot playing the saxophone, or the woman hammering her kitchen floor at 3 AM with zero mercy. But it never ends well…

And I don’t know why, but suddenly the problem—the problems—seem to solve themselves… Voilà, something happens and those noisy, annoying neighbors just stop living… here… in this lawless land… And the noise vanishes… Ha.

 

(Playful, mischievous smile)

 

It’s funny. The guy in 201, for instance. That polite gentleman who played the cello at absurd hours and argued heatedly over complaints about dogs, cats, passionate nights, loud music… claiming they wouldn't let him rehearse his "artistic, silent cello interpretations." Well, that whiny, chubby, hairless gentleman… One day he just… vanished. Absolute silence. Days passed, weeks passed, and not a single note. Did he move to the beach for inspiration? Did he win the lottery and fly to the Bahamas? Or maybe, who knows… he got sick of high HOA fees and decided to evaporate entirely. Poor guy. You never know when neighbors will embark on an unannounced trip and forget to turn off their bathroom shower. How rude.

 

(Shrugs with mock innocence and self-deprecation)

 

And well… same thing happens with roommates. Oh, roommates. Those lovely creatures who arrive with a suitcase full of dreams, filling your life with pleasant banter and promises to stock the fridge with prosciutto and Greek yogurt… After all that joy, they owe three months of utilities, and suddenly disappear in the dead of night, leaving behind nothing but fossilized underwear on the drying rack and an existential void in the fridge. What a mystery life is!

I actually miss them a little… especially when I have to clean the place by myself, because my level of neurosis regarding cleanliness is directly proportional to my single status. My college buddies used to tell me: "Benny, you should get a steady partner, or at least a cool roommate… someone to split expenses and those quiet evenings with." Oh yeah? And risk them discovering I don't even know how to boil an egg, and that my interior design style is non-existent—no unnecessary furniture beyond a table, a chair, an armchair… and my cactus?

No, thank you. I prefer living alone in the image and likeness of God Almighty. Has anyone ever seen God share His apartment with a woman, a roommate, a cactus…? Nah, God is just a beautiful allegory reminding us that we should live alone, in silence, and enjoy our solitude without anyone disturbing our peace… Nobody.

 

(Pauses for comic effect, grinning ear to ear, interacting with the audience)

 

Raise your hands if you live alone. (Waits for hands and points to someone) See, buddy? You get it. You come home at midnight, open the door, and the first thing you do is talk to yourself just to make sure your vocal cords still work. "Do I still have leftover Chinese?" And you answer yourself in a late-night radio host voice: "Nope, you forgot again… Looks like warm oatmeal stirred in water with no sugar for you, buddy." That, my dear friend of enjoyable solitude, is true intimacy. Zero drama.

 

(Steps forward, dropping his voice to a darker, playful register)

 

God, but out on the street… hasn't it happened to you?… I’m convinced people look at me with a mix of fascination and suspicion. Maybe because at 35 I have this exceptional confidence, this massive self-assurance. I walk freely down the street, not staring at anyone weirdly, not following anyone too closely unless they deserve it… I walk silently, stealthily… I don't know why people always think I'm following them—especially women. I assure you I don't want anything from them, and even less from men, I swear… nothing serious with them, nothing.

Once I’m home, I’m extremely quiet… When I get back from the street—supposedly stalking people, right, can you believe it… Ha—I’m very careful not to let out a single disturbing sound… I respect peaceful community life.

I’m weird, yes, I admit it—I'm a fanatic for cleanliness, for eliminating harsh smells, for keeping everything immaculate, for working meticulously, silently, almost surgically in all my… nighttime activities… Ha, ha. I’ll tell you about my nighttime activities another day. Nothing bad, I swear. Nothing unusual. Nothing involving kids, pets… or nosy neighbors staring at me in the elevator or the lobby. Nothing… nothing at all.

 

(Smiles flirtatiously)

 

I promise to be a better host next time someone knocks on my door looking for a place to stay… Because clearly, they got the wrong door.

 

(LIGHTS DIM, leaving a blue spotlight centered on his posture. Sultry, mournful jazz returns in the background).

 

Good night. And please… make sure you lock your door, and leave at least one light on so you don't trip—and so everyone knows someone lives in that apartment, that it’s not empty, and that you’re not in there alone, helpless to defend yourself, helpless to call for help. Calling for help… Ha!

(Impeccable bow, mischievous smile, wink at the audience.

 

TOTAL BLACKOUT).

The Next-Door Neighbor (or The Domestic Serial Killer Monologue). © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

BENNY, AT 40.

  

 

 

BENNY, AT 40

By: Benjamin Gavarre

BENNY, AT 40 © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

gavarreunam@gmail.com 

Genre: Monologue / Stand-Up Comedy

 

Setting: Los Angeles / New York (Adaptable Club Setting)

CHARACTERS

• BENNY (40): A man on the absolute verge of 40, comically terrified, weighed down by imaginary physical ailments, and locked in an exaggerated, pathetic, and hilarious existential crisis.

 

• JOHN-JOHN (An adult styled as a YOUNG MAN): A bearded adult actor dressed in a kid's pair of overalls and light-up sneakers. He looks after Benny and humors him completely.

 

SINGLE SCENE

(STAGE LIGHTS AT FULL BLAST. BENNY enters. He doesn't walk with regular fatigue, but with absolute rigidity, as if he had a broomstick strapped directly to his spine. He evaluates every single step like a bomb technician clearing a minefield. He stops center stage, grimaces in agony, clutches his lower back, and lets out a sigh that rattles the mics).

 

BENNY:

 

Oh, sweet mother of God! Good evening, Los Angeles! Thank you for coming out! Welcome, everybody... oh, my sciatica... This is: Benny, at 40. My fateful birthday is three weeks away, but before that tragic milestone hits, I'm here to try and entertain you while relentless, ruthless time ticks away... ouch!

 

(He tries to straighten up slowly. A simulated joint-cracking sound effect echoes through the speakers).

 

BENNY:

 

Seriously, though... what is up with time? Did anyone else go to sleep at twenty-two... and wake up today at three in the afternoon with thirty-nine years on the clock, three mosquito bites, a tweaked lower back, and a gas bill you literally cannot read without bifocals? The future got here way too fast! And it caught us with our pants completely down.

 

(Pause).

 

I don't know about you guys, but I'm having an existential crisis so deep it feels like a global economic meltdown—there's always some meltdown happening anyway: I'm essentially in ICU, running purely on thoughts and prayers, just weeks away from being happily rescued by Social Security... ouch! It hurts, but honestly? Kind of into it.

 

Because I remember when you're twenty, you're basically immortal, right? You'd eat six heavy-ass carne asada street tacos with extra salsa, onions, cilantro, and a giant horchata at four in the morning. You’d pound two tequila shots, drink whatever sketchy mystery liquid was in someone's plastic cup, sleep for three hours on the freezing concrete floor of some underground warehouse rave... and wake up the next morning looking like a Renaissance painting of a cherub! Forever young!

 

But today? Today, hell no. You wake up, peer into the bathroom mirror through half-closed eyes so you don't scare yourself to death... and realize you're trapped in a Greek tragedy directed by a film student. Alas, I am Oedipus, and these were my youthful eyes!

 

You look down at your stomach... a cute little craft-beer belly that already has its own life insurance policy, pays rent, and votes for the absolute worst candidates on the ballot. But it gets worse, you keep exploring further down... and boom: Another tragedy—or comedy, who knows? You've got gray hairs down in the pubes! You already had gray hair on your head, in your ears, on your chest... and yes, ladies and gentlemen, cue the drumroll please... gray hair where the sun literally never shines! Nooooo!

 

(Pause).

 

I didn't even know that was legally allowed to happen, you know?

 

(He takes a couple of steps, freezes dead in his tracks, and grabs his left knee with both hands).

 

BENNY:

 

CRACK! Did you guys hear that? My left knee just seceded from the union! At my age, the body doesn't just age; it declares a full labor strike. It refuses to lift heavy things or walk up flights of stairs, period! My knee now functions as a local weather app: if it aches and throbs, it’s gonna rain; if it clicks and burns, it means traffic on the 405 is completely gridlocked. I could literally work on local morning news as the hot weather guy. Well, the aging-hot-guy weather forecaster. Granted, since I’m not a twenty-something influencer with a ring light, they don't call me... their loss, because my damp, aching bones are extremely accurate. Today... it's gonna pour.

 

This bodily betrayal is deeply unfair. My body isn't what it used to be! Even the guys at the corner bodega or 7-Eleven don't recognize me anymore. The other day I went in to buy my absolute favorite treats: unfiltered cigarettes, dark stout beer, and sugar-free marshmallows, because I can no longer afford the luxury of chewing hard foods. I tell the guy behind the counter:

 

—Hey man, you know: the usual.

 

BENNY (acting as the indifferent clerk, deadpan):

 

—The usual? ...Excuse me, sir... do I know you?

 

BENNY:

 

—It’s me, Benny, bro! Come on, man... I've been shopping here for fifteen years! Did you just call me "sir"?

 

BENNY (as the clerk):

 

—Oh, snap! My bad, boss. Look... no offense, man, but with that pillow-flattened bedhead and those eighty brand-new wrinkles—you've got crow's feet on your crow's feet—I didn't recognize you. Here’s your usual, sir. Like always... sir.

 

BENNY:

 

Sir! He called me "sir"! Twice! Three times! I should've flipped the chip rack over, roundhoused the slurpee machine, and stolen his chocolate muffins... but I didn't, because I'm a good person... and because I would've lost access to my sugar-free marshmallows, which are literally the only thing I can digest without triggering an existential heartburn.

 

Oh, and don't get me started on my teeth! My dentist of twenty years thinks she's a comedian: "Don't worry, Benny, your adult teeth aren't growing back because you're not a kid anymore. But for a small, ten-year financing plan, we can drill titanium screws straight into your jawbone and bring back your smile." Titanium screws?! I don't want hardware installed in my face! I don't want screws in my mouth; what I want is for the Tooth Fairy to come back, leave me twenty bucks for every tooth that falls out, and magically give me a fresh set of brand-new molars... Yeah, right, only in my dreams. Sigh.

 

Listen, at this advanced age, you start getting weird... anti-social. Paranoid. Lazy. You spend hours glued to a massive La-Z-Boy recliner that takes up eighty percent of your living room. Because I ask you... why stand up when you can achieve zero-gravity astronaut status while binge-watching some mediocre Netflix true-crime docuseries? Your ultimate Friday night aspiration is no longer going to a sweaty indie rock show in Silver Lake to get elbowed in the ribs by people who are now also exhausted thirty-somethings.

 

Frankly, my ultimate aspiration in life is getting plans cancelled to any party in Glendale, North Hollywood, or Studio City, especially those terrible birthday gatherings in Echo Park. If the text drops saying, "Hey man, we're postponing," I whisper: Thank you, sweet baby Jesus! You won! You get to stay home, microwave some instant ramen with extra lime and hot sauce... your mouth starts watering just thinking about it... put on your duck slippers by 7:00 PM, and have a magnificent, glorious sleep-orgasm with your marshmallows and Netflix. And boom, you wake up at 4:00 AM, crawl into your actual bed, and go right back to sleep, thrilled you skipped that awful party. Ah, bliss.

 

(SUDDEN LIGHT CHANGE. Benny steps forward, but instantly freezes with wide eyes, patting down his pockets in a panic).

 

BENNY:

 

Wait... hold on a second. Do I have my keys? Let me check... jacket... pants... oh, you've got to be kidding me. Did I leave the stove on? I had a pot of beans simmering on the back burner since this morning! No, no, no... wait, I thought I turned it off, but what if I didn't and right now my entire apartment complex is burning to the ground? What if the neighbors already called the fire department and they're taking a chainsaw to my bathroom door where I left my most embarrassing underwear hanging to dry?

 

(He bites his lip, staring intensely at someone in the front row).

 

Ma'am, excuse me, do you believe in gas leaks and household negligence? Because I suddenly remembered I rushed out the door and... oh man. If my place burns down, the only valuable things I own are my bootleg concert tees and three rolls of Costco toilet paper I hoarded back in 2020. Good grief, the stove!

 

(He pulls out a set of imaginary keys, jingles them loudly, and lets out a massive sigh of relief).

 

Oh, never mind. Here are the keys. They were literally in my hand the whole time. And the stove... yeah, I'm pretty sure I turned it off. Or at least my blind faith in divine intervention says so. Anyway, let's keep going before I actually have a stroke.

 

(At that exact moment, JOHN-JSON—played by a large, bearded adult actor dressed in a kid's pair of overalls and light-up neon sneakers—runs screaming down the center aisle, stomping heavily toward the stage).

 

JOHN-JOHN:

 

WAAAAAH! I'M A SPACE FIRE DRAGON!

 

(Benny jumps out of his skin, smacks his chest in sheer terror, and lets out a high-pitched shriek).

 

BENNY:

 

Aaaaah! A six-foot-tall toddler in neon sneakers! Who let this bearded kid into the venue?! Is he an undercover IRS agent trying to audit me because I've been writing angry complaints about property taxes on X?!

 

(Benny points a selfie stick at him like a spear, breathing heavily. John-John freezes right at the edge of the stage, striking an exaggerated monster pose. Benny squints, rubs his eyes, squints harder, takes a step closer... and his entire expression instantly melts into relief).

 

BENNY:

 

Oh, snap! My bad... sorry! You're not a millennial demonic entity! It's just you, man. Thank god you made it. Everyone look, this is John-John, my nephew! He’s, uh... very tall!

 

(To the audience, looking deeply embarrassed).

 

I swear to you guys, my blurry vision doesn't work past ten feet anymore! Between the astigmatism and the dim lighting, I genuinely thought the Grim Reaper had shown up in glowing sneakers to harvest my soul, and it turns out it's just my nephew coming to rescue me so I don't have to walk home alone!

 

(He leans down slightly toward John-John with total camaraderie).

 

Hey, John-John... did you bring the official ride? You did? Did you check the tires on the bike? You're a genius, little buddy! And yes, he's my nephew, don't be weird about it... I mean, I'm only ten or fifteen years older than him... look, whatever, he's my savior. Don't look at me like that! Walking home alone at night is sketch. I'd call an Uber, but you know how those modern apps are: I type in West Hollywood and it drops me off in the middle of a sketchy alley in DTLA. I have a curse with mapping apps. But hey! Tonight, my nephew is driving his turbo-charged vehicle while I scream instructions like a madman. Clear the street, Batman and Robin are rolling out!

 

(Looking out at the audience with his chest puffed out, proudly regaining his posture).

 

See? There is hope for the future, ladies and gentlemen! The youth are not our enemies. The youth are the ones who are going to wheel us home on bicycle pegs when our knees finally give out completely. Let's hear it for the younger generation whose joints don't pop! Let's roll, John-John, the streets are ours. Thank you, wonderful people, until next time... haha, let's go fast, little buddy!

 

(A heavy rock beat like Guns N' Roses blasts through the speakers, instantly transitioning into a high-energy funk/disco groove à la Jamiroquai. The stage lights shift to vibrant party colors).

 

BENNY:

 

Crisis averted, Los Angeles! John-John, drop the beat! Show these old folks how people with healthy knee cartilage dance!

 

(John-John starts busting out a wildly energetic, modern dance routine. Benny tries to copy him with incredible enthusiasm, but on the second step he makes a false move, lets out a loud "OUCH!", and grabs his hip. Instead of stopping, he weaves his bodily pain straight into the rhythm. He turns his limp, his back spasms, and his cramps into a hilariously absurd, improvised choreography alongside the kid, who dances around him cheering).

 

BENNY:

 

Cherish your cartilage, my friends! Hug your nephews! And if you find a gray hair in the forbidden zone tomorrow... don't pluck it, throw it a block party!

 

(John-John hops onto a prop bicycle left on stage. Benny struggles a bit to hop on behind him, grabbing John-John by the shoulders. They pretend to speed off together to the beat of the music, limping along cheerfully as they exit stage left

 

BENNY:

 

Good night, L.A.! Let's cruise, John-John... wait, not that fast, my sciatica is flaring up, take it easy... Goodbye!

 

(LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK AS THE MUSIC SURGES TO MAXIMUM VOLUME AND AUDIENCE APPLAUSE FILLS THE ROOM).

 

CURTAIN / END OF MONOLOGUE

 

BENNY, AT 40 © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0