"Who did this?", demanded the production manager.
There was a loud clamor of response from the ensemble of ecclectic personnel in front of him. A few raised their hands in surrender and for lack of a better subject, merely looked at the dark rafters above them.
"Well, for one keep it down! It's not like the audience has yet left the building. They can hear us."
The word "us" came out as a contemptuous hiss as he snapped a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and spat out the end.
Outside the audience meandered in the lobby, sipping on liqeurs and cappucinos that they would normally find overpriced. This was, after all, a theatre.
In the dressing room, a clown enthusiastically blew bubbles and danced around as if constantly in rehearsal.
"Honestly, Sir Happypants, isn't enough enough?"
A classic beauty dressed in eastern belly dancing gear stood forward and confidently declared, "Look. I'm not exactly sure why we're here"
A non descript usher, in a great effort not to draw much attention to himself responded.
"Everyone but the main character quit. He fired the rest."
"Seems unprofessional to say the least. Is this guy some kind of prima donna?"
The production manager let out a slow steady train of smoke towards the ceiling and glanced around the dressing room as if he was ready to spit. There were costumes and props from everything from Shakespeare to Miller.
"Prima Donna? Yeah, this guy made himself casting director, script writer, stage manager, costumer designer and head writer."
Mr, Happypants blew a low, constant note on his kazoo which ended upon seeing his current company's sour expression.
"So, what do we do then, Boss?", asked the set designer.
"Well, what are we supposed to do? He said take down the set."
"Should I put up another one?"
"How the hell should I know?"
The attractive lead sallied forward, shimmying her hips for playful effect and ran her fingers up the Production manager's tie.
"Well, I don't suppose we can learn the rest of this play in the next fifteen minutes, sooooooo...."
Her voice was sullen enough that even Mr. Happypants let another helium baloon drift to the rafters, striking a hot light with a loud pop.
The production manager straightenned his jacket and half stepped backwards, nearly tripping over a mannequin.
"Soooo...it sounds like your lead man wants to improv."
She sallied forth towards the stage, motioning back for the others to follow.
"Come on, now. The show must go on"