& find the mute somehow refreshed, the other, sullen against a wall, promising more than our money's worth once back in our seats. II. The houselights blink & the performers leave through a side door to the alley, the mute patting the other's back, trying to lift his spirit, but he'll have none of it. The stage looks the same; there are new costumes; the mute: leather trousers & vest, mountain boots laced on hooks. The other wears faded dungarees. Falanga is first -- the steel rod glitters in the mute's gloved hand, & already it is clear his brother is a poor sport; seated on one chair, he complains as his feet are forced into the slats of another; the soles face us. The mute begins by tapping, but now he is whipping, studiously, the rod whirring in the air, the brother biting his tongue, waiting it out; we count twelve strokes; the mute dislodges the feet, & the brother stays put, soles too puffed to stand. Beneath the third cloth is The Chair, four-wheeled & homemade, its power drawn from the car battery bolted to its side, two clamps as large & as red as needle-nosed pliers are attached to the skin of the Adam's apple & the slight roll of fat at the waist. The mute flicks on the head-high electrometer, with numerals large enough to see, & from behind The Chair, he eases a dial from zero to nine; the brother glares above us; twenty gets