THE CUSTOMER. What do you mean?
THE BARBER. She's dead, John—dead.
(THE CUSTOMER groans. Then, suddenly, he tries to rise. THE BARBER places his hand over his forehead and eyes, and forces him back into the chair.)
THE BARBER. Thirty seconds for your prayers, John!
THE CUSTOMER. Don't kill me, man! Don't kill me! I'm not fit to die! I'm not ready! A minute! Two minutes! I'm too young! Don't kill—
(THE BARBER, still with his hand upon the other man's eyes, suddenly seizes a wet towel and strikes him across the throat with it. THE CUSTOMER faints. THE BARBER looks at him contemptuously; abruptly raises the chair to a sitting position; puts away the razor.)
THE BARBER. So your nerve gave way, John? Your nerve gave way? (He spreads the towel over THE CUSTOMER's face and roughly wipes away the lather.)
THE CUSTOMER. (Beginning to come to; faintly) Where am I?
THE BARBER. You ought to be in hell, but I guess you're still on
God's good earth.
THE CUSTOMER. (Putting his hand to his throat) You—you didn't kill me?