High Viscosity!™

[Iron Sulfide]

Int – Klutz Loft

Argo and Louis are chatting over tea and biscuits.

Argo:
It's nice to be on this side of the country again. I haven't been in what feels like a dog's age!

Louis:
You haven't changed a bit, you old faggot!

Argo:
Yes, well...I would be insulted by that, but I fa' got what it means.

Louis:
Oh, good one! Very clever.

Argo:
What time did you say Philly was going to be here?

Louis looks at his watch and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

Louis:
I would imagine not much longer. He and Pandora went to the library. They probably stopped off for a bite to eat.

Argo fixes Louis' eyes as he prepares to open himself

Argo:
I'm glad to hear they're getting on fine. How much does Philly know about...the past?

Louis:
Your guess is as good as mine. You know in the pictures, how the characters always fret over all the little things instead of openly asking the other person? I really hate that. Just talk to him. He will understand in his own way.

Pandora and Philly come through the front door, talking as they put their coats up. They seem to have moved on from their awkward tension.

Pandora:
Oh, you're such a cry baby. Cheer up Emo Kid! You're gonna' die someday.

Philly:
Yeah, well you'll just have to what the fuck? Argo? What are you doing here?
Philly wrestles his flight response.

Argo:
Hello son. I would like it if we could talk.

Louis gestures to Pandora to follow him into the kitchen. Once the room is clear, Philly sits down opposite his father and crosses his arms.

Philly:
Has the Reichstag burned down lately?

Argo:
Actually, yes...your father and I had an argument about you.

Philly:
Right- and I'm supposed to feel sorry for you now? That's how this works, doesn't it? Since I was a little boy, Sven does the damage and you take care of the cleanup. So go ahead: fix being Nazi scientists.

Argo slumps in defeat.

Argo:
You're right. He's really a bastard. We were just geneticists, Philly. But that doesn't justify support of the Holocaust. I don't expect you to forgive me. I just think you deserve to know everything I do about this.

Philly softens at the genuine sentiment of this gesture.

Argo (cont.):
Actually, that's what your father and I were arguing over. He doesn't think you should know. Not because you don't deserve to, just because he thinks no good can come of it.

Philly:
How deep does it actually go? I mean: were you just peons, or am I looking at decorated officers?

Argo:
We were just scientists. But we reported directly to Himmler himself. Our assignment was to obtain a genetic sample of Hitler, in order to clone him should anything disastrous happen to the Third Reich. We obtained a sample and preserved it. Of course, History happened. But we weren't capable of cloning until the early 70's.

Philly:
The 70's? No way! Scientists have barely been able to clone sheep, just recently.

Argo:
It's true, Phillip. Cloning technology was perfected by underground Nazis in 1973, and we carried out our assignment and created a clone of the genetic sample.

Philly:
Wait, 1973...that's the year I was born.
Philly looks at Argo and Argo slowly nods his head.

Argo:
Yes; you are the result of that experiment. I'm sorry you had to find out like this.

Philly:
I'm a reincarnation of Hitler?! WHAT?

Argo:
Settle down, son. No. Yes. Well- we did use the genetic sample that was obtained. And you are that DNA. But something went wrong- the genetic code didn't match Hitler's. They scraped the project, and your Father and I raised you as our own.

Philly:
That's why I've always had nightmares about that book, "Are you my mother?"- I DON'T HAVE A MOTHER!

Argo absorbs Philly's shouting with the grace of knowing he had it coming.

Philly:
I'M A HITLER REJECT WITH FAGGOT NAZI PARENTS!

Argo:
Please, calm down!

Louis comes in from the other room to make sure everything is reasonable. Pandora peaks around the corner. Philly stands up and continues shouting at
Argo.

Philly:
MY GIRL WAS FUCKING HER CO-WORKER ON 9-11 AND DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THE TOWERS FELL! THAT'S HOW I FOUND OUT!

Argo just sits.

Louis:
Come on, Philly, let's take five.

Philly:
TAKE FUCK! I DON'T EVEN WORK FOR A RESPECTABLE PERIODICAL. I WRITE FOR THE HIGH TIMES! OF COUNTER-CULTURES! SUCK. A. FUCK.

Argo stands and tries to pat Philly's shoulder. He recoils and switches to his Alt. STOCKHOLM smiles as he steps into the scene. ["Master Race" Theme]

Stockholm:
I've got the Final Solution to Pollution of the mind:
expose and close illusions that are buisin' up your line of reasoning...



Ext – The Park

STOCKHOLM continues his rap in spring. He strolls The park, admiring flowers growing on the hillside. As per usual, he wields a mighty spliff.

Stockholm:
I like the season of spring. The power flowers are gorging in orgies, starting to sing of things we never lack. I smack the anti-somatic with a pneumatic Chinese fire drill. I'm a psycho-Semitic, Hermetically sealed.

Stockholm makes an occult gesture with his hands.

Stockholm (Cont.):
I need a medic with colonics, 'cause I'm feeling catatonic from a bout of bubonic plague, but I've got it made. You need a Mnemonic device? Hooked on Phonics is nice. You strike as Homophonephobic-

Stockholm cups his ear.

Stockholm (Cont.):
It means you're afraid of the "sounds like." Herman, the German fox, and the hound- abounding 'round the fact that they're astounding! So I'll fight you with words, it's absurd! I've got blurbs to burp, and birds that chirp, and girders to perturb and Jurgen's Hand Softener.

Stockholm pulls out a bottle of lotion and smears it on his hands. Three HOOLIGANS he is walking past suddenly start singing Chorus:

Hooligans:
Just a turd kickin' back with the nerds in the back of the class!

Stockholm:
And I've got class enough to pass around the stuff, take a puff!

Stockholm hands the spliff to the hooligans and continues walking.

Stockholm (Cont.):
'Cause black and red will make you dead, but read and black will bring you back! I'm a clone on the phone, telling you to postpone your abstract shellacking of facts. And I'm rising higher and higher in this vision of Maya.

Stockholm sees N'yo Bé and pursues him.

Stockholm (Cont.):
And derision kept me sitting in the first place. Displacing my replacement, I headed to the basement for abasement and got a taste of the afterlife, made her my second wife, but divorced her 'cause she likes the price is right.

N'yo Bé ducks around a few corners and shrubs in the park, evading Stockholm at every move.

Stockholm (Cont.):
Now I'm addicted to rabbinic scriptures and pictures of Christians prophesying all their lies with conviction-

Stockholm sneaks past a group of evangelicals preaching at bums and vagrants.

Stockholm (Cont.):
list'nin to Ginsberg curtly spurting the murky troof with aloof contempt for unkempt representatives, rows of roses supposed by Spinoza overshadowing cantos composed by Kant and ranting that fractal equations can mend abrasions of the psyche. It might
be that I see a little bit of everything.

He finally gives up the chase and rests on a hillside. Having donated his spliff to the hooligans, he rolls a fresh one.

Stockholm (Cont.):
You can tell by my smile, this Übermensh has guile. While I'm pushing the dial, I make it known that I'm a phile for –osophy!

He finishes rolling with a twist to the tip and lights it with a match seemingly produced from nowhere. N'yo Bé comes into view, approaching Stockholm from behind. He wafts in the smoke around Stockholm's head and snatches the spliff away.

Stockholm (Cont.):
What the cock?

N'yo Bé drawls through the spliff.

N'yo Bé:
I can see now very clearly that you are not the same man I spoke to before. And
I can see now, the good lord, she shows me...you are to do big things. But right now you are conflicted, maybe even confused. What is your name?

Stockholm yanks the spliff back and rips on it.

Stockholm:
I'm the cheese, see? I do what I please; you cannot seize me. It's Stockholm in the Catacombs, and I'm prone to bein' sleazy.

N'yo Bé squints at Stockholm.

N'yo Bé:
I can see you now, you are going talk with you father. Not angry father, sad father.

Philly:
Argo...Argo is sad?

Stockholm:
He probably needs more penis. I haven't been laid in a while, and I tell you: even I could go for a cock right now.

N'yo Bé:
I can see you are the man coming up in the world, beginning to learn his father has the means and the answers for his questions.

Stockholm flicks the spliff off into the distance.

Stockholm:
You know, Philly might be a sucker, but I know about you. Isn't it Super Cool?

N'yo Bé:
Super Cool?

Stockholm:
Yes, your name: Doesn't your name mean super cool, or something like that?

N'yo Bé chuckles a little.

N'yo Bé:
How would you know my name?  The good lord, she protects me.

Stockholm:
N'yo Bé? Isn't that Mandarin? I believe it's a colloquial expression that means "Super Cool," does it not?

N'yo Bé nods slowly.

Stockholm (Cont.):
Super cool, as in a cold reading. But that's not really what it literally means, does it?

N'yo Bé:
This is actually kind of scary...

Stockholm:
I'm getting a "C"- a Cunt? It feels like a cunt, but that's not the word. Is is a Cow? Yes, a cow...A part of a cow...N'yo Bé? You changed the spelling, it should be N-A-O space B-A-I, but you spell it N-Y-O space B-E...It means "a cow's vagina"? Why does that mean "super cool"?

N'yo Bé shakes his head, knowing that he's been bested in his own craft.

N'yo Bé:
Have you ever been inside a cow's vagina?

Stockholm:
Gads no, man. I'm a bit boring, in that I like human females.

N'yo Bé:
Okay, well- since the ruse is rusted- just contact Argo. He's prepared to go a lot further than you might imagine.

[Iron Sulfide]

Int - Fillet Show! Set

Philly stands before his audience, feigning interest in his work.

Philly:
Erm, yes. Uhhhh...Just shut the fuck up and watch it, okay?

Philly pulls out a cigarette and lights it.


Ext – Gas Station

Jude pulls into town in a dusty, tan station wagon. His 15 year-old daughter watches the play of hue and motion from the back seat. As they stop at the service station to buy some gas, he sings.

Jude:
"...and we'll all go out to meet her when she comes, and we'll all go out to meet her when she comes..."

Rapt in his cheerful song, he is caught off guard by a former co-worker, Tim, from the recently closed key chain factory.

Tim:
Hey, Jude! What'cha up to, there?

Tim walks up to Jude as he's pumping gas.

Jude:
Oh, not much, Tim. Getting a little fuel for the ol' wagon just now. How're the wife and kids?

Jude shifts, nervously, as though there is some place he needs to be.

Tim:
Oh, not too bad, I s'pose.

Tim looks bashfully at his feet.

Tim (Cont.):
We're makin' ends meet. Everyone gots to do their God given part, but we make it happen.

Jude:
Hey, that's good to hear! He truly does work in mysterious ways, doesn't he?

Tim breathes for a moment.

Tim:
He sure does. Though I do have to admit: these sure is hard Times we're goin' through, what with the cavin' in of damn near every financial inst'tution, and losing the loan on my mortgages, then gettin' canned at the plant.

He huffs and harrumphs.

Tim (Cont.):
But...well...you know...Jenny, my lil' sweet sixteen hadda drop her junior class so's she could work at the laundra-mat full-Time. She's pretty sharp, though; natural smarts, she gets it from her ma's side.

Jude looks at the watch on his wrist.

Jude:
There you go. That's positive thinking, right there! A sunny disposition helps in the darkest of days.

Tim:
...yeah...she's due for a promotion to janitor any Time now, too. Tommy, still livin' at home 'cause he cain't 'ford livin' costs on his own. 'Course, he's a carpenter, so he's always good for sumpthin'.

Jude:
So, he makes tables? How Christ-like. I love it.

Tim looks a bit embarrassed.

Tim:
Actually...no. He installs the cabinets.

Jude:
Cabinets, Tables? It's the making something with your hands that puts value in it.

Tim grows beet red.

Tim:
Actually, no; he just installs them. Then there's Ma; you know she got that darned Avon thingy- don't do much good, but it keeps her busy.

Jude:
Yes, sir; the importance of a busy woman cannot – I repeat, cannot be overestimated. That's a good call there, buddy.

Jude pulls the gas nozzle out of his car and shakes it like a penis before returning it to the lever. He turns to get in his car when Tim stops him.

Tim:
So what abouts you? Whadda' ya' been up to since the plant closed?

Jude:
Oh, well...the usual. I'd love to chat more, Tim; it really was good to see you again, but just now I've got to get to Philadelphia before 5:30, or I'll miss the last chance to sell my daughter as a sex slave to a nameless third party that contacted me through the internet. Such beautiful, mysterious ways...

Tim is barely even able to talk for shock.

Tim:
Okay then, don't let me keep ya'. I'll see ya' 'round.

Jude sings as he drives out of the gas station into traffic.

Jude:
"...and we'll all avoid depression when she comes, and we'll all avoid depression when she comes..."

[Iron Sulfide]

Ext – Phone Booth

Safely inside the phone booth, Philly picks up the receiver. After shoving a handful of change into the coin slot, he dials an obscene amount of numbers. The line rings.

Int – Argo's Apartment
Argo is sitting in his chair in the living room, dealing tarot cards onto a small table. On the far side of the table, the Prince of Cups and the Nine of Wands rest side by side. He places in front of him a Five of Wands, then a Nine of Cups, then an Ace of Pentacles. He hesitates, his hand wavering over the next card to draw. He turns it over, the Knight of Swords. Argo slaps his knee.

Argo:
Bust! I lost to an imaginary player.

The phone rings, startling him. He reaches over and picks up the receiver.

Argo (Cont.):
Tootles!

Philly:
It's me. Can we...talk?

Argo squares the deck and begins to shuffle the cards.

Argo:
That's supposed to be my line.

Philly looks down at his shoes.

Philly:
Yeah. It's been a while, hasn't it?

Argo:
Five years...

Philly looks through the booth at a hobo begging for change across the street.

Philly:
I'm sorry. Everything that happened...it messed with my head more than a little, by a whole lot.

Argo cuts the deck and turns a card over, The Emperor.

Argo:
You know: we have so much to talk about. I could come see you.

Philly:
What about Sven?

Argo:
I haven't seen him...since before we last spoke.

Philly's voice drops in tempo and tone.

Philly:
I...I'm sorry for you.

Argo begins to choke up.

Philly (Cont.):
You can come out to visit whenever you like, but we have to talk- now.

Argo turns over the Ace of Cups.

Argo:
It pleases me to hear you say that. What would you like to speak of?

Philly:
Who am I?

Argo turns another card over, this time the Ten of Cups.

Argo:
You are who you are and I can only tell you what I know, Phillip.

Philly fidgets with the cord on the pay phone.

Philly:
You know, growing up all I cared about was not turning out like Sven. There was even a time I thought I knew who I was and I was happy that I was nothing like Sven.

Argo turns over the Two of Pentacles.

Philly (Cont.):
Now, it's all weird. I have to know, am I or am I not the clone of Hitler?

Argo:
You may have even more difficult times ahead, son. However, you needn't worry about this: you aren't Hitler. When we spoke last, I told you there was no genetic match.

Argo turns over the Chariot card.

Philly:
I know- but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. It certainly explains why I hate so many people, so, so much.

Philly's voice trembles at his own fear.

Argo:
It's okay to feel, son. Anger, fear, love, pain- these things let us know we are alive.

Philly looks down and to his side, affected.
Argo (cont.):

I'm going to go pack. I'm coming to see you on the first flight I can.

Argo turns over Death.

Argo (Cont.):
There's no reason for me to stay here now, anyway.


Int – Cloud Nein
Sven, clad in laboratory coat, is standing before row after row of wilted and dead plants. He gazes fervently over a clipboard with statistical data and genograms. Fred has come by to receive a report on Sven's progress.

Sven:
It simply doesn't make any sense! Every test generation dies once it begins to flower.

Fred repeatedly clicks a retractable ballpoint pen.

Fred:
What exactly have you been doing for the past five years? Every time this happens, I have to save your ass with some lame excuse to the one-ups.

Sven:
Oh, the usual: sequencing an entire genome from scratch with the most inept help one could imagine.

Fred more rapidly clicks the pen.

Fred:
Okay. Let's do this again. This time, be a little more specific.

Sven's face turns the bleak, dour white of poorly aged cheddar.

Sven:
Alright. Ugh. Gene 117 on the 7th base pair is encoded, at present, to produce strychnine in the resin glands. We've recoded the sequence over 70 times, from G-A-T-T-C-T-A-T-G-G...

Fred:
Stop! Less specific. Continue.

Sven's cheddar ripens just a little more from the control.

Sven:
What keeps happening is the resin gland produces the chemical, the rest of the plant absorbs it and then the plant dies of poisoning.

Fred strokes his chin.

Fred:
Okay. I can work with that; at least I can say that the plant is doing what it's supposed to, just to itself. An oversight that can, and will-

He looks Sven dead in the eye.

Fred (Cont.):
...be corrected. Take the rest of the week off and recuperate some. You've been at this for what- two months without a day for yourself? We'll start fresh on
Monday.

Sven:
That's not really necessary, I can...

Fred:
That's not really a request. There's a lot of money going into this. We need you fresh.

[Iron Sulfide]

Int – Philly's Apartment

Philly is standing in his studio, buttoning up his shirt. He puts his trench coat on, makes sure he has his tobacco, his wallet, his keys...He heads out the door. On the sidewalk, an odd-looking clown passes him, dragging a dead dog behind him on a leash. The dog wears a cone party hat and has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He walks past that and sees an A-frame sign that reads, "Treason is the Reason for the Season!" The Shopkeep steps outside his front door.

Shopkeep:
Do not dig for Nazi gold! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!

The voice sounds as if it is playing backwards. Philly jolts awake as the BART comes to a stop. Philly stands and exits. He looks around, confused, and a PA system makes an announcement.

PA:
All passengers for Grover Cleveland's Inner Rectum, please exit now and stand clear of the boarding area.

Philly walks to the turnstile and turns through. As he is walking up the steps, someone throws a gas canister into the station. The gas disperses and everyone starts laughing hysterically. Eventually, they start dropping from asphyxiation. Philly falls to the floor, laughing and gasping for breath as his vision fades. He wakes up in his dressing room with his forehead on the table of his vanity mirror. He looks at himself, disillusioned. An Assistant pops his head in the door.

Assistant:
And five...four...three...

Again, the voice is backwards. He mimes the "two" and the "one". The walls of Philly's dressing room break away and assorted stagehands come in to remove the chair and other props. Philly is left standing on a stage before an audience with blinding lights shining directly at his face. The lights reposition and Philly's eyes adjust somewhat. He sees that the audience is filled with everyone he has ever known in his entire life. He immediately falls into character and tells a joke.

Philly:
Blah blah, bah balah blah. Blick a black bong bow wow bowm. Shim a sham, can't cunt a pea...

Philly pauses to give the punch line more umph.

Philly (Cont.):
Biez! Pyerro yevoda!

The audience begins to laugh and Philly smiles, quite proud of his achievement.

Philly (Cont.):
Blah! Blah!

As they laugh, Philly becomes more and more aware of the notion that they are laughing at him, not with him. They continue to laugh and point at him as he pleads for them to stop.

Philly (Cont.):
Blahhh! Blease blahhhhh! Blease! Blease! Blo! Blop it!

Philly tosses in his bedding, mumbling in his sleep.

Philly (Cont.):
Blamma blease bake 'em blop. Blamma! Blam-MA!

Philly starts awake and shields his face. He opens his eyes and looks around his studio. It is night, his blankets are a mess and everything is as it should be. He touches his face and grabs at his torso, pinching and squeezing to prove that it's real, not a dream. Assured, he takes a deep, calming breath. He clicks on his hand recorder.

Philly (Cont.):
Fuckin' fuck! I wish I would stop having dreams like that. "Though I am bound in a nutshell, I would count myself among the kings of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams." Who the fuck writes like that? Shakespeare, meet "A bag of Dicks." Eat them.

Having exercised his agitation, he turns back to sleep. He slaps his face one last time to reassure himself, and satisfied, pulls the blanket over his head.


Int – Airport Diner

Argo and Philly are sitting in the dinning area of the airport. It more closely resembles a cafeteria, but nobody seems to have the energy to complain.

Argo:
Again, I have to apologize for the manner in which you found out. We should have been more candid with you.

Philly pokes at his chicken patty with mashed potatoes and gravy.

Philly:
I told you to stop it. I've come to accept that there are things I cannot change. It's still...weird, though.

Argo looks away.

Argo:
So. What have you been doing with yourself?

Philly starts molding the mash potatoes into a triangle shape.

Philly:
You know, just the usual. Writing for hire, tutoring horribly challenged teenagers who cannot speak their own language as well as I do...my true calling.

Philly spoons a dab of mash potatoes onto the chicken patty, then another. He arranges them.

Argo:
You sound a bit dissatisfied.
With ketchup, Philly draws a mouth on the chicken patty, gives it a broom mustache and a red ball at the tip of the mash triangle.

Philly:
Well, it's a bit limited. I mean, I still write for The Chronical. Don't get me wrong, I can write whatever I want, I have more than enough money for me to be comfortable and busy. But...I want more.

Philly cuts the lower right cheek off his chicken patty man plops it in his mouth. He masticates and squirts more ketchup onto the patty along the cut, simulating bleeding.

Argo:
More like what? Happiness doesn't come from an external source, no matter how good it may seem.

Philly responds through chewing another slice of his chicken victim.

Philly:
Well, um, you see...I've been spending a lot of time working with Teutontology.
We've opened five Teutonic Healing Centers in California. What we really need is higher recruitment numbers.

Argo:
Is the Hare Krishna approach not working?

Philly:
Seriously, now. Do not compare this to fucking Hare Krishna. Anyway, what we really need is more PR- a propaganda outlet.

Argo finally realizes that Philly is being serious.

Argo:
Propaganda- like what?

Philly:
I figure people like to be entertained, and if you can stimulate them like that, you can also pass your message to them. I've got the talent, I have to commitment, I have the material, even, to put on a fan-fucking-tastic show. I just don't have any way to get that done.

Argo adjusts his coat some and contemplates.

Argo:
I may know someone. I can get you a meeting, but you have to step up. To step down is death; the wages of death is rape.

Philly carves another and another piece of chicken face and stacks them with the tines of his fork. He stabs them and jabs them into his mouth, smiling.

Philly:
But you can't rape the willing.

Argo:
Be serious. I'll have to make some calls, so you should work on your pitch and your ideas because I don't know how much time you'll have.

[Iron Sulfide]

Ext – Bee's Knees Entertainment building – Late morning

Argo and Philly are walking up the steps to the doors of the building. Philly is clutching a manila folder; his hair combed and gelled behind his ears. He wares a white button up shirt and black slacks. Argo wears a gray suit and penny loafers.

Philly:
I can't believe you got it so quickly. It is like a punch to the gut.

Argo:
Breathe. All you have to do is talk. It's like writing with your mouth.

Philly:
That's not what I'm concerned about, but thanks for the pep.

They enter the main lobby and check in with the attendant. She directs them to the elevator and they board it. Elevator music plays a contemporary jazz rendition of the "Master Race" theme. They exit on the fourteenth floor and read the directional sign, following an arrow to a door marked, "Ezra L. Asuras, Executive
Editor." Argo knocks on the door.

Argo:
Consider me your manager. If I clear my throat, stop talking.

The door buzzes open and a Secretary sits behind a desk.

Secretary:
Name?

Argo:
Christou and Fillet. We have an appointment with Mr. Asuras.

The Secretary looks at the appointment roster, which is empty, save for their names.

Secretary:
I'll have to check with Mr. Asuras. Just a moment.

She pushes an intercom button.

Secretary (Cont.):
Mr. Asuras, two men are here to see you. They say they have an appointment.

The intercom gurgles back.

Asuras:
Are they on the appointment roster?

Secretary:
Yes, sir.

Asuras:
Then, damn it- send them in!

The Secretary sends them in through a door on the right. They walk into a cozy executive office with ferns, plate windows and a bear rug.

Asuras:
Sorry about Sally- she's a little slow and quite a fuckin' bitch, but she has the sweetest ass you ever saw.

Philly waxes sarcastic.

Philly:
Yeah, I'd cut her ass in half with a hack saw.

Argo coughs as they walk towards the desk. Argo reaches out his hand to shake.

Asuras:
Sit. So, what have you for me? I'm quite ravenous.

Argo nudges Philly. Philly's arm spasms and he fumbles with his papers.

Philly:
I was thinking of something along the lines of a Sketch Variety Show, heavy on the wordplay. I have a few sketch ideas drafted for you, as well as samples of my previous work at The Chronical.

Philly hands Asuras the folder.

Asuras:
You write for the S.F.?

Philly:
Well, it's not the-

Argo clears his throat.

Philly (cont.):
...shiniest column in the rag, but it's decent enough work.

Asuras thumbs through Philly's portfolio.

Asuras:
So, tell me more about these sketches.

Philly:
Um. Okay. Well, there's Beans and Rice. It's about a Mexican and an Asian that
are raised to believe they're white and they go on comedic, racist misadventures.

Asuras:
You'll have to scrap the name. Probably rework it a bit, too. Mad TV already has a sketch called "Beans and Rice", with a Mexican and an Asian corning white kids into feeling like racists.

Philly:
Oh.

Asuras plants the folder on his desk.

Asuras:
Is there anything else?

Philly:
Okay. Same vein, but I'm sure Mad TV hasn't done it: "Honky Jihad." It's a serial sketch about a white supremacist group that plots to start a race war, but brings about wide spread racial tolerance.

Asuras rolls his fingers on his desk.

Asuras:
Okay, I could see that with some work. What about the rest? You said "Variety".

Argo clears his throat and takes over.

Argo:
Mr. Fillet has a diverse array of talents, Mr. Asuras. He is a magician; he is a musician and a singer/songwriter; he is a writer and an English tutor; What he offers is a package- a persona that captivates and entices, makes someone willing to sit through a two minute break just to hear the punch line or learn the twist.

Asuras leans back in his comfortable, executive chair with special lumbar support.

Asuras:
Needs more dick jokes, kid. You got any ideas what you might call it?

Philly snickers.

Philly:
"The Fillet Show".

Asuras pauses, only for his thin lips to spread out and reveal a segmented crescent.

Asuras:
Ah- ha HA! Good one, kid. Give me a script for a pilot by the end of the week-
24 pages, standard format. We'll go from there.
Philly looks at Argo and raises his eyebrow.

Asuras (Cont.):
This is not a contract or a commitment. It's a test; I won't tell you if you've failed. I won't have to if you do fail.

Argo:
Thank you for your time. I believe your Secretary has our information.

Asuras lights a cigar and puffs on it as Argo and Philly stand to depart.

Asuras:
Yeah, she does. Now get the hell out before I change my mind.

As they walk through the door, the Secretary is typing at something or other, probably gibberish, and they hear Mr. Asuras voice emanate from the intercom.

Asuras:
Sally, could you come into my office. I can't seem to figure where my pen is. Help me find my pen is, would you, sweetie?

[Iron Sulfide]

Int – Cloud Nein Dormatory, Sven's room

Tossing and kicking in his sleep, Sven hears the voice of his father Deiter from a childhood memory.

Deiter:
Remember, Sven, my son- keep it simple, stoo-peed!


Ext – Catholic School - Continuous

Deiter is a soft man with clean hair, a large, bushy mustache, sharp threads and rosy cheeks. He is kneeling before Sven, adjusting the catholic school uniform of his 13-year-old son. They are at the front of the school and children are slowly meandering in through the front doors. Sven grabs up his book strap and begins to walk to the entrance.

Deiter:
I love you, son.

Sven turns to look back, unaffected, and continues walking towards the door. As he enters, Sven- now an adult- is in full Nazi regalia walking down the corridor. He comes to a door with a smallish, square, frosted window and turns the knob. The door opens only to assault his vision with the sight of Hitler receiving some good, old fashioned oral gratification.

Hitler:
Ugh...ugh...oh...uh...huh? AH!

Hitler's eyes find Sven's and Sven immediately averts his. He sees that it's Deiter that is kneeled before Der Fuehrer. Sven recites, more as an affirmation than an
apology:

Sven:
I saw nothing. I'm not sure I even opened the door, sir. I'm just closing this door, now, and leaving. I wasn't even here.

Sven closes the door.


Int – Could Nein dromatory, Sven's room – Continuous

Sven wakes with morning wood and a fresh idea in his mind.

Sven:
Keep it simple, stupid. What a way to KISS me.

Sven jumps out of his memory foam cot and bolts to his desk of cluttered case files and loose papers. He thumbs through a case file and finds a folder titled "Zyclon B" and another regarding "Hormonal Gene Sequencing".


Int – T.V. Studio

Philly is wrapping up principal photography for his pilot. He has recruited Louis, Pandora, Colonel and Frank as stand in actors. They are sitting round a carpet dressed as children and Philly sits in a high back chair reading a storybook. In character, Philly is wearing grey stage-hair, speaking with a grizzled voice.

Philly:
...and God, in all his infinite power and wisdom, found that he was bored- so he created himself as a man.

Philly shows around the picture in the book to the "children": a shabby man with a beer-gut obscuring his genitals. He turns the page.

Philly (Cont.):
Then, in all his comfort and luxury, he found that he was lonely- so he split himself in half...

Again, he shows the picture: "Adam" is squatting and pushing, with a small pile of feces already under him.

Philly (Cont.):
...and sculpted himself as a woman, also.

The picture this time is a fecal sculpture of a female form miraculously animating into flesh. He turns the page.

Philly (Cont.):
And, of course, they got bored and lonely- so they had children. And those children made other children with something from somewhere, I don't really know.

Philly closes the book. The Cameraman shoots the scene, pensively, and looks at his Co-Cameraman and shrugs.

Philly (Cont.):
The point is: all that dividing was God- multiplying in people, but dividing in God. Now, people have forgotten that they are emanations of God, and God remains a Schizophrenic with dissociative tendencies. Moreover, that's why you don't touch your naughty areas!

Frank:
But who did the children make children with?

Pandora:
Mommy told me I have to clean that area though...

Pandora pretends to hide her shame.

Philly:
I don't know- baboons, okay? They made more children with baboons. Evolution is right. Piss on the bloody virgin!

The Co-Cameraman laughs and the lead Cameraman looks at him with bewilderment.

Louis:
Billy touched my naughty area in P.E. today!

Colonel:
Tommy's lying! We did Greco-roman wrestling!

The Co-Cameraman looks back at his lead.

Co-Cameraman:
What? This is funny shit.

Philly:
Hey...

Louis:
You still touched it, perv!

Colonel:
But it's Greco-roman- that's those people do, man.

Philly:
Hey!

Louis:
That doesn't make it right, faggot!

Philly:
HEY!

Philly waves the book at the "children", barely avoiding smacking a few of them in the head.

Philly (Cont.):
You shits get to bed before I beat the love of Christ into you!
The "children" scatter like roaches off the stage and presumably to their rooms.

Philly sets the book aside and rises from his seat to address the camera directly.

Philly (Cont.):
Hi. My name is Phillip, but you can call me Unkie Bastard. I am available for children's parties, motivational encounters and...

Philly raises his eyebrow.

Philly (Cont.):
...one-on-one parental consultation.

He acts as though that's something for which to feel sexy.

Philly (Cont.):
Just call 555-2323 now! Say, "Uncle!"

Cameraman:
Aaaand cut. Fantastic! Editing should be finished in about a week or so, and then it gets the final review before approval. If you make the cut, that's when you get the pilot aired.

[Iron Sulfide]

Int – Cloud Nein

Sven is alone in the lab still wearing his pajamas under his lab smock. He smashes rapidly at a keyboard, entering variables for a simulation. The monitor flashes dialogue windows prompting for addition specifications as it compiles a genome sequence. Sven glances at the papers he's culled from his case file and enters some more data.


Int – Bee's Knees Editing Room

An editor is sitting in front of a MONITOR with an assortment of panels and dials next to him, watching and cueing segments of a studio project: a Space Dockers commercial.

Monitor:
"Space Dockers- split it like a sheet!"

Mr. Asuras enters the editing room with a stapled packet of papers. He hands it to the editor.

Asuras:
Here's the cut list for that Fillet Show pilot. Make sure the sequencing cuts to commercials at the right time, obviously.

Editor:
Sure thing, Ezra; I'm just wrapping up on this Corporate segment for Space Dockers pants. Can you believe the utter shit people buy these days?

The editor looks up from his monitor.

Asuras:
What's that, now?

Editor:
Space Dockers- it's Jim's commercial for some new line of pants that zip all the way to the back waistband so slobs and internet creeps can crap faster.

Asuras:
They're paying, aren't they?

Editor:
Yeah, but it's still a bit strange, don't you think?

Asuras:
Money is never strange. Chop, chop!

Mr. Asuras sets the "edit and cut" list on the Editor's desk and walks out of the room.


Int – Cloud nein Conference room
Sven and Fred are having a progress meeting over coffee and doughnuts. A folder of Sven's most recent data, projections and hypotheses lay on the table before Fred.

Fred:
I thought I told you to hold off until Monday?

Sven:
Well, yes you did- and I was intending on it, but I was inspired late at night by a terrible dream I had.

Fred sips his coffee, creamy as usual, while flipping through the folio.

Fred:
Did the Americans win again?

Sven:
Worse: it was when I discovered my father was Hitler's...personal assistant.

Fred cocks a brow from behind his coffee mug.

Fred:
Right, back to business- you say you may have come up with a way to keep the
plants from dying?

Sven fiddles his cream bar.

Sven:
Dying, yes...it's not going to work the first few generations, I'm sure of that-
there's too many undefined variables in the coding, but I believe I have found a
solution; yes.

They sit in silence for a moment while Sven takes small bites of his cream bar and
Fred drinks more of his coffee.

Fred:
Well? What is it?

Sven sets the cream bar on the table. Slight dabs of cream hang from his chin and upper lip, suggestively.

Sven:
Do you remember U.S. Standard Oil, what they did for us in the glory days? Zyclon B is far more potent than strychnine. Moreover, the chemical similarity between Zyclon B and many constituents of cannabis resin is enough that a splice could be made on at least one of the several thousand genes involved in resin gland formation.

Fred:
Are you saying that there's an answer, but we won't have it for years, maybe decades?

Sven:
Fred...of course not. Many of the possibilities can be eliminated, but it will take more time- a few years, at most.

Fred:
I can do something with that- but expect a lot of oversight. You're making all the wrong people nervous, understand?

Fred Picks up the folder and squares the papers with a tap on the table. He rises out of his chair halfway and gestures at Sven's chin.

Fred (Cont.):
Looks like I just came on your face or something.

Fred swipes his finger through the cream on Sven's chin and licks it. He walks to the door of the conference room, stopping to look back.

Fred (Cont.):
I know you can do this. I believe in you.