Here’s a bit from the script of the play columbinus (title not capitalized) by Stephen Karam and PJ Paparelli, where Dylan and Eric fight while making one of the Basement Tapes.
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Act II, section What If?
DYLAN: So this is a bizarre question, but how do you really think it will end?
ERIC: Well, we’re not getting out of there alive—not with all those cops out there. So, the best way to go is a shootout.
DYLAN: And then?
ERIC: Then what? We’re dead. We’re history…the greatest school shooting of all time.
DYLAN: And after that?
ERIC: What do you mean, “after that”?
DYLAN: Oh, come on…like you haven’t thought about this?
ERIC: What is there to think about?
DYLAN: We’re going to be dead in two days.
ERIC: Yeah, it’s weird knowing you are going to die.
DYLAN: Weird? It’s terrifying.
ERIC: Yeah, that’s the best part.
DYLAN: Oh, yeah…like you’re not a bit scared.
ERIC: Look, why are we even talking about this?
DYLAN: Dude, why are you so sensitive?
ERIC: Okay, Dylan, let’s talk about death. The afterlife, if there is one, is like the final level of Doom, okay? Destroying, killing—
DYLAN: Fucking Doom?
ERIC: It’s blackness. It’s nothing. It’s just over.
DYLAN: How do you know?
ERIC: I know.
DYLAN: No. You can’t know. No one knows. You just too scared to think about it?
ERIC: Look, we have always been set on this. We put guns to our heads and count one, two, three. That is the plan. It is what I will do. And I need you to do it, too. Like we planned. Over and over, now what the fuck?
DYLAN: You just think you’re going to be able to kill yourself just like that? Bang and that’s it?
ERIC: There’s no thinking. You’re gonna have blood on your hands from these guns. The kickback is going to destroy your hands. You won’t be thinking about anything. Your heart will be pounding and the gun will be the only thing you can do.
DYLAN: Okay, I hear you. You’re in my face here.
ERIC: Good, because you don’t have a choice. Gun in hand, I will end my life and you will end yours. End of discussion.
DYLAN (beat): What if I don’t?
ERIC: What did you say?
DYLAN: What if you shoot first, but I decide not to? What are you gonna do then?
ERIC: What is this? You want to fuck this up? I’m not gonna let you fuck this up. You’re out. Get the fuck out. Get out. (DYLAN goes.) Okay, Dylan, you’re going. Okay. Yeah. Hey, you forgot your camera. (DYLAN goes to get the camera.) What the hell? What’s your problem? Christ… (ERIC crosses to the window and grabs his arm.)
DYLAN: What’s your problem? I asked you a simple question—
ERIC: Two days before? You wait until tonight to ask your simple question?
DYLAN: Fine, no more questions. I’ll just do what I’m told and not say a thing.
ERIC: Sit the fuck down.
DYLAN: I’ll pretend that I’m not scared and run around here giving orders like some fucking Marine.
ERIC: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE MARINES? (Goes after him, knocking him to the ground; turns the safety off on the shotgun; points it at his face.) Jesus Christ, you asshole. You have no idea what I’m capable of. (Drops the gun and moves away.)
DYLAN: You are fucked, man. Fucked. (ERIC turns away.) Why would you do that? Why would you fucking do that to me?
ERIC (starts to break down): Fuck you. You’re such an asshole…
DYLAN: What, the Marines?
ERIC: Well, that’s it, eh?
DYLAN: Oh.
ERIC: My parents are fucking idiots. (Tries to laugh.)
DYLAN: What’d they do—
ERIC: The Marines don’t take drugs, Mom, not even prescription…
DYLAN: She told the recruiter?
ERIC (moves on): It doesn’t matter.
DYLAN: They didn’t let you in because of a prescription drug?
ERIC: It doesn’t matter.
DYLAN: I’m sorry—
ERIC (erupts): Jesus Christ, you asshole.
DYLAN: What—
ERIC: What do you want, Dylan? You want to live this fucking life? I’m done. Okay? I want one last memory. One I’ve been planning more than trying to finger your little girlfriend at the prom…
DYLAN: She’s not my girlfriend, you fuck. She is a friend that went to the prom with your friend who happened to buy us these guns. What’s your problem?
ERIC: I wouldn’t know, Dylan. I sat here stuffing pipe bombs all night. Tell me what prom was like. I don’t know. (ERIC jumps right back to previous discussion without a beat.) Go on. You can lick smelly ass until the day we throw our little caps in the air and sing “Columbine, oh Columbine”? And Miss Valedictory gives her prize-winning speech about how wonderful it was at Columbine High School, all the friends she made…when you and I and maybe four others out of a class of what, 350, actually talked to her? I’m not going to sit there to listen to bullshit spew from what is supposed to be the smartest person in the class…fuck me. No way. They don’t deserve that day. They don’t deserve one more day past Tuesday. I want them to feel they almost got away with it. One last prom. One last yearbook picture…
DYLAN: You’re not taking it, are you?
ERIC: What?
DYLAN (picks up the pill bottle): Your medicine. You’re pretty fucked up…
ERIC: What…you’re worried ‘cause I’m angry?
DYLAN (tosses the bottle at him): I mean, look at you…
ERIC: Don’t fuck with me, Dylan.
DYLAN: You can’t even stand still.
ERIC: Shut the fuck up.
DYLAN: Is all this in your plan?
ERIC: You are a sad, lanky, ugly loner—
DYLAN: …WHO WENT TO THE FUCKING PROM. (ERIC doesn’t know what to do; DYLAN waits.) It’s a real surprise the Marines didn’t want to add a bi-polar freak to their ranks—
(ERIC punches him. DYLAN throws ERIC to the ground and eventually punches him in the face.)
ERIC: Stop. Stop. FUCK!
DYLAN (full of rage mixed with pain. Seeing ERIC’s nose bleeding.): Jesus fucking Christ, Eric. Why do you have to push this? You keep pushing…
ERIC: I’m sorry.
DYLAN: Fuck. I didn’t want to hit you. I didn’t want all this.
ERIC: You didn’t want all this?
DYLAN: No. I don’t know. I wanted this, but I didn’t want…
ERIC: What?
DYLAN: I don’t want to fight you. I don’t hate you. It’s about them.
ERIC: That’s why we’re doing this.
DYLAN: Then what the fuck is our problem. Let’s just do it.
ERIC: Okay, okay. It is going to happen. That’s why that closet’s full of pipe bombs…
DYLAN: I want them to pay.
ERIC: And these guns are real.
DYLAN: I wanna watch them pay.
ERIC: And Reb is fucking real, man. And so is Vodka.
DYLAN: I want them to feel this…like a knife to the skin of America, slicing her, with a jagged edge. The skin’s bunched up, digs in deep. It won’t heal without a scar.
ERIC: Right here, man. (Handing him the gun.) Right here. We’ll leave a scar on America that will never heal. We’re gonna kick start a revolution. We’ll be remembered forever. Like gods, man, like fucking gods…
DYLAN: Directors will die to film this movie.
ERIC: They’ll be fighting over us.
DYLAN: Spielberg or Tarantino?
ERIC & DYLAN: FUCKING TARANTINO.
DYLAN: And of course they’ll blame the movies.
ERIC: But who actually blows up their school.
DYLAN: No one. Just us.
ERIC: Planned to the “T.”
DYLAN: Executed without error.
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Admittedly, after the release of Dylan’s diaries in 2006 (this scene was written in 2005), consisting of his endless suicidal ruminations of how his existence is shit, he wants to die, etc., this whole scene rings very false — it would be Dylan insisting Eric commit suicide with him, if anything! Also, I think it exonerates Dylan a bit too much and makes Eric out to be the crazy mastermind, but I seem to recall Dylan was the one whooping and hollering during the library massacre.
Still, don’t judge the rest of the play from this one scene! I wish they were putting this on somewhere near me so I could see it in person.
Columbine 