A derelict basement apartment. Decades. In the future. Mott's DJ career - and his spunk - have turned to dust. Freud hasn't been able to paint for 73 (Or is it 23? 95?) years. Maybe it's time for a new fucking muse.
What to do with the old one?
"Intense, intriguing and deeply introspective ... Weaver is [a writer] with considerable promise" - Chris Jones, Chicago Tribune
"[a] sometimes hilarious, sometimes repugnant symphony of squalor" - Kerry Reid, Chicago Reader
Allison Cain, John Ferrick, Christopher Hainsworth, and Ann Sonneville
AND THE WORK OF
William Anderson (sets), Emily Duffin (props), Miles Polaski (sound), Greg Poljacik (fights), Seth Reinick (lights), and Mieka van der Ploeg (costumes)