And the doctor does just that, walking into the hall and hooking up with his trophy wife in her Little Black Cocktail Number. In her smooth, sultry voice, "Renee" asks whether it was another ungrateful patient. "Aren't they all?" Dr. Condescension asks. She asks if he thinks the kid will sue. As they get into a steel elevator, he says, "He's alive. He should be thanking me."
We cut back to the artist boy. He pulls back a sheet of the big tablet paper as if he's a contestant on Win, Lose or Draw. Underneath the crude sketch is what looks like a very accurate, airbrushed portrait of Dr. Condescension. Now add some roses, a bare-chested lady, the Virgin Mary, and a Chevy, and you've got yourself some bad-ass lowrider art. Artist Boy eyes the picture with his mouth hanging open and his hair all curly.
Elevator. Things start to shake. "What's going on?" Trophy Renee asks. She and Dr. Condescension get thrown around. That loud techno music is probably the cause. The lights on the floor numbers drop precipitously. They go from Floor 12 to Floor 8 in just a few seconds. More shaking. Lights flicker. Dr. Con and Renee fall to the floor. I once read one of those Remo Williams books where he was falling in a plummeting elevator, and at the last moment, he and his babe jumped, and even though the elevator exploded around them, they totally survived. I doubt that's going to happen here. Doc and Renee get up. "Get us out of here! Hurry up!" Renee screams, showing remarkable passion and hysteria for a glorified extra. Doc pushes some buttons. Renee yells some more. "Hurry up! Come on!" she yells. She's well-practiced in this refrain after dealing with Dr. Condescension's pesky Viagra prescription. Doc Con pushes open a panel and sticks his head out, yelling for help. Unsurprisingly, Renee yells, too. "That's it. Give me a hand up," she says. Somebody give this lady a WB series. She's got way better acting chops than a certain booby character actress we said goodbye to a few months ago. Doc gives Renee a boost up and out of the elevator while I try not to look at her evening gowned-ass. Yelling. Struggling.