So, i'm writing a screenplay. My general idea (i don't want to give you all the beans, or you won't read it...) is to incorporate the intertubes as much as possible outside of the internet. There's a plot as well, which you may get to.
My hope is to incorporate many of the stronger memes/better memebombs from the PD forums without making it feel like buttons and pins on a local scene kid's leather jacket.
So if you like it, great! If you don't: Suck a trout! But most importantly, if you have comments, criticisms, thoughts on how something would work better, etc...please, post them. Also, if there is a meme/bomb you would like to see but haven't yet, send me a PM.
I hope you enjoy the Show!
Interior – Dressing room
A mustachioed European man, PHILLY FILLET, sits in his dressing room applying makeup prior to the start of his show. He hums the melody from "Honky Jihad."
Philly:
Confident. Sober. Masculine.
He grabs a hand held tape recorder from his dressing table and clicks it on, paraphrasing:
Philly:
Corn fed. So boring. Mescaline.
With a harrumph, he stands and leaves for the set.
Interior - Set
PHILLY stands on his queue off-stage gripped with dread. The time seems to stretch out before him without end. Finally, the CAMERAMAN begins his countdown.
Cameraman:
...and five...four...three...
The cameraman mimes the "two" and the "one", and Philly comes onstage.
Philly (Exuberantly):
Eh, everybody! Please to be welcome to "The Fillet Show!" I am Philly Fillet, your host, as well as singer for our house band, The Love Cuts- Please to say, "Hello!"
The Love Cuts make a token effort to signal their presence.
Philly:
Thank you! I would like to start the evening off with a poem, if you don't mind. I believe it may be relevant still now:
"Let's race to the front of the line,
don't you know it's the end of time?
Let's race to our separate schools
of unspoken rules, and celebrate the Yule,
differently..."
Philly pauses to pace the audience.
Philly:
"But we be seven, an' you is one.
You gots ten dollars, an' we has none.
Our childs an' wifes eat beans and rice-
your wallet or your life!
Then we go play dice.
Let's race against each other,
one another, like sisters and brothers,
not knowing their bread.
Let's pace the other colors,
the bar-bars and cutlers, even the dead..."
Philly pauses again, to pace the audience.
Philly:
"But we be seven, an' you is one.
You gots five dollars, an' we has none.
Our childs wear clothes with holes and lice,
so our purse grows fat...we go play dice!"
Thank you. That was a poem I call "Eight Brothers".
Philly takes a cheesy left-right glance as a member of the audience murmurs.
Audience Member:
Did you hear that? I dropped my pen.
Philly :
Well, if you must know, it's actually about seven Italian brothers, and one "brotha'".
After a brief stammer, the audience bursts into laughter.
Philly:
And now that we are acquainted- isn't that quaint?- it's time for a message from our sponsors. We'll be right back after this!
Announcer:
"The Fillet Show!" is brought to you by Space Dockers pants- New Slack for the Astro-Age!
Interior – Suburban Living Room
A puberty-stricken boy, TIMMY, is playing video games.
Voice Over:
Feces Christ. Fact: it's been knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door since your last supper.
The boy looks at the camera, and gasps in shock.
Timmy:
You're right! But I'm almost to six million points in my new action shooter, Lollercaust. If only I could poop faster!
V.O.:
Now you can with new Space Dockers brand pants!
The pants are displayed.
V.O.:
Space Dockers are the only SLACKS that feature Astro-age, anti-gravity zipper technology, allowing Space Dockers to have a zipper that starts in the front and keeps on trucking!
As the pants are displayed, the zipped is demonstrated as going from the front to the back waistband of the crotch.
Timmy:
But that means...
V.O.:
That's right, Timmy, you can save time pooping and get back to mindless slaughter in no time!
Timmy:
But won't people make fun of me for wearing them in public?
V.O.:
Poppycock! Space Dockers are all the rage! AND they come in a variety of styles: slacks- for the working man; denim- for the rebel without a pause; khakis- for relaxed movement; and even corduroy- if you're a fag!
Timmy:
Awesome! Here I come, economic cleansing!
V.O.:
Space Dockers: "prepare for boarding!"
Exterior – Zoo in Austria, Philly is 16
SVEN and PHILLIP are strolling around the zoo on a crisp autumn day. Sven has a rueful countenance; Philly eats a cream scone.
Philly v.o.:
As I sit opening the heart charka in the repose of deep meditation, it occurs to me that there is only one living and one non-living thing, and they are indistinguishable.
The two stop, standing in front of the baboon exhibit.
Sven:
The factory is closed, Phillip.
Phillip:
Of course, it is father; otherwise, we would not be studying animal behavior now.
Philly v.o.:
Life itself can be seen as the development of DNA across space-time. We are neurons; plants are lung sacs; lizards are skin tissue...
Sven pulls out his pipe and becomes distracted with its use, as Philly raptly watches one of the baboons masturbate.
Philly v.o.:
Fact: evolutionary heritage can be traced because our DNA possesses all the genetics of every animal before us.
The baboon ejaculates and licks it off his hand. Sven, having puffed, taps out his pipe.
Sven:
No, son...the factory will not re-open. The machine is dead, and now we must move.
Mimicking, Philly licks scone cream off his hand.
Philly v.o.:
I remember the short, cold days of childhood.
Phillip:
Have you spoken with Argo about this?
Philly turns to gleam the answer from his father's expression, a dab of cream at the corner of his lip.
Sven:
It was his idea. We leave for America at the end of autumn, so make your time!
They continue walking to the next exhibit, and Philly notices a graffiti sign that reads: You are NOW breathing manually; Do not Rhesus-itate!
Interior – Philly's Apartment, Castro Dist.
PHILLY sits in meditation on a pillow of folded blanket. His apartment is bare, hardwood, with a set of dishes, some clothes neatly folded in a pile, and a hand recorder placed to his side.
Philly v.o.:
Then a most fundamental truth occurred to me: I haven't eaten anything in a while.
Philly rises from his meditation position, deftly picking up his hand recorder on the way, and struts to the "kitchen". The counter is littered with a few scraps of paper and rolling tobacco.
Philly v.o.:
So I woke my legs and drove them as cattle to the kitchen. Here I poured a bowl of cereal into existence.
Philly pours a bowl of cereal and clicks on his recorder.
Philly:
"As I sit opening the heart charka in the repose of deep meditation..."
Time-lapse...
Philly:
"...occurred to me: I haven't eaten anything in a while."
He gets light-headed for a moment, and catches himself on the counter top.
Philly:
Ooh, déjà vu...
He clicks off the recorder and rolls a smoke, turning to rummage his scattered papers- notes, memos and sketches apparently. He mumbles and makes clicking noises to himself.
Philly:
Let's see..."stop laughing at infanticide"..."Orange, Door Hinge"...ah, "appointment: China town, September 10, five p.m., you will meet with a Castrotti, the answer is The Garten Party." Hm. Surely it's not a castrated choirboy?
He looks at his wristwatch; the time is 4:15 p.m.
Philly:
Oh, shikza!
He races out the door.
Exterior – Trolley
PHILLY is running to catch the trolley in time, barely catching it.
Philly v.o.:
Well, I've got amenities for my enemies, so please, leave me be- and stop callin' me cheesy!
Philly jumps into the center of the trolley's walkway, hip-style hopping. He makes his way to the back, puffing a blunt.
Philly:
My name's Philly- Philly Fillet,
and the Fillet Minions are going to cut you in twain,
and give you a rain check for your next physical pain.
Chop a sloppy loin cut and serve it up with lo mien,
screaming "sex and violence, what the fuck else is there?"
Can't bear to spare the silence? Watch the cremation of Care.
You will come to the conclusion that illusion isn't fair enough,
so share your stuff. I'm bluffin':
when it comes to shit, I don't know nothing!
'Cause I'm a lyrical ship-wreck, with a spiritual poop deck.
I'm loopin' the new tech first thought of by Olmec.
A convection of convention, and I'm itchin' to kick this kitsch...
'Cause I'm heavenly high!
Exterior – Chinatown
PHILLY gets off the trolley near the ancestral temple. Immediately, he is dogged by a CHINAMAN peddling his wears.
Chinaman:
You want incense the dead? One darra', one dozen!
Philly:
No, that's all right. I wouldn't want to incense the dead- that's usually when they start eating the living, in my experience.
Philly brushes him off and walks away, but the Chinaman pursues.
Chinaman:
Incense? Dead?
Philly is clearly becoming irritated.
Philly:
Eh, you! Wait...are you the Castrotti?
Chinaman:
One dorra', one dozen.
Philly:
"The Garten Party"?
Chinaman:
Ancestor tempar?
Bemused, Philly walks on to a corner vendor and purchases won tons. His watch reads 4:59 p.m. It clicks over to read 5:00 p.m. and a car rolls up. A FRENCHMAN pokes his head out.
Frenchman:
So I hear you like mudkips. Where to are you headed?
Philly:
The Garten Party.
Frenchman:
What a coincidence! Let us share this cab!
[Edit: Left a whole farkin' scene out. here she be...]
Interior – Cab
PHILLY and LOUIS FRIEND are off to the Garten Party in their cab. Louis seems to be making tea.
Louis:
Hello, Phillip. My name is Louis. So tell me: how did you come to find out about our...fraternity?
Louis tips the teapot into two small china cups.
Philly:
A man named Argo. He's...well, he's like my other father. How the fuck did you get this cab?
Louis:
Good genetics. Do you take sugar?
Philly:
Two, please.
Louis plops two sugar cubes into Philly's cup and hands it to him, raising his own glass to cheer.
Louis:
Salud!
Philly raises his to cheers, and takes a sip. Louis belts his back like a shot of whiskey.
Louis (Cont.):
Mama always said to keep a fire in the belly. Have you been performing the instructions of your initiator?
Philly:
I was prescribed a heart charka meditation, I hold to it daily.
Louis tosses his cup out the window.
Louis:
What about a diary or journal, have you begun one yet?
Philly:
I keep notes. Most recently, I've been using this hunden.
Philly flashes his hand recorder.
Louis:
Good, good. An odd choice, but an inventive device, I must say.
Philly continues sipping his tea.
Louis (Cont.):
So tell me a bit about your job history.
Philly fidgets a moment, formulating a response.
Philly:
Well...aside from the small odds and ends? I was magician- for parties and that. But I have no contacts here on the west coast.
Louis:
Sounds like fun.
Philly:
I hated it. I love magic, but people suck the beauty out of it.
Louis strokes his chin.
Louis:
Give us a look, then?
Philly:
What- a trick? Now?
Louis nods and Philly's heart jumps a beat. He pulls out his tobacco and rolls one.
Philly (Cont.):
Do you mind?
Louis waves his hand. Philly pulls out a book of matches and opens it, showing the inside to Louis. He tears a match out from somewhere near the center and closes the book, striking the match on the back in a smooth, singular motion. Then he hands the book of matches to Louis while he lights his cigarette.
Philly (Cont.):
This match looks good enough to eat!
Philly shakes the match out and pops it in his mouth. After showing it, he swallows, washing it down with the remainder of his tea.
Philly (Cont.):
Now the magic: open the book of matches.
Louis opens the book of matches to find the burnt match in the book, reattached.
Louis:
Splendid, you'll fit right in! What about recent past: what work have you done lately?
Philly:
Nothing. I've been living off savings for some time now. I'm not in trouble if I live within my means, though work would be nice.
Louis:
Your English is immaculate! Where are you from, perchance?
Philly:
Austria.
Louis lights a cigarette of his own and contemplates this.
Louis:
How would you like a job writing articles for The Chronical?
Philly:
That would be amazing!
Louis:
Good. We can discuss the details of that later. For now, let us enjoy the moment.
Philly:
So how exactly does this thing work?
Louis smiles.
Interior – A Loft Somewhere in SF
COLONEL ANGUS- a stout muscle man- and FRANK LEE- a snarky Englishman- are sitting around a coffee table in the den, smoking a hookah.
Frank:
Allegedly, the man who sold it to me was a practicing shaman from Brazil.
He takes a lazy puff, and blows a smoke ring.
Colonel:
Buyer beware: this item may shrink your head with a voodoo nut curse!
Frank:
Colonel, honestly, why would you make such ghastly and stereotypic remarks?
Colonel tears the hookah arm from Frank's clutch.
Colonel:
Did I? Do you recall the last time I shared with you my caveat?
Frank:
Err...well, that was a different case altogether, ol' boy. We shan't be dredging it up again, shall we?
Colonel:
Fer all I know, you're bound to make exactly the same type of choices, so yes; we shall.
Frank:
Good God, you're a twit.
Colonel takes a draw from the hookah and ponders.
Colonel:
How did you come to meet this man?
Frank cocks his head and joins the pondering.
Frank:
If I recall correctly, we met at the shindig put on by that rather squirrely chap wot said he was from Vancouver. Wots his fellow?
Colonel squints for a moment.
Colonel:
...John?
Frank:
Kudos, Colonel! It's astounding that you could remember the name of such a monumental bore!
Colonel:
Libations were consumed, I assume...
Frank shies sheepishly away.
Frank:
Moderately; I wouldn't be had at some boorish party without a little fine tuning!
Colonel:
Never the less, alcohol parted your lips.
Frank:
Oh, dear me- you're right!
Colonel continues puffing, now vigorously, at the pipe.
Colonel:
Perhaps I warned you about this at the party before last. Perhaps it still applies. Perhaps this is our sixteenth exchange in a row to start with a successive letter of our Roman alphabet.
Frank:
Queerer and queerer, my friend.
Frank slowly reaches for the hookah arm.
Colonel:
Right! So what have we learned?
Frank:
Stop, stop, stop! We've just kept going! "P-Q-R"...and ye gods, I began with "s"!
Colonel:
That's terrific.
Frank glares at Colonel through the hazy smoke.
Frank:
Ultimately, this exercise only proves your hatred of me.
Colonel:
"Validation, being what you seek, is what you get." Nietzsche, "Thus Spoke Zarathustra".
Frank:
What the bleeding hell are you on about?
Colonel
Xenophobia and yourself- of course, in your case, it may well be justified not to trust anyone, being so gullible and wot.
Frank:
You see here, now, ol' boy: I'll not be taken for one of your rides!
Colonel moves a speck of lint from his lapel.
Colonel:
Zippletits! You already have!
Infuriated, Frank balls his fists.
Frank:
How do you do it? I must know! There must be a method, you corn-fed jack, and I will find it out, I will!
PHILLY and LOUIS walk in the front door, and the mood of the room suddenly shifts.
Louis:
Tally ho!
Colonel:
Hail!
Frank:
'Ello guv'na!
Philly is taken aback and speaks meekly.
Philly:
May I ask: what the hell is going...?
Louis raises his hands to gesture comfort.
Louis:
Everything is under control, don't you worry!
Colonel:
That is correct, sir!
Colonel and Frank puff and pass the hookah arm.
Frank:
Hell hath no fury!
Everybody is stymied by this statement and looks at Frank.
Philly:
Our time is well spent and I will be taking my leave.
Louis rushes to Philly as he's walking to the door.
Louis:
Don't leave or you will miss the best opportunity you'll ever have to know what the hell is going on.
Colonel:
I thought it was a good start.
Frank:
So did I; boy, give it a try!
Louis:
Tally ho!
Colonel:
Hail!
Frank:
'Ello guv'na!
Philly:
Maybe if I knew what was going on, this would be better.
Louis:
Absolutely! Let's have a seat in the den. Colonel, would you do the honors?
They move to the chairs around the hookah in the Den, and Colonel chimes in.
Colonel:
"Do Not Test!" That is the first rule.
Frank:
Never do test, mind you!
Philly:
Exactly what does that mean?
Frank hands Philly the hookah arm and he takes a long, slow draw.
Louis:
Simply that you do not understand...
Colonel:
...So don't interrupt!
Louis:
Tally ho!
Colonel:
Hail!
Frank:
'Ello gov'na!
Philly passes the arm to Louis.
Philly:
Will this continue in this fashion?
Louis speaks through his quickly inhaled smoke.
Louis:
Absolutely! Colonel, what is rule number two?
Colonel:
"You are the enemy, and we are you!"
Frank:
Isn't it poetic?
Philly:
Something like that...
Louis:
Tally ho!
Colonel:
Hail!
Frank:
'Ello gov'na!
Philly:
...on the topic of Illumination: can we get to that, soon?
Louis:
Before too long, I would imagine. Patience.
Colonel:
Sometimes it's best to just let things unfold at their own pace.
Frank:
Truth, good fellow!
Colonel:
Another way to look at it is to see it as a rose, budding after the frost has melted by the spring.
Louis:
Certainly, one could easily imagine that.
Frank:
Louis, would you mind the salad, please?
Louis:
Earnestly, kind sir.
Louis gets up and walks to the kitchen.
Louis:
Tally ho!
Colonel:
Hail!
Frank:
'Ello Gov'na!
Colonel:
Another rule is "The more you get, the more you receive. Management cannot be held responsible."
Frank:
You are responsible. The more you understand this, the better.
Philly starts to relax, finally understanding something that's been said.
Philly:
So I understand. I'm prepared to be responsible for myself.
Colonel:
Suppose you haven't yet. What then?
Philly:
I can't believe you end your sentences with prepositions! Who taught you to speak English?
Colonel:
Salvador Dali.
Frank gesticulates.
Frank:
He's my favorite writer! I can't stand his painting, though. He simply has no eye for color.
Louis returns to the room wearing an apron and a chef hat.
Louis:
Everything is in order. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?
Frank:
A splendid idea. Now we're getting to the heart of what you're after, boy!
Colonel:
Venture a question: what's you're title, son?
They stand and start to the dining room.
Philly:
Err, Philly. Fillet. Philly Fillet.
Frank:
Naturally. Ol' boy, that's a "Love Cut", that is!
They arrive in the dining room. The table is set with four bowls and a salad bowl in the center. They take successive turns sitting in their places.
Louis:
Tally ho!
Louis takes his seat.
Colonel:
Hail!
Colonel takes his seat.
Frank:
'Ello guv'na!
Frank takes his seat.
Philly:
Eh...?
Philly takes his seat.
Philly (Cont.):
You know, this is kind of fun, actually.
Louis:
Everything is if you do it right.
Louis cradles the salad bowl and forks salad into his bowl, and passes it to Colonel.
Colonel:
If it's the eye of a needle, puree the camel.
Colonel passes the salad bowl to frank after his share.
Frank:
Sometimes we just make really large needles.
Frank passes the bowl to Philly.
Louis:
Tally ho!
Colonel:
Hail!
Frank:
'Ello guv'na!
Philly:
Now I get it...I think.
Philly takes a bite of his salad.
Philly (Cont.):
Ewige Blumenkraft!
They all start eating.
Frank:
Excellent work Louis!
Colonel:
Excellent work indeed. I can barely taste the mushroom.
Philly:
Delicious! Wait, mushrooms?
Frank:
Louis, you didn't tell him?
Louis erupts with laughter.
Colonel:
Enough pussy footin', let's get it on.
Interior – Attic in the Loft
PHILLY, LOUIS, COLONEL and FRANK are in the attic, about 45 minutes later. Their magic mushroom salad is about to take effect. As they sit in a circle, half-lotus, they talk to pass the time before the ritual can begin.
Colonel:
So what exactly did Argo tell you about the Fraternity?
Philly:
He said it was what keeps and guards the essence of the true religion, among other things. I'm still not exactly sure what he means by that.
They are passing a spliff around, smoking liberally.
Frank:
That's not an untruth, but it certainly isn't the whole of the matter, now is it Louis?
Louis:
Certainly not. KLUTZ is just one of an unknown number of cabals that operate autonomously in the Fraternity. Not only that, but most of the people in the cabals are Alts. We are a Utility Cabal. We do what is necessary, borrowing from whatever works without discrimination or apology.
Frank:
Fuck 'em, even if they can take a joke.
Everyone laughs.
Philly:
What about KLUTZ? What for are you calling yourselves KLUTZ?
Colonel:
King Lyria's Uncooth Terror Zenjias- KLUTZ. We are specialists in psychological operations- and everything is a matter of psychology, boy.
Philly:
Why doesn't the Fraternity have a name?
Louis:
Because of rule #33: "There is no Fraternity. As such, it has no name. Members of this Fraternity, however, would be prohibited from making any public associations that would indicate the Fraternity's existence, were it to exist.
Philly:
What about my Alt? How does that whole thing work?
Louis:
Slow your boat; we row merrily down the stream. For now, the time is upon us. We will discuss in private how it works after the ritual, for now- how are you feeling?
Philly starts to smile- as if he'd just been laid for the first time.
Philly:
I feel...oh...wow- I think it's happening. No- I feel it's happening...
Louis:
Now close your eyes and listen only to my voice.
Frank:
And my voice!
Colonel:
And my voice!
Louis jerks toward Frank and Colonel briskly.
Louis:
HEY! "No-game time" means no games.
Louis opens a book and begins reading.
Louis (Cont.):
"O nobly-born, listen carefully: the radiant energy of the seed, from which come all living forms, shoots forth and strikes you in the face with a light so brilliant that you will scarcely be able to look at it. Do not be frightened. It is this source of energy that has been radiating for billions of years, ever manifesting itself in different forms. Accept it. Do not intellectualize it. Do not play games with it. Merge with it. Let it flow through you. Lose yourself in it. Fuse in the halo of rainbow light, into the core of the energy dance. Obtain buddhahood in the central realm of the densely packed. Oh nobly-born, listen well: You are now in the magic theater of heros and demons. The Lotus Lord of the Dance. The Trickster, the Shapeshifter. The wanderer. Do not be afraid of them, they are within you. Remember the teachings."
Louis gestures to Frank and Colonel, and they get up and leave the attic space to let Philly press on. They close the door behind them.
Colonel:
By golly, Placebo is the most effective drug on the market!
Interior – Philly's Mind
PHILLY is sitting in the attic and begins to hear strange music reminiscent of Pink Floyd. He opens his eyes, revealing them to be fully dilated, and finds he is in a Dali-esque mindscape: he stands at the bank of a river gazing upon its surface and discovers with horror that someone is trapped beneath its surface.
Philly:
I must save this handsome devil!
Philly smirks at the intoxication of being a hero. The reflection smirks back.
Philly (Cont.):
What's this, then? You enjoy drowning, huh? Maybe you don't need my help...
Philly huffs and puffs. The reflection follows suit.
Philly (Cont.):
Did I miss something? Is this a joke? Where are the cameras?
Philly stares at his reflection, and they both cackle maniacal laughter. While they laugh, an ANGEL approaches on foot. He laughs in a talk-show baritone.
Angel:
Ha HA! Yes! You see: laughing at oneself is not only the best medicine; it's the first step towards enlightenment!
Philly jolts.
Philly:
Who the fuck are you? What the shit is going on?
Angel:
You certainly ask that a lot. I have come to establish your Alt.
Philly:
Oh.
Angel:
It's kind of cute and cheesy how reactionary you are!
Philly:
Eh! Stop calling me cheesy!
Angel:
But that's your new and holy name: Stockholm E. Cheezy!
Philly is mildly disappointed.
Philly:
You've got to be kidding.
Angel:
Surely not, snaggle puss. Look to the sky in 2012.
Philly snaps back to reality drenched in cold sweat.
Interior – The Fillet Show! Set
PHILLY does stand-up before introducing another sketch.
Philly:
Welcome back, my tender loins! Tonight, we're going to do things a little differently. Which is to say, altogether the same- but my way, for once.
Philly starts to pace back and forth.
Philly:
Chances are: you're going to let someone else form your opinions for you, so why not let my opinion be the pretzel that clogged your trachea?
He approaches the audience, continuing:
Philly (Cont.):
The facts are clear: most of the people that want to form your opinion care so much about you, they'll tear your very moustache apart just to get a word in edgewise. In all honesty, I don't give a shit about you, so I've got no motive to steer you wrong!
Using sleight of hand, he produces a cigarette, and produces a lit match with great flair to light the cigarette. After taking a puff, he removes a coin from his left coat pocket and rolls it across the knuckles of his left hand.
Philly (Cont.):
You'll have someone to adore, someone to look up to. Hell, I'm a pretty straight shooter: if I don't know, I'll say "I don't know;" if I think you're ugly, I won't compliment your personality. I'll even admit when you successfully call bullshit.
He grabs the coin with his other hand, and takes the cigarette in his now empty hand. Blowing a smoke ring, he reveals his closed hand is empty.
Audience Member:
Bullshit!
Philly reveals his other hand holds only the cigarette. He reaches into his right coat pocket to pull out an Ace of Diamonds and handles it with his left hand.
Philly:
Even better: my actual opinion of things is so loose and malleable...
He passes the card back to his right hand.
Philly (Cont.):
I'm pretty much able to accommodate any deficiency you have in your personality.
The card vanishes from his right hand and instantly reappears in his left hand. He repeats this a few times.
Philly (Cont.):
Don't worry, that's not an insult- everyone's a bit fucked up. And there's a matter of personal gain for me, of course! Tomorrow, I get to wake up knowing that there's one less douche bag out there what moves me to daydreams of apocalypse unannounced: You.
The card vanishes in a sudden flash of fire.
Audience:
Shit! What? OH SNAP! (et cetera...)
Philly:
It's a Change we can Believe in!
The audience cheers and Philly takes a formal bow.
Philly (cont.):
Thank you! Thank you so much! Up next: Nothing is Next, it's Always Now!
Exterior – Wilderness
PHILLY is in character as his STOCKHOLM, a Russian ascetic. He sits at a fire pit on a stump, staring into the fire.
Stockholm V.O.:
My wife died.
Stockholm throws his dice into the fire.
Stockholm:
Craps...
He grabs a CD player, and holds it.
Stockholm V.O.:
We tried to take child, but they both died in birth.
He throws the CD player into the fire.
Stockholm:
Burned.
Next is a sack of coffee beans.
Stockholm V.O.:
I found that there was no reason for myself to continue living.
He throws the sack of coffee beans into the fire.
Stockholm:
Roasted.
Stockholm V.O.:
So I burned all my belongings in a heap and headed to my cabin to hang myself.
Interior – Cabin
Stockholm is looking for a length of rope, when he suddenly sees a poisonous snake!
Stockholm V.O.:
Suddenly, I was accosted by a venomous snake. I ran back to the fire to get a torch, for I had no weapons.
He runs back to the fire, and grabs a burning stick, panicky.
Stockholm V.O.:
And when I returned, I thrust my torch at the snake and it caught fire. But to my horror, it was the rope that I was going to hang myself with.
The scene shifts to a face shot of Stockholm looking into the camera.
Stockholm:
What happens next is nothing, it's always right now. I tell you this so you will know what enlightenment feels like when it comes.
Announcer V.O.:
The Fillet Show! is brought to you, in part, by Jinn Gin. Injuns Love Jinn Gin!
Exterior – Street-Side
JEREMY is walking to his lunchtime getaway: the Barn Yard Tavern. On his way, a bedraggled, ascetic man stops him.
Ascetic:
Never be mistaken that enlightenment is a plateau.
A gaze of pure desperation grips the ascetic's face and Jeremy pushes on.
Jeremy:
Who can tell anymore, the way things are?
Jeremy held this in mind as a scent wafted into his mighty shnazz. He walks down the street, into the Barn Yard Tavern
Interior – Barnyard tavern
JEREMY walks into the tavern and sits at the bar, where JIMMY is washing glasses and watching the stock markets crash on the T.V. News.
Jeremy:
Gin and Tonic, rocks, double time, Jimmy. I'm too sober to be here, so saddle me up.
Jimmy:
Sure thing boss...
Jimmy, is half Apache Indian and speaks with a robust Boston accent. He mixes the drink, clearly displaying a Jinn Gin bottle, and makes small talk with Jeremy.
Jimmy (Cont.):
So what's up boss? Ya' seem kinda, I dunno, jumpy. Yeah, jumpy. What gives?
Jeremy fidgets a bit, then looks at Jimmy.
Jeremy:
Have you ever seen a man with a worn-out, prolapsed anus squat on a pint-sized mason jar and break it, then spend two minutes fishing out the shards with his fingers?
Jimmy pauses a moment, then slides Jeremy his drink.
Jimmy:
No, boss; can't say I have, as such.
The Gin and Tonic is half-gone already.
Jeremy:
Believe you me- you don't want to see that shit. You would think I'd have learned not to click on websites titled "Number-People-Number-Object".
Jeremy cleans another glass and begins making a second Gin and Tonic, again clearly displaying the Jinn Gin bottle.
Jimmy:
I have met a trout that played the guitar, before. The first strum was heavenly and the second was hellish.
Jeremy:
Yeah, like I'm going to believe that shite.
Jimmy stands- a looming, stoic Apache- deadpan.
Jimmy:
He spoke to me. A very important spiritual message.
Jeremy softens, and cocks his head in interest.
Jimmy (Cont.):
He said: "I should a' learned to play piano."
Jeremy looks like a dog that just been shown a card trick. He starts on the second Gin and Tonic.
Jeremy:
You know, Jimmy- you are one weird mother fu-
The Tavern is destroyed by a meteor.
Voice Over:
Injuns love Jinn Gin! Do What Thou Will! Drink responsibly!
Interior – Loft Den
PHILLY is recounting his trip to LOUIS, COLONEL, FRANK and the recently arrived PANDORA. They sit around the table with the hookah.
Philly:
...and I was convinced it was a real person there, mocking me. Then, suddenly, it was as if there were some greater joke I was unaware of and an angel appeared before me...
Everyone wears a grimace of secret knowledge as Philly speaks.
Philly (Cont.):
...He made fun of me, told me my new name, and split.
Pandora:
Did he say anything else?
Philly off to one side, recalling.
Philly:
"Look to the sky in 2012." Is everybody having to be a blessed weirdo, even my angel?
Pandora:
"...look to this guy in 2012"?
Philly:
So when do I get to learn about my Alt? I'm really quite eager to do this.
Louis gives Frank and Colonel a look and a nod and they excuse themselves from the room for tea.
Louis:
Now that Pandora is here you'll know everything you wanted to know- maybe some things that you don't want to. But what's a cake without blood?
Pandora:
You do know that was the Narcissus experience, don't you?
Pandora shifts her position, grabbing a lunch style box and setting it on her lap.
Philly:
The narsi-what, now?
Pandora:
Narcissus- a Greek myth about a prince that fell in love with a river nymph because she was as handsome as he. But she was cursed to stay below the surface, so he mistook her for himself and walked away-blissful as ever in his self-love.
Philly:
Sounds like a lot of masturbation to me. Something I know all too well, sadly.
Louis:
Let's try to keep this on track. Hookah?
Louis prepares the hookah and Pandora continues talking.
Pandora:
This gives us a clue who the Alt is. You see, what we're doing isn't just making a character- it can be considered a separate person to some extent. An Alt begins in an embryonic stage, conceived though mental scripts, and is born by a moment of psychological stress tantamount to labor. The name itself tells us a lot more detail...
Philly:
Um..."Stockholm E. Cheezy". It sounds like "Stop calling me cheesy".
Pandora:
Well, that would be the obvious phonic. Stockholm, then? The Phonic will tell you what the scripts compiling are- that is, what personality traits and behaviors are being cultivated in Stockholm. The exact practice of this is Teutontology. We are the Satanists of Scientology, breeding thetans and snorting engrams for great justice.
The hookah arm is making its rounds, and Pandora clutches her box.
Philly:
So why are you called Pandora?
Pandora:
Aside from it being who I am? I have the holy relic, Hope.
Philly:
I see.
Pandora softens and droops with wilt.
Pandora:
I know Argo, you know. And Sven.
Philly drains of color and fills of dread.
Pandora (Cont.):
There's a lot about them you don't know. They were...well, they were part of the other side, before you were born.
Louis:
Let's not get into that right now. For now, let's learn how to operate our Alts. The first thing to do is to meditate on the name of our Alt, focusing not on the word, but the nature of the sounds in their succession. For example: Sss-tock-holm-me-chee-zee, ss-tock-holm-me-chee-zee, ss-tock-holm-me..."
Philly:
"...holm-me-chee-zee, ss-tock-holm-me-chee-zee...yeah, I think I get it.
Pandora fidgets with her phone, and notices the time.
Pandora:
I really have to go. Philly, it was a pleasure to finally meet you. Lou, honey- take it easy on him.
Philly:
Likewise...
Louis:
If I must. Stay curious.
Pandora struts out the door and leaves them to their exercises.
Louis:
Now, while you're meditating, you must eventually also incorporate a symbol- a sigil, if you will- to use as an anchor with the phonic. The whole purpose behind this is to have a switch you can flip on and off, because 1) that's very useful, and B) when the Alt is born, it will be random, and it will attach to the anchor as it manifests, so there is a rein you can hold onto. Any questions, so far?
Philly strokes his mustache.
Philly:
So what was all that about a job at the Chronicle? I mean, that's like writing for the New York Times, or something. The job doesn't just fall into your lap.
Louis:
Ah, you see: that's because you're thinking of "The Chronicle," San Francisco's finest publication. But, in reality, it's "The Chronical," the "High Times" of sub- and counter-cultures.
Philly:
I see. Not "The Chronicle".
Louis:
It's a paying position, I assure you. Travel is included. There will be plenty of exposure for you to do what you wish later down the line, and it beats living within your means, doesn't it now?
Philly:
Well...I suppose it does. What's my first assignment?
Louis seems almost to sit on the smoke he puffs.
Louis:
Freelance. Give me twelve-hundred words on a topic of your choice, something relevant to the theme. Fact, fiction, parody- just make it yours.
Exterior – A Phone Booth on the Street
PHILLY drops numerous coins into a phone booth and punches a string of numbers. The receiver rings a few times, and ARGO answers the phone.
Argo:
Yes?
At the sound of his voice, Philly sighs in relief.
Philly:
Argo, it's Phillip.
Argo:
Ah, son! How are you, boy? Your father and I were just talking about you. What are you doing with yourself?
Argo's dapper and cheerful voice rings through the phone.
Philly:
Eh, settle down now! I've been pretty good. I got a job, writing for the...er, Chronicle...
Philly almost successfully disguises his deceit.
Argo:
That's brilliant, my boy!
Philly:
How's New York? I miss it there.
Argo:
It's good. The leaves are changing color just now, and it reminds me very much of our home.
Philly paces his breathing.
Philly:
Have you...have you heard from Maggie? Whenever I try calling, I get no answer.
Argo hugs Philly through the phone.
Argo:
No, son- I haven't. I'm sorry for you. Just trust that things will work out one way or the other. They always do. Have you met the Castrotti yet?
Philly:
Yes, I did that today.
Argo:
Oh, wonderful! Now, you know Sven, he thinks it's a bunch of hooey and blasphemy. So it's best not to bring it up to him.
Philly:
I was curious: can you tell me why he's called the Castrotti?
Argo:
It's more simple than you might imagine. He used to live in Castro before he moved to Little Italy.
Philly:
Oh. That was anticlimactic.
Argo:
Yes, well...like Chinatown, everyone goes to Castro, sooner or later.
Philly idly reads stickers and graffiti in the phone booth. One sticker says: Black sheep are still sheep. Another appears to say "GOOD" in black script. Below that is a negative of the same sticker, and Philly notices that inside the script it spells out "EVIL".
Philly:
And this Fraternity: it doesn't even have letters? Sigma Mu? Lambda Pi? Is it even Greek?
Argo:
Well, it could be said to be Greek. Certainly a lot of it is. Remember, no speaking of this with Sven.
Philly:
I know, I know. How is...Sven, anyway?
Argo fogs the mouthpiece of his receiver.
Argo:
He's Sven. He will always be grumpy, agitated, ill-humored...but I love him.
Philly:
Listen...I met Pandora. She told me that you two had a sordid past before I was born. What exactly does that mean?
Argo agitates his spare hand.
Argo:
It was a long time ago. Truly, it was. Your father and I used to be in the Reich. A lot has changed since then. I can tell you I hold no reservations for that time in my life. Your father, however...well, he's Sven.
Philly:
Oh...that makes so much more sense now. Sven is a Nazi. I always thought there was something along those lines, but he was literally a Nazi. That's great.
Argo:
Phillip, please...don't make something big out of this. Your father loves you very much, even if he has no idea how to express it. He's just a scared, little man.
Philly:
I don't care. I'm done with him. I'll talk to you later Argo. Be safe.
Philly hangs the phone back on it's hook without waiting for a response. A BUM has been waiting outside the phone booth.
Bum:
Hurry up! I wanna go to sleep!
Philly opens the glass door and steps out of the booth.
Philly:
It's all yours, soldier. Have a nice life.
Bum:
Yeaaah...shim a sun...can't cunt a pea...
Interior – Apartment in NYC
ARGO walks into the living room and SVEN is sitting in his chair, watching the T.V.
Argo
I was just speaking with Phillip on the telephone. He's been making friends. He even has a job now, writing for a paper.
Sven is nonplussed.
Sven:
Why did he move to that God-forsaken city, San Francisco? Everything is too loud, too...animated. You can tell the fennel from the chaff too easily, it doesn't suit me.
Argo rests in his own chair.
Argo:
You know, for all your bickering, Philly is actually quite angry with you.
Sven:
What else is new? He never appreciates what either of us does for him. The sacrifice, the slaving...all for that ungrateful snot.
Sven flips through the channels, having made his point.
Argo:
Well, it's a bit more than that; I'm afraid...he's become privy to the fact that we were once a part of the Reichstag.
Sven stops flipping through the channels, gripping the remote in vice.
Sven:
What does he know?
Sven's eyes remain fixed to the screen as an infomercial plays.
Argo:
That is about the extent of it, I believe.
Sven:
Does he know about the...experiment?
Argo:
No, I don't believe so. It's possible. Highly unlikely, though.
Sven goes back to channel surfing, settling on a commercial break.
Sven:
Wheel of Fortune is about to come on. Goodie.
T.V. Announcer:
The proceeding is brought to you in part by Mason Dixon Cider. By the by!
Exterior - DAY
As COLONEL ANGUS leaves the supermarket, he pats down his pants to make sure the hammer is snug and unrevealing. Confident of his subterfuge, he proceeds down the street. At a wastebasket, he rummages for an empty soda can. Finding one, he removes a bottle of Mason Dixon Cider from his coat and pours it into the can. He continues walking, taking a sip now and again, whistling an old Dixie tune.
Colonel:
"Is..i-it's a beautiful hic Dixon day, wwwith a beau-tee-ful Dixon sway, and Mason-Dixon Cider, by the by! It'ss a shame we have to pay, for anything we say, when Mason-Dixon Cider 'as had a try..."
Passers by give him looks of disgust and revolt. He shrugs them off as he slips down an alley and climbs a fire escape ladder, all the while whistling bits of his favorite song. As soon as he arrives at the top of the building, he walks over to a corner where his bum's nest is. There he stands, drinking the cider, whistling, and he removes the hammer from his pants, setting it next to a pet kennel with a cat inside it.
Colonel (Cont.):
Oh, jus' a lil' more now...ahh, that's nice.
Colonel sets the cider down on the ledge, picks up a burlap sack and holds it to the opening of the kennel.
Colonel:
C'mon now, lil' precious...
The cat walks into the bag and Frank cinches it closed. He continues whistling his melody and grabs the hammer, giving it a once over. Seeing that it is indeed well made, he rears back and starts bludgeoning the burlap sack. The skyline fades from amber hues to purple darkness and Frank sighs to himself as he drifts to sleep with his cider in hand.
Voice Over:
With Mason-Dixon Cider, you'll never be the same, you'll never feel the pain...
Exterior – NEXT DAY
A sobbing girl in a Sunday dress staples "lost cat" fliers to the phone poles along the street. In the background, Colonel is seen on a fire escape, giving the "thumbs up" gesture.
Interior – Philly's Apartment
Philly unrolls his mattress on the floor, laying blankets on top of it and crawls into bed. He lights a cigarette and clicks on his hand recorder.
Philly:
I don't know about all of this. It's kind of weird. But we'll see what we see when we see it, I suppose. Remember to try calling Maggie again tomorrow.
Philly clicks off the recorder and puffs on his cigarette. After a moment, he clicks it on again.
Philly (Cont.):
Stockholm E. Cheezy. What's the "E" mean? Maybe it's just "E", like the "S" in Harry S. Truman. Also, come up with a topic for an article.
He clicks off his recorder one last time and puts his cigarette out. Sleep takes him like a virgin.
Ext – The next day
PHILLY is walking down the street and stops at a sidewalk café, ordering a double espresso. As he sips his coffee, he overhears a MAN and a WOMAN fervently discussing something nearby him.
Man:
...and then the second one hit!
Woman:
Two? No way, you're lying! Two planes were hijacked and flown into the twin towers?
Man:
I'm not lying, it's on the news! Come on, I'll show you.
The man and the woman walk briskly down the street. Philly approaches the BARISTA.
Philly:
Is what that man said true, would you know by chance?
Barista:
I haven't seen it, but that's what everyone's been saying. I...I...I just don't know what to do about it...
A familiar expression of desperation grips the barista's face, and Philly rushes to the pay phone. Locked safely inside the booth, he slams money at the coin slot, eventually depositing enough to dial MAGGIE's cell number. It rings until he gets her voicemail.
Maggie:
Hi, this is Maggie! Leave a message and I'll hit ya' back!
Philly hangs up before the phone takes his money, and dials again. The phone rings until it goes to voicemail, and he repeats the process again. Finally, she answers the phone.
Maggie:
What? I'm working!
Philly:
It's me! Are you okay? Are you safe? Is everything alright?
Maggie:
Of course, why wouldn't I be? But now is not the time, I'm in the middle of a meeting.
Philly:
What?
Maggie:
I'm in a meeting!
Philly wretches inside.
Philly:
Maggie...you're not in a meeting. The World Trade Center was just Suicide Bombed with two planes. Where are you?
Maggie:
The...what?
Philly hears a MALE voice in the background.
Male:
Who's that? Come back to bed, babe, we got all day...
Philly slams the phone down, breaking the handset. He storms down the street, torn by his own grief. Finally, he breaks, and STOCKHOLM emerges, hipping and hopping.
Stockholm:
This spliff was rolled with cheese, and I'm hitting it with ease. Hand it deftly to the left, my name's Stockholm E. Cheezy. Believe me, and breathe in this smoke, but don't choke. Here's the roach, I rolled it seamless in the back of the coach. You've got to be heavenly high if you wanna ride this ride. Eat a bucket of fries and then go reaching for the clear eyes. I'm lying, this ain't skunk- it's bunk and stressful bammer. Cock the hammer back (Cock! Cock!) and block the gamma! 'Cause I'm a lyrical shipwreck with a spiritual poop deck. I'm looping the new tech first thought of by Olmec. A convection of convention and I'm itching to kick this kitsch- 'cause I'm heavenly high!
Interior – The Fillet Show! Set
Philly Stands in front of the audience telling jokes.
Philly:
He told me nothing rhymed with "orange" so I hit him with a door hinge!
There are a few chuckles here and there.
Philly (Cont.):
How about this, have you heard this yet, ladies and gentlemen? An Eskimo was out in his kayak one day, fishing. He got a bit cold and started a fire. Unfortunately, the kayak sank and he died. It just goes to show, you can't have your kayak and heat it, too.
Again, a smattering of chuckles issues from the audience with a few groans this time, as well.
Philly (Cont.):
You know what I think? I think Jesus was a pedophile. They say Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world- but nobody loves a child like a pedophile. So he must have been one, right?
The audience quiets.
Philly (Cont.):
Okay, you asked for it. I'm pulling out the big guns. What did the Tower say to it's twin?
Anticipation floods the room, preserving the moment in amber.
Philly (Cont.):
"I'm falling for you!"
Some members of the audience gasp, and one of them stands up to boo.
Audience Member:
Too soon! Show some respect!
The crowd mobs behind the agitator.
Philly:
If it's too soon, the terrorists have already won, I tell you.
Laughter is had with great merriment by all, as the tension breaks over reason's head.
Philly:
Next, we have a sketch called Verboten Fruit. Enjoy!
Exterior – The Garden of Eden
Adam and Eve are basking in the warmth of paradise. Eve feels the draw of nature and excuses herself.
Eve:
I'm just off to use the toilet, love. Be right back!
Adam:
Right. Don't fall in, hon.
Eve walks to a toilet exalted on a radiant mound of earth. She climbs onto the toilet and does the deuce, wiping herself with a fig leave. She is about to flush the toilet when a Serpent coils up the tank and speaks to her.
Serpent:
Sssstop! Don't flushhh that toilet!
Eve:
But...that's what you do.
Serpent:
Yesss...but I sssay unto you: breathe deeply the air of the bowl, and ye ssshall be asss Godsss!
Eve sticks her head in the toilet bowl and huffs the fumes of her own excrement. She gets dizzy and becomes euphoric. When she comes around, she rushes to Adam to show him her discovery. They walk back to the toilet and Eve instructs Adam.
Eve:
Now stick your head in all the way, and breathe as deep as you can.
He gets dizzy and rolls on the ground. Eve huffs again, as well. They roll along on the ground, until God's thundering voice scares them. They both hide among the bushes.
God:
Why, children, do you hide from your creator?
Adam and Eve:
Because we're naked.
God:
Who told you that?
Adam:
Well, we breathed the vapor of our own excrement and it just sort-of occurred to us.
God:
You What? The Verboten Fruit?
Adam:
Eve made me do it!
Eve:
I was told by the Serpent!
God hands them each a pair of Space Dockers Jenkem Cut pants.
God:
There, you're not naked. Now get the shit out!
Adam and Eve exit the Garden of Eden holding hands.
V.O.:
Space Dockers, new Jenkem Cut! Space Dockers- "I wouldn't do that if I were you!"
Exterior – Golden Gate Park
Later that day Philly is walking to Golden Gate Park, blowing off steam. He walks through a tunnel and a sign is posted that reads "Total Autonomy Zone". On the other side of the bridge is like another world, filled with hippies and jugglers and other sordid freaks. Philly walks up a hillside and finds a soft spot in the grass to sit. There he rolls a joint and begins to smoke. As he begins to feel fluid and heavy, a fragile looking Asian man, N'YO BÉ, approaches Philly and sits beside him. He begins to speak in a rapid, entranced voice.
N'yo Bé:
I can see you are a man who is learning that he is troubled and I can see that you are a strong man who has been hurt very badly.
Philly winces.
N'yo Bé (Cont.):
Yes, and I can see what the good lord, she shows me she hurt you. It was a girl, yes?
Philly nods his head.
N'yo Bé (Cont.):
I can see now very clearly that you are the man who is learning that his lover is with another man, Yes? And it was recent you discovered this. Twelve, maybe...no, six...hours ago? That recently?
Philly takes sudden interest at the accuracy of this random statement.
Philly:
How did you know that?
N'yo Bé:
Your countenance, for one, cries out in agony. And I can see your Karmic Aura. It's okay for you, though; you're going to be alright. She's just not right for you, you know? She has lot of growing up to do yet, and you so much more to accomplish.
Philly tokes and passes it to N'yo Bé. N'yo Bé takes it and grabs Philly's hand, gazing at the palm as he smokes.
N'yo Bé (Cont.):
I can see you are the man who is filled to overflowing with creative force, and you drive this force in all directions, sometimes so much that you loose all focus, and the energy fades. Take a break, the bread must rise. You don't work in television or radio, do you?
Philly:
No, I don't.
N'yo Bé:
Ah, but you do play music, I see. Yes? And the television or radio is definitely there- it's close...within the decade. Right now, you...I see a feather standing in the mud. You are writing for a living, now, but like most things- it wasn't quite what you were expecting, yes?
Philly takes his turn again with the joint, nodding where appropriate and smiling as the details seemingly get more precise.
Philly:
This is...I cannot describe...
N'yo Bé:
Just go with it. The feather- I see two of them now, they are rising up to the sun. Something is wrong with the relationship of the father to the son.
Philly's eyes snap, alerting N'yo Bé that he's made another accurate prediction.
N'yo Bé (Cont.):
Please, tell me about this.
Philly:
Well, I got into a fight with my...father the other day.
N'yo Bé:
It was you father? There are two, no? And they have done something unusual that you highly disapprove of- but it isn't their affair. Tell me about that.
Philly:
I just...I found that they were part of the Third Reich, and it filled me with disgust.
N'yo Bé:
Yes, I can see that would be upsetting. But at least one of them is a member of the Fraternity. You should talk to them about it! I'm sure they would explain everything, even the experiments.
Philly:
The what? How do you know about the Fraternity?
N'yo Bé:
I couldn't really say, I don't know anything about that, really. Have an intriguing day.
N'yo Bé rises to his feet and walks away down the hillside. Philly finishes smoking his joint and rolls a cigarette. He clicks on his hand recorder and speaks into it.
Philly:
The leaves fall of grace, only to stop the ground. Here must have been something unholy...
Interior – The KLUTZ Loft – Two weeks later
Philly is traveling to the Loft after typing his article for The Chronical. He knocks meekly on the door and Louis answers. He walks in the door and Pandora is sitting in the Den.
Louis:
Bon jour? I hear we've been having strange whether for September...would you like to talk about it?
Philly:
Weather? The World Trade Center is demolished by terrorists and you want to talk about the weather?
Louis:
Yes; the "Whether-or-Not" of the situation!
Pandora animates at the sight of Philly filing listlessly into the room.
Pandora:
Hey, sweet!
Philly:
"Whether or not?" It's death and Chaos in New York right now and you're making jokes?
He slumps down and scowls as Louis strides into the Den.
Louis:
It is more than just a joke. We need to figure out who did it. The "Whether-or-Not" pertains to whether or not the attack was by Them, or if it was one of Us striking at Them in some horribly inappropriate manner...
Philly (Cont.):
My girlfriend worked in one of those towers!
Pandora's heart breaks in pain and sympathy. Louis lowers himself into his seat.
Louis:
You must forgive me; I had no intention to offend you, and it's a terrible thing for your girlfriend.
Philly:
Um...yes, well- she wasn't at work. I got through to her cell phone, though.
Philly sniffs and wipes snot from his nostril.
Philly (Cont.):
She was with another man.
Pandora sets aside her box and wraps her arms around Philly, consoling him in his grief.
Philly (Cont.):
I felt completely destroyed and I think...I think I...whatever it is...with my Alt.
Louis:
I call it "shape shifting"- but you can call it what you like. This is good...Have you given any thoughts about your article?
Philly starts out of a daze and produces his typed draft of the article of prose.
Philly:
I finished the draft today, but I started it two weeks ago.
Louis:
"The leaves fall of grace, only to stop the ground..." That's good stuff. I like the plant imagery. I'll go fax this to the office.
Louis absconds to his office.
Philly:
I...I didn't feel like I was in control of myself. Why was that?
Pandora plays at being aloof and disinterested with Philly.
Pandora:
Oh, you'll get used to that, silly! When I first started Alting I was flip flopping all over the place.
Philly:
Do I need to go through the ritual again?
Pandora giggles at Philly.
Pandora:
You didn't have to do the ritual in the first place.
Philly cocks his brow.
Pandora (Cont.):
You didn't even eat magic mushrooms. It's called the Placebo Effect.
Philly:
What are you talking about?
Pandora:
Think about it: the only reason a drug has any effect on you is because the body can naturally produce it or something incredibly similar. So, there are ways to get the effects of a drug without using it.
Philly:
You MUST show me how to do this!
Pandora:
I'll show you later. This moment: you should be having fun! And I think I have the perfect thing to do!
Pandora picks up her box and removes a folded flier. She hands it to Philly still folded. He unfolds it and reads aloud:
Philly:
"N.R.A.: The National Racist Association. Meeting at 6:30 p.m. on Monday, October 1st at Cracker Jack's Pizza. Represent your Pride!" What is this, now?
Pandora:
Oh, just a little something I put together.
Interior – Cracker Jack's Pizza
PHILLY and PANDORA are at a table eating pizza and passing the time. "Beans and Rice" plays on the radio.
Philly:
...and then I got smashed in the face with my own urine-filled water balloon.
They share a tender moment of laughter before Philly catches himself. Philly digests and assimilates this new information as a SKINHEAD walks in the front door. The skinhead orders a slice of pepperoni and sits in the corner of the room.
Philly:
So...what exactly is going to happen here? Because, I have to say, honestly...I'm not really the kind that has...issues...with other colors.
Pandora giggles ambiguously.
Pandora:
Just observe, then. Don't get involved.
Not a breath after she says this a short ASIAN in leather and sunglasses walks into the restaurant. He orders a Hawaiian with garlic and sits a few tables away from Pandora and Philly.
Philly:
I don't think I want to be here...
Pandora:
Just hush. Pretend we're talking while the television is on; they're just background noise.
Philly:
I think I can do that. So what happens next?
A MEXICAN walks in and orders a mushroom and sausage. Seats are becoming scarce and he sits between Philly and the Asian.
Pandora:
Next? Nothing happens next, it's always right now!
A BLACK MUSLIM walks in and orders barbecue chicken pizza. He sits between the skinhead and the Asian. As he eats his pizza, the skinhead leans over to him and asks:
Skinhead:
You know, I've always heard it was true about you brothers- maybe you could tell me?
The black man stops eating his pizza and looks at the skinhead.
Black Muslim:
Yes?
Skinhead:
The big dick thing- any truth in that? I would think that stereotypes are wrong and, so, there wouldn't be truth in it- don't you agree?
The Asian seems to take a keen interest in the Black man's reply.
Black Muslim:
My penis is exactly the length and girth that God Allah has set forth as he decides as he does for every man- even yo' cracka' ass!
The skinhead shoots out of his chair, sending it flying.
Skinhead:
You wanna do this? C'mon!
Asian:
Oh, snap, son! You gonna' let him talk smack on you like that?
Black Muslim:
I would not disgrace myself with such an unworthy adversary! God will deal with the likes of you in his time! Now let me eat my barbecue chicken pizza in peace!
He continues eating his pizza without further acknowledgment of what had just transpired.
Mexican:
Yeah, man! You guys need to just chill out, okay? Too much shit going on right now- don't do it.
Skinhead:
This nigger Muslim takes a simple, honest question and turns it into an attack on me! Why the FUCK should I chill out?
Asian:
Yeah! Butt the fuck out, Beaner!
Asian:
Beaner? Did you just call me a Beaner?
Skinhead:
Well, you are.
Asian:
Yeah!
Mexican:
I ain't no Beaner, you goddamned Gook. I'm White as sin.
Everyone in the pizza parlor turns to look at the Mexican.
Black Muslim:
You appear to be some Latin or Central American, if I'm not mistaken.
The Mexican thinks they're putting him on.
Mexican:
No. My parents are white. I just tan a lot.
Skinhead:
Yeah, why's your back still wet then?
Asian:
What kind of fucked up perception does it take to think you're another race? I mean- it doesn't even matter that I'm white and you're not...
The focus of eyes shifts to the Asian.
Skinhead:
Dude. You're pretty pale, but you're a slant eyed ching chong ping pong! Actually- if chinky here grew a thin mustache they'd look pretty much the same,
huh?
Black Muslim:
Ha! Beans and Rice!
The Mexican and the Asian, infuriated and confused, storm out of the restaurant.
Skinhead:
Maybe people aren't so different from one another, after all.
Black Muslim:
Shut the fuck up, white man.
Exterior – Street Side
Philly and Pandora are walking down the street after the ordeal at the Pizza Parlor. They are talking as they make their way back to the KLUTZ loft.
Philly:
So you, what, arranged that- that scene there?
Pandora giggles something of a trademark now.
Pandora:
Racists are bound to hate. They're easy to stir up and screw with.
Philly:
I see.
Pandora:
All I did was post copies of that flier I showed you around the BART station and rural transit stops. The rest was just statistical inevitability. But those whack-jobs are going to be changed for that experience somehow.
Philly:
That sounds like so much fun! Where have you been my life?
Pandora giggles.
Pandora:
It's called Operation: Mind Fuck. Sometimes it's called a Golden Apple Seed Mission, or GASM.
Philly:
Heh- you said "or-gasm"!
Pandora:
Oh! I did!
They laugh together.
Pandora:
The idea is to stir things up, bring about a bit of chaos. Make everyday life a little bit weirder.
Philly:
Why does it all have to be so weird, though?
Pandora:
Because that's how things really are.
Philly ponders a moment, when a smashing idea strikes him.
Philly:
I've got it! Racism! That's it, that's perfect!
Pandora:
Huh?
Philly:
Racists! That will be my special mission! And a good reason to learn how to use
my Alt.
Pandora:
There you go! Get excited, because this really is a lot of fun!
Interior – The Klutz Loft
FRANK and LOUIS are chatting in the Den.
Louis:
Here, listen to this, "the leaves fall of grace, only to stop the ground. Here must have been something unholy; it's been growing since summer passed and flat grass lies to bear witness in this transgressional period."
Frank finds himself enthralled by the language of the prose.
Frank:
Oh, dear me! The boy does have a mind for language! Do continue!
Louis is holding the paper stiffly.
Louis:
"Crawling over swarthy crabs, choking the blues, yet lost in the Bermudas, the flat grass sees and the flat grass feeds. Lost foliage finds firm the ground it fights; still, it stops. This, the original fertilizer, is better than bullshit." I have to say, I am impressed.
Frank:
Don't stop! There's more, isn't there?
Louis:
Of course, "For their every earnest effort, the falling leaves only compound the compost, heaping their lifeless veins onto another's cause. In this, our turgid earth, do we toil, 'til it can inflate us."
Frank:
That just makes me want to weep like a babe!
Louis:
"So, when our terrafirmitory is impinged upon do we feel it; when it is vibrant with lithe life-things and goings-on, we are the freshness of youth; when it is pregnant, there is a joy that knows no bounty. When it falls, as we have so many times ourselves, therein lays the stink of death, ripe with satisfaction."
Frank:
Bravo, kind sir! What is he calling it?
Louis:
It says, "The Liturgy".
Frank:
How quaint.
The doorbell rings and Louis scuttles off to answer. He opens the door to
PANDORA and PHILLY.
Louis:
Ah, young Philly! We were just discussing your prose. What impeccable timing, do come in.
They enter the Den and sit.
Philly:
It's alright? Is there anything you want me to rewrite?
Frank:
Oh, goodness no! We think it's absolutely stunning!
Louis:
It's in the next issue.
Philly:
But that was a first draft.
Louis:
I see. So you're really that good?
Philly is left stammering as Louis pulls out a checkbook and writes a nine-hundred dollar check to Philly.
Louis:
If this is something you would like to continue doing, I am interested in keeping you on as a member of the regular writing and editing staff.
Philly:
Very much so, and thank you!
Pandora nudges Philly.
Pandora:
Philly came up with a great idea! Why don't you tell them?
Philly begins to say something, but pauses.
Philly:
Is it okay if I call my guy and get some dank first?
Louis:
Of course!
Philly walks over to the phone and dials.
Philly:
Hey Cocoa? It's Philly...
Interior – The Fillet Show! Set
Philly is once again standing before the audience, going between rehearsed material and improvisation. ["Heavenly High" theme]
Philly:
Highlight the left side, low-ride the low tide, move it through the middle, hit the sky, rise, metastasize. Surprise, it's me! Who'd you think it would be? I'm just a tapeworm restin' in your lower intestine. Interestingly: it's the best place to be if you wanna' get the giggles as I wiggles to be free and get my groove on, G! Loving every mother lover, 'cause the ladies I know- they all love mesquite. Well, I'm a lyrical shipwreck with a spiritual poop deck. I'm loopin' the new tech first thought of by Olmec. A convection of convention, and I'm itchin' to kick this kitsch. 'Cause I'm heavenly high!
The music wraps up, and Philly remains in a hip-hop pose for a few seconds before continuing. Sweat drips from his brow and the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned.
Philly (Cont.):
Welcome, friends and enemies, to the middle of the show!
Philly re-postures himself, his tone visceral.
Philly (Cont.):
Now, we are all adults here; we can cut the trim and chew the cud. And I may yet regret this, but I must share with you some Truth. There are many groups with private interest that do not want you to know what I am about to say: Almost everything you have been taught about reality is wrong.
Philly makes shifty eyes to theatrical effect. A white projection screen lowers behind him and the projector hums.
Philly (Cont.):
You see, history is just another fiction written by the victors. Since late prehistory, two prevailing philosophies have been in conflict:
Philly produces a cigarette, and slides click in the projector as images of ancient ruins flash on the screen.
Philly (Cont.):
...the philosophy of Control...
He lights his cigarette. The projector clicks to an image of a farm.
Philly (Cont.):
...and the philosophy of Choice. One group followed the way of Choice, and so built many gods for themselves to reflect their diversity. From them, the followers of Control proclaimed that there was one God, and they followed all his rules, or at least tried.
This quip gets Philly a few chuckles and a gut laugh. The projector clicks through a few immediately identifiable religious symbols.
Philly (Cont.):
Initially, they all commingled, but the monotheists craved more control and tried to subvert the established order of polytheism. Enter: Egypt.
Philly takes a puff as the projector clicks to an Egyptian scene.
Philly (Cont.):
The Hebrew populace integrated like piss and vinegar, Egypt wasn't having their One-God-Nonsense! Exit: Egypt.
The projector shows a still of the Exodus.
Philly (Cont.):
Again nomadic, the Hebrew people migrated to the area of Turkey, were they called themselves Egyptians, and came to be Gypsies.
There is more heated laughter from the audience, some nervous, but more hearty. The projector clicks off and the screen raises again.
Philly (Cont.):
And from them, the three major Western Religions, every governmental institute, every economy in the world exists- and it's all just a Gypsy Grift.
Philly steps forward.
Philly (Cont.):
There are those who resist the status quo, however. Sufi, Gnosticism, Hermetica, Cabala, Zen- they all prefer choice, they all prefer direct experience. I call them the Volks Vegan- Plant People. You have to ask yourself, now: what do you trust? The people who tell you what to think, how to feel, what to eat? Or yourself? I will leave you with this thought: Truth is such that it is manifest in the thickest of lies. Ewige Blumenkraft! Eternal Flower Power!
Exterior – a grassy Slope
A parody of Dora the Explorer plays, reading "Pandora the Explorer." PANDORA stands at the bottom of the slope in suggestive clothing.
Pandora:
Hello! I'm Pandora the Explorer! Let's explore Greek Mythology together!
Just as she finishes speaking, a boulder rolls down the slope, resting at the bottom. A grizzled, aching man hobbles down the slope and positions himself behind the boulder. He heaves, nudging the boulder along, back up the slope.
Pandora (Cont.):
This is King Sisyphus in Tartarus, the Greek Hell. Because he stole, he spends eternity rolling this rock up the slope, only for it roll back down and the cycle continues. Can you say, "Pointless?" Good job!
Pandora skips along to the next scene. A lavish bedroom waits for its inhabitants. They walk in, feverishly kissing. They pull and strain at their clothing and roll on the bed in their throes of nuptial passion.
Pandora (Cont.):
The is the Bedroom of the recently Crowned King Oedipus. He doesn't know it yet, but he just killed his father to marry his mother. Can you say, "Over Eager?" Good job!
Pandora skips along again to the next scene. A Canopy party is set out for HERA by ZEUS.
Pandora (Cont.):
Here, Zeus is throwing a party! Yay! He invited everyone...that is, except Eris, the Goddess of Strife, because she makes mischief. And she was kind enough to send a present, anyway.
As the festivities are in full swing behind Pandora, a golden apple flies into their midst. It tumbles on the ground a bit. When it stops, the inscription is clearly read: "For you, Dummy. LOL!"
Pandora (Cont.):
Let's see what happens!
Hera, Aphrodite and Athena all set their eye on the golden apple. Each is aware of the others' gaze. Hera walks over to the apple and picks it up.
Hera:
Who but Eris would give me such a disrespectful gift?!
Hera casts the apple to the side. Aphrodite picks it up and holds it out towards
Athena.
Aphrodite:
Well, it say's "dummy"- maybe it was meant for Athena?
Athena:
How clever you are, my little twit. But since you say so...
Athena tries to snatch the apple from Aphrodite, sending herself slightly off balance. Hera seems amused.
Aphrodite:
It was meant for me, of course! Eris knows I'm the only one around here with a
sense of humor.
Hera:
Now see here! It's my party, it's my gift! You dimples haven't a wit about the two of you!
They ensue with petty bickering over rightful possession of the apple.
Zeus:
Alright! Hey! Everybody: Shut! Up! I'll choose for you an impartial, random arbitrator to sort this out. BAM! Paris, the shepherd, come on down!
Paris is wearing a game-show contestant nametag. He jogs through the crowd, shaking his hands in the air like an idiot.
Zeus:
Hi, Paris! It's wonderful to meet you! Now the rules are simple, you sit here in this seat, and ask the three Female contestants what they would do to win your
Golden Apple!
Zeus hands Paris the Golden Apple. The contestants all take their seats.
Paris:
This is so awesome! Contestant Number One: if I sat on this apple and farted, would you still want it?
Hera:
Yes.
Paris:
What if it was wet?
Hera:
Yes, I...
Paris:
What if I actually shat myself trying to fart, but it was all runny and soaked through onto the apple? Would you still want it?
Hera bats her eyes a few times in anguish.
Hera:
...Yes! I Have to have it!
Paris:
You wouldn't want it even a little less? Really? Okay, contestant Number Two: What is the Worst sex act you've ever preformed?
Aphrodite:
Well, I've had group sex with fauns and centaurs...does that count?
Paris:
I have the internet, so no- not really. Would you blow me, personally if I gave you
the apple?
Aphrodite:
No, but I would get the most beautiful girl in the world to do it for the rest of your life!
Paris:
Zeus, I think we have a winner!
Paris runs over and hugs Aphrodite, then hands her the apple. She raises it up in her hands.
Athena:
But you didn't even ask me any questions!
Paris:
That's because nobody likes a brainy bitch.
Int – Sven and Argo's Apartment
Sven sits in his chair, watching T.V. On the screen, Athena pulls an arrow from her magic quiver and a bow materializes in her hand. She pulls back and shoots an arrow deep into Paris' leg and storms off.
Aphrodite:
Come on you cry baby: let's go get Helen of Troy!
V.O.:
We'll be back in a moment
after a message from our sponsors!
The phone rings, so Sven mutes the T.V. and answers the phone.
Sven:
Yes?
Frederick:
Are you alone?
Sven:
Is this Frederick? Yes I'm alone, where are you?
Frederick:
Don't say my name. Is Argo gone? Good. We have some work you might be interested in...
Int – Library
Philly and Pandora are sorting through books they have pulled from the shelves, trying to gather information about his parents.
Pandora:
I can't believe your parents would be involved in that.
Philly:
Well, it was a long time ago. And if I had been raised under different circumstances, I might be no different. But yeah, it sucks my parents were Nazis.
Pandora:
I like that you don't think having two dads is...
Philly:
...gay? Of course it's gay!
Pandora giggles.
Pandora:
No, I was going to say weird. Some people would think it's weird.
Philly:
I'm starting to think that weird isn't so bad. In moderation.
Philly finds a section in a book called Nazi Eugenics about genetic engineering and sees his father's name, Sven Oppenheimer.
Philly (Cont.):
Look at this: Sven Oppenheimer- Genetic Engineering Division. It says my parents were involved in experiments to clone and manipulate DNA, but nothing ever came of it. God, how many hours of research did it take to get that? And I still don't really know anything.
Pandora:
You really should just talk with them. They'll tell you in their own time.
Philly:
Last time I did that, i found out they were Nazis...maybe you're right, though.
Philly closes the book.
Pandora:
I know I'm right. Now let's get ice cream!
Ext – Diner
Sven is sitting at the diner bar, waiting for his contact to show. He eats jam and toast with a cup of coffee. The waiter harasses him with incessant questions.
Waiter:
Can I get you anything else? You're sure you're fine?
Sven:
No! That is all!
The waiter retreats farther down the bar and wipes the counter with his scowl. A bell tied to the door dings as a man steps in from the rain. His hair is slicked and he wears a business suit. When he sits next to Sven, the waiter scuttles over to
service him.
Fred:
Coffee, black- that's it, thanks.
The waiter saunters over and cleans a coffee mug.
Fred:
Long time, Sven.
Sven:
Indeed. What do you have for me?
Fred looks over his shoulder, flexing his chiseled Aryan jaw line.
Fred:
Let's not discuss that here. It's something you really need to see to appreciate, anyway.
Sven:
Frederick Heimenberger... always so dramatic. How is it that you are still with the Party?
As Sven is saying this, the waiter brings Fred his coffee, setting a bowl with sugar and cream. Fred shrugs it off with a chuckle.
Fred:
Same as you, I would imagine: nobody would believe that a Neo-Nazi or a gay Austrian would really be affiliated with the Party.
Sven:
Fair enough.
Fred mixes ample sugar and cream into his coffee, leaving it a milky tan, and takes a sip.
Fred:
How's Argo, anyway?
A lump decides at this particular moment to camp in Sven's throat.
Sven:
I...I really don't know, anymore. We had a fight about Phillip again, and he left for California a few days ago. I'll I've been able to bring myself to do is drink and watch horrible, horrible television programs.
Sven's eyes drip the first melt of his heart's discontent.
Sven:
I don't think he even...love me anymore!
He bursts into a pneumatically powered bout of sobbing and Fred does his best
to console.
Fred:
Hey now, chin up! These things happen. It's not the end of the world. He was a bit of a bastard anyway. Anyway, cheer up because you know I'm rubbish with
type of thing.
Fred slaps a fiver on the bar and stands.
Fred (Cont.):
Let's get out of here.
They step outside where a black Mercedes is waiting.
Int – Mercedes
FRED drives to a destination he still has not revealed. Sven is still skulking over Argo. The RADIO plays the "Master Race" theme.
Radio:
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!
Fred turns the radio up a little.
Fred:
Oh, I love this track! Check this out: Race Rape- it's a white supremacist rapper from Chicago. He gots mad skills, yo!
Radio:
It's lost on me, you atrophy with apathy. I slap my knee at the scene of a queen setting sail to sea in pastures green...
Sven:
You actually listen to, and like...this?
Radio:
S-I-N, sin! As I enjoy a rejoinder, remaining sane with remainders of the Cambridge Crusaders...
Fred:
Hell Yes!
Radio:
Invaders from Mars set the wheels in motion...
Sven gesticulates angrily.
Sven:
It is kitsch! It is not any different from the pulp shize that other rappers do!
Radio:
But the notion's Novi Scotian, some bloatin' bloke who wrote this is pissed off like a munchkin.
Fred:
You've got to get with the times, Sven. That's what this operation is all about.
Radio:
Oppressed by the best, so don't test that I'm blessin' these fools and makin' fools outta' you an' your chitlin with simian restrictions. Eh, how's my diction?
Fred:
This is a wonderful propaganda piece; it brings what would otherwise be "wiggers" into the fold. Our project is more...elimination oriented.
Radio:
Let's start by beginning; who's winning the race of masters? Your place is last, sir. After I answer your questions I'm bettin' you'll be lettin' it slide...
Fred:
Just about there now...
They arrive at an abandoned building and Fred pulls into the driveway. The radio continues playing:
Radio:
As I ride with a guide by my side, I never lied about the fact that I was poised to attack.
Sven:
An old, dilapidated house?
Radio:
As I heat up and expand, you contract and crack, 'cause it's cold and you've been told that I'm bold like white on black.
Fred:
Yes. And no.
Radio:
Unfolding poles as aliens slip through holes and strike a pose, they're back. Stirring the plot with gum and cumquats.
Fred puts the car in park and turns the engine off. They enter the house through the front door. Inside is what one would expect from the exterior: bare, except for mold, garbage, and other signs of squatters. They make their way to the closet in the master bedroom. Fred opens a trap door and descends the escape ladder.
Sven follows.
Fred:
Now, Sven: even if you turn back and have nothing to do with this, I'll
understand- but you must swear complete confidence. You know what happens otherwise...
Silence prevails until Sven replies.
Sven:
For the party.
At the bottom of the ladder is a corridor with a sealed hatch at the end. They walk the corridor and Fred enters a code into a panel on the hatch. He turns the handle and a hiss of decompression slinks through the seal.
Fred:
Welcome to Cloud Nein.
Sven ducks his head to step through the hatch and discovers a sea of green marijuana plants.
Ext – Pier
Pandora and Philly are walking along the pier eating ice cream out of cones.
Pandora:
So we open a center geared towards racists, and convert them to the side of
tolerance?
Philly:
Basically, yeah. It's perfect; Teutontology already sounds Aryan. We get them in, illuminate the shit out of them and build from that.
Philly stops walking and leans against the railing. He gazes at the endless ripple of the Pacific.
Pandora:
Isn't it funnier to just get them to fight each other until they're senseless?
Philly:
Maybe for you- but there's something invigorating about convincing someone they've been wrong all along. What better if it changes someone for the good?
Pandora is unimpressed with the familiar scenery.
Pandora:
Yeah, maybe...I guess I could see how that's funny. It just doesn't make me double over in laughter.
Philly:
Okay- how would you change the plan?
Pandora considers her response.
Pandora:
It's irony deficient. It should feel more like "White Power for Racial Tolerance!" and less "Summary Reprogramming."
Philly:
I see.
Pandora:
It could do with a touch more of a religious or cultish glamour, as well. Nothing too garish- just a hint.
Philly:
You act as though you've done this before.
Pandora giggles.
Philly:
Sometimes you remind me of...no, it's silly.
Pandora:
What? Go on, finish!
Philly:
You remind me of Maggie.
Pandora's nose scrunches. This wasn't quite how she wanted to hear it.
Pandora:
Good one.
Philly:
No, it's a good thing. She was always taking my ideas and feeding them back to me slightly better.
Pandora:
Sounds more like she chewed you food for you. It's hardly a flattering thing to hear you remind someone of their cheating ex-girlfriend.
Philly:
Fiancé...
Pandora:
Whatever! It's not a compliment.
Philly compulsively kisses Pandora, letting his tongue do the apologizing. Pandora pulls away after a second of two of sultry abandon.
Pandora (cont.):
I think you misread me. This isn't something I'm after. I'm sorry.
Philly, dejected, tries to recover his fall.
Philly:
No, it's my mistake. I was nostalgia-stricken.
They continue walking along the pier in awkward silence.
Int – Cloud Nein
Sven is touring the facility with Fred. Teams of men in white lab coats walk from plant to plant, jotting notes and recording data.
Sven:
So...you are growing sweet smelling tomatoes?
Fred:
Not really. These are fifth generation clones of our newest project, "Heavenly
High". Marijuana, Sven; the sweetest, stickiest, dank in the western hemisphere. "Killer," as they say.
Sven:
Marijuana? The Party has resorted to petty drug dealing?
Fred:
Petty? I beg your pardon! This is just one of nine facilities. This building itself is over one hundred thousand square feet, with almost as much cubic feet of grow-space.
Sven:
But pot?! I HATE dope heads, always spaced out and barely aware of what's going on.
Fred:
Then you're perfect for this job, Sven! We've surely done a lot of work on the project already.
Fred picks up a clipboard with a chart on it. He looks it over, reading off enhancements they've already made. They keep walking.
Fred (Cont.):
We've bred it for amazingly high resin production, with a THC content of nearly 24%. As a side effect, we've isolated what is apparently a rather sweet and aromatic property. It grows 12% faster, bears 5% more fruit than the best commercial producers.
He tosses the clipboard on a nearby table.
Fred (Cont.):
The only problem with it is that all of this before you is perfectly smoke-able. That's why we need you.
Sven:
What?
Fred:
You are going to be working on our Twelfth Generation, lot "L". We have to figure a way to make it kill people after they smoke it.
Sven:
Kill people?
Fred:
Yeah, you know- Rappers, Jazz musicians, High school trouble makers. A sort of colonic for the socio-ethnic sphincter.
Sven:
Oh. Great. I'm in.
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.
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..."
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.