It's late - rewritten on request for 'more action'

It is late in the evening. A group of conspirators meets over whiskey and cigarettes. All have drinks. A game of poker was played. L won V’s car. The evening is winding down.

A dog enters the room and bites V. V curses. R grins.

R: What do dogs think about elevators? You walk into a machine. The doors close. The doors open. The entire world changes.
V: That is pretty much the same experience I had at this morning. I walked into the elevator, the doors opened and a Russian spy stepped in. He pointed a gun at me. For a moment my entire world changed.
R: Most of the close buttons don’t work anymore. They’ve been disabled.
V: Some do. Some do.

R exits stage right.
Off stage a muted argument is heard between R and L. A door slams.
Enter L from the stage left.

V to L: By the way, don’t say anything. She will just transcribe what you say and post in on the internet.
L spots a box of cigars in the corner
L: Ooh, Cubans!
V: Yes, I use them for my nerves.
L: Exactly.
L snips a cigar and lights it. V checks what his wife is doing.
V: This is the second lamest blog I’ve ever seen. Look, she’s doing it.
L: I don’t think it should count then.

L continues to smoke, breathing deeply. The sounds of R storming around the basement and V counting poker chips can be heard in the background. The dog enters and growls at the smoke from L’s cigar.

L: Seriously?

V enters.

V: I could throw the cat at the dog... your blogs always make me sound like a crazy person. Someday I'll stop talking. Then you’ll be sorry.
L: I think we should cut off her fingers.
R: I’m going to bed.
V: Don’t think you can get away that easily.
R drops a towel in L’s lap and leaps through the window.

Silence.

L: Now you have to say something profound.

V looks askance at the women on the couch, slowly draws his fingers across his neck in a gruesome gesture. He exits.

The women sob quietly.