Beyond the Bush

“Beyond the Bush.”

by Robert Dillon Nemtusak



“Don’t trip…He ain’t through with me yet.”—Steve Harvey.

“You must prove your faith with works.”—Francis O’Neill.



SCENE: Bronstein Studios. Los Angeles, California, USA. Suite 2323.



MUSIC: Prokofiev’s ‘Cinderella,’ Opus 87: No. 29: Cinderella Arrives at the Ball.



JACK Bronstein: WORK with me here, Fat Guy.



FAT Guy puffs on cigar. 



JACK lights own cigar. 



JACK: WORK with me.



FATTY blows smoke.



JACK puffs on cigar. 



FATTY studies JACK.



JACK blows smoke.

JACK studies FATTY.



FATTY: Serious SMOKE, eh, Mr. Bronstein?



JACK: (miffed)         

Don’t be bashful, Fatty. There’s no formalities here! Call me JACK.



FATTY: Sure. Jack. Tell me, Jack. What’s the deal with the box of donuts?



JACK shrugs.



FATTY: Do I get one? 



JACK: Smoke this one over, Fatty.  Smoke it over. How about a donut AFTER the interview? OK? 



FATTY: (ambivalently)           

Yeah, sure…I GUESS. 



JACK: Hey. Don’t be like THAT. We’re talkin’ about the FUTURE here, Fatty.



MUSIC: “Tales of the Future” by Vangelis.



FATTY: Interview, huh? I thought it was a TEST, Jack.



JACK frowns.



FATTY: Make up your mind, boss.



JACK: (annoyed)         

Come on, Fatty. Interview, test, assessment. Same difference.



FATTY: (bored)           

Yeah…SURE…I GUESS. 



JACK claws at hair.



FATTY blows smoke.



JACK opens desk drawer.

JACK takes bottle of vodka out of drawer.



FATTY raises eyebrows. 



JACK places vodka bottle on top of desk.

JACK places two glasses on desk.



JACK: Here’s how I see it, Fatty. It’s called the Brain Quality Test. Eddie Berthanse, a clipboard-smacker for Brain Trust, FAXED it to me.



FATTY: Fax, huh?



JACK: Yes.



FATTY: He sent you a fax, Jax?



JACK shakes head.



FATTY chuckles.



JACK: Will ya knock it off, Fatty?



FATTY clears throat. 



FATTY: Sure.



JACK puts cigar out in ashtray.



FATTY puffs on cigar. 



JACK: Pay attention. We make this deal with Brain Trust, and we’re on EASY street.



FATTY squints at JACK. 



JACK: (excitedly)         

CAT-bird’s seat, Fatty.



FATTY: (jovially)           

Where do I sign?



JACK grins.



FATTY puts out cigar. 



JACK: Now. How do you feel about tortoises, Fatty?



FATTY: HUH?



JACK: Easy. The first question has to do with a TORTOISE.



FATTY stares blankly at JACK.



JACK: Here’s the premise, Fatty. You’re out in the DESERT.



FATTY: Yeah? How come? 



JACK shrugs.



JACK: I don’t know, Fatty.



FATTY waves hand dismissively.



JACK: (sadly)         

I don’t know.



FATTY: You DON’T KNOW? 



JACK shrugs.



FATTY: Some brain quality expert YOU are.



JACK frowns.



FATTY: (vexed)           

Do you even have a LICENSE?



JACK: (perplexed)         

LICENSE? I’m gettin’ some bad VIBES here, Fatty.



FATTY: That’s your problem!



JACK: Fatty? I’d rather not tell Berthanse that the BQT subject has a difficult, contradictory nature.



FATTY scoffs.



JACK: Can we just get on with it?



FATTY shakes head.



JACK: OK. So you’re out in the desert. I don’t know why. Maybe you like peace and quiet. Maybe you like the AIR. Who knows?



FATTY: What-ever.



JACK writes on paper. 



FATTY: Tell me something, Jack.



JACK cocks head to one side.



FATTY: Do you FEEL stupid right now?



JACK balks.



FATTY: You sure SOUND stupid.



JACK rolls eyes.



FATTY: I should be givin’ YOU a Brain Quality Test!



MUSIC: Introduction, Piano Concerto No. 1, by S. Prokofiev.



JACK: Fatty, you fat fuck! The mad scientists at Brain Trust got the crazy idea that they should CLONE you. Play ball. Forget about the donuts. Quit makin’ FUN of me. DON’T JEOPARDIZE THIS PROJECT.



FATTY: (warily)           

“Project,” Jack?



JACK: Easy, Fatty.



FATTY: So now I’m a PROJECT?



JACK: (nervously)         

No, no. It’s called the Fat Clone Project.



FATTY nods slowly.



JACK: Brain Trust needs a subject.



FATTY lights new cigar. 



JACK: Can we get on with it?



FATTY blows smoke.



FATTY: Jack? I don’t like it. PROJECT? SUBJECT? I’m a human BEING. What’s really goin’ on here?



JACK lights new cigar.

JACK puffs on cigar.

JACK blows smoke.

JACK sighs.

JACK smiles.



JACK: Fatty?



FATTY: Yeah?



JACK: You’re in the desert. Any desert will do, It’s completely hypothetical. Get it?



FATTY: Hypothetical desert. Got it.



JACK: You see a tortoise. 



FATTY: A what?



JACK: A tortoise.



FATTY: What’s that? 



JACK: What’s what? 



FATTY: What’s a tortoise? 



JACK angrily snuffs out cigar.



FATTY: MERCY, Jack. That was serious smoke!



JACK: No KIDDING.



FATTY shakes head.



JACK sighs.



FATTY: Start making SENSE, Jack.



JACK claws hair.

JACK sighs.



FATTY: SERIOUSLY.



JACK: (incensed)         

FINE.



FATTY nods smugly.



JACK: Tell me, Fatty. Do you know any desert-type animals?



FATTY: Good question. You know, I drove out to Arizona once.



JACK raises eyebrow. 



FATTY: Desert sure was hot.



JACK writes on paper. 



FATTY: I saw this green animal. He had a big, hard shell.



JACK:  Hot sun, huh?



FATTY: I’LL say. So, the little guy kept trying to roll over. I don’t know. Maybe he had sun-tan lotion on the other side.



JACK: So, he wanted to roll over. How did he do?



FATTY frowns.



JACK: That bad, huh? 



FATTY: Yeah! He kept beating his arms, trying to turn himself over. But he couldn’t. I probably should have helped him, Jack.



JACK nods.



FATTY: I wonder what kind of animal he was…



JACK: Desert-type animal, huh? Hard shell?



FATTY: Yes.



JACK stands up.

JACK begans to pace office.



JACK: (thoughtfully)         

Hot sun. Desert animal. Hard shell. Trying to roll over? That sounds like a turtle1



FATTY: Yeeaahh! Good work, Jack!



JACK sits at desk.

JACK studies FATTY.



JACK: All right, Fatty. Here we go. Forget about the tortoises. We’re talkin’ about turtles! 



FATTY beams.



JACK: So. You’re out in the desert.



FATTY: Right! The HYPOTHETICAL Desert. Where IS that?



JACK stares at FATTY. 



FATTY stares at JACK. 



JACK: Work with me, Fatty. A hypothetical deseert can be ANYWHERE, OK? It’s HYPOTHETICAL! 



FATTY: Yeah, but where IS it? I understand the DESERT part, but—



JACK: Hey! Fatty! There’s a TURTLE. Out in the DESERT. He needs your help. God only KNOWS why he thinks YOU would help him. But he thinks you will. He can’t turn himself over—not without your help. But you’re not helping.



FATTY: So you SAY. You weren’t even THERE, Jack!



JACK: Never mind about that! You killed him, Fatty! An innocent turtle!



FATTY winces.



JACK: A turtle sits in the hot sun. He sits there—and you let him FRY.



FATTY: What do you mean, I let him fry?



JACK: I mean, you let him fry. Why is that, Fatty?



Knock at door.



JACK: Who the hell is that?



FRIEDA Kokovoko: (from hallway)                               

Time’s up, Mr. Bronstein. 



MIKE Piazza: (from hallway)                     

Step outside, please. 



FRIEDA enters.



JACK tugs at collar. 



FATTY: Frieda!



MIKE enters.



JACK: (annoyed)         

I said, no visitors, Frieda!



FRIEDA: That was before. 



MIKE: Frieda and I were, um, busy downstairs. Heh heh.



JACK rolls eyes.



FRIEDA: We heard yelling, Mr. Bronstein.



MIKE: (smugly)         

And it wasn’t Frieda! 



FATTY laughs.



JACK: Piazza, get lost. Frieda? Cut me some slack. Berthanse is WAITIN’ on me. Can I finish the test?



MIKE scoffs.



FRIEDA: Sorry, baby. Berthanse heard the whole thing. He bugged your office.



MIKE grins.



JACK: BUGGED. You people are BUGGIN’ ME. Take this Hall of Fame groupie outside, please. I got a TEST to do.



FRIEDA: You’re DONE, Jack.



JACK gapes.



FRIEDA: By order of Dr. Biddaddy, Jack? You’re off the team.



JACK: (flatly)   

        I thought I WAS the team.



FRIEDA: (solemnly)             

I’m sending you to Brain Trust, Jack.



JACK: (incredulous)         

For WHAT, Frieda?



FRIEDA: (quietly)             

Jack, I don’t know. Berthanse asked me to ‘deliver’ you.



MIKE draws murder gun. 



FRIEDA: (disgusted)             

Oh, put that away!



MIKE: But he’s trying to—



FRIEDA: SWING your GUN around LATER, jag bag!



MIKE gapes.



FATTY scratches head. 



FRIEDA shakes head.



FATTY: So who’s gonna finish the test, Frieda?



FRIEDA clucks tongue. 



JACK: I don’t believe this! The Eddie Berthanse Tongue Cluck!



MIKE menaces.



FATTY: I thought we were friends here!



FRIEDA: Life is complicated, Fatty.



MIKE laughs.



FRIEDA: Dr. Liliana Boki is an Attitude Specialist. She’s expecting you, Fatty.



JACK throws up hands. 



FATTY: What the hell is an ATTITUDE SPECIALIST?



MIKE: (menacingly)         

She makes ADJUSTMENTS. 



JACK scoffs.



FRIEDA: (annoyed)             

Mike?



MIKE: (creepily)         

ATTITUDE adjustments. 



JACK: Mike, I am gonna adjust your face in about five seconds!



MIKE waves gun.



FRIEDA: Put the gun away now!



MIKE puts away gun.



JACK lights cigarette.

JACK puffs on cigarette.

JACK blows smoke.

JACK makes a face.



JACK: Frieda? I sincerely hope you didn’t sell out CHEAP.



FRIEDA gapes.



FATTY: This is outrageous! 



JACK makes for exit. 



JACK: You people haven’t seen the last of Jack Bronstein.



MIKE: (menacingly)         

You just keep walking. 



JACK scoffs.



JACK: I’m GONE.



JACK exits.



MIKE smiles smugly.



FATTY: Frieda? You should drop this cheap punk.



FRIEDA: My dealings with Magic Mike are my own business.



FATTY scoffs.



FRIEDA: YOU have a 2:30 with Dr. Boki. Let’s not keep her waiting.



MIKE exits.



FATTY: Cheap punk, Frieda. 



FRIEDA shakes head.



FATTY and FRIEDA exit. 



SCENE: Office of Dr. Liliana Boki, M.D.



FATTY: Professional, huh, Frieda?



FRIEDA: (reassuringly)             

Oh, yes. She’s a veteran of Gray’s Anatomy, in Seattle.



FATTY studies outside of office.



FRIEDA: Answer her questions, and you’ll be fine.



FATTY: (concerned)           

I don’t like this, Frieda. What’s going to happen to Jack?



FRIEDA: TRUST me, Fatty. Everything will be fine.



FATTY: OK, OK. I trust you. I just don’t understand the situation.



FRIEDA: (concerned)     

        Situation, Fatty? 



FATTY: Well, yeah. They said JACK was doing the Brain Quality Test. Why don’t you give him a second chance?



FRIEDA: (sheepishly)             

I’m not sure. I thought Jack had a DEAL with Brain Trust. Life’s complicated.



FATTY: So I hear.



FRIEDA nods.



FATTY: But after this, I’m DONE, right?



FRIEDA: Done?



FATTY: (annoyed)           

With the test!



FRIEDA: Well…not exactly. Your meeting with Dr. Boki is an ASSESSMENT.



FATTY: Enough with the euphemisms! When is the Brain Quality Test?



FRIEDA: (sheepishly)             

After the assessment. 



FATTY gapes.



FRIEDA: I’ll call you later. Good luck, Fatty.



FATTY shakes head.



FRIEDA departs.



FATTY: (aloud)           

Well, here goes.



FATTY smooths out clothes.

FATTY buzzes buzzer on door.



Door buzzes.



FATTY opens door.

FATTY walks inside.



INTERIOR: Boki’s office. Degrees on wall, Paintings on wall.



BOKI: Greetings, Fat Guy.



FATTY sits on couch. 



BOKI smiles.

BOKI sits down at desk. 



FATTY: Hi, Doc. Top of the morning.



BOKI: Did you have any trouble getting here?



FATTY: No. No trouble. Why?



BOKI takes some notes.



FATTY rolls eyes.



BOKI: (inquisitively)         

Did you just roll your eyes?



FATTY: Huh?



BOKI: Your eyes. Did you roll them?



FATTY: (nonplussed)           

I wasn’t looking, Doc. I don’t know.



BOKI takes some notes. 



FATTY frowns.



BOKI: I work with Brain Trust. Dr. Biddaddy tells me that there was an INCIDENT at Bronstein Studios, involving Jack Bronstein. Would you like to talk about it?



FATTY: No, not really. 



BOKI puts pen down on desk.



FATTY: Look, Doc. No offense.



BOKI makes a face.



FATTY: (patiently)           

I agreed to take the Brain Quality Test. Jack may be a Hollywood BIG shot, but he’s an old friend. And I owe him a favor. So, I said I’d take the test.



BOKI: Are you aware that Brain Trust intends to CLONE you?



FATTY: Yes, I am. What’s wrong with cloning, Doc?



BOKI picks up pen.

BOKI writes on clipboard.

BOKI studies FATTY.



FATTY: Say, Doc?



BOKI: Yes, Fat Guy?



FATTY: What exactly are we talking about today?



BOKI puts down pen.



FATTY blinks.



BOKI: What would you LIKE to talk about?



FATTY: (tersely)           

Sounds like a trick question.



BOKI: (sternly)       

Fat Guy? You seem defensive. Loosen UP a little.



FATTY sighs loudly.



BOKI picks up pen.

BOKI writes on paper. 



FATTY shakes head.



BOKI: I’m recommending a ‘therapy dog’ for you.



FATTY: What is a therapy dog?



BOKI: You need to relax. A therapy dog can help!



FATTY: (bemused)           

Are you serious?



BOKI: YES. Most people show positive results after only THREE WEEKS with a therapy dog.



FATTY: What-EVER.



BOKI: His name is Elmer. He’s a Glaviano setter, and you can meet him today.



FATTY: (impatiently)           

Great. Therapy dog. Can I go take the Brain Quality Test now?



BOKI clucks tongue.



FATTY: The Tongue Cluck! 



BOKI: The assessment is not over yet, Fat Guy.



MUSIC: “The Heat” by Peter Gabriel.



FATTY: More assessment, Doc?



BOKI nods smugly.



BOKI: One last point. Last week, I spoke to your LIFE partner.



FATTY: Fat Girl? WHY? 



BOKI shrugs.



FATTY: No one told me. 



BOKI: Fat Girl didn’t seem very happy.



FATTY: I’M not very happy. I’m LEAVING.



BOKI: Is there trouble in the bedroom, Fat Guy?



FATTY: (fuming)           

MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS! 



BOKI: Fattina mentioned ‘tweaking.’



FATTY stands up.



BOKI: Please sit down. 



FATTY: I’m supposed to SIT DOWN while you ask me if I tweak Fattina’s—



BOKI: She complained, Fat Guy.



FATTY stares blankly. 



BOKI: What does the word ‘tweak’ MEAN to you, Fat Guy?



FATTY waves hand dismissively. 



BOKI: Can we agree that ‘TWEAK’ has several meanings?



FATTY: What IS this? 



BOKI: (standing)         

Fat Guy? What do You think FATTINA means when she uses the word ‘tweak’?



FATTY claws at hair. 



BOKI: Well?



FATTY storms out of office.



BOKI cackles.



Outside, FATTY breaks into a run.



BOKI’S cackle grows louder.



MUSIC grows louder.



FATTY runs.



BOKI continues to cackle. 



FATTY runs faster.



BOKI’s cackle follows FATTY.



MUSIC builds to drum crescendo.

MUSIC stops.



FATTY slows to walk. 



MUSIC: “Fairy Godmother & Winter Fairy” from Prokofiev’s ‘Cinderella.’



FATTY catches breath. 



FATTY: (aloud)           

Whew. Close call.



SKY darkens.

STORM CLOUDS gather. 



FATTY frowns.



Tall BLOND-haired woman steps into view.



FATTY: (gawking)           

Whoa!



FATTY leers at BLOND. 



BLOND makes face.



FATTY raises eyebrow. 



BLOND shakes head.



FATTY grins lecherously. 



BLOND waves hand dismissively.

BLOND strolls away.



FATTY grunts indignantly. 



CLOUDS burst.

RAIN starts to fall. 



FATTY: (aloud)           

It’s a hard-luck kind of day.



FATTY walks on.

FATTY walks around corner. 



MARQUEE looms.



FATTY gazes up at MARQUEE. 



MARQUEE reads: “One night only! Dangerfield’s Comedy Kingdom Presents Andrew Dice Dickman! Tonight!”



FATTY takes deep breath.

FATTY steps inside Dangerfield’s. 



GERRY the Usher: Hello! Welcome to the show, sir!



FATTY fumbles for moneyl. 



GERRY: Balcony, sir? 



FATTY: Huh? Oh…yes. Balcony, please.



GERRY: Twenty-five dollars, please.



FATTY hands money to GERRY.



GERRY activates ‘silent alarm.’

GERRY accepts money. 



FATTY: Is this the REAL Dice, sir?



GERRY screws up eyes. 



FATTY: IS it?



GERRY: Accept no substitutes, pal. The Dice Man Cometh! Heh heh.



FATTY nods politely. 



GERRY hands ticket to FATTY.



GERRY: Here’s your ticket!



FATTY: (ominously)           

May the Dice be with you.



GERRY studies FATTY.

GERRY clears throat. 



FATTY studies GERRY. 



GERRY: A word of advice, sir.



FATTY nods.



GERRY: CAREFUL with the DICE. Ya can’t be lucky EVERY time.



FATTY: Point taken.



GERRY nods smugly.



FATTY exits ticket area. 



GERRY: (under breath)             

JAG-bag.



FATTY steps into auditorium. 



MUSIC: Duran Duran’s “I Take The Dice.”



FATTY smiles appreciatively.

FATTY appraises crowd. 



LIGHTS flash.



FANS of DICE study FATTY. 



FATTY studies FANS.

FATTY directs gaze to STAGE.



STAGE: Andrew DICE Dickman holds microphone.



DICE puffs on cigarette.

DICE blows smoke.



FATTY chuckles.



DICE: There it is. That’s the CATFISH.



FANS roar.



DICE: That’s the whole Catfish ROUTINE.



FANS groan.



DICE: Good night, everybody! 



FANS exit.



FATTY walks over to stage.



DICE: Show’s over, pal.



FATTY: Can I have an autograph, Mr. Dickman?



DICE studies FATTY.



DICE: Yeah, sure. Why not?



DICE signs autograph.

DICE steps down from stage.



FATTY: (nervously)           

Is there another show tonight?



DICE: It’s in three hours. Now it’s lunch-time, pal.



FATTY: So…I can’t hang around here?



DICE: (concerned)       

Let’s take a walk. Ya like Fatburger?



FATTY: Yes, indeed.



DICE: “Yes, indeed.” Heh heh. Let’s go, Bill Shakespeare.



SCENE: Fatburger Food Shop.



DICE: I’ll grab us a TABLE, Fatty.



FATTY nods.

FATTY steps up to ‘burger counter.’



DICE: (into telephone)         

The burger is in the bun. Repeat. The burger is in the bun.



DICE puts away telephone. 



FATTY arrives at table with food.



DICE: (cordially)       

Thanks, Fatty. Have a seat!



FATTY sits at table. 



DICE munches burger. 



FATTY munches burger. 



FATTY: (suspiciously)             

Hey, Dice? How come you didn’t go with the Chicken CLUB? It’s only 75 calories!



DICE: I’m GOOD, Fatty. Now. Let’s talk CHICKEN.



FATTY: Huh?



DICE: I mean, let’s talk TURKEY.



FATTY: OK! What’s with the free lunch, anyway, Dice?



DICE: There’s no such thing, Fatty. Today’s your big day.



FATTY: BIG DAY? What are you SAYIN’?



DICE: (earnestly)         

I believe in Hollywood, Fatty. I believe in AMERICA. I ALSO believe that, in the INFORMATION age, the PROPAGANDA state must FLOURISH.



FATTY: (skeptically)   

          You are the real Dice, aren’t you?



DICE spits out some fat.



FATTY winces.



DICE: Here it IS. Brain Trust has ordered me to give you a BRAIN Quality Assessment, Fatty. Ya ready?



FATTY: I don’t like it, Dice. Why is a stand-up COMEDIAN mobbed up with CLONERS?



DICE: Strange BED-fellows, huh?



FATTY: I SEE. So I’m TRAPPED?



DICE nods grimly.



FATTY: FIX is IN, and what-not? All right. I’ll go quietly. But LEVEL with me. How long is this INTERVIEW gonna TAKE?



FATTY scoffs.



DICE shrugs.



FATTY: Assessment.



DICE rolls eyes.



FATTY: TEST.



DICE sighs.



FATTY: They promised me a million DOLLARS to DO this. When am I DONE?



DICE: Easy, Fatty. We’re BOTH being manipulated.



FATTY gapes.



DICE: Like the ZARDOZ kids, right? We’re BRED—and LED—ourselves.



MUSIC: ‘Choral Version,’ 2nd movement, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7.



FATTY: (incredulous)           

This is preposterous, Dice. What about my PRIVACY? What happened to FREE WILL? WHERE is my END?



DICE: Fatty, relax. There IS no end.



FATTY sighs.



DICE: It goes like this. Interview. Assessment. Test. The Cloners at Brain Trust may well be goofy EGG-heads. But they know what they’re doing. You’ll be fine. 



FATTY: (resigned)           

Very well. So. Where do we do this…ASSESSMENT?



DICE: (beaming) 

        At Dangerfield’s! Finish that Coke. We have two hours!



DICE finishes food.



FATTY finishes food. 



SCENE: The Bush Ranch. Crawford, Texas, USA.



George W Bush, Condi RICE, Donald RUMSFELD, Eddie BERTHANSE converse & eat chili.



W: …still a bit unclear. 



BERTHANSE clucks tongue. 



RUMSFELD: (sternly)                   

The Bush White House isn’t a SEX farm, Eddie.



BERTHANSE rolls eyes. 



RICE shakes head.



RUMSFELD: This is AMERICA. Land of ASS-kickers. Ya wanna pay us to kick somebody’s ASS? Fine. Ya want US to pay YOU to kick somebody’s ass? Fine. Take your body-snatching plots ELSEWHERE.



RICE frowns.



BERTHANSE writes on clip-board.



W: Now, now, Rummy.



RUMSFELD sighs.



BERTHANSE: This wasn’t supposed to be an APPROVAL hearing.



RUMSFELD scoffs.



BERTHANSE: Look here, Mr. President, Ms. Rice, Mr. Rumsfeld. Dr. Biddaddy has green-lighted the Fat Clone Project. The White House knew all about it in the 1990s…and it’s common knowledge TODAY.



RICE: We know all ABOUT Biddaddy. Wads of cash open a lot of DOORS nowadays.



RUMSFELD scoffs.



W: Condi? You’re as bad as Rummy. I admire the Biddaddy’s entrepreneurial SPIRIT. He put Brain Trust together when everybody thought he was Doctor FRANKENSTEIN!



RICE laughs.



BERTHANSE smiles.



W: I trust you, Eddie. Any friend of Dr. Biddaddy is good enough for me.



BERTHANSE: Excellent. So…you approve?



W makes a face.



W: I don’t follow, Eddie.



BERTHANSE writes on clip-board.



RICE rolls eyes.



W: (vexed)   

Eddie? If the financing’s already been arranged, what exactly are you doing here?



BERTHANSE: (whimsically)                       

That’s a good question. 



RUMSFELD throws up hands. 



W: (patiently)   

“Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid” dialogue, Eddie?



BERTHANSE: You know it, Mr. President!



MUSIC: ‘Cantina Theme’ from Bob Dylan’s ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.’



RICE nods.



W: Here in Texas, we know all ABOUT cowboys, Eddie. Impressive use of Sam Peckinpah dialogue! 



BERTHANSE nods smugly. 



W: And from Bob DYLAN, no less.



RICE  laughs.



W: But, let’s be frank. Eddie? You’re not Pat Garrett. And I’m not Billy the Kid.



BERTHANSE scratches head.



RUMSFELD: Cut to the chase, clipboard-smacker! Are you gonna—



W: (sharply)   

Rummy, please knock it off!



RUMSFELD frowns.



BERTHANSE: Texas Battle Land is right down the street, Georgie.



RICE gapes.



W: (perplexed)   

The old amusement park? 



BERTHANSE smiles smugly. 



W: Texas Battle Land was closed after the second Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 1986, Eddie!



BERTHANSE: Nevertheless. I want to open a THEME park on the old grounds. Are you interested?



RICE: We have serious work to do today! No offense, Mr. Clipboard Smacker. But are you SERIOUS? 



BERTHANSE: Naturally. We do serious WORK at Brain Trust, Ms. Rice.



RUMSFELD: (annoyed)                   

This ass-clown wants to screw with genetics! Send him back to his la-BOAR-uh-tor-ee, Georgie. 



W laughs.



RICE: Eddie?



BERTHANSE: Like I was saying. Bronstonia Theme Park will offer patriotic Americans like yourselves a refuge from the left-wing onslaught of Hollywood, guilt-free sex, and bad sportsmanship. Featuring music by Sergei Prokofiev, Bronstonia will be like a walk through paradise!



RUMSFELD: Are there DINOSAURS?



W gapes.



BERTHANSE: I don’t follow, Mr. Rumsfeld.



RUMSFELD: I don’t know. I guess the word Bronstonia reminds me of BRONTOS. I don’t know. Are you naming it after—



BERTHANSE: Anyways. Bronstonia WILL have a PETTING zoo. No one will pay income tax.



W smiles.



BERTHANSE: In most amusement parks, you pay some cash, see the sights, and go home at sunset.



RUMSFELD: Rip-off!



RICE laughs.



BERTHANSE: Not at Bronstonia. Patrons can stay as long as they WANT. Kids can sip lemonade FREE OF CHARGE. For the adults? The finest Burfresca in America.



RICE: (intrigued)         

Burfresca, Eddie?



BERTHANSE: (smugly)                     

Condi? A Burfresca, or Black and Blue, consists of Guinness Stout and Blue Moon Harvest Ale Pumpkin Spice.



W licks lips.



RUMSFELD: (suspiciously)                   

That sounds familiar! Didn’t they name it Burfresca because—



BERTHANSE: (interjecting)                       

Like I said? No income tax. The funding’s been ARRANGED.



RICE nods.



W: Eddie? Sounds like a winner. Where do I sign?



BERTHANSE: That’s not all, sir. Guess how you get there?



W shrugs.



BERTHANSE: Guess!



RICE yawns.



BERTHANSE: The doorway to Bronstonia is a window in Jack Bronstein’s apartment!



RICE shakes head.



RUMSFELD: (incredulous)                     

Jack Bronstein from HOLLYWOOD?



BERTHANSE nods smugly. 



W: Genius!



RUMSFELD: Booze, movies, and unicorns? This is America, George!



W: Rummy? Go to Asia and blow up something! Bite off!



RUMSFELD exits.



RICE: My husband would love Bronstonia!



BERTHANSE: EVERYONE will love it, Condi! First Lady Bush already bought real estate on the west end for the royal—er, I mean—presidential daughters. MONEY IN THE BANK, Condi!



RICE smiles.



W: Brilliant presentation, Eddie! I felt like I was talkin’ to Bidddaddy himself! You two should be RUNNING Los Angeles!



RICE nods.



BERTHANSE writes on clip-board.



W: Have some chili, Eddie.



BERTHANSE eats chili. 



SCENE: Dangerfield’s Comedy Kingdom, Los Angeles, California, USA.



FATTY and DICE sit at table.



DICE grins.



FATTY nods.



DICE: Here’s the deal, Fatty. For this Brain Quality Assessment, we will use a CONDENSED version of the original Brain Quality Test.



FATTY: Cool. So, what do I get if I pass?



DICE motions to box of donuts.



FATTY studies box of donuts.



DICE: Ya get DONUTS. 



FATTY: Fair enough.



DICE: OK. I’ll read the DISCLAIMER. “We at Brain Trust…bla bla bla…undersigned, Dr. Godfrey S. Biddaddy, Brain Trust Enterprises.”



FATTY studies box of donuts.



DICE puffs on cigarette.

DICE blows smoke.



FATTY: Can we start? 



DICE: Yeah. Yeah, sure. Here’s the question.



FATTY: Ask away, Dice! 



DICE: Yeah, yeah. There’s a turtle. Big, stupid turtle. He’s out in the sun. I don’t know how he got there. What do you do? Do you a) skip the turtle across the swimming pool? b) kick the turtle in the ass? C) eat the turtle or d) turn the turtle over?



FATTY rolls eyes.



DICE: Fatty?



FATTY: I’m going with ‘c.’ I bet turtles taste pretty good.



DICE crumples up test paper.



FATTY: Hey!



DICE: (calmly)         

Hay is for HORSES, Fatty. Pay attention. The deal was, you pass the assessment, and then you take the TEST.



FATTY: (bemused)           

So, I passed?



DICE shrugs.



FATTY: So…I get DONUTS? 



DICE: Bingo! Ya passed. Ya get donuts. Bada-BING.



FATTY happily opens box of donuts.



DICE: Congratulations. 



FATTY munches donut. 



DICE: (reflectively)         

Of course, that was only the condensed version.



FATTY: Huh?



DICE: Well, technically, ya still have to take the Brain Quality TEST.



FATTY:  Hmm. So the test is probably harder than the ASSESSMENT, huh?



DICE nods.



FATTY: Who wrote it, anyway?



DICE: Who wrote WHAT? 



FATTY: The Brain Quality thing.



DICE: Ya mean the TEST…or the ASSESSMENT?



FATTY:  You’re a smart-ass. 



DICE laughs.



FATTY: I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more going on here than meets the eye.



DICE puffs on cigarette.

DICE blows smoke.



FATTY: We hear about the benefits and rewards of stem cell research, cloning, and genetic engineering.



DICE nods.



FATTY: What if those goofy egg-heads in white coats have ulterior motives?



DICE cocks head to one side.



FATTY: (gravely)           

What if they work for George W Bush?



DICE: (dismissively)         

The Bush White House is AGAINST stem cell research.



FATTY: Yeah, sure…on TV.



DICE gapes.



FATTY: Maybe it’s a big SMOKE screen, Dice.



DICE blows smoke.



FATTY: Maybe there’s a sinister, anti-human AGENDA at work behind all that croquet and chili. 



DICE laughs.



FATTY: What’s so funny? 



DICE: YOU. Who plays CROQUET?



FATTY laughs ironically. 



DICE: Who eats CHILI? 



FATTY: I’ve seen the ALEX JONES VIDEOS, Dice. Live from Crawford, Texas!



DICE: (smugly)       

They don’t allow cameras there, Fatty.



FATTY: OK, OK. Suppose you’re right. Suppose the Bushes aren’t the political version of the Texas Chainsaw Family.



DICE coughs nervously. 



FATTY: I still don’t trust ‘em. They talk about freedom and they suppress it. They talk about freedom, and they monitor it. They talk about freedom and—



DICE: Hey, Fatty? Put down the donut. The sugar’s makin’ ya hyper.



FATTY puts down donut.



DICE: I’m gonna do you a favor, and not tell the brass at Brain Trust that ya slandered the Bush family.



FATTY: (quietly)           

I still don’t trust ‘em.



DICE: Oh yeah?



FATTY: Yeah. I think there’s more going on at Crawford than croquet and chili.



DICE sighs.



FATTY: I plan to find out.



DICE: Go nuts, Sherlock. 



FATTY fumes.



DICE: (mockingly)       

Croquet and chili… 



SCENE: Bush Ranch. Crawford, Texas. USA.



George W BUSH, Condoleeza RICE, Maxwell EDISON, Donald RUMSFELD cook chili.



CLOSE-UP: Sizzling chili. 



RICE: (smiling)       

I’m happy to finally be one of the guys. Also, I’m pleased to announce—



RUMSFELD belches.



RICE gapes.



RUMSFELD: (speech slurred)                     

Condi? The day that YOU become one of the GUYS? That’ll be the day—



BUSH: Freeze it, Rummy. Freeze it up right there. Sure, Condi’s a girl. But that doesn’t mean she has no BALLS.



RUMSFELD collapses in drunken heap.



RICE: (dismissively)         

Loose cannon.



BUSH: Come now, Condi. 



RICE raises eyebrow. 



BUSH: Rummy’s work arming Iraq in the 1970s was CRUCIAL.



RICE rolls eyes.



BUSH: Alas, Frankenstein Hussein was too INDEPENDENT.



RICE shakes head.



BUSH: (reciting litany)           

…gassed his onw people…



BUSH recites litany of Saddam Hussein’s misdeeds for next hour.



EDISON: Old news, George. 



BUSH: (amused)         

Maxie! I was afraid you weren’t listening!



EDISON sips tea.



BUSH chuckles.



RICE sips tea.



BUSH reverts to English accent.



BUSH: Now, then. What news from London, amigo? New squash court?



EDISON smiles sardonically.



EDISON: (gravely)             

Surely, you didn’t invite me here for a ‘squash chat.’



BUSH: Stop calling me Shirley. And, hey—we got SQUASH right HERE. Squash, cranberries, beets… 



EDISON frowns.



BUSH: Lighten UP, Maxie. Your blood pressure will thank you.



EDISON: Knock it off, Georgie. I’m here on business—let’s talk business.



BUSH: Fine. Let’s TALK business.



EDISON: Right. Get the Secret Service clowns away from my CROQUET mallet. Now!



Secret Service scatters. 



EDISON: Let’s discuss our RELATIONSHIOP, Georgie.



BUSH: (mirthfully)         

I thought we were just FRIENDS, Maxie.



EDISON: I mean the SPECIAL relationship. UK…and U.S.



BUSH: (pained)         

Now, Maxie?



EDISON: Now. I’m here on damage control.



BUSH cocks head to one side.



EDISON: NOW. The “fires” that England lights have a nasty habit of staying LIT. Africa…Ulster…the former Yugoslavia.



BUSH makes a face.



EDISON: Georgie, in a special relationship, there are special circumstances.



BUSH nods.



EDISON: Now, about these FIRES.



RICE tends to barbecue fire.



EDISON: They don’t burn out by themselves, Georgie.



RICE: (annoyed)         

Obviously.



EDISON: They also don’t stay LIT by themselves.



BUSH: (impatiently)         

Maxie, why don’t ya speak plain? Saves time.



EDISON: You’re the queen’s cousin, for Pete’s sake.



BUSH: I KNOW that, Maxie. 



EDISON ‘nails’ croquet shot.



BUSH: OK. OK. I think I see what’s happening here.



EDISON: DO you?



BUSH: Ya want me to step it up in Afghanistan. AND Iraq.



EDISON throws up hands.



BUSH: I’m gonna need more money, Maxie.



EDISON: Georgie, this is not the CRUSADES. We don’t massacre Arabs and steal their oil!



BUSH gapes.



EDISON: We do business with them!



BUSH: We do?



EDISON: Yeah, jag bag! We do!



BUSH: Business, huh? 



EDISON nods sharply.



BUSH: Fair enough. I seem to recall a little business deal from 2000. The phony election. Remember? I paid through the NOSE.



RICE wrinkles nose.



BUSH: 3000 dead Americans on 9-11. That plane crash, in New York, a week LATER. Direct rule of Ulster from London.



EDISON sighs.



BUSH: Paid in full, Maxie! Want a receipt?



EDISON: Ancient history, Georgie.



BUSH: We didn’t start the fire, Maxie.



MUSIC: “We Didn’t Start The Fire” by Billy Joel.



EDISON: You’re out of control.



BUSH “mimes” hitting EDISON in head with croquet mallet.



BUSH: Bang-bang, Maxie. 



SECRET SERVICE #2 moves to restrain EDISON.



EDISON: The Order of the Silver Hammer never forgets, Georgie! Never!



SS #1 hauls EDISON to helicopter.



RICE: Bad move, Georgie. 



BUSH shrugs.



RICE: Queen Elizabeth was already an angel’s breath away from DISOWNING you.



BUSH: (vexed)         

Condi? Don’t you think I know the hell I just raised?



RICE: (ominously)       

DO you?



BUSH: Patience, Condi. 



RICE shakes head.



BUSH: Follow the dominoes. After the fall of Hussein, Assad should be a piece of cake. When Ahmedinejad’s time comes, I think Maxie will understand. Understand?



RICE: I understand. Sure. You value amateur theatricals above STATESMANSHIP.



BUSH: (sheepishly)         

I guess I just love drama, Condi.



RICE: You’ve seen too many “tough guy” movies, George.



BUSH shrugs.



BUSH: True enough. But there’s some really interesting STUFF going on in Hollywood.



RICE raises eyebrow. 



BUSH: Politics and show business are more ALIKE than NOT.



RICE raises both eyebrows. 



BUSH: “Show business for ugly people.” That’s what Bill Maher calls politics. Me? I’ve made some friends in Hollywood myself.



RICE gapes.



BUSH: Condi? Don’t knock Hollywood. They make reality a little more…interesting.



DISSOLVE into helicopter blades.



SCENE: Bronstein Studios. Hollywood, California. Elevator.



Elevator climbs.



FAT GUY adjusts tie. 



JACK Bronstein loosens collar.



FATTY: 23rd floor, boss.



JACK takes deep breath.



ELMER the Glaviano setter: WOOF. Cut it out. “If you’re not a little nervous, then you’re not alive.” But worrying gets us NOWHERE. WOOF.



JACK makes a face.



ELMER barks sharply. 



JACK: Enlighten me, Fatty.



FATTY: Huh?



JACK: you blew off Dr. Boki, huh?



FATTY: (annoyed)           

Yes. That quack asked me to define the word “tweak.”



JACK: Fair enough. But what’s with the  THERAPY DOG?



ELMER: (angrily)           

What’s with YOU? I’m a professional, pal!



JACK: Easy, Elmer. Easy. I just always fancied Fatty as, you know, self-sufficient. Ya know?



ELMER: We all need somebody to lean on, Jack.



JACK sighs.



FATTY: He’s a quality worker, Jack.



JACK: Fair enough,



Doors open



ELMER exits.



JACK exits.



FATTY exits.



JACK: Come on, guys. Suite 2323 awaits.



ELMER barks cordially. 



TRIO arrives at door to Suite 2323.



FATTY studies inscription on door knocker.



FATTY: (reading aloud)           

“Money in the bank.”



JACK chuckles.



FRIEDA Kokovoko approaches. 



JACK sighs.



ELMER barks.



FATTY leers at FRIEDA. 



FRIEDA: In your dreams, Fatty!



FATTY: They don’t make KNOCKERS like THAT anymore. DO they, Jack?



JACK: Relax, pal. As soon as we knock off this cloning operation? You’ll be eatin’ KNOCKWURST SANDWICHES all DAY. EVERY day.



FATTY beams.



ELMER, FATTY, and JACK enter Suite 2323.



Door closes.



SCENE: Brain Trust Enterprises. West of Hollywood. The Body Banks. The Dice Wing.



Dr. Godfrey S BIDDADDY and Edward V BERTHANSE walk along catwalk.



Cryogenically-frozen ‘Andrew Dice Dickman Clones,’ in rows, line catwalk.



BERTHANSE: Frankly, Doc? We were happiest with the 1990 model Dice.



BIDDADDY clears throat. 



BERTHANSE: (motioning to frozen ‘1992 model Dice Clone’)                     

Dice’s foray into the LOVE song put him on, uhh, thin ICE.



BIDDADDY: Cut to the chase, Eddie.



BERTHANSE frowns.



BIDDADDY: What happened with FAT Guy?



BERTHANSE: He escaped, sir.



BIDDADDY throws up hands. 



BERTHANSE: It’s not my fault!



BIDDADDY: Eddie, will you STOP? Which Dice did you SEND?



BERTHANSE stammers.



BIDDADDY: (enraged)                   

You block-headed JACK-ass! You sent the ORIGINAL!



BERTHANSE hangs head. 



BIDDADDY: The ORIGINAL Dice Dickman! Do you know what this means?



BERTHANSE frowns.



BIDDADDY: This is the 21st century, Eddie. Everything is being monitored! People gossip! People squeal. Andrew Dice Dickman included! He can’t keep a secret! Are you LISTENING to me?



BERTHANSE: (calmly)                     

I’ll handle it, boss. 



BIDDADDY scoffs.



BERTHANSE: (ominously)                       

I’ll HANDLE it.



CLOSE-UP of DICE Clone, 1988 model.

ZOOM IN.

CLOSE-UP of 1988 DICE Clone’s Marlboro cigarettes.



BIDDADDY: Do or die, Eddie.



BERTHANSE nods smugly. 



BIDDADDY: Now or never. 



MUSIC: “O Sole Mio (It’s Now or Never)” by Elvis Presley.



SCENE: Conference room. White House. Washington, D.C.



BUSH: (gravely)         

Condi? What’s the news from the Middle East?



RICE: Volatile as ever. Breeding ground for terrorists. Georgie. Al Qaeda grows by leaps…and bounds.



BUSH makes a face.



RICE: A dozen religious wars threaten to erupt.



Dick CHENEY : WAR!



RUMSFELD: (concerned)                     

Some tin-foil-hat types claim a 3-way global crusade has already BEGUN.



RICE balks.



RUMSFELD: They call it ‘Operation Goldfinger.’



BUSH: (dismissively)       

    Rummy, do your homework. Goldfinger took a dive out of a JET in 1964!



RICE shakes head.



RUMSFELD: 007 movies notwithstanding. SOMEBODY has to WIN this crusade.



RICE: Insanity! A war between Judaism, Christianity and Islam could last a century!



BUSH nods grimly.



RUMSFELD: So, which side has the most money?



RICE shakes head.



BUSH: Rummy, quit playin’ around.



RUMSFELD gapes.



BUSH: We get PAID no matter WHO wins.



RICE: I think this meeting is over.



SCENE: Dangerfield’s Comedy Kingdom. Los Angeles, California.



Eddie BERTHANSE and Andrew DICE Dickman drink at bar.



DICE smacks lips.



BERTHANSE writes on clipboard.



DICE sighs happily.



BERTHANSE clucks tongue. 



DICE: (happily)         

Tell ya WHAT, Eddie. The Lucky McCoy Brewery is AMAZING.



BERTHANSE chuckles.



DICE: And this here Double Wishbone Fire Brew PROVES it. I’ll BUY ya one.



BERTHANSE: (gently)                     

I’m good, Dice.



DICE: (skeptically)       

MICHELOB ULTRA, Eddie? 



BERTHANSE: (sternly)                       

I’m GOOD.



DICE: Fine, fine. What-ever. 



BERTHANSE writes on clipboard.



DICE shrugs.



BERTHANSE clears throat. 



DICE cocks head to one side.



BERTHANSE: LIGHTER BEERS are a good THING, Dice. Less ALCOHOL. Fewer CALORIES.



DICE frowns.



BERTHANSE: Light beer doesn’t go to your HEAD, Dice.



DICE puffs on Marlboro cigarette.



DICE blows smoke.



DICE: Excuse me, Eddie. Are you SAYIN’ somethin’?



BERTHANSE: (sardonically)                       

Do I NEED to?



DICE extinguishes cigarette. 



DICE: (bothered)     

  A-B-C type info, Eddie. Here it comes.



BERTHANSE clucks tongue. 



DICE: I never liked you. FEEL me? Your boss? Biddaddy? THAT guy has style. He asked me to do a job. So, I DID it.



BERTHANSE winces..



DICE: But YOU? You’re a JAG BAG.



BERTHANSE glares.



DICE: I could tell that YOU wanted MY job for YOURSELF.



BERTHANSE: Don’t say something you’ll regret later.



DICE: (annoyed)         

Bite off, Eddie. Bite off! I think you’re a BACK-stabber. You’ll probably GO AHEAD with the Fat Clone Project, MAKE a Fat Clone Army, and then USE it to topple Dr. BIDDADDY. Does that sound about right?



BERTHANSE sighs.

BERTHANSE clucks tongue. 



DICE shakes head.



DICE: And my agent told me that a gig with BRAIN Trust would open DOORS in Hollywood. The joke’s on ME.



BERTHANSE writes on clip-board.



BERTHANSE: Joke, Dice? 



DICE: Shut up! You and my agent are BOTH jag bags. Shut up!



BERTHANSE laughs.



DICE scowls.



BERTHANSE sips Michelob Ultra.



BERTHANSE: My sister, MOKENA, called me a jag bag once, Dice.



DICE: Yeah? AND?



BERTHANSE: AND, she’s PUSHIN’ UP DAISIES in BRONSTONIA.



DICE: (shocked)         

You KILLED her, Eddie? 



BERTHANSE grins.



BERTHANSE: No. I just gave her a really bad job.



DICE lights new cigarette.

DICE puffs on cigarette.

DICE blows smoke.



BERTHANSE snickers.

BERTHANSE writes on clip-board.



DICE puffs on cigarette.

DICE blows smoke.



BERTHANSE clucks tongue. 



DICE: (enraged)       

WHAT THE HELL IS BRONSTONIA, HUH?



BERTHANSE shakes head. 



DICE fumes.



BERTHANSE: (smugly)                 

      Hollywood can be a dangerous place, Dice.



DICE: Oh YEAH? How SO? 



BERTHANSE: You spoke about “doors opening.”



DICE nods sharply.



BERTHANSE: Doors. Allow me to explain.



DICE: (enraged)       

Yeah. DO that!



BERTHANSE: At Brain Trust, we deal with all manner of doorways. Portals. Thresholds.



DICE puffs on cigarette.

DICE blows smoke.



BERTHANSE: Doors. In the 1999 film “The Matrix,” we returned to the concept of the RABBIT hole.



DICE: (under breath)         

Jag bag.



BERTHANSE: Alternate realities, Dice. Red pills. Blue pills.



DICE: (annoyed)       

I know all that, Eddie. Wake up, or else stay asleep. Right?



BERTHANSE writes on clip-board.



DICE stands.



BERTHANSE smiles.



DICE: It’s just ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ Eddie. If  you go down the rabbit hole, reality CHANGES. 



BERTHANSE: Not exactly, Dice.



DICE: NO?



BERTHANSE: In Bronstonia, er, I mean, down the RABBIT HOLE, your PERCEPTION of REALITY changes. 



DICE: PERCEIVE my FIST in your FACE, Eddie! WHAT THE HELL IS BRONSTONIA?



BERTHANSE: (oblivious)                       

They only hire smiling faces in Bronstonia. Prokofiev’s music plays on all the radios.



DICE puts out cigarette. 



BERTHANSE: The Biddaddy holds DOMINION in Bronstonia, Dice. Are ya ready?



DICE sighs.



DICE: No choice, huh? 



BERTHANSE: No choice, pal!



DICE: I just have one question.



BERTHANSE ‘pricks up’ ears.



DICE: Mythical wilderness, right? Ruled by Biddaddy, right? Seems like they ought to call the place BIDDADDIO. Eh?



BERTHANSE: (smugly)                     

Oh. Almost forgot. Don’t say his name once you get there.



DICE balks.



BERTHANSE: (cryptically)                       

The life you save may be your own!



From shadows, BRAIN TRUST DOG SOLDIERS move to restrain DICE.



DICE: Goofy clip-board-smackin’ EGG-heads. ALL of  ya.



BERTHANSE: Smile at the camera, Dice. It’s all on television.



BTDS cart DICE away from BERTHANSE, and away from camera.



BIDDADDY enters.



MUSIC: 2nd movement, Symphony No. 6 by Sergei Prokofiev.



BERTHANSE snaps to attention. 



BIDDADDY clears throat. 



BERTHANSE flinches.



BIDDADDY: I would like to remind you that time is of the ESSENCE, Eddie. PICK up the PACE.



BERTHANSE: Doctor, I’d like to discuss something.



BIDDADDY: (bored)                   

Yes?



BERTHANSE: It’s about the all-Prokofiev, all-the-time music format in Bronstonia.



BIDDADDY: Huh?



BERTHANSE: We’re changing things in February.



BIDDADDY: What the hell are you rattling on about, Eddie?



BERTHANSE: All-Cinderella, Doctor. All-the-time. Make a note of it.



BIDDADDY: Shut up about the music!



BERTHANSE gawks.



BIDDADDY: Listen, you. The Fat Clone Project’s DUE date is in the middle of 2010. I want 10,000 Fat Clones on the GROUND by July 29 of 2010.



BERTHANSE writes on clip-board.



BIDDADDY: Bah!



BIDDADDY knocks clip-board to ground.



BERTHANSE: That clip-board is a gift from Bill GATES, sir.



BIDDADDY: Silence, gate-crasher! No more scribbling! I TOLD you to break the alliance between Fat Guy and Jack Bronstein! Now, do you want to TALK about building a Fat Clone Army? Or do you want to BUILD one, Eddie?



BERTHANSE: (sheepishly)                       

Build.



BIDDADDY: GOOD. I trust you, Eddie. You have a WORK ethic. Your NOVELS cleared the GROUND for a bleak post-human FUTURE, one ruled by ROBOTS and COMPUTERS.



BERTHANSE nods smugly. 



BIDDADDY: But that’s ancient history. Jack Bronstein knows the POWER of the Fat Guy. Their Hollywood collaborations have reached BILLIONS of viewers.



BERTHANSE clucks tongue. 



BIDDADDY: Remember, Eddie? “Moop Dreams”: the basketball musical based on Shakespeare’s ‘Othello.’ The Irish Civil War docu-drama, “Murder From a Ditch.” And “Under the Berlin Wall,” in which Bronstein Studios took a light-hearted look at theJewish HOLOCAUST.



BERTHANSE shakes head.

BERTHANSE frowns.



BIDDADDY: I know, I know. I’m ULTIMATE EVIL. Even I know it’s wrong to do ‘Holocaust humor.’



BERTHANSE: Doctor? Isn’t Jack Bronstein Jewish?



BIDDADDY: (defensively)                   

We can talk about that later. FOCUS, Eddie. PRIORITIZE. What’s your next move?



BERTHANSE: Brain Trust WILL give Fat Guy the Brain Quality Test. And we will use Jack Bronstein to DO it, Doctor.



BIDDADDY: (alarmed)                   

Don’t screw around with me.



BERTHANSE: I know what I’m doing.



BIDDADDY: (cautiously)             

        Very well. You BETTER know what you’re doing. Because, if you don’t? Ya better find another PLANET to hide out on.



SCENE: Bronstein Studios. Los Angeles, California. Suite 2323.

CLOSE-UP: Television screen.

CLOSE-UP: Universal Pictures logo.



MUSIC: Universal Pictures Theme.



FATTY: Heh heh. Frankenbiddaddy!



TELEVISION plays James Whale’s film, ‘Bride of Frankenstein.’



JACK nods smugly.



FATTY: MERCY.



JACK: (grinning)         

Mercy, mercy ME.



FATTY: “Things ain’t what they used to be.”



JACK: You nailed it, Fatty. Marvin GAYE nailed it. I should put on one of his RECORDS, or ‘forty-fives.’



FATTY: Sure. Sure—after the movie.



JACK and FATTY watch ‘Bride of Frankenstein.’



MOVIE ends.



JACK: Out-STANDING.



FATTY puffs on cigar. 



JACK: They just don’t MAKE movies like that anymore, Fatty.



FATTY blows smoke.



JACK: Cat got your tongue, Fatty?



ELMER the Glaviano setter leaps onto desk.



ELMER: It wasn’t the DOG!



FATTY: Elmer!



ELMER barks.



JACK makes a face.



ELMER: WOOF. Problem. WOOF.



JACK: Hi, Elmer. Strictly speaking, this is a MOTION PICTURE, or ‘FILM’ studio.



FATTY shakes head.



ELMER: Oh, I get it! You’re racist!



JACK: Hey, hey, hey! 



MUSIC: “Hey, hey, hey, hey” by the Beatles.



FATTY: I TOLD you he was COOL, Jack.



JACK: (relenting)         

OK. OK. Just don’t jump on my DESK like that.



ELMER raises an eyebrow. 



JACK: Blood pressure, Elmer!



FATTY: Elmer?



ELMER: I want a chair. 



JACK: Can you get the dog a chair, Fatty?



FATTY pulls up chair for ELMER.



ELMER sits on chair. 



JACK: NOW, then. We’re here to make a movie, or ‘film.’



MUSIC: “Film” by Skinny Puppy.



JACK: Film. I know that the drama with those clowns at BRAIN Trust is amusing. But it’s eating up a lot of TIME.



FATTY messes with radio controls.



JACK: Fatty?



FATTY: (oblivious)           

Yeah. Eating up time. Right.



ELMER barks gently.



JACK shakes head.



MUSIC: “Humming Chorus” from ‘Madame Butterfly’ by Giacomo Puccini.



ELMER: WOOF. Quality tune. WOOF.



JACK lights cigar.



FATTY makes “I’m conducting an orchestra” hand gestures.



ELMER bobs head.



FATTY beams.



JACK puffs on cigar.

JACK blows smoke.



JACK: Would the two of you kindly—



Telephone rings.



ELMER howls.



JACK picks up phone. 



JACK: (into phone)         

Hello? This IS Jack. Yeah. Yeah. Huh. Hello, Berthanse. I mean, hello, Eddie. Yeah? Yeah. I SAW the Brain Trust commercial on television. Sure. Sure. Yeah, you’re an advertising genius. Yeah.



FATTY laughs.



JACK: (into phone)       

What’s on your mind, Eddie? HUH? WHAT did you say to me? That was a JOKE? It wasn’t funny, Eddie. Hey! Hey, jag bag!



JACK turns red.



FATTY tosses asthma inhaler to JACK.



JACK ‘tokes’ on inhaler.



FATTY nods.



JACK: (into phone)       

Hello? Hello?



JACK slams phone down on desk.



JACK: That jag bag hung up on me!



ELMER: Kick his ass, Jack.



FATTY: (concerned)           

What did he WANT?



EDDIE Berthanse walks through office doorway.



ELMER growls.



JACK: Berthanse!



FATTY gapes.



EDDIE smacks clip-board. 



JACK: How did you get UP here?



EDDIE: (grinning) 

          Never mind! Truth or CONSEQUENCES, Jack. Ya ready?



ELMER: WOOF. This isn’t New MEXICO, Eddie. WOOF.



EDDIE sighs.



FATTY: Hey! I PASSED the Brain Quality Assessment. You got no bragging rights here!



ELMER: WOOF. Explain yourself, Eddie. WOOF.



EDDIE: Very well. It’s like this. Dr. Biddaddy grows IMPATIENT. An impatient Dr. Biddadddy grows ANGRY. An angry Dr. Biddaddy CUTS OFF PEOPLE’S FUNDING.



ELMER: WOOF. Jack, Let ME handle THIS. WOOF.



EDDIE: (smugly)         

Shut up, dummy. You couldn’t find the handle on a cup of coffee. Heh heh.



JACK frowns.



FATTY: Don’t screw around with Eddie, Jack. You should take him out, and rough him up. Send BIDDADDY a MESSAGE.



EDDIE: ‘Take out,’ Fatty?  You couldn’t ‘take out’ a CHEESEBURGER at the DRIVE-THROUGH. 



ELMER: JAG bag!



FATTY fumes.



JACK: (calmly)       

Time’s up, Eddie. What are you DOIN’ here?



EDDIE: (smugly)           

Allow me to make it simple for you.



FATTY: (furious)           

Yeah. DO that.



EDDIE clucks tongue. 



EDDIE: I have come to discuss the FUTURE. FAT Guy’s future. The future of Bronstein STUDIOS. 



ELMER barks sharply. 



JACK: Future’s HERE, Eddie. Spit it out.



EDDIE: Very well. Ever since you hired Fat Guy as an EXTRA for “Huns on the Run—The Truth About Attila,” Fat Guys have been the talk—and the TOAST—of the town.



MUSIC: “A Toast!” by Sergei Prokofiev.



FATTY rolls eyes.



EDDIE: Dr. Biddaddy, for one, figured that he couldn’t LOSE with a Fat Clone Army. Hence? $5 billion for me.



JACK: (dismissively)         

Yeah. I HEARD. What do WE get?



FATTY scoffs.



EDDIE: YOU? FAT Guy gets to lead a Fat Clone Army, as Brain Trust takes over the WORLD. YOU, Jack? Ya get to keep your WEAK-ASS MOVIE studio.



ELMER: I will kick your ASS, Eddie.



FATTY: Can we get ON with it?



EDDIE: Yes. Let’s move.



JACK: (perplexed)       

MOVE? Where are we GOIN’?



EDDIE clucks tongue.

EDDIE smacks clip-board. 



FATTY: (vexed)           

BRAIN Trust, Eddie? 



EDDIE grins.



EDDIE: BRAIN Trust.



ELMER barks.



EDDIE: You can stay HERE, Elmer.                 



ELMER: Huh?



EDDIE: We have Dog SOLDIERS at Brain Trust, Elmer. NO DOGS.



FATTY: Not cool, Eddie. Elmer is my therapy dog!



EDDIE: You can pick him up AFTER the test.



ELMER snarls.



EDDIE: Now, if you two are ready? Mr. Bronstein? Mr. Fat Guy?



FATTY: Don’t worry, Elmer. Nothin’ to worry about. Right, Jack? JACK?



JACK loads .45.



JACK: No worries.



EDDIE writes on clip-board. 



FATTY: Let’s test some BRAIN quality.



SCENE: White House. Washington, D.C. USA. Conference room.



MUSIC: “Aviary” from Camille Saint-Saens’ ‘Carnival of the Animals.’



George BUSH rolls up sleeves.



Donald RUMMY Rumsfeld nods.



DICK Cheney grins.



Condi RICE nods.



Lewis LIBBY, Karl ROVE, Andrew CARD sit at table.



DICK: Who’s goin’ down NEXT?



BUSH: Hold it, Dick. Why don’t we introduce the NEW GUYS?



RUMMY: We have WORK to do, sir.



BUSH: (alarmed)         

Rummy, you surprise me. Scooter Libby is a PRO.



RICE rolls eyes.



BUSH: He writes Chinese Bear Porn!



DICK: CHINESE BEAR PORN! 



RUMMY raises eyebrow. 



SCENE: Brain Trust Enterprises. Yorba Linda, California. USA.



EDDIE: Welcome to Brain Trust.



JACK: (crossly)         

Yeah, yeah.



EDDIE: Mind that .45, Jack. Those Dog Soldiers are fresh from the Body Banks. Fully loaded. Armed to the teeth.



DOG soldiers patrol menacingly.



JACK: Hey, Eddie. Wanna LOSE some teeth?



FATTY: Break it up!



EDDIE: (concerned)         

You seem hostile, Jack. Explain yourself.



FATTY sighs.



JACK: I’ve known Fat Guy for DECADES, Eddie.



EDDIE writes on clipboard. 



JACK: Fatty doesn’t go in for terror, world conquest, or GENOCIDE.



EDDIE frowns.



FATTY: He’s right, Eddie.



JACK: I don’t like it.



EDDIE: You liked it when Dr. Biddaddy promised you a BILLION DOLLARS for joining the Fat Clone Project.



JACK: That was 1996, Eddie! In 1996, people still knew the DIFFERENCE between REAL LIFE and MOVIES.



EDDIE nods smugly.



JACK: (enraged)       

And you TOLD me it was a MOVIE, Eddie! I didn’t know you were really making a FAT CLONE ARMY!



FATTY shakes head.



JACK: You lied, Eddie! 



EDDIE shrugs.



JACK sighs.,



EDDIE: Truth is out of style, Jack. NOW? People want to be entertained. They want money. And they want BLOOD.



FATTY makes a face.



EDDIE: (cheerfully)           

RELAX, Jack. It’s not like we’re taking Fat Guy’s BRAIN or anything. Heh heh.



FATTY: (alarmed)           

Ya mean, like a LOBOTOMY? 



MUSIC: “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies.



JACK, EDDIE, and FATTY enter building.



FATTY: Nobody said I was getting’ a lobotomy, Eddie!



EDDIE: (frantically)           

Er…no lobotomy! Why would we take away your brain?



JACK: See, Fatty? I TOLD you he was a jag bag.



FATTY nods.



FATTY: I’ve had just about ENOUGH. Firstly, the nonsense about interviews, assessments, and tests. Semantics! Ya know, all I had to do for the I.Q. TEST was drink FANTA, and act NATURAL!



EDDIE shakes head.



EDDIE confers with Brain Trust TECHNICIAN.



JACK studies FATTY.



FATTY: (hurt)           

A billion dollars, Jack?



JACK nods sadly.



FATTY: And was I gonna get any of that money?



EDDIE: (harshly)     

      The two of you will proceed downstairs, when Mr. Sheen arrives.



FATTY: Freeze it UP, Eddie. Suppose I QUIT?



EDDIE: (incredulous)           

You can’t quit!



FATTY: (enraged)           

I’ll hand you your ASS. You wish to make a spectacle of me, Eddie!



EDDIE: You misunderstand, Fatty. We only—



FATTY: I am no fool on the hill! Enough of this. There are no FOOLS on THIS hill!



MUSIC: “The Fool on the Hill” by the Beatles.



JACK: (grinning)       

TELL him, Fatty.



EDDIE: So. You’re quitting?



FATTY nods smugly.



EDDIE: Here’s one to ponder, Fatty.



FATTY gapes.



EDDIE: We kidnapped your BROTHER.



FATTY: Skinny Boy!



EDDIE: Bribed with bananas and coffee, Skinny Boy was easy to subdue. In FACT, he stands to earn $500 million if he plays BALL.



JACK: I don’t believe this.



FATTY: You’re crazy, Eddie. Skinny Boy won’t DO it.



EDDIE: It’s too late. We CLONED Skinny Boy last WEEK. Now, play BALL, and we’ll RE-UNITE you with the REAL Skinny Boy. Don’t play DICE with the FUTURE, Fatty. Play BALL.



JACK: (sadly)         

He’s GOT us, Fatty. 



FATTY: They cloned Skinny Boy!



EDDIE: Truth or consequences, Fatty. Life gave you lemons. Life gave us ALL lemons. Now why don’t we make the BEST of it?



JACK: Jag bag!



FATTY: Very well, Eddie. 



EDDIE clucks tongue. 



FATTY: Your move…creep. 



SCENE: Starbucks, Washington, D.C. USA.



BUSH, EDDIE, and MAXwell Edison drink coffee.



BUSH studies EDDIE.



EDDIE clucks tongue. 



BUSH: Now, Eddie, I hope your PEOPLE weren’t ROUGH with Maxie.



MAX rolls eyes.



EDDIE: Rough, Georgie? 



BUSH: Look. Daddy says to go along with this freak show. So I’m goin’ along.



MAX: Along for the RIDE, more like.



BUSH laughs.



EDDIE: You two can laugh all you want. Where would your precious ‘special relationship’ be without gene splicing, mind control, and extortion?



MAX winces.



BUSH: Shut the hell up, Eddie.



EDDIE gawks.

EDDIE rises.



BUSH: (calmly)         

Eddie, sit down. Sit down by the fire.



MUSIC: “Sit Down By The Fire” by the Pogues.



EDDIE sits down by the fire.



BUSH: Like I was saying. The Fat Clone Project will proceed. Obama Buzz WILL replace this upstart, Barack Obama.



MAX shudders.



EDDIE smiles.



BUSH: But you dance to our tune, Eddie. Otherwise, you can go back to smacking a clipboard for BEER money.



MAX: (crestfallen)

        Sad day, Georgie. I thought you at least had SOME ethics.



BUSH: Smile, Maxie.



MAX frowns.



BUSH: Do you two know that Daddy told me to STEP DOWN in 2004?



EDISON gapes.



BUSH: (sadly)         

Daddy thought I was RUINING the EMPIRE.



EDISON: YOUR empire, Georgie?



BUSH: Well…ah, you know. THE empire.



MUSIC: “Emperor” by Public image Limited.



EDISON: Well, I hope you’re happy, Georgie. What’s ahead in 2009? Another TROOP SURGE in Iraq?



BUSH: (dismissively)         

Nah. Let’s just COAST. 



MAX: Are you sure? Barack Obama promised to bring some big CHANGE to Washington.



EDDIE rolls eyes.

EDDIE clucks tongue. 



BUSH: Maxie? Try to follow along. Barack Hussein does not make that Inaugural. We plan to have his CLONE, Obama Prestonpans Buzz, ready to go long before January.



EDDIE smiles triumphantly. 



BUSH: Eddie and Biddaddy will handle all the details.



MAX: You can’t be serious.



BUSH: Oh, I’m serious. Picture it, Maxie. A Democratic White House.



EDDIE nods.



BUSH: A Supreme Court packed with QUASI-LIBERALS.



EDDIE laughs.



BUSH: American won’t suspect a THING.



MAX: (skeptically)       

Why’s that, Georgie? 



BUSH: (mirthfully)         

Because people are stupid, Maxie!



MAX: (stunned)       

The temerity.



BUSH: Enjoy your coffee, Maxie. We’re taking you back to lock-up in fifteen minutes.



EDDIE: I believe this meeting’s over NOW.



MAX: Bite OFF, Eddie. 



EDDIE scowls.



BUSH: Knock it off, Eddie. Maxie? I don’t know what your friends the Windsors EXPECTED from me. I probably don’t WANT to know.



MAX shakes had sadly. 



BUSH: Runnin’ a dictatorship is HARD WORK, Maxie.



MAX scoffs.



EDDIE shakes head.



BUSH: Frankly, it’s easier to BE a dictator when people follow ORDERS.



MAX scoffs.



BUSH: You’re DINOSAURS, Maxie. You and the Windsors should be in BRONSTONIA, with the other— 



EDDIE: (loudly)           

Excuse me, Mr. President! I believe you are late for a PRESS conference!



BUSH: (quietly)         

You’re a real buzz-killer, Eddie.



EDDIE grins smugly.



BUSH rises.

BUSH buttons coat.



BUSH: Get with the program, Maxie. Before it’s too late. No more tea, no more sympathy. NO MORE ROYAL NAVY. The empire’s new weapons are the LEGAL BRIEF, the CREDIT CARD, and the BRAIN QUALITY TEST.



EDDIE laughs.



EDDIE: The door is THIS way, Maxie.



MAX: You two are only fooling yourselves. A Nazi is still a NAZI.



EDDIE: Prescott Bush was—



BUSH: (sharply)         

Eddie, put a sock in it! I agreed to give Biddaddy access to Official Secrets, troop movements, and prime Texas REAL estate. I did NOT say that YOU, his GOON, could swing his penis around like he OWNS WASHINGTON.



EDDIE: I’ll hand you your ASS!



MAX: Gentlemen? You two are kidnappers. Try to act the part.



BUSH smirks.



EDDIE: He’s right. While we fight, he can get away. Thanks, Maxie!



MAX shakes head.



BUSH: Smile, Maxie.



MAX smiles weakly.



BUSH: It’s house arrest! Ya got a phone. Ya got a radio. We got Daniel Craig in “Quantum of Solace,” ON TELEVISION, in 45 minutes! Relax, pal!



EDDIE laughs.



SCENE: Brain Trust. Yorba Linda, California. USA. The Basement.



MUSIC: “Basement” by Skinny Puppy.



FATTY: Jack, this is too creepy.



EDDIE: Mr. Sheen will be right back.



JACK: Eddie: Explain somethin’. How did you trick a GENUINE HOLLYWOOD HERO like Martin SHEEN into coming HERE?



EDDIE: Oh, you know. Extortion…blackmail…subterfuge. The usual tricks.



FATTY: Goofy egg-head! 



JACK: Eddie, you’re a scientist! Think of what you could DO with a bunch of Fat Clones.



EDDIE: (whimsically)           

Oh, I HAVE. Heh heh. 



JACK: Why not a DOCTOR Fat Guy, or a SENATOR Fat Guy?



EDDIE: (annoyed)           

Save it for a movie script. Armagideon has no use for POLITICIANS, or PHYSICIANS. Feel the POWER, Jack!



JACK: You STINK, Eddie. 



EDDIE clucks tongue. 



FATTY: Look, this better not take long. And I want Fanta at the end. Fanta…and donuts.



Martin SHEEN approaches Brain Quality Test Station.



EDDIE: Long live Brain Trust!



SHEEN brushes past EDDIE. 



MUSIC: “Back to Earth” by Amon Tobin.



JACK studies SHEEN.



EDDIE clucks tongue.

EDDIE exits.



FATTY: (nonplussed)           

I don’t see any Fanta yet.



JACK: Martin Sheen. Unbelievable.



SHEEN makes a face.



JACK: (playfully)         

Hey, Martin. When’s that APOCALYPSE?



SHEEN: (sternly)           

NOW. I think we all know why we’re here.  Please have a seat, gentlemen.



FATTY: Did you guys know that the Clash referred to the apocalypse as ‘Armagideon’?



JACK rolls eyes.



SHEEN: Time is of the essence. Keep in mind, America swears in a new PRESIDENT next month. 



JACK nods.



SHEEN: President-Elect Obama talks a good GAME, but he’s a QUESTION MARK regarding CLONING. 



FATTY: (concerned)           

Hey, Martin. Are you makin’ a MOVIE here, or what?



SHEEN makes a face.



JACK lights a cigar. 



FATTY: Some kind of “method acting character study,” or some-such?



SHEEN: I don’t see any METHOD. I introduce the Brain Quality Test. I act as a watch-dog.



FATTY: Like Elmer!



SHEEN: Sure. Like Elmer. Dr. Biddaddy may be Ultimate EVIL, but he’s not PERFECT. I’m here to keep an eye on things.



JACK blows smoke.



SHEEN: No smoking, Jack. 



JACK puts out cigar. 



FATTY whistles.



JACK: Excuse me, Mr. Sheen. What do you do when things don’t RUN smoothly?



SHEEN: (grinning)           

I think you’ll figure that out soon enough, Jack.



FATTY: How come this office is right next to the Brain Trust BODY Banks?



SHEEN: Excuse me, but that is classified.



FATTY frowns.



JACK shakes head.



SHEEN clears throat. 



FATTY: OH, boy…



SHEEN: (stilted)           

Welcome to Post-Human America.



JACK balks.



SHEEN: (dramatically)   

          At Brain Trust Enterprises, we take Brain Quality seriously. Only superior subjects, as determined by the Brain Quality Test, are allowed to advance to operations like the Fat Clone Project.



FATTY nods smugly.



SHEEN: Brain Trust WILL clone an army of Fat Guys, Mr. Bronstein.



JACK gapes.



SHEEN: It’s like Luke Skywalker says. It’s like EDDIE BERTHANSE says. You can either PROFIT from the Fat Clone Project…or be DESTROYED. You’re the Test Moderator, pal. Start moderating!



JACK: (chagrined)   

      Sure…what-ever you say.



SHEEN: Good luck, Jack. 



MUSIC: Morricone’s “Good Luck, Jack” from ‘My Name is Nobody.’



SHEEN: Good luck, Fatty. 



SHEEN exits.



JACK pages through Brain Quality Test.



FATTY yawns.



JACK pours glass of vodka.

JACK chokes on vodka.



JACK pours glass of vodka.

JACK chokes on vodka.



JACK: How can anybody DRINK that stuff?



FATTY studies box of Dunkin Donuts.



JACK claws at hair.



FATTY: Well?



JACK: Well, WHAT?



FATTY shakes head.



JACK: Listen up, Fatty. This is the Brain Quality Test.



FATTY nods.



JACK: It’s not the SMART ASS Test. I’m sure you’d pass the SMART ASS TEST with flying COLORS.



FATTY shrugs.



JACK: Easy with the smart-ass routine.



FATTY smiles agreeably.



FATTY nods.



JACK: Let’s begin, shall we?



FATTY nods.



JACK: OK. Here we go. “Fat Guy.” No middle initial? Just Fat Guy?



FATTY: Yes, sir.



JACK writes on paper.



FATTY: I’m kind of nervous when I take tests, Jack. Is it OK if I talk?



JACK: Go ahead, Fatty.



FATTY: Nervous energy.



JACK: What’s that?



FATTY: Nervous energy is—



JACK: (concerned)         



Fatty, skip the vocabulary lesson.



FATTY: (mirthfully)           

But you said, “What’s that?”



JACK: OK., Ya get ONE smart-ass remark! No MORE. OK? 



FATTY shrugs.



JACK: Here’s to quality.



FATTY: (grinning)           

Here’s to BRAINS, Jack.



JACK makes a face.



FATTY chuckles.



JACK: (nervously)         

Yeah. Here’s to brains.



FATTY: Who wrote this test, anyway?



JACK: Fatty, I’m not supposed to answer questions like that. Let’s get started.



FATTY: Suit yourself, jive-ass.



JACK: OK. 2187 Zaphod Lane.



FATTY: Yeeaahh.



JACK balks.



FATTY: What? That’s where I live!



JACK: Great, great. That sounds great, Fatty.



FATTY: Sixteen stories! Great view!



JACK tries some vodka.



JACK chokes on vodka.



JACK: How can anybody DRINK that stuff?



FATTY: It’s the potatoes, Jack. Most distilleries— 



JACK: FREEZE it, Fatty. We’re doin’ a TEST here. 



FATTY frowns.



JACK: Table the vodka talk. It’s a five-minute Brain Quality Test. Can vodka talk WAIT five minutes?



FATTY: (reluctantly)           

Yeah, sure…I GUESS.



JACK: Great.



FATTY: I’ll save my comments for later.



JACK studies bottle of vodka.



JACK sighs.



FATTY: Boss?



JACK: Oh, right. Here we go.



FATTY: Can I have a donut, Jack?



JACK grimaces.



FATTY grins naively.



JACK grabs bottle of vodka.



JACK drinks vodka straight from bottle.



JACK gags on vodka.



JACK spits vodka all over desk.



JACK hurls bottle at wall.



Bottle shatters.



JACK: CURSES!



Maintenance Man LEON Kowalski enters.



FATTY: Clean-up time!



MUSIC: “Clean Up Time” by John Lennon.



LEON brandishes Windex brand cleaning solution.

LEON brandishes roll of paper towels.



JACK: (sheepishly)         

Sorry about the mess.



LEON cleans up vodka.



JACK sighs.



LEON brandishes broom.



LEON brandishes dust pan



LEON sweeps up glass.



LEON stares at FATTY.



FATTY stares at LEON.



JACK clears throat.



LEON grunts obtusely.



LEON shakes dust pan menacingly.



LEON exits.



FATTY shrugs.



JACK: You thinkin’ what I’M thinkin’?



FATTY: (obtusely)           

Maybe.



JACK: Guy’s almost too human to BE human.



FATTY: What the hell does THAT mean, Jack?



JACK fidgets.



FATTY: Are my CLONES gonna be JANITORS?



JACK: (concerned)       

Curb your enthusiasm. Let’s prioritize here.



FATTY gapes.



JACK: Assess your priorities, Fatty. Take the test. Have a little blind faith, OK?



MUSIC: “Blind Faith” by Corey Hart.



JACK clears throat.



FATTY: OK. I just don’t know if I TRUST the BRAIN Trust egg-heads.



JACK: Forget about them! Trust ME, Fatty.



FATTY nods slowly.



JACK: Now. Let me read the disclaimer.



FATTY: Is that like a waiver?



JACK: (hurriedly)         

(reading aloud)       

“Brain Trust Enterprises, established A.D. 1932,  hereby declares…etc. etc. etc…All rights reserved.  By order of Doctor Godfrey Stonecroft Biddaddy, ESQUIRE.”



FATTY: (excitedly)           

I have a SUBSCRIPTION to ‘Esquire Magazine’!



JACK laughs.



FATTY: Naked Natalie Portman, Jack!



JACK rolls eyes.



FATTY: You should SEE her.



JACK: Yeah, yeah. So that APARTMENT has a nice VIEW, huh?



FATTY: Oh, YEAH.



JACK: Ocean and stuff, right?



FATTY: Yes, indeed.



JACK nods.



FATTY: It’s not the BRADBURY. Not by a LONG-shot. Pretty NICE, though.



JACK grins.



JACK: And now, we begin.



FATTY: Hit me.



JACK: Fatty? You find yourself out in the DESERT.



FATTY: I find myself EATING DESSERT?



JACK: DESERT, smart-ass! With SAND.



FATTY shrugs.



JACK: D-E-S-E-R-T.



FATTY: Sand, huh? Like an ice cream SAND-wich. Sure. Why not?



JACK opens desk drawer.

JACK grabs new bottle of vodka.

JACK grabs two glasses.



FATTY: Thirsty, huh?



JACK pours two glasses of vodka.



JACK: DRINK time, Fatty. Have a sip. ENJOY it.



FATTY sips vodka.



FATTY: Delicious!



JACK raises eyebrow.



FATTY chuckles.



JACK grins.

JACK raises his glass.

JACK sips vodka.

JACK chokes on vodka.

JACK grimaces.

JACK slams glass down on desk.



JACK: How the HELL does anybody DRINK this stuff?



FATTY shrugs.



JACK pulls out dictionary.



JACK: (reading aloud)       

“DESERT. ‘A dry, barren, often sandy region that, because of environmental extremes, can naturally support little or no vegetation’.”



JACK closes dictionary.



FATTY: Is that part of the test?



JACK: Is WHAT part of the test?



FATTY: That definition!



JACK: (crossly)         

It is NOW.



FATTY: I SEE.



JACK: OK. So, you’re out in the desert.



FATTY: (smugly)           



No, I’m not.



JACK: You’re out in the desert, Fatty!



FATTY: This test sucks! When are we DONE?



JACK: Work with me, Fatty! Work with me.



FATTY frowns.



JACK: (crossly)         

It’s a hypothetical situation. You find yourself in the DESERT.



FATTY: Ya know, the Brain Quality ASSESSMENT was a lot more FUN. Why am I in the DESERT?



JACK: Fatty, it’s hypothetical!



FATTY: HYPOTHETICAL DESRT?



JACK: (vexed)         

Yes. Hypothetical desert!



FATTY: OK, OK. I got it, Jack.

JACK sighs, relieved.

FATTY: Where IS the Hypothetical Desert?

JACK: That’s it!!!

JACK grabs bottle of vodka.

JACK ‘winds up,’ prepares to hurl bottle at wall. 

FATTY ducks.

JACK throws bottle at wall.

SAM Bronstein, Jack’s father, catches bottle in mid-air.

SAM: Test’s over, boys.

FATTY: Nice!

JACK: (stunned)         

Dad! What are you DOIN’ here?

SAM: Come on, let’s hustle. I’ll fill you 2 in on the way out of here!

MUSIC: “Police on my Back” by the Clash.

JACK: So, you’re like Donald Sutherland in the film “JFK,” right?

SAM: (bemused)       

Too clever by half, son. TOO CLEVER BY—

VOICE on loudspeaker: Alert! Alert! Brain Quality Breach! Repeat! Brain Quality Breach! Dog Soldiers! Mobilize!

JACK: I got a .45, Dad.

SAM: Loaded, son?

JACK: Fully!

SAM: Well, fire away. The Body Banks can mobilize a thousand of those Dog Soldiers in five minutes!

EDDIE Berthanse steps into view.

EDDIE: (enraged)           

Traitors! I will hand you your ass, Jack!

JACK draws .45

JACK: Eat lead, jag bag!

JACK fires.

EDDIE raises clipboard.

Clipboard deflects bullets.

EDDIE: Better than you!!!

SAM lunges at EDDIE.

EDDIE side-steps SAM.

FATTY takes swing at EDDIE.

EDDIE drops clipboard.

EDDIE blocks punch.

JACK aims .45 at EDDIE.

JACK: Multiple choice, Eddie!

FATTY: No! No more tests!

SAM takes out EDDIE’S legs.

EDDIE tumbles to ground.

SAM: I got him!

EDDIE ‘sweeps’ leg.

EDDIE takes out SAM’S legs.

SAM: Jag bag! Ugh…

FATTY: (furious)           

Where’s my brother, Eddie? Where is Skinny Boy? 

JACK aims .45 at EDDIE.

JACK: What’ll it BE, Eddie?

a)    Tell us where you’re holding Skinny Boy

b)  Eat lead

c)    Get a free ride to Bronstonia

EDDIE hops to his feet.

SAM: Shoot him!

EDDIE: Those choices all suck! YOU suck!

FATTY: YOU do!

FATTY punches EDDIE in stomach.

EDDIE stumbles.

Gunfire erupts down the hall.

SAM: Dog Soldiers! Make your move, Jack!

JACK: Damn it! I can’t shoot him until I get the information!

FATTY swings at EDDIE.

EDDIE ducks.

DOG SOLDIERS advance.

SAM: Son! Hit the dirt!

JACK tosses gun to FATTY.

FATTY aims gun at EDDIE.

EDDIE: You bluff, Fat Guy!

FATTY shoots oncoming DOG soldier.

DOG soldier collapses.

FATTY: No bluff, Eddie. Where is he?!

JACK grabs SAM.

JACK shields SAM from gunfire.

EDDIE: D.C., Fat Guy.

FATTY: Huh?

EDDIE: Your brother’s in Washington! G.W. Bush was gonna let him go after the inauguration! He’s—

FATTY punches EDDIE in face.

FATTY: (enraged)           

I don’t believe you!

EDDIE: It’s the truth! They’re taking good care of Skinny Boy! He’s—

Gunfire drowns out EDDIE.

FATTY hesitates.

EDDIE disarms FATTY.

.45 clatters to floor.

JACK: Fatty! No!

EDDIE: Better than you!

FATTY: Go, Jack! Get Sam out of here! Go!

EDDIE clobbers FATTY in face.

MUSIC: “In The Hall of the Mountain King” from Grieg’s ‘Peer Gynt.’

SAM: Jack! I found an emergency exit.

JACK:  HIT it.

SAM hits Emergency Exit.

New alarm blares.

DOG soldiers converge on FATTY.

FATTY: Top of the world, Eddie!

EDDIE: Dog Soldiers, knock his ass out!

SCENE: Exterior, Brain Trust Enterprises.

SAM opens door of Lincoln Mercury Cougar Lynx vehicle. 

SAM: Get in!

JACK hops into car.

SAM hops into car.

DOG soldiers fire weapons.

JACK starts car.

SAM: Don’t screw around, Jack! Floor it!

JACK steps on gas pedal.

Lynx accelerates.

Bullets bounce off of Lynx.

Lynx hops speed-bump.

Lynx smashes through road-block.

JACK: Bronstein!!!

Bullet-riddled Lynx cruises into downtown Los Angeles. 

SAM: Aces, son.

JACK nods.

SAM: Aces high.

SCENE: Crawford, Texas, USA. The Bush Ranch.

DADDY Bush and George W Bush eat chili.

W: Empire’s finest, Pop.

DADDY: Nothing but the best, Georgie.

W smirks.

DADDY studies W.

W: It’s a pity that Maxwell wouldn’t listen. Eastern half of the Empire would have been good company.

DADDY: Georgiea? The imperial Berthansigans are getting old.

W: Pop, what’s a Berthansigan?

DADDY: SHENANIGANS.

W: (suspiciously)   

I see. SHENANIGANS.

DADDY: History lesson, son. We need to FOCUS.

W: (apologetically) 

  Right. I shifted the focus from Afghanistan to Iraq. And then—

DADDY: That’s not what I meant. I mean, the Empire may have already relocated here to Texas.

W: HUH?

DADDY: Picture a mythical wilderness, Georgie.

W: OK?

DADDY: They call it BRONSTONIA, as in BRONSTEIN.

W: Th-that’s top secret! It doesn’t open until— 

DADDY: Stow it, son.

W pouts.

DADDY: The Hollywoods shake hands with the Corporatists. 

W smirks.

DADDY: Brain Trust means business, son! Eddie Berthanse means to create a Fat Clone Army.

W gapes.

DADDY: You didn’t think I’d let you hog all that action for yourself, did you?

W shrugs.

DADDY: How much do YOU know, son?

W shrugs.

DADDY: I’ll fill in the blanks. Brain Trust has cloned Maxwell’s brother, the original Fat Guy of London.

W: Dude!

DADDY: Ten thousand times!

W: Maybe Obama can handle it?

DADDY: Knock it off! It’s a done deal! FAIT ACCOMPLI! Armed Fat Clones! Roaming America!

W: (sheepishly)   

Good time to leave Washington, right?

DADDY: Shut up.

W: Shut up?

DADDY: They cloned Obama too, son.

W gawks.

DADDY: Eddie Berthanse was right-hand-man to Dr. Biddaddy. 

W nods.

DADDY: Berthanse went rogue, son. Just like Sarah Palin.

W shakes head.

DADDY: Obama BUZZ, Eddie’s CLONE KING, means to step into the White House on January 19.

W puts down chili.

DADDY: It goes like this. Buzz replaces Obama. Fat Clones wipe out all those who resist. Then?

W: WORSE?

DADDY: I don’t know yet. Berthanse will probably pull a ‘mass cloning’ experiment.

W gapes.

DADDY: I tried to warn Dick Cheney.

W: Yeah! Dick will—

DADDY: Dick’s involved, Georgie! They say it’s a grudge.

W: Obama and Cheney are related, Dad!

DADDY: I know! They liked the same woman or something. Family feud resulted.

W shakes head.

DADDY nods.

W: So, now the whole human race has to become zombies? For Dick?!

DADDY: Get to work son.

W stands

W buttons blazer.

DADDY: The economy is broken. Still. I don’t know how it happened. I also don’t know how they broke both WARS.

W frowns.

DADDY: Don’t let them break REALITY, Georgie.

W: Reality bites, Pop!

DADDY: (gravely)             

Pretty much, Georgie. But it’s the best reality we have.

W departs.

SCENE: Los Angeles, CA, USA.

Bullet-riddled Lynx enters parking lot.

EXTERIOR: Bronstein Studios.

JACK exits Lynx.

SAM exits Lynx.

JACK: You OK?

SAM: Fine.

JACK nods.

SAM: (sheepishly)       

You’re brothers, Jack.

JACK: (annoyed)       

What?

SAM frowns.

SAM and JACK approach Bronstein Studios building.

JACK opens door.

SAM walks through open door.

MUSIC: “Brazil” by Kate Bush.

JACK: Brothers, Pop?

SAM shakes head.

JACK approaches front desk.

Roses on front desk.

FRIEDA Kokovoko looks up from seat at desk.

JACK: Hello, Frieda.

FRIEDA: Hi. Mike Piazza brought me roses.

SAM: Introduce me, son!

JACK: Excuse me, Frieda. This is my FATHER.

FRIEDA: Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bronstein!

SAM: My pleasure.

JACK: (awkwardly)         

I bought her roses last WEEK.

FRIEDA blushes.

SAM: Mike PIAZZA, Frieda? The baseball star?

FRIEDA: He also cooks.

JACK: Frieda? Can we discuss flowers later?

FRIEDA shrugs.

SAM chuckles.

JACK: Great.

FRIEDA: (concerned)             

What happened at Brain Trust?

JACK: We lost Fatty.

FRIEDA: Oh, BROTHER.

SAM: (absent-mindedly)       

Brothers…

JACK squints.

FRIEDA: Any news about the Fat Clone Project?

SAM: Brothers.

FRIEDA: Excuse me, Mr. Bronstein. Did you say ‘brothers’? 

JACK: Dad, what’s going on here?

SAM: Let’s have a seat.

JACK and SAM pull up chairs at desk.

FRIEDA: (thoughtfully)             

Dr. Biddaddy stole  your best friend. I’m sorry, Jack.

SAM: It was Eddie Berthanse, Frieda.

JACK mopes.

SAM: This doesn’t leave the office. 

FRIEDA nods.

SAM: Jack’s brother, FAT Guy, is my oldest son.

JACK gapes.

FRIEDA: No!

SAM nods.

JACK: I thought Fat Guy was SKINNY Boy’s brother. 

SAM: From the beginning.

FRIEDA nods.

SAM: Back when, during the Nazi ear, I changed my name.

JACK: (clueless)       

So did lots of people!

SAM: Listen up. As Murray Quesnell Teagarden, I made a living playing at jazz clubs.

JACK: You’re not serious. Like JACK Teagarden?

FRIEDA: Jazzy!

SAM: (sternly)       

I’m telling the truth, Jack. Fat Guy, alias John Cheever BURFRESCA, is your younger BROTHER.

JACK gapes.

SAM: That’s not all.

FRIEDA: How did he get the name Burfresca?

JACK: (condescendingly)         

Frieda, the history of the drink known as Burfresca is a long one.

FRIEDA gapes.

SAM: I got this one. You both remember Fresca, the soft drink?

JACK: Yes.

FRIEDA: Yes.

SAM: Well, one day, my second son, John Cheever, needed something to drink with his afternoon burrito.

JACK: Where did he live?

SAM: One thing at a time, Jack. He usually drank Fresca with his burrito.

FRIEDA nods.

SAM: But the store was OUT of Fresca.

JACK: Fatty mixed Blue Moon with Guinness as a CHILD, Dad?

SAM: (defensively)       

Jack, he was twenty, OK? Now, about your OTHER brothers. 

FRIEDA: Why did you keep all of this a secret?

SAM shrugs sheepishly.

JACK: I had three brothers?

SAM: (annoyed)

        You still do, schmucky! Plus a sister, named Twixie True!

JACK shakes head.

SAM: First things first. Chuck D, of Public Enemy, also known as Reggie Jax, comes next.

JACK: This is unbelievable!

FRIEDA: I love those free-style raps!

SAM: (grinning)       

Indeed.

JACK: I don’t get this. Hip-hop superstar. The original Fat Guy of London. Who’s my youngest brother? Arthur Fiedler?!

FRIEDA: Of the Boston Pops?

SAM sighs.

JACK: Pop?

SAM: Arthur Fiedler’s a pretty good guess!

JACK laughs.

FRIEDA smiles.

SAM smiles.

SAM: Maxwell Edison is your baby brother, Jack!

MUSIC: “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” by the Beatles. 

FRIEDA: Wasn’t Maxwell Edison a Beatles character?! 

SAM: There were plenty of Beatles characters, Frieda! 

FRIEDA: I thought he was fictional, though.

JACK shakes head.

FRIEDA: Fictitious!

JACK: (haughtily)       

“Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” is the third song from ‘Abbey Road,’ by the Beatles.

SAM smiles.

FRIEDA: I love that song!

JACK: The song evokes images of narcissism, a metaphysicist named Joan, and some silver hammer murders.

FRIEDA: Yep.

JACK: What the song doesn’t say is that the Order of the Silver Hammer is real!

SAM nods.

FRIEDA: Like, in real life, Jack?

JACK: Yes! The Order of the Silver Hammer.

SAM clears throat.

FRIEDA: So, is Maxwell tied in with Silver Hammera/ 

JACK: (enigmatically)         

Yes. In the song, the—

SAM: (impatiently)       

Maxwell Edison is your brother, Jack. He lives in London. He does business with George Bush.

FRIEDA: Bang bang!

JACK: So, I have three brothers and a sister?

SAM nods.

JACK: Twixie True, Pop?

SAM nods.

JACK: Where is she?!

SAM: She’s waiting tables in—

ELMER the Glaviano setter: WOOF.

ELMER hops onto desk.

FRIEDA: Elmer!

JACK offers ELMER a chair.

SAM: Hello.

ELMER barks.

SAM: (confused)       

Are you a stray?

JACK: Dad, this is Elmer. He’s a Glaviano setter. 

FRIEDA gives ELMER a snack.

SAM: As in, the Grace of the Glaviano?

JACK nods.

ELMER: I’m Fat Guy’s therapy dog.,

FRIEDA frowns.

ELMER: Where is Fat Guy?

JACK: (sheepishly)         

He’s at Brain Trust.

ELMER: WOOF. Jack, you jag bag. You lost Fatty? WOOF. 

JACK: We can get him back.

SAM: Brain Trust is on lock-down! We should wait until things cool down.

FRIEDA: (alarmed)     

        And just sit here while Fat Guy rots?

JACK: We could work on my new movie, Frieda!

ELMER howls.

SAM: Is there a script, son?

JACK: Yes! It’s called ‘Twilight-Breaking Bad.’ It’s about vampires!

FRIEDA rolls eyes.

JACK: No, listen!

FRIEDA shakes head.

JACK: It was Fatty’s idea!

SAM clears throat.

JACK: Vampire lovers make love in a haunted medieval castle.

FRIEDA: Are you serious, Jack?

SAM gapes.

ELMER: Haunted house pornography, Jack?

JACK: Well, it started out as ‘Fan Fiction.’

ELMER: WOOF. Fan fiction usually turns into pornography! WOOF.

JACK frowns.

ELMER: Keep it clean, Jack.

FRIEDA: Jack, they’re messing with Fatty’s brain! 

JACK: I say we make this movie. In honor of Fatty! 

FRIEDA: Since when are you loyal to Fatty?

SAM sighs.

ELMER barks.

JACK: (quietly)         

Hear me out. Fatty told me he met a woman in a book-store. 

SAM: They still have those?

JACK: Yes! The lady was working on a ‘bondage romance’ called ‘Fifty Shades of Gray.’

ELMER howls.

SAM: Lot of gray there, Jack.

FRIEDA rolls eyes.

JACK: 50 shades, Pop. Yes, fan fiction has come a long way.

SAM: A long way from where, son?

JACK: From Joseph, and his Technicolor dream coat! 

FRIEDA laughs.

ELMER: Sounds like ya got sex on the brain, Jack!

JACK: Most people do, Elmer!

SAM: Plot, Son?

JACK: Bella is a vampress.  A vampire woman! Over the course of an extended 50-day honeymoon, Bella seduces her friend, Edward. Every night.

FRIEDA smiles.

ELMER barks.

SAM: What-ever. Why fifty days?

JACK: Because, Bella wears a different shade of gray each night!

FRIEDA applauds.

SAM shrugs blankly.

ELMER: WOOF. Sounds tolerable. WOOF.

JACK grins.

SAM: I don’t know. Are there really that many shades of gray?

ELMER yawns.

JACK: It’s a movie, Pop!

FRIEDA: It’s  ‘soft pornography’!

STUDS Terkel: (over loudspeaker)                       

(voice-over)                     

Hello.

JACK nods.

SAM: Who’s that?

STUDS Terkel: You’re listening to Studs Terkel.

FRIEDA: From radio!

JACK chuckles.

STUDS: Those were the days. Men were men. Women were teen-aged girls with heaving breasts.

FRIEDA scoffs.

JACK laughs.

STUDS: These are the days! People want vampires. Lots of vampires! Here’s where Ireland’s Dungood Castle comes in, people. 

JACK raises eyebrow.

JACK nods.

STUDS: Dungood Castle stands due south of Galway, in the west of Ireland. Locals say the castle is haunted. Tourists say it looks great on the ‘internet.’ But, for ‘Twilight’ heroes Bella and Edward, it’s more.

JACK smirks.

STUDS: A lot more! Here’s the plot. Bella and Edward are sick of the life. Sick of the blood. Sick of unfair, unwarranted comparisons between Kristen Stewart’s acting…and Kate Beckinsale’s dominatrix routine in the “Underworld” movies.

JACK: Hold on, Studs! ‘Underworld’ is neat-o. Kate gets to—

STUDS: Put a sock in it, Jack! The kids love ‘Twilight.’ Werewolves love ‘Twilight.’ People like ‘Twilight’ so much? That other movie called ‘Twilight’? The one with Reese Witherspoon and Paul Newman?

JACK: (bored)         

Yes?

STUDS: Now people hate it! Ha ha ha. ‘Twilight: Breaking Bad: Fifty Shades of Gray’ is gonna make box office bank! It’s gonna boggle people’s minds! It’s gonna put enchanted Irish castles back on the map!

JACK: Map, Studs?

STUDS: (emphatically)       

    Map, Studs!

JACK laughs.

STUDS: Careful, Jack. I’ll sort you out. I’ll knock you halfway into the middle of next week. Take heed.

JACK: (annoyed)       

Heed? Hedo Turkoglu, Studs! Just because you’re upstairs, you don’t get unlimited ass-kickin’ privileges! Feel me? 

STUDS: I’ll feel you—what? Aahh, shut up! Listen here. Bryan Cranston is gonna shave his head, cook some crystal methance, and yell, “What the hell am I doin’ in this movie?!”

SAM: Bravo, Studs. I think this movie will break records! And casting Enya Brennan as Bella? They should throw you an Oscar, Studs! Keep it up!

STUDS: No worries.

JACK: (worried)         

Whose studio IS this?!

SAM: Bronstein’s!

FRIEDA: Knock it off, Bronsteins. Fatty needs our help!

ELMER: Fatty needs MY help, Frieda.

FRIEDA: Yeah? Well, what are you gonna do?

ELMER: (calmly)           

I’m goin’ to Chicago, Frieda.



SPLIT SCREEN.



DICK Cheney talks via telephone to George W Bush.



W picks up phone.

W sips Coca-Cola.

W presses buttons on phone.



MUSIC: “Ave Maria” by Schubert.



W: Hello?



DICK answers phone.



W: Dick?



DICK: This is Dick!



W: Where does it end, Dick?



DICK: (crossly)

          Georgie, the year 2000 was the end of the world. Ten years ago! We are the clean-up crew.



W: Not funny.



DICK cackles.



W: Thousands are dead, Dick.



DICK grunts.



W: Thousands dead. Now you want a NEW crusade. Against AMERICANS? How many have to die for you and Berthanse?



DICK: Plenty. There are 300 million people in this country!



W: Why, Dick?



DICK: Why NOT, Georgie?



W: Why do you kill, Dick? What MAKES you kill? Why do you shoot people in the face?



DICK: Hypocrite!



W: Me?!



DICK: Sure. Your oil empire is built on innocent blood.



W frowns.



DICK: Well, mostly innocent.



W scoffs.



DICK: Save your lecture on the sanctity of human life!



W: You’re out of control!



DICK: Obama Buzz and the Fat Guy Clones will prevail. My cousin got to date that girl. She should have dated me, Georgie!



W: Out.Of.Control.



MUSIC: “Out of Control” by U2.



DICK hangs up phone.



W hangs up phone.



SCENE: Brain Trust Headquarters, Yorba Linda, California, USA. The Control Room.



DOG soldiers guard FAT GUY.



EDDIE Berthanse studies FATTY.



FATTY: (crossly)

              Eddie, the ‘Flowers for Algernon’ routine is not cool.



EDDIE clucks tongue.



FATTY: I wanted Fanta. I wanted pretty ladies hanging around. I wanted a Fat Clone Army.



EDDIE: (smugly)

            How about 2 out of 3, Fat Guy? Gentlemen, get the man some Fanta!



FATTY: You guys lied.



EDDIE: Everyone lies, Fatty!



FATTY: (ominously)

            You lie down with dogs, Eddie!



EDDIE: (omenously)

            Fatty? Let sleeping dogs lie!



DOG Soldier #3 grunts.



DOG Soldier #1 brings Fanta to FATTY.



EDDIE: First question, Fatty.



FATTY: (pained)

            Another test?!



EDDIE smacks clipboard.

EDDIE smirks.

EDDIE clucks tongue.



FATTY sips Fanta.



EDDIE: Excuse us, gentlemen.



DOG Soldiers exit.



EDDIE: Fatty? Suppose you commanded the Fat Clone Army. What would you do first?



FATTY: I would kick your ass!



EDDIE writes on clip-board.



FATTY: Was that the right answer, Eddie?



EDDIE laughs.

EDDIE smacks clipboard.



EDDIE: It was a joke! “Original Fat Guy of London,” huh? Ha! What a rip-off!



FATTY grimaces.



EDDIE: Wake up, Fat Guy! 2009 ushers in the Buzz Age! Obama Prestonpans Buzz and the Fat Clone Army don’t even need you!



FATTY: (sheepishly)

              I don’t believe this.



EDDIE: Suspend your disbelief, Fat Guy. Curb your enthusiasm. Drink your Fanta. Just don’t get any funny ideas.



FATTY: Eddie, you Body Banks scum bag.



EDDIE smiles.



EDDIE: Mind your manners, Fatty! Elsehow? Elsehow, I’ll feed ya to the Mer-Man!



Dissolve.



SCENE: Mirror. Downtown. Chicago. Illinois. USA.



Obama BUZZ eats Oreo Cookie.

BUZZ studies mirror.



BUZZ: (to mirror)

            Ya can take the buzz out of the Obama. But can ya take the Obama out of the Buzz?



MUSIC: “Promenade” from ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ by Mussorgsky.



BUZZ: Now hear this. Januray 19 draws near. 3 C’s. Courage…Compassion…and Caution. 3 C’s.



Mirror remains silent.



BUZZ: Cat got your tongue.



ELMER the Glaviano setter enters.



BUZZ: Elmer?



ELMER: WOOF. Big surprise, huh? Talk to the mirror, and get no reply. WOOF.



BUZZ: How’d ya know I’d be HERE?



ELMER shrugs.



BUZZ: Well, never mind.



ELMER: Washington awaits, Buzz.



BUZZ smiles.



BUZZ: I can’t wait to get there, Elmer! I have big plans for the American Bankadise!



ELMER: WOOF. Be careful. The American Bankadise is not an amusement park. WOOF.



BUZZ: Ya gonna betray me to BARACK, Elmer?



ELMER: No. Not yet. But watch yourself on the 19th. No Tobe Hooper ‘Funhouse’ stunts. Save it for “Svengoolie.”



BUZZ: (adjusting neck-tie)

          Heh heh. Svengoolie.



MUSIC: “California Dreamin” by Mamas & Papas.



BUZZ: So. Any further unsolicited opinions.



BOB Nemtusak: (from shadows)

                          I want to try acting!



ELMER barks sharply.



BUZZ: Hello!



BOB: Hi. Bob Nemtusak. I’m looking for work.



ELMER: WOOF. This is the Federal Reserve, bloke. Ya need a resume. WOOF.



BUZZ: Welcome, Bob.



BOB nods.



BUZZ: Campaign’s over. Democrats won.



ELMER yawns.



BUZZ: You DO watch TELEVISION, don’t you?



BOB: Yes! I see similarities between politics and show business!



ELMER: (annoyed)

              Today is January 13, Bob. Six days til the coronation. Ya got plane fare to D.C?



BOB balks.



BUZZ laughs.



ELMER: Seriously, Bob! Ya could have been lickin’ stamps and knockin’ on doors a YEAR ago.



BOB scoffs.



ELMER: WOOF. Ya busy or somethin’? WOOF.



BOB: (calmly)

        Yes and no, Elmer. I want something high-profile.



BUZZ: (bemused)

          Ya gonna run for office?!



BOB: How hard can it be?



ELMER barks.



BOB: I need a ‘head-shot’ first.



BUZZ: Well, here’s the deal.



BOB nods.



BUZZ: Here’s a business card. The office is over on Briar Street, on the north side.



BOB smiles.



BUZZ makes a face.



BOB: (ironically)

        Theater district?



BUZZ: Theater district.



ELMER: WOOF. The Democrats are set to re-take Washington. WOOF.



BOB: (insolently)

        So?!



ELMER: So, save the one-liners for Packy’s Comedy Club. Welcome to dream time!



MUSIC: “Dreamtime” by Daryl Hall.



BUZZ: Sayonara, Bob.



BOB exits.



ELMER: Is he serious?



BUZZ: Oscar Wilde, Elmer. “Some people bring happiness wherever they go. Others? WHEN-ever they go.”



ELMER nods.



SCENE: T.J. Jagodowski’s Acting Bug Start-up Shop. Briar and Clark Streets. Chicago, Illinois, USA.



T.J. Jagodowski opens office door.



BOB enters office.



T.J.: How can I help today, sir?



BOB: Can I get a deal on a head-shot?



T.J.: (cautiously)

      What’s the project?



BOB: It’s a political piece. But it goes beyond politics!



T.J.: I’m not sure I follow.



BOB: I want one of those “media personality” careers.



T.J.: OK?



BOB: For now, it’s a one-person social-commentary routine.



T.J. Are you the star?



BOB: That’s right.



T.J.: When do you need the head-shot?



BOB: Not sure yet.



T.J.: (annoyed)

      How about this? Start from the beginning!



BOB: OK.



T.J. My name is T.J. Jagodowski. Who are you?



BOB: Bob Nemtusak. I propose a 1-man soliloquy.



T.J. nods.



BOB: It’s a soliloquy about Post-Human America.



T.J.: So, it’s a race relations manifesto, Bob?



BOB: YES.



T.J. sighs.



BOB: T.J. Jagodowski?



T.J.: That’s my name. Don’t wear it out!



BOB: So, your last name is O’Dowsky?



T.J. glares.



BOB: “O, apostrophe, Dowsky”?



T.J.: (irked)

      No!



BOB: Jewish-Irish?



T.J.: (sternly)

      “T.J. Jagodowski!”



BOB: I see. So, do you eat corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day AND Purim?



T.J.: You suck!



BOB gapes.



T.J.: Excuse me.



T.J. exits.

T.J. returns.

T.J. brandishes “corned beef fixings.”



BOB: So, your nickname is ‘Jag’?



T.J. re-arranges BOB’s face with corned beef.



BOB stumbles.

BOB falls.



T.J. dumps cabbage on BOB.



T.J.: (yelling)

      Got the message? Here’s a soliloquy, ya racist jag bag! A little respect for people will buy you bus fare! Get the hell out of here, you!!!



MUSIC: “This Could Be The Last Time” by the Rolling Stones.



SCENE: Split-screen. Telephone call.



Obama BUZZ: You threw him out, Mr. Jagodowski?



T.J.: a demagogue and a thug, Mr. Buzz!



BUZZ: (sharply)

          Demagogues wrote the Constitution!



T.J. scoffs.



BUZZ: Bob saw the mirror, Mr. Jagodowski.



T.J.: Huh?!



BUZZ: He knows all about the mirror!



T.J.: (alarmed)

      Yes, sir. I’ll call Eddie Berthanse right away.



BUZZ: Good thinking.



T.J.: Was there anything else, Mr. Buzz?



BUZZ: Not from you. Not until 2012. Got it?



T.J.: Hey, pal? I voted for Obama!



BUZZ: Yeah, thanks. Just put Berthanse on the case. Otherwise? You may end up smacking clipboards for the next 4 years!



T.J.: You’re a jag bag!



BUZZ: Jag me not, Jagodowski.



T.J. scoffs.



BUZZ: I have the buzz.



MUSIC: “I Have The Touch” by Peter Gabriel.



Dissolve.



    Jack Bronstein had made a deal.

    The deal was called the Fat Clone Project.

    Jack had signed a contract.

    It seemed harmless.

    Brain Trust Enterprises, a cloning outfit, wanted to make a Replicant, or “Clone,” of Jack’s friend, Fat Guy.

    They offered Fatty $5 million.

    They offered JACK $5 million.

    Alas, Dr. Biddaddy, and his Brain Trust thugs, didn’t tell Jack the whole story.

    During times of economic uncertainty, making plans for the future can be a little dicey.

    A movie character named Yoda put it this way: “Always in motion is the future.”

    Yoda was right.

    Ever watch a weather forecast on television?

    OK.

    Sure, you can get EXCITED about the future.

    But PREDICTING, and PLANNING FOR the future, are a different story.

    Frankenstein’s Monster—for HIS part—was very excited about the future!

    Frank had placed a sizable bet on baseball’s World Series champs, the Philadelphia Phillies.

    Big bucks!

    On Election Day, Frank had cast a vote for a senator from Illinois named Barack Obama!

    Obama’s first Inaugural was a week away, but that didn’t matter to Frank.

    Frank was excited.

    Frank was hopeful.

    Frank’s head was in the clouds!

    As the Los Angeles sky darkened, Frank’s fellow sidewalk pedestrian, Jack Bronstein, walked towards him.

    Oblivious, Frank walked straight into Jack!

    “Yo, Boris Karloff!” quipped Jack. “Where’s the fire?”

    Frank sensed that it was time to invoke a 1960s classic, Roger Corman’s ‘Tales of Terror’.”

    He tossed away his cigarette, dusted off his wounded pride, and he frowned, “Hey, Peter Lorre! Why don’t ya watch where I’m going?!”

    Jack scoffed, “I got places to go, Frank! Step off!”

    “You step off!” yelled Frank. “First off, ya got the dialogue wrong. Peter Lorre says the ‘watch where I’m going’ line!”

    Jack barked, “You’re a real smart-ass!”

    Frank said, “Yeah? At least I’m not a DUMB-ass, Jack!”

    Jack shook his head.

    Frank went on, “Re-assess your priorities, OK? Pick your spots!”

    Jack scowled, “Laugh it up, bolt-face! I got a job to do!”

    “I’ve heard,” said Frank. “The cloning of the Fat Guy, right?”

    Jack nodded.

    Frank scoffed, “I heard that you get a million dollars just to give Fatty a Brain Quality Test!”

    “You know about the Brain Quality Test?” gasped Jack.

    Frank shrugged, “I’m Frankenstein’s Monster, Jack. I know all about Brain Quality!”

    Jack sighed, “Fair enough.”

    With that, Frank vanished into the evening mist.

    Jack kept walking.

    He lit a cigar.

    Rain fell.

    Jack made his way past two lonely twenty-year-olds, who were making love on a parked 1986 Honda Scooter.

    The scooter had a radio.

    The radio blared the borderline-pornographic, six-minute version of “Two of Hearts” by Stacey Q.

    “1986 all over again,” chuckled Jack.

    He got into his 1989 Mazda RX-7, and remarked, “If only they knew. 1989 is where it’s at!”

    For emphasis, movie boy turned on Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power.”

    Jack pulled out into Los Angeles traffic.

    Moving his car at just the right angle, Jack splashed mud all over the Scooter lovers.

    This being 2009, tempers and what-not?

    They came after Jack.

    “What the hell is this?!” yelled Jack. “Who has sex on a city street?! Rent a cabin in the woods or something!”

    But he stayed calm.

    He had to.

    Honda Boy roared, “I’m gonna kick your ass, dude!”

    Via his rear-view mirror, Jack watched Honda Girl toss a hunting knife to Honda Boy.

    “Get him!!!” she screamed.

    Jack fumed, “Enough!”

    He activated the Mazda’s next-best-thing-to-James Bond oil slick.

    Open and shut.

    Bye-bye, Honda.

    Jack adjusted his cigar.

    “Problem solved!” he laughed.

    Blowing smoke, the producer reflected, “Frankenstein’s Monster, huh? What manner of man was I dealin’ with back there?!”

    For emphasis, Jack turned on the ‘Danse Macabre,’ by French “art music” composer, Camille Saint-Saens.

    He observed, “Rainy night in L.A. Honda killers. Frankenstein. It’s like a real-life horror movie! ‘Masque of the Red Death,’ or something like that.”

    Jack blew another cloud of smoke.

    “Seriously,” Jack mused out loud. “What does Frankenstein DO all day?  I wonder if he eats right! Does a re-animated corpse need exercise?”

    Jack puffed on his cigar, and he blew smoke.

    He went on, “Nice guy, though. I guess that’s the way life goes. Some JAG-bag, on a SCOOTER, has his secretary’s UNDERWEAR in his mouth.

    “But me and Frank? Roamin’ the streets. Livin’ on a prayer.”

    The parade of celebrity guests continued.

    “Livin’ on a prayer?” quipped 1986 legend, Jon Bon Jovi.

    Jack stopped the car.

    He put the car into “park.”

    He got out of the car.

    “Jon?” said Jack. “This my parking spot. Reserved, and what-not!”

    Jon nodded.

    Jack tossed his cigar away.

    “Let’s start over,” grinned Jack. “Welcome to Bronstein Studios. Are ya lookin’ for work?”

    “Drugs are no good,” said Jon.

    Jack balked, “Excuse me, Jon?”

    Jon said, “Drugs. They’re not good.”

    Jack growled, “I think I missed something here.”

    “Ya miss lots of stuff when you’re on drugs, Jack.”

    Jack couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears!

    Jon continued, “Anti-depressants are drugs, Jack.”

    “Is that right?” scoffed Jack.

    Jon nodded, “Yes. I don’t care if the doctor makes $5 million an hour. They’re still drugs!”

    Jack lamented, “Unbelievable. I’m fifty feet from my office, and I get stuck in a 1986 public service announcement with hair-cut boy! No offense, Jon.”

    Jon shrugged, “None taken, Jack. Just go easy on the drugs.”

    “Go easy on the hair-spray!” spat Jack. “I’ll see ya, Jon. See ya in the funny papers!”

    Jon walked away.

    And so, feathers ruffled, Jack Bronstein entered Bronstein Studios.

    He had work to do.

    He had a goal.

    Do you set goals?

    What usually happens on the way to your goal?

    Obstacles!

    Sure enough, to Jack’s dismay, baseball star Mike Piazza was making love to secretary Frieda Kokovoko, on top of the information desk.

    Jack was annoyed.

    He opened up a can of Coca-Cola, took a sip, and dumped the rest on poor Mike’s head.

    Mike yelled, “You’re lucky you own this place, Jack!”

    “I’ll see ya, Mike!” laughed Jack. “See ya in the funny papers!”

    Jack dashed to the elevator.

    Out loud, he mused, “That Coke was a real life-saver. “I’m still thirsty, though. Hungry, too.”

    One burrito and Coke dinner later?

    Jack was in Ken “Hawk” Harrelson’s fabled cat-bird’s seat.

    That is, until Charles Bronson showed up.

    “Chuck!” gasped Jack.

    Charles grinned, “Evening, Jack.”

    Jack cleaned up some burrito.

    Reading Jack’s mind, Charles observed, “Second thoughts, Jack?”

    Jack gawked, “Huh?”

    Charles said, “You’re havin’ second thoughts about the Fat Clone Project!”

    “How’d you do that, Chuck?”

    “Never mind. If ya don’t join the Fat, ya gotta fight the Fat!”

    “Fight the Fat, Chuck?”

    Chuck nodded, “Fight the Fat! You can start by cuttin’ out the fatty meats! Take this delicious chicken club sandwich. It clocks in at 100 calories. Lose the burritos!”

    Jack sighed, “Easier said than done.”

    “Say it, Jack. Say it—and do it!”

    Before Jack’s eyes, Chuck morphed into Elmer, the Glaviano setter, and ran away.

    Jack shrugged, “Go figure. Time to get back to work.”

    Work was located in Suite 2323, the heart of Bronstein Studios.

    Prime real estate.

    It was a stone’s throw from Dodger Stadium.

    Sure, Brooklyn was Jack’s birthplace.

    But Suite 2323 was home.

    The imagination ran free.

    Do you know where else the imagination ran free?

    I can tell you.

    Bronstonia.

    Named after Bronstein, Bronstonia was a mythical utopia.

    The real kind!

    Bronstonia was paradise.

    Heightened expectations.

    Alternate realities.

    No one paid income tax in Bronstonia.

    Nobody had to work!

    Bronstonia was a land of fraternity, positivity, and togetherness.

    It was a far cry from the hustle, bustle, and contumely of Suite 2323.

    “Back to reality,” sighed Jack. “I gotta address the Fat Clone Project.”

    Absent-mindedly, Jack began to whistle the Bronstonia theme song, “Paradise” by the Ronettes.

    He burst into tears.

    Jack steadied himself in, in front of a portrait of his father, Samuel.

    “We’ll get there, Dad,” he said, “We’ll get there.”

    Jack had no idea how close he already was!

    Jack Bronstein decided to head for home.

    Home was located at Los Angeles, California’s stately Bradbury Apartments.

    A long walk, and no mistake.

    But some things are worth a long walk!

    Jack made it.

    But Bronstonia stayed on his mind.

    Even standing before the big 15th-floor picture window, Jack sighed, “Bronstonia. It’s rough this side of Bronstonia. Here, we count our blessings. There? I wonder if Bronstonia even has numbers!”

    Tears welled up again.

    Destiny descends without warning at times.

    Jack knew all about destiny.

    He dropped to his knees.

    It was time for the Prayer of Jack Bronstein.

    “I don’t need to ask a stranger who I am,” prayed Jack. “I am the person I am. No one can take that away from me. I can be me for as long as I’m supposed to be me! No approval required.”

    Unbeknownst to Jack, Fat Guy was there.

    In Jack’s apartment.

    Sneaking up on Jack.

    “First step is a killer!” cried Fatty.

    Jack sprang to his feet, but he was playing right into Fatty’s hands.

    Fatty pushed Jack right through the picture window.

    Jack vanished.

    Fatty nodded smugly, and commented, “Bronstonia awaits, Jack. Make it count!”

    Jack felt as though he had fallen out of a gigantic redwood tree.

    Ya know the feeling?

    In the event, there really was a redwood tree.

    Jack looked up at the sign on the tree.

    “’Welcome to Bronstonia’,” he read aloud. “’You’re all up in there’.”

    Jack grinned, “Yes! So this is what it’s all about.”

    A cigarette fell from the redwood tree, followed by a cigarette lighter.

    Jack lit up, and he took a drag.

    So, there you have it.

    Jack was all up in there.

    He had a cigarette.

    But, even as Jack blew a heart-shaped cloud of smoke, he had to face the reality of it.

    Bronstonia was Biddaddy’s stomping grounds.

    Doesn’t Ultimate Evil have to live somewhere?

    Yes.

    He does.

    Normal rules of life do not apply in Bronstonia.

    Hence, it was a perfect home for Biddaddy.

    The Biddaddy dreaded most folks.

    The Biddaddy was dreaded BY most folks.

    His hobbies were somewhat anti-social.

    During leisure time, Biddaddy tended to play pinball at Mock’s.

    His favorite game?

    Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

    It was a long trip from the Biddaddy Hutch to Mock’s.

    Biddaddy had to cross Wittgenstein Woods, tunnel under a Marathon Gas Station, and hop over Bunky Bedfellow’s Breakfast Nook, just to reach the door to Mock’s.

    But, there are sacrifices in life.

    Even if your name is Biddaddy.

    Grin and bear it, the saying goes.

    Biddaddy grinned.

    He bore it.

    He bore his way through “Gas Station Tunnel,” like his life depended on it.

    And he whistled.

    You could hear the Biddaddy coming from a mile away.

    He made an eerie freight train whistle with his nose.

    It sounded like the beginning of the second movement of Sergei Prokofiev’s Sixth Symphony.

    Biddaddy had few friends.

    According to legend, Biddaddy got himself kicked off of the Special Olympics Advisory Committee, for embezzling funds with Steve-o.

    Locals vilified Biddaddy for, quote, “goofing on the developmentally challenged.”

    Subsequently, the local Citizens’ Action Board printed dozens of posters, warning, “Biddaddy Is Not Special.”

    Biddaddy had few friends.

    Jack Bronstein was not one of them.

    But, fate is a strange thing.

    On January 10, 2009, both Biddaddy and Jack felt like playing some pinball.

    They were both headed for Mock’s Pinball Emporium!

    Like Father.

    Like Son.

    Without warning, a freight-train whistle broke Bronstonia’s peaceful silence.

    Biddaddy was known to blow those whistles, just for fun.

    Jack was not amused.

    “Forget this,” he said. “Sure. I would love to chat with Ultimate Evil. Who wouldn’t? But I’m hungry. Hungry for Breakfast Cakes. Bunky’s, here I come!”

    And so, Jack took a detour.

    Bunky Bedfellow’s Breakfast Nook was like a page out of the Norman Rockwell Castle Rock scrapbook.

    More or less.

    Everybody was there.

    Lenny “Mock” Mockowski shared a booth with his girlfriend, Lana Lush, and some mook from suburban Chicago’s ‘Daily Herald.’

    Near the door, Grecian Formula Eddie had a game of solitaire going.

    Waitress Twixie True ambled over to Jack’s table with chutzpah, moxie, and purpose.

    Jack could tell that Twixie was in no mood for his patented grab-ass.

    So, after ordering, Jack broke out a 1989-model Sony Walkman cassette hook-up.

    The tunes?

    Don Henley’s greatest hits collection, ‘Actual Miles.’

    “Biddaddy?” mused Jack, between sips of water. “SHMIDDADDY!”

    Jack couldn’t be bothered about the Biddaddy.

    The Don Henley on his headphones sounded great.

    The Breakfast Cakes were delicious.

    He noticed that Twixie was making ‘eyes’ at him.

    But, Jack couldn’t be bothered.

    “So, where was I?” he said out loud. “Oh yeah, the ‘Die Hard’ sequel. Sure, numerically, it would be part five. But this is Bronstonia! No numbers! Anyway, Bruce Willis is old hat! I want Chuck Norris! Here’s the deal. I replace Willis with Norris, and pull a ‘Kevin McClory vs. Ian Fleming’ ‘bait-n-switch.’ Totally! I can call it ‘Never Say Die Hard Again,’ directed by Irvin Kershner’s dentist!”

      “Congratulations!” squawked Twixie. “Your thinking-out-loud just scared off another customer. Congratulations, Jack!”

    Jack grinned, “Twixie, you’re a true friend. Heh heh.”

    Twixie shook her head in disbelief.

    Jack mused, “Then again, what happened with Norris? Can he still kick the ass? Why doesn’t he bring back the ninjas? And that ‘Octagon Rising’ musical was a disaster!”

    Here, Jack sipped a little water.

    “I don’t like it,” sighed Jack. “Norris may prove to be a liability. Hmm. What if I throw in some romance? A little Chuck Norris n’ Demi Moore? Ah, who am I trying to fool? Romance and Chuck Norris don’t mesh well. It’s like a curse, frankly—trying to give Norris a love interest. It’s like being an African-American character on HBO’s ‘The Sopranos’! Or wearing RED on television’s ‘Star Trek’!”

    Jack lamented, “I should leave it alone. ‘Never Say Die Hard Again’ will feature—“

    Suddenly, the Biddaddy, from Gas Station Tunnel, whistled again.

    Lights flickered.

    Glass shattered.

    Twixie hit the deck.

    The sky turned green.

    Determined to polish off his Critter Fritters, Jack tried to ignore the second, louder, whistle of the Biddaddy.

    The third whistle leveled Bunky Bedfellow’s Breakfast Nook.

    Surrounded by rubble, Jack ripped off his headphones.

    Acid rain fell.

    Jack drew his .45, and he shot the Walkman.

    “Stupid thing played ‘Dirty Laundry’,” he cursed.

    Biddaddy, for his part, was still half a block away.

    While Nook patrons and staff fled for cover, Jack calmly sipped a little coffee.

    He sighed, “Back to Norris. There must be a way. If I fuse the environmentally-protective attitudes of Steven Seagal with the Chuck Norris’ early ‘shoot-first, shoot-later’ style, it’ll be money in the bank! It’ll be two great tastes in one candy bar! Heh heh. It’ll be—“

      Biddaddy whistled a third time.

    “All right, Dad,” said Jack. “What’s the game?”

    Biddaddy roared, “No game, son! I’m calling you out!”

    Jack quipped, “I can’t see ya, Dad. Why don’t we discuss this over a game of pinball?”

    Biddaddy fell silent.

    “Fine,” said Jack. “Be like that. Mock’s Pinball Emporium awaits. I’m gonna kick some Frankenstonian butt.”

    Jack was a pragmatist.

    Being a master of pragmatism, he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, meeting his maker.

    But he stayed calm.

    Trudging onward, Jack made it to the foot of Owl Creek Hill.

    The bronze Ambrose Bierce statue spoke volumes, without even talking.

    THINGS WERE ABOUT TO GET WEIRD.

    Frankenstein’s Monster stepped into view.

    The creature smiled a disarmingly reassuring smile.

    “Come on down,” said the Monster. “Free beer at Mock’s! Compliments of my boss. First come…first served! Ha ha ha ha ha.”

    Jack shouted, “You’re on, Frank! Wait’ll ya hear what I’ve been up to.”

    To Jack’s demise, ominous green storm clouds formed above Frank’s head.

    “Hmmm,” thought Jack. “Maybe I should re-assess my priorities here. Is a beer with the Frankensteins worth dyin’ for? Hmmm.”

    Bronstein drew his .45.

    The Monster scoffed.

    “Spit it out, Frank,” said Jack. “Who REALLY sent you?”

    Grimacing, Frank said, “It…was…Biddaddy.”

    Jack averted his eyes.

    Frank hadn’t read the memo.

    In Bronstonia, there was a stiff penalty for anybody who dared to say the name Biddaddy out loud.

    Instant death.

    To Jack’s horror, a pile of rubble sat where the Monster had stood.

    Jack gasped, “The name!”

    Suddenly, Dr. Victor Frankenstein appeared.

    The Doctor took a swing at Jack.

    Jack ducked.

    “Hi, Jack!” barked Dr. Frank. “Stabbin’ Fatty in the back?!”

    Jack yelled, “What’s with the Psychic Friends Network? I didn’t tell anybody!”

    Jack punched Dr. Frank in the face.

    Dazed, Dr. Frank scoffed, “What-ever.”

    “I got no quarrel with you!” reasoned Jack.

    “Don’t try to argue!” said Dr. Frank. “Hannibal Lecter fed your lawyer to the pigs this morning!”

    Jack cried, “No!”

    Dr. Frank kicked Jack in the right shin, and laughed, “Your luck’s running out, movie boy!”

    A left hook sent Jack sprawling over a pile of leaves.

    “Careful, Jack!” said Dr. Frank.

    Stepping on a rake, Jack received an insulting injury to his face.

    Dr. Frank towered over Jack, laughed like a mad scientist, and he taunted, “This is too easy. The big guy told me to use kid gloves! Now, I see why!”

    Desperately, Jack threw up a frantic kick to Dr. Frank’s groin.

    The blow wiped the smirk off of Dr. Frank’s face.

    Jack pushed him into the leaf pile.

    “He’s Ultimate Evil!” cried the fallen Dr. Frank. “You don’t have a chance, Jack!”

    Jack calmly drew his .45.

    “I’ll TAKE my chances,” said Jack. “Long odds don’t frighten me. Now, Dr. Frank, clue me in.”

    Dr. Frank ‘perked up’ his ears.

    Jack asked, “Where IS the big guy?”

    “Over the rise,” grunted Dr. Frank.

    Jack raised an eyebrow.

    Pointing an index finger due south, Dr. Frank said, “He took over Sagebrecht Elementary School. It’s his luh-boar-uh-tor-ee now!”

    “Excuse me, Dr. Frank,” said Jack. “Did you just say ‘luh-boar-uh-tor-ee’?”

    Dr. Frank smiled, “Yes, Jack! I did my homework!”

    Jack was poised to crack wise when a Clone of Elmer the Glaviano setter blind-sided him to the ground.

    Jack tried to fight, but Clone Elmer wasn’t having it.

    The Clone setter barked, “WOOF. Cat got your tongue, Jack? So much your cocky demeanor, and smart-ass ways. WOOF.”

    It took Clone Elmer one minute to kick Jack’s ass.

    After Jack spit out a tooth, Clone Elmer chuckled, “Late for your tooth-hurty, Jack?”

    Jack gasped, “That’s cold, Elmer!”

    “Indeed,” laughed Elmer. “Let me touch-up your ‘five o’clock shadow,’ huh?”

    Clone Elmer punched Jack in the mouth.

    Jack grunted, “Not funny, Elmer!”

    Elmer barked, “WOOF. Never mind. There’s an opening at Sagebrecht in five minutes. You’re the guest of honor! WOOF.”

    Elmer’s tail became a silver hammer.

    The Clone Dog roared, “This one’s for Maxwell Edison, Jack!”

    Jack cowered.

    “Bang-bang!” yelled Clone Elmer.

    Clone Elmer knocked Jack out.

    Hours later, Jack heard music.

    It sounded, to Jack, like a pack of Clone Dogs singing opera.

    Dreaming, or awake, he heard music.

    “Vide cor Meum, Jack,” said Jack’s host, Sagebrecht guidance counselor Andrew Dice Dickman. “With dogs! Patrick Cassidy wrote it for the soundtrack to ‘Hannibal’.”

    Jack blinked his eyes, in stunned silence.

    Dice snapped, “Hey, Jack! I’m right here.”

    Dice even did the ‘eyeball gesture.’

    The ‘eyeball gesture’ signals, to a listener, the need for better eye contact.

    “I hate it when people do that!” screamed Jack.

    Dice snapped his fingers, silencing the music.

    Dice blew cigarette smoke, and said, “Jack, you should re-assess your priorities.”

    Jack nodded, “Maybe. I also should prioritize my foot in your ass!”

    “Not funny,” said Dice. “It’s a tired routine. You’re like a washed-up, has-been, stand-up comic. Re-hashing the same off-color routines, until nobody’s even paying attention.”

    “Really?!” gasped Jack.

    Dice stated, “Really. I know you’re a movie producer. No disrespect. But ease up on the gratuitous pop-culture hucksterism.”

    “Ease up?” scoffed Jack.

    Dice said, “Ease up! The TV don’t know what you want to watch! The radio don’t know what you want to hear! Ya might as well stare at a microwave oven, and wait for it to tell ya there’s water boiling on the stove!”

    Jack stared blankly.

    Dice shouted, “Start making sense!”

    With little fanfare, Jack pulled out his .45, aimed it at the Andrew Dice Dickman Hologram Generator, and blew the thing to pieces.

    No more Dice.

    “Sometimes, ya gotta give the Dice a roll!” quipped Jack.

    Jack crept out into the hallway.

    That was when a walking, talking, wooden replica of film critic Leonard Maltin crossed his path.

    “Ever get the feeling you’re stuck in a sequel to Blade Runner, ya jamoke?” chuckled Maltin. “Prioritize!”

    Promptly, b-movie legend Lance Hernriksen jumped down from the rafters, and blew ‘Woody Maltin’ to smithereens.

    Jack said, “Thanks, Lance. Say, pal—where did ya get the cross-bow?”

    “Got it off of a dead Fat Clone, Jack.”

    Jack nodded smugly.

    Lance squinted, “That reminds me. Is this real? Or is it a movie?”

    Jack mirthfully flipped a coin.

    Lance rolled his eyes.

    “Heads,” grinned Jack. “It’s a movie.”

    “Forget it, then!” fumed Lance.

    Lance dropped the cross-bow, and he sighed, “What the hell did they do to reality?”

    “Reality bites!” mused Jack. “And here I am, holding the bag!”

    “JAG-bag, more like!” laughed legendary Hollywood tough guy, Charles Bronson.

    Before Jack could say a word, Bronson gave him ten punches in the stomach, and he dumped some rancid potato salad on Jack’s head.

    Just to get the ball rolling.

    “Evil is like rancid potato salad,” laughed Charles. “It’s even worse in a school.”

    Whimpering, Jack doubled over.

    Jack gasped, “Bronson! You were one of the good guys! Did the Fat Clones pay you off?”

    “Fat Clones,” scoffed Charles. “I ate the Fat Guys for dinner last night! With some fava beans…and a Coke!”

    Jack couldn’t believe his ears…or his eyes!

    Vigilante Bronson took off his mask, reavealing his true identity.

    Samuel Jerthansia Bronstein.

    Dr. Biddaddy.

    Jack’s dad.

    Aiming his .45 at his father, Jack shouted, “Freeze it up, pal!”

    Biddaddy Bronstein laughed, “’Freeze it up’? Jack, if you kill me, Bronstonia collapses. Reality collapses. You’ll be stuck here!”

    Jack gaped.

    “Now, put the gun away,” said Biddaddy.

    Jack sighed, “You’re a tough customer, Biddaddy,” and put down the gun.

    Biddaddy smiled, “Call me Sam, son.”

    Jack squinted, “How about ‘Dad,’ Dad?”

    “Suit yourself,” shrugged Biddaddy. “Now you got here through the window.”

    Jack nodded.

    Biddaddy went on, “How do you get back?”

    Jack muttered, “Uhhh… the OTHER window?”

    Biddaddy nodded, “Right, son. The other window! But which other window?”

    Jack gaped.

    “Fine, don’t play along,” fumed Biddaddy.

    Without warning, Sam hurled Jack through the big window in Sagebrecht Elementary Room 708.

    Jack Bronstein crashed back into his flat at the Bradbury Apartments.

    Here’s the thing.

    He had been in Bronstonia for about an hour.

    63 minutes, tops.

    A note about the time-space continuum, like in science texts?

    One hour in Bronstonia is equal to one WEEK in the ‘real world.’

    Can reality change overnight?

    24 hours?

    How about seven days, pal?

    Things had changed in Jack’s one hour/one week in Bronstonia.

    Big time.

    Eddie Berthanse had taken over Los Angeles.

    Declaring 2009 the Year of the Blade Runner, Berthanse had shaken things up.

    But Jack, for his part, wasn’t surprised.

    “Not that surprising,” mused Jack.

    Jack sifted through the ‘Zardoz’-like remains of his apartment, hoping to salvage what he could.

    Jack went on, “It’s not like Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing. He always did.”

    Jack wasn’t kidding.

    Edward Voorhees Berthanse already had a nickname around Hollywood.

    They called him “Too Big To Fail.”

    Eerily, one of those no-touch ‘player pianos’ from the 20th century rattled out the melody from the 2nd movement of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, Op. 92.

    Jack made a face.

    Before he could make a wise-crack like “Zardoz is pleased,” Jack stumbled over a huge book titled, “Blame It On The Berthanse.”

    To Jack’s disbelief, the inscription read, “A Cautionary Tale by Samuel Jerthansia Bronstein.”

    Out loud, he noted, “I don’t remember this book being in my library!”

    Curiously, Jack opened it up.

    He started to read, aloud, from the book.

    “Born of a jackal, in 1953,” read Jack, “Eddie had an interesting childhood.”

    Jack remarked, “I knew there was something strange about the guy!”

    He continued reading.

    “In 1961, the Cold War between U.S.S.R. and U.S.A. raged.

    “Interesting birthday, Eddie!” school-yard bullies would taunt. “Did ya murder Stalin AND Prokofiev?!”

    “Eddie could only protest, “Coincidence. Now get out my face!”

    “Pundits and wonks can apologize all day about Eddie’s alleged political leanings.

    “The truth?

    “Eddie was mobbed up with Brain Trust Enterprises, almost from the day Brain Trust set up shop!

    “A cloning concern, Brain Trust had a sketchy reputation.

    “They hired ‘ex-Nazi’ scientists.

    “They messed with people’s DNA.

    “Brian Trust’s meddling in the Soviet Union fooled the KGB into pulling valuable intelligence assets away from ‘American spy duty,’ and sending them to kill Dog Soldiers from the Brain Trust Body Banks.

    “Truth is often the first casualty of war.

    “It’s hard to say whether or not Brain Trust’s Clone hordes really comprised Adolf Hitler’s storied Fourth Reich.

    “Granted, they killed leftists.

    “Granted, they created Frankenstein-type Zombie Clones.

    “Granted.

    “Granted.

    “Maybe, once an outfit like Brain Trust takes over jobs like the Human Genome Project, ideology becomes an afterthought.

    “Maybe.

    “Mass murderers usually have lots of excuses.

    They justify their actions.

    “The Nazis killed my Bolsheviks, they will say.

    “Or, the Bolsheviks killed my Nazis.

    “Or, my Clones are better than their Clones!

    “Etc.

    “Who was Brain Trust?!

    “Was it an elaborate post-war protection racket?

    “For all we know, they might have been, in some respects, heroic.

    “It’s possible.

    “The legend goes, we sleep at night because of shady, quasi-governmental assassination bureaus.”

    Jack dropped the book and exclaimed, “Such bull-shit!”

    Out in the courtyard, some Dog Soldiers chased a rebellious Replicant, but Jack couldn’t do much about it.

    “I knew Eddie when he was doing Brain Quality Tests, and writing hack reviews of Fat Guy’s movies!” growled Jack. “Why did my Dad write propaganda for the guy? And how did one of Dad’s ‘errand boys’ turn Hollywood into a theme park for Zombies?!”

    Laser blasts and screams echoed from the courtyard.

    Jack was about to draw his .45, but the appearance of Fat Guy made him think again.

    “Fatty!” he gasped.

    Fatty nodded smugly.

    Jack said, “They’re everywhere, Fatty! We need a plan, fast.”

    “They?” said Fatty. “Which they?”

    Jack frowned, “They, Fatty. All of they!”

    Fatty said, “Curb your enthusiasm, Jack. Obama Buzz drops in two days.”

    Jack gulped.

    “As you know,” said Fatty, “Eddie Berthanse hi-jacked the Fat Clone Project, imbued it with homicidal fury, and made a Clone of Barack Hussein Obama!”

    Jack sputtered “Uhh…of course! Everybody knows that, Fatty! Right?”

    Annoyed, Fatty said, “Anyway. Welcome to the Year of the Blade Runner. Clones are running the show now.”

    “Ya mean Replicants, Fatty?”

    Fatty said, “I mean Clones. Fat Clones! Straight from the Body Banks! They have orders to wipe out anybody in their way.”

    Jack gaped.

    “Anybody doesn’t follow orders, they get plugged!” said Fatty.

    More gunfire broke out in the courtyard.

    Jack said, “Don’t people know that ‘Blade Runner’ is movie, Fatty?!”

    Fatty sighed, “People don’t know everything, Jack. It’s a little late for re-education.”

    “Let me get this straight,” said Jack. “Four-year life-spans, incept dates, and Taffey Lewis, are all real now? As in, real?!”

    Fatty nodded, and said, “Philip K Dick’s ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’ was a cautionary tale about nervous disorders in Southern California. I know that. You know that, too!”

    Jack replied, “But, what about the rest of America?”

    Fatty shrugged, “Other Americans are tuning into ‘American Idol,’ paying off the baby-sitter, and—“

    “I got it, I got it,” cut in Jack.

    Fatty said, “Hear me here and smug me not, Jack. “Ridley Scott’s film, ‘Blade Runner,’ is now the blueprint for genetically-engineered mass psychosis!”

    Jack lamented, “I need a drink, Fatty.”

    Fatty yelled, “You need to wake up! Stop moping and help me fight the Fat!”

    “Fatty?” complained Jack. “You are Fat! You’re THE Fat!”

    Fatty yelled, “Smart-ass! This is no time to clown around!”

    Jack stopped smirking.

    “Eddie Berthanse doesn’t play around,” said Fatty. “He put out a warrant for the arrest of Tom Cruise. He took over the Blogosphere this morning!”

    Jack coughed on the last true cigar in Hollywood.

    “No coughing matter, Jack,” said Fatty. “Eddie has broken away from Biddaddy.”

    Jack gawked.

    Fatty nodded, “No fooling. Since the left’s triumph over the right? Americans are clamoring for more sex than ever! Two days ago, Eddie set up a new company called Brain Lust!”

    “Long live Videodrome,” whispered Jack.

    Fatty nodded, “Ya know me. And I sure know you. But, here’s what else you need to know. Eddie has created ruptures in reality. Wrinkles in time! Jack? If Brain Lust wins, it’s Armagideon Time!”

    “Kick it over,” said Jack, pointing to a gigantic 4-foot-tall ashtray.

    “Justice,” declared Fatty. “Tonight.”

    Predictably, the piano player located who-knows-where cranked out a selection from ‘Black Market Clash,’ by the Clash.

    Jack tapped his cigar against the ashtray.

    Fatty went on, “We gotta hit Brain Lust where it hurts. In the genitals! A little sabotage at ‘Playboy’ magazine,’ some televised information riots, and we may succeed where the Biddaddy failed.”

    “I have a question, Fatty,” said Jack.

    Fatty said, “Shoot.”

    Jack took his hand away from his .45, and he said, “My window is the portal to Bronstonia, right?”

    “True enough,” said Fatty.

    Jack went on, “And ya have to jump through a window in Sagebrecht Elementary to get back here?”

    Fatty nodded.

    “Seems Biddaddy should be here any second!” said Jack.

    Fatty said, “Perhaps not. It’s no secret that George W Bush is mobbed up with the Biddaddy.”

    Jack squawked, “What the hell are you saying, Fatty?”

    “Easy, Jack,” said Fatty. “I thought you knew! They built Bronstonia on the ruins of the old Texas Battle Land theme park.”

    Jack sighed “Inter-dimensional psychic grab-ass.”

    Fatty nodded smugly.

    Jack said, “You can stay here all day if you want, Fatty. Not me. Biddaddy is packin’ demonic powers. All I got is a .45! I’m outta here!”

    Fatty said, “Hold it, Jack. Sit down.”

    “Take a hike, ‘Chief Bryant’!” scoffed Jack. “No ‘Blade Runner’ dialogue. I got a job to do!”

    Fatty said, “You can’t do this job, Jack! Listen to me!”

    Jack froze in his tracks.

    “This isn’t just a military occupation, Jack,” explained Fat Guy. “It’s an A.P.B. All Points Berthanse!”

    Jack squinted, “I don’t follow, Fatty.”

    “Follow!” barked Fatty. “Brain Trust—and now Brain LUST—have eyes all over the place! In banking, they control, you know, banking stuff! Law enforcement? He hood-winked Jerry Springer’s bodyguard, Steve Wilkos, into organizing A Federal Bureau of Fat Investigations. An FBFI! You can see him on TV, spouting off about ‘Proper Living Procedures’! Pretty soon, Berthanse is gonna take over professional sports, Jack!”

    “So, I suppose you expect me to just roll over and play dead, Fatty?”

    Fatty said, “No. Not at all. But we need a plan!”

    “Plan? Like what? Tell President Bush? He’s done in two days! Obama time, Fatty.”

    Fatty nodded, “Right. But which Obama, Jack?”

    Jack squinted.

    “If we don’t save Barack Obama, Jack? Obama Buzz is gonna turn this country into a gigantic Fat Camp. Do you want that?”

    Jack sighed, “Of course not. Let’s get outta here. Let’s head to the studio and—“

    The arrival of three assassins cut off Jack’s thought.

    They knocked the front door down.

    They wore McDonald’s Restaurant uniforms.

    “McDonald’s!” beamed a hopeful Fatty. “They love to see us smile!”

    Eddie Berthanse followed the 3 assassins inside, and he quipped, “Sure, Fatty. For the right price, anyway!”

    Angrily, Jack put out his cigar.

    “Thank you for not smoking,” smiled Berthanse. “Allow me to introduce some associates of mine.”

    A young, freckle-faced Brain Lust assassin nodded.

    “Angus McSnackwrap,” said Eddie.

    Angus flashed a smile, and he pulled out a gigantic butcher knife.

    “His uncle, Arch Deluxe,” said Eddie.

    Here, an assassin with dark, wavy hair nodded, a hand-held Stinger Missile at the ready.

    Eddie smiled, “Last, but not least, gentlemen? I would like you to meet the lovely Miss Quaky Shepard.”

    Miss Shepard, a well-endowed red-head, ‘cocked’ her snub-nosed revolver, and batted her eyelashes.

    Eddie said, “I call them the Berthansigans. Now you see ‘em…now they’re usin’ you for target practice!”

    “No!” gasped Fatty. “I used to buy hamburgers from them! Eddie, what have you done?!”

    Eddie shrugged, “Oh, you know, Fatty. I’ve upgraded reality! Play your cards right, and Quaky might give you an upgrade!”

    Quaky flashed a grin, and she flipped her luscious red curls.

    Jack barked, “Knock it off, brain-snatcher.”

    Quaky frowned.

    Fatty made ‘eyes’ at Quaky.

    Quaky smiled at Fatty.

    Fatty blushed.

    Outside the apartment, a radio blared “Won’t Get Fooled Again” by the Who.

    Arch primed his missile launcher.

    Berthanse commanded, “Angus? Cover the door.”

    A tense moment passed.

    Jack observed the way a shameless Fatty tried to grab Quaky’s ass.

    Finally, pinball wizard, and refugee from Bronstonia, Lenny “Mock” Mockowski stepped into the apartment.

    Arch turned to Berthanse.

    “Hold your fire, Arch,” said Berthanse.

    McSnackwrap sheathed his knife.

    The scantily-clad Shepard was ready to unsheathe Fatty, when, in dramatic fashion, Mock took off his trademark ‘David Caruso Sunglasses.’

    “Nice work,” Mock nodded at Fatty. “If you can get it!”

    Quaky licked her lips.

    Fatty raised his eyebrows.

    Finally, Quaky laughed, “Come on, Fatty,” and she led Fatty to the bedroom.

    Berthanse clucked his tongue.

    “But what about our mission?” complained Angus.

    Arch protested, “What about the prophecy?”

    “Silence,” snapped Berthanse. “you two are to holster your weapons. That’s an order.”

    Jack lit a cigarette.

    Berthanse went on, “We proceed as planned. Fat Guy is Clone-bait! He can do whatever he wants As for you, Mock? This isn’t Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein time.”

    “No?” mocked Mock.

    Berthanse menaced, “No. It’s Armagideon Time! Frankly, you should be on our side! Jack Bronstein is a threat to our way of life. His contumely raised the bad movie to an art form, when he could have been helping us do propaganda!”

    Mock moped, “I like movies!”

    Jack offered Mock a cigarette, and a cigarette lighter, and he grinned, “Glad to have you aboard, Mock.”

    Putting his shades back on, Mock nodded, “I appreciate quality, Jack. I also appreciate originality!”

    Berthanse made a face.

    Mock smiled, “A good idea stands on its own merits. You shouldn’t edit it.  You shouldn’t embellish it. Eddie? You shouldn’t clone it!”

    “Watch your step, Mock,” warned Eddie. “Cloning Fat Guy was a good idea when I stole it from Biddaddy, and it’s a good idea now!”

    Angus took out his knife, and he gasped, “Sir, be careful!”

    Berthanse roared, “Shut up, punk! Arch? Call in the Technician!”

    “The Technician?!” balked Arch. “He doesn’t have security clearance. It’s unauthorized!”

    “I’ll authorize my foot in your ass, Archie! Do it!”

    Arch Deluxe made the call.

    Smoking like chimneys, Jack and Mock closed ranks, waiting for the remaining Berthansigans to pounce.

    Fatty and Quaky, for their part, were making love in the bedroom. There should be some room for recreation in an Armagideon script!

    “Never mind the yelling,” scoffed Berthanse. “We will have our Clone Empire! Obama Buzz waits in the wings. Now is the dawning of the age of—“

    “Bob Nemtusak,” beamed a new arrival to Jack’s apartment.

    Mock blew some smoke.

    Arch primed a missile.

    Berthanse clucked his tongue.

    Bob said, “Good to see you all. My concentration, as a film student, lies in the worlds of super spy 007, baseball, and the Cosgrove Hall production of ‘The Wind in the Willows.’ Associates call me ‘The Technician’.”

    Mock said, “Yeah, yeah. Whose side are you on, Bob?”

    Abruptly, Jack tossed his cigarette out the window, and he said, “Hold up, hold up.”

    Everybody held up.

    “If my Aunt Jerthansia were here?” said Jack. “She would probably slap some sense into me! This is my neighborhood! This is my apartment! Last time I checked? I don’t require the approval of amateur novelists, fast food killers, or clipboard-smackers!”

    Berthanse rolled his eyes.

    “I’m Jack Bronstein,” said Jack. “Nicknamed ‘Neighborhood’! I’m a b-movie king. I know stuff!”

    Bob took some notes.

    “He knows nothing,” scoffed Berthanse. “Jack, you were famous for five minutes in 1999. Justin Kerr’s www.sobs.com, the Site of Big Shoulders, offered—“

    Jack yelled, “I’m Dr. Biddaddy’s son, pal!”

    Everybody gaped.

    Berthanse yelled, “Ludicrous!”

    Chris ‘Ludacris’ Bridges clucked his tongue from a safe distance.

    Arch took aim at Jack.

    Angus cautioned, “Wait, Mr. Berthanse. If he’s telling the truth, we need him alive!”

    “Nobody’s telling the truth!” scowled Berthanse. “It’s illegal!”

    Jack grinned, “Hear me out.”

    Exasperated, Berthanse sighed, “Fine.  You have five minutes.”

    “OK,” said Jack. “Here we go. Dr. Biddaddy has been known by several other names. Samuel Jerthansia Bronstein. Murray Quesnell Teagarden. Godfrey Stonecroft Biddaddy. And P-Jax the Proud…a.k.a. P-Jax the T-Rex.”

    Mock gaped.

    Arch scoffed.

    Angus gawked, “Your dad is a dinosaur?”

    Berthanse rolled his eyes.

    “True enough,” grinned Jack. “I traced Dad’s genealogy back to his grandfather, Mojax the Cromulent, a.k.a. the Granddaddy of the Biddaddy. Mojax had a son named Rejax. Rejax the Embiggened.”

    Arch asked, “So where did the name Biddaddy come from?”

    Jack shrugged.

    Jack went on, “I have brothers. There’s Chuck D of Public Enemy. Maxwell Edison, known to some as Skinny Boy. John Cheever Burfresca, a.k.a. Fat Guy. Further?”

    Berthanse sneered, “Nothing further, Bronstein. This is a charade. You’re telling lies to save your own ass!”

    “We better make sure,” said Arch.

    Jack drew his .45, and said, “I did bring a little ‘insurance policy,’ Eddie.”

    “Technician! Restrain these two,” ordered Berthanse.

    Mock hurled his sunglasses at Arch, and drew his own .45.

    Berthanse yelled, “Unacceptable!”

    Bob acted quickly, disarming Arch.

    “You traitorous fool,” hissed Berthanse. “Do you know what you’ve done?!”

    “Yes,” shrugged, Bob. “I just evened the odds. Now it’s 3-on-3, Eddie.”

    “Brain Lust is not amused,” snarled Berthanse.

    Bob remarked, “Unbelievable. Property disputes on the eve of destruction.”

    “Eve of Destruction” by the Pogues blasted from the last functional ‘20th century model’ juke box in Los Angeles.

    Hyperbole aside, destruction raged throughout the city.

    Hardened Los Angeles Dodgers fans looked for trouble.

    Bandits siphoned gasoline.

    Dog Soldiers, from the Brain Trust Body Banks, patrolled Hollywood, fueled with arrogance, contumely, and Berfresca.

    Fat Clones hunted Natural Fat Guys.

    Did all of this bother Elmer, the Glaviano setter?

    Yes—and no.

    Elmer condemned violence.

    But, he had grown accustomed to it.

    “Race wars screw up the whole planet,” he though to himself. “Buy ya gotta move forward.”

    Elmer stepped into Chickensaw Pete’s Post-Apocalyptic House of Wentz.

    Elmer found a seat at the bar.

    Pete Wentz, renegade barman, made a face.

    “WOOF,” said Elmer. ‘Hey, Pete.”

    Sensing danger, Chicago Cubs well-wisher Len Kasper grabbed a stool, hoping to knock Elmer down to size.

    “Easy, Len,” smirked Wentz. “I got this one.”

    Kasper put down the stool.

    Elmer yawned.

    Wentz declared, “I’m not your bitch, pooch.”

    Elmer gaped.

    “First of all,” Wentz went on. “I don’t owe you money. Second? Even if I did? You still can’t push me around! I’m Pete Wentz, pooch. I crank quality tunes! I sang at Wrigley Field! I wrote a book, pal!”

    “WOOF,” countered Elmer. “That’s enough. I got THIS one. I am Elmer Bohondis Conigliario. I was raised on truth and courage! I rock the Iams, Wentz! Naughty by nature, I have been seen—in public—with my woman, Bonita. Now, I’m going out for a bit. Meanwhile, lose that attitude—or swallow it! WOOF.”

    Elmer trotted away.

    Kasper shook his head.

    Wentz tabled his own objections.

    “Next time,” the Fall-Out Boy legend fumed. “Next time.”

    Back on the sidewalk, Elmer walked tall.

    He barked at opposing pedestrians.

    Such is the roll of the Glaviano.

    “Roll on, sweet prince!” crooned the lovely Bonita, from the other side of the street. “The world is yours.”

    Elmer scoffed, “WOOF. I got work to do, Bonita. WOOF.”

    Bonita turned up her nose, and mocked, “Suit yourself. Jag-off!”

    Elmer shrugged, “I put it down to envy, contumely, and jealousy. A poodle should know better.”

    The sky began to darken.

    Studying the Los Angeles sunset, Elmer noted, “Blue yields to pink. Sounds like a show business trick.”

    Clouds gathered.

    Elmer reflected, “Nightfall sure is different in the smog area! But I digress. Jack Bronstein told me that ‘Benji Ten’ was a done deal. Jack better make good on his promise. Otherwise? He’s a done deal! Heh heh.”

    The pride of the Glaviano turned a corner.

    “Bradbury Apartments,” barked Elmer. “Prime real estate. J.F. Sebastian must be laughing all the way to the bank!”

    Elmer stepped around some wreckage, and some corpses, and he made his way to the elevator.

    Inside, he laughed, “The War Against Terror sure is soft on dogs.”

    Meanwhile, Eddie Berthanse continued his megalomaniacal grab-ass in Jack Bronstein’s apartment.

    “A big waste of time,” commented Eddie. “I hope you know, Jack, that if this ‘son of Biddaddy’ routine turns out to be lies? I will kill you. Myself. Twice!”

    Jack yawned.

    Eddie went on, “I could be finishing up my next novel!”

    Mock made a face.

    “Completists and literary geek-types are well-versed in the novels of Eddie Berthanse,” boasted Eddie. “First, there was ‘How to Avoid People.’ Many followed. ‘Between Good and Evil—the Road to Corporate Personhood.’ ‘You Touch-A My Truck, I Break-A You Face.’ ‘Avoidance Behavior: Do It Like You Mean It.’ ‘A Life Worth Saving.’ ‘The World Is Barbecue.’ And ‘Time Was—When Men Were Men, And Women Were Teen-Age Girls With Heaving Breasts’.”

    Arch yawned.

    Awkwardly, Bob said, “So, Eddie? What’s your next book called?”

    “I’m glad you asked,” smiled Eddie. “It’s called ‘Divided Consciousness/Divided Loyalty.’ It deals with modern man’s fractured attention span!”

    Before Eddie could go on, Elmer the Glaviano setter burst into the apartment.

    He versified, “Chase Manhattan demon scum. No diamonds for this dog! Armageddon’s in the forecast. I can see it through the fog.”

    Eddie clucked his tongue.

    “Damn dog!” fumed Angus.

    Mock shouted, “Language!”

    Jack grinned, “Elmer! You’re just in the nick of time. Do something!”

    Elmer, “I’m doing it! A 3-on-3 basketball game—at the YMCA—will settle this part of Armagideon. Any complaints? Too bad!”

    It was a curious spectacle.

    While Elmer strutted his stuff in a Budweiser Light-issue Spuds McKenzie Black & White Referee Shirt, the 3 Berthansigans and the 3 civilians followed him to the local YMCA.

    In the event, it was an exciting game.

    Far from the prying eyes of Dr. Biddaddy, the cagers caged.

    Angus sank three-point baskets.

    Eddie forced a half-dozen turnovers.

    And to the strains of the Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” Mock ended things with a devastating ‘windmill slam dunk.’

    Elmer blew the whistle, and barked, “Good guys win!”

    Eddie cried, “No! This can’t be!”

    Mock grinned, “Oh, it be, Eddie. It be!”

    “I can’t believe we surrendered our weapons,” fumed Angus.

    Jack chuckled.

    Bob queried, “What happens now, Elmer? No Armagideon?”

    “WOOF,” said Elmer. “Not yet. By the grace of the Glaviano, your hoops skills have bought Los Angeles some time. Eddie will disband the Berthansigans.”

    Eddie nodded sadly.

    Angus spit on the ground, and walked away.

    Jack lit a cigarette, and he said, “What about Brain Lust?”

    Elmer said, “This is how it is. We hope—and pray—that Eddie rules Los Angeles in a just fashion. But there’s more. If the public found out their new master is mobbed up with Fat Clones, dinosaurs, and Ultimate Evil, there could be a civil war. WOOF.”

    Mock sighed, “Civil war’s already here! A 3-way. Jack Bronstein vs. his father, Samuel. And Eddie Berthanse pitted against both! Gentlemen, I need a vacation.”

    “Where ya headed?” said Bob.

    Mock put his sunglasses on, one last time, faced east, and smiled, “Miami, Bob. I’m in the mood for some air-boating.”

    Lenny ‘Mock” Mockowski was gone with the next bus to Florida.

    Bob said, “Now what, Jack. Surely, your dad won’t stand for an alliance between Brain Lust and Fat Guy!”

    Eddie beamed, “I got this one! Quaky has Fat Guy tucked away someplace safe.”

    Jack spit out his cigarette.

    “She’s good at her job!” added Eddie. “Now, if you’ll excuse me and Arch?”

    Jack gasped, “Elmer! Can they do that?”

    Elmer sighed, “I’m not all-powerful, Jack. I can arrange a truce between Brain Trust and Brain Lust. But the Fat Guys? That’s beyond my power.”

    Slowly drawing his .45, Eddie smiled, “Indeed. We will have Fat Guy’s DNA. We will splice genes. After the relocation to Brazil, Fatty and Quaky shall rule the Americas.”

    “Over my dead body,” said Bob. “I don’t kow-tow to brain-snatching Nazis.”

    Eddie aimed his gun at Bob, and he said, “So be it.”

    Eddie opened fire.

    Bob hit the ground.

    Arch made to subdue Jack.

    Elmer yelped, “Step off, bitch,” and he snapped at Arch’s heels.

    Jack slugged Arch in the face.

    “I will have the Fat!” cackled Eddie.

    Eddie’s Luger clattered to the pavement as Elmer set his teeth on Eddie.

    Diving for the gun, Arch gasped, “Get out now, boss. Let me handle it!”

    Eddie ran away.

    Firing the Luger wildly, Arch yelled, “They can take the man out of the Berthansigans, but they can’t take the—“

    Jack fired his .45, hitting Arch in the chest.

    Arch doubled over, gasped, “This isn’t over,” and expired.

    “Bob!” gasped Jack. “Elevate his head, Elmer.”

    It didn’t look good.

    Bob gasped, “Don’t bother, guys. I’m done for. I never dreamed I’d get to meet my creations before I died.”

    Elmer wept.

    “Creations?” squinted Jack. “Bob, what are you sayin’ here? Are you sayin’ you made us?!”

    Losing blood, Bob said, “You’re based on the ‘movie producer’ character from Tim Burton’s 1994 film, ‘Ed Wood.’ The one who couldn’t wait to hear about Ed’s latest project!”

    Elmer barked, “WOOF. What about Jack Klompas from ‘Seinfeld’? WOOF.”

    “That’s the older Jack!” gasped Bob. “Provided Jack lives that long!”

    Jack said, “What the hell does that mean, Bob?”

    Annoyed, Bob snapped, “It means, save Fatty from Berthanse, dummy!”

    Jack gasped, “Don’t die, Bob! Don’t die!”

    Bob stopped breathing.

    “It’s too late!” said Elmer. “Jack! Behind you!”

    Jack turned.

    A hundred men strong, a phalanx of Dog Soldiers advanced at ‘Body Banks Speed.’

    Jack hesitated.

    “Do or die,” suggested Elmer. “Think fast, Jack. You can hit three of four of them. But what about the other 95 or so of ‘em?”

    Jack let his gun fall.

    “Come on,” barked Jack. “Let’s get outta here!”

    Elmer and Jack took off running.

    Somewhere between Heart Attack and Vine, Jack lost track of Elmer.

    “He can handle himself,” Jack thought. “Now, about me…”

    Jack stepped into the Village Theater.

    Gerry D Usher greeted Jack, smiling, “The stars are our destination.”

    Jack couldn’t believe it.

    He and Gerry went way back.

    Their first meeting was at the 1982 Federation of Variety Artists’ ‘Grand Prize Awards Banquet.’

    Jack still had his ‘Honorable Mention’ trophy.

    Now, in the lobby of the Tried-and-True Hollywood Village Second Run Movie Palace, Gerry repeated, “Stars are our destination. How the hell are ya, Jack?!”

    Jack grinned nervously.

    Gerry puffed on a Clone Cigar, and he shrugged, “Don’t answer, Jack. I read the papers.”

    Jack nodded grimly.

    “Ya got Fat Clones on your ass!” said Gerry. “I understand. Ya still packin’ a .45?”

    Jack replied, “Still. That gun’s a gift from Taffey Lewis, ya know?”

    “Real grab-ass! Scoffed Gerry.

    Jack said, “Huh?”

    Gerry adjusted his cigar, and he squinted, “I said, Taffey turned out to be a real grab-ass!”

    Jack shook his head sadly.

    Gerry went on, “Tried to warn ya! He was mobbed up with Brain Trust—and the Clones—from the beginning!”

    Jack sighed, “Yeah…just like everybody else in this business.”

    Gerry explained, “It’s like this, Jack. Life is like a camping trip. Hoagies. S’mores. Bangin’ in the tent. But show business people?”

    Jack cocked his head to one side.

    “Show business people are the snakes in the sleeping bag in the great campground of life!” concluded Gerry.

    “How do ya do it, Gerry? How do ya survive?!”

    “I’ll tell ya how. Stun gun!”

    Jack frowned, “Are you serious?”

    “Hell yes, Jack! Ya stick a Stun Gun up a Fat Clone’s ass? I guarantee ya—he’ll run.”

    Jack said, “Pretty convincing, Gerry. Where do I buy one?”

    Gerry laughed, “You’re all right, Jack.”

    Jack grinned, “Here’s to good friends.”

    “Tonight is something special,” nodded Gerry.

    Gerry was primed to serve Jack a tall, cool Lowenbrau beer, when an unwelcome Fat Clone barged into the village—packing a shotgun.

    “Fat Guy Klompas!” gasped Jack. “Already?!”

    Klompas nodded, a smirk on his Seinfeldian, face, and dollar signs in his eyes.

    Gerry coughed nervously.

    “Hey, Gerry!” said Klompas. “Ya still got that pen?”

    “Pen?!” balked Gerry.

    Klompas nodded, “The pen! The pen that writes upside-down!”

    Gerry fumed, “You can take that pen, and you can—“

    Jack shouted, “Enough! An explanation is in order here, Klompas.”

    Klompas made a face.

    Jack went on, “If you’re here to kill me, why don’t you get it over with?”

    “Five million dollars,” grinned Klompas. “The Fat Clone who brings you in gets 5 million dollars. Guess who it’s gonna be?”

    “Allow me to prioritize,” said Jack. “I’ll wager my five bullets against Eddie’s five million dollars!”

    Jack drew his .45.

    Gerry said, “I got this one, Jack.”

    But Fat Guy Klompas was too fast.

    He fired the shotgun, sending Gerry hurtling against the wall.

    Jack cried, “Gerry! No!”

    Jack tried to squeeze off a shot, but Klompas knocked the .45 out of his hand.

    Unwisely, Klompas made to hit jack with the shotgun handle.

    Jack ducked, kicked Klompas in the balls, and disarmed him.

    An extra punch to Klompas’ face settled things.

    The Fat Clone fled into the night.

    “Take the Stun Gun,” gasped Gerry.

    Jack accepted the weapon, and gasped, “I’m sick of people dying on me! Hold on, Gerry!”

    “Go, movie boy,” murmured the fallen Gerry. “The stars are our destination. The stars are our destination…”

    Stunned, Jack staggered out the door.

    Rain fell on Los Angeles.



SCENE: Phone call.



EDDIE Berthanse: Here we are, Doc.



Doctor BIDDADDY: (miffed)

                                Where is here, Eddie? The Blogosphere?!



EDDIE laughs.



EDDIE: You’re a long way from Bronstonia, Doc!



BIDDADDY: You were one of my top men, Eddie!



EDDIE: (smugly)

            Yes, I know.



BIDDADDY: Now, you’re arrogant, smug, and pretentious.



EDDIE clucks tongue.



BIDDADDY: The “Smoke It” license on your Pontiac vehicle says it all.



EDDIE laughs.



DOC: (incensed)

          The Fat Clone Project was supposed to lift humanity up!



EDDIE scoffs.



EDDIE: You’re no friend of humanity, Doc.



BIDDADDY: I liked you better as a clipboard-smacker, Eddie! This Steve McMichael routine has to end.



EDDIE: (perplexed)

            ‘Steve McMichael routine,’ Doc?



BIDDADDY: You don’t have bragging rights to the whole world!



EDDIE clucks tongue.

EDDIE laughs.



BIDDADDY: You don’t have bragging rights to a Singapore Sling!



EDDIE: (amused)

            That almost doesn’t make sense!



BIDDADDY frowns.



EDDIE: By the way, Doc? We’ve lost track of Jack Bronstein. Where did he wander off to?



BIDDADDY: “Not all those who wander are lost.”



EDDIE: Cute, Doc. Cute—but not very smart.



BIDDADDY: No?



EDDIE: Hobbits don’t concern me. Nor do orcs, goblins, trolls, elves, dwarves, or any of the other denizens of Middle Earth!



BIDDADDY: Go smack a clipboard, Eddie.



EDDIE laughs.



EDDIE: I don’t think so. Does the name Obama Buzz mean anything to you?



BIDDADDY: I want you to call this charade off. Now.



EDDIE: Too late, Doc! Obama Buzz takes the oath on the 19th.



DOC: You’re sending one of your Clones to the White House?!



EDDIE: Careful, Doc.



BIDDADDY: This nation is not going to be run by a genetic experiment, or some kind of physiological freak!



EDDIE: (sharply)

            Watch your tongue. Max Zorin didn’t like that kind of talk—and neither do I.



BIDDADDY: (bemused)

                    Who the hell is Max Zorin?



EDDIE: He’s the Christopher Walken character in the 1985 007 film, ‘A View To A Kill.’



BIDDADDY: You won’t get away with it, Eddie.



EDDIE: (mockingly)

            Dr. Biddaddy, you amuse me! Ya gonna send Jack Bronstein after me?! Is he gonna make a ‘youtube’ video about me?



BIDDADDY: Jag Bag!



EDDIE: Quiet, please. The Fat Clone Army and Obama Buzz take Washington in two days.



BIDDADDY: With you holding the leash, no doubt.



EDDIE: Obama Buzz is no Dog Soldier, Doc! He’s like a Replicant rock star! Power—and finesse!



BIDDADDY: I’ll run you out of the business, Eddie.



EDDIE: You? Run?! Maybe you can run out and buy Buzz some coffee, Doc!



BIDDADDY scoffs.



EDDIE: (gleefully)

            I’ll let ya bring Obama Buzz his coffee! Make sure ya put in enough cream!



BIDDADDY hangs up phone.



EDDIE: Sour-grapes Jag Bag. He could have helped me perfect reality!



‘Click.’



SCENE: The Gang’s All Here.

              Washington, D.C.

              1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

            The White House.

            January 18, 2009.

            “Obama’s Eve.”



Guests: George W Bush, FAT Guy, FAT Girl, Obama BUZZ, EDDIE Berthanse, JACK Bronstein, SAM Bronstein, Chuck D, MAXWELL Edison.



EDDIE: Thank you all for coming.



BUZZ laughs.



EDDIE: (aside)

            Look at ‘em, Buzz. They could have James Bond 007 on their side.



BUZZ nods smugly.



EDDIE: We’d still beat ‘em!



KNOCK at door.



W: I’ll get it. Maybe they moved up the Inaugural or something.



FATTINA smiles.



DOOR opens.



W: Hello?



LONIGAN; The name’s Nickeljack Lonigan. You can call me Jack!



JACK grins.



W: Can’t we call ya ‘Studs’?



LONIGAN frowns.



EDDIE: (annoyed)

            I don’t care if you’re James Bond 007, pal! The Fat Clone Project—



LONIGAN: Nickel’s worth of free advice, Eddie. 007? Overrated. Always was!



W balks.



JACK nods.



LONIGAN: In 1977, ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’ put the franchise into intensive care!



EDDIE clucks tongue.



LONIGAN: Allow me to explain. Roger Moore put Curt Jurgens’ ‘Stromberg’ character to sleep, right?



JACK nods.



EDDIE: (annoyed)

            We already know that!



LONIGAN: Fair enough. So ya know all about the Shrimp Scampi Send-off.



EDDIE smacks “nuclear clipboard.’

EDDIE frowns.



LONIGAN: What’s the matter, clipboard-smacker?



EDDIE: (incensed)

            Stop beating around the bush!



JACK: Level with us, Studs. Was the Shrimp Scampi Send-off a good thing?



LONIGAN: Here it is, Jack. It’s a rated-PG movie. Shootin’ the guy ‘til he spits out seaweed salad? Not safe for television! Not safe for kids! It ain’t even safe for Bob!



JACK: Rest in peace.



LONIGAN nods.



W: Ya gotta nurture young minds, right?



JACK nods.



EDDIE rolls eyes.



LONIGAN: Exactly, Georgie! The mind is a terrible thing to taste. Sure, ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’ may be kid stuff, compared to ‘Straw Dogs,’ or ‘I Spit On Your Grave.’



JACK lights Clone Cigar.

JACK puffs on cigar.

JACK blows smoke.



EDDIE: Is there a point here, “Joker”?!



LONIGAN: Riddle me this, Eddie.



EDDIE gawks.



LONIGAN: Remember ‘Batman,’ from 1989?



EDDIE: (dead-pan)

            Yes.



LONIGAN: Yours truly, Jack Nicholson’s ‘Joker,’ victim of a double-cross, uses traitor Jack Palance for target practice!



W: It’s like Nietzsche’s ‘Eternal Return of the Same’! Whoo-hoo!



JACK grins.



EDDIE clucks tongue.



LONIGAN: Nicholson ups the ante on Roger Moore, with a bizarre ‘murder dance’! He made the Shrimp Scamp Send-off look like a McDonald’s Happy Meal!



W: Slam dunk, Studs!



George TENET: (via satellite)

                        Slam dunk!



JACK: Smoke up, Studs.



LONIGAN: You got it!



W, JACK, and LONIGAN smoke Clone Cigars.



EDDIE fumes.



EDDIE: This ain’t over til I say it’s over!



EDDIE storms out of room.



LONIGAN: So, anyway.



JACK nods.



LONIGAN: 007 is like any other media star. Ya can’t always count on ‘em!



FATTY laughs.



LONIGAN: TV don’t know what ya wanna watch…radio don’t know what ya wanna hear! I don’t care if the thing has 9,000 ‘resolutions’. Quit talking to appliances!



W: (bemused)

    They still have radios?



JACK: Sure. Somewhere!



W: Pretty exciting day here. Ya think Jack Nicholson should have played James Bond 007?



JACK shrugs.



LONIGAN: (defensively)

                  Jack Nicholson could kick 007 all over the street!



W: (stunned)

    Easy, ‘Street’! I was just wondering!



LONIGAN: Quit wondering! Israel bombs Gaza, and you wanna play James Bond trivia.



W: (dismissively)

    Easy, Studs. Obama can handle it.



JACK: Let’s all get a drink. I’m buying.



LONIGAN: Forget it. “President Mack” is rubbing me the wrong way! “Obama can handle it,” huh?



W: (miffed)

    Why not, Studs?



LONIGAN: I’ll tell ya why! Handle it?! HANDLE IT?! You couldn’t find the handle on a cup of coffee! I’m outta here!



LONIGAN walks into hallway.



EDDIE punches LONIGAN in face.



LONIGAN: That’s for Whitey Bulger, Studs!



LONIGAN collapses.



JACK confronts EDDIE.



JACK: Uncalled for, Eddie1



EDDIE: He fell funny!



JACK: Eddie, you need help.



EDDIE: (blankly)

            He fell funny.



SAM: Enough! I’ve heard enough.



D nods.



MAXWELL nods.



FATTY nods.



EDDIE: (amused)

            That so, Doc? You and ‘My Three Sons’ gonna take me on?



JACK: Four sons, Eddie!



EDDIE: More like The Four Stooges!



SAM frowns.



MUSIC: Prokofiev’s ‘Cinderella,’ No. 50: Finale: ‘Amoroso.’



FRIEDA Kokovoko enters.



JACK: Frieda!



FRIEDA: I was too much woman for Piazza, Jack!



EDDIE groans.



JACK gapes.



FRIEDA: Do you want this, Jack?



JACK: Well, if by THIS, ya mean—



FRIEDA: (loudly)

              Kiss me, you fool!



JACK and FRIEDA embrace.



SAM: It’s about time.



EDDIE: Unbelievable.



SAM: That’s my boy!



FRIEDA smiles at SAM.



SAM: Now how about you two, Fattina?



FATTINA blushes.



SAM: Here it is. On this historic Obama’s Eve, I pronounce Jack and Frieda man and wife. I pronounced Fatty and Fattina man and wife. Burfresca all around!



EDDIE brandishes Nuclear Clipboard.



FATTY kisses FATTINA.



EDDIE: Yeah, yeah. Double wedding. Now, about the Armagideon!



MUSIC: “Armagideon Time” by the Clash.



FATTY: Armagideon Time!



W grabs microphone.



MAXWELL: Kick it over, Georgie.



W: (clueless)

    Huh?



MAXWELL: Pass the mike to Chuck! Do it!



W shrugs.



MAXWELL: You’ve had 8 years to screw around, Georgie. We want justice! Tonight!



W passes microphone to D.



EDDIE snaps fingers.



LIGHTS dim.



SIREN blares.



D pumps fist.



MUSIC: “Countdown to Armageddon” by Public Enemy.



JACK grins.



LIGHTS flash on.



Six DOG Soldiers enter room.

DOG Soldiers aim weapons.



JACK draws .45.



FATTY draws Stun Gun.



MAXWELL draws sword.



FATTINA draws .38.



FRIEDA draws dagger.



SAM draws shotgun.



MUSIC stops.



D: My gun’s used for fun, and my knife don’t cut!



FATTINA giggles.



JACK: Mexican stand-off in D.C., Eddie! What’s your next move?



EDDIE: I got moves!



FRIEDA scoffs.



EDDIE; I married a waitress names Twixe in Bronstonia!



JACK: Dude!



D: And?!



EDDIE: And…BTY! BETTER THAN YOU!



D drops microphone.



EDDIE: Plus, I got the Nuclear Clipboard. It knows all. It sees all.



JACK gawks.



EDDIE: (smugly)

            It was a gift from Pat Summer-all!



FATTINA: What does it see now, Eddie?



FRIEDA: Yeah!



EDDIE: Excuse me.



EDDIE clucks tongue.

EDDIE scratches head.

EDDIE studies clipboard.

EDDIE smacks clipboard.



EDDIE: No! This can’t be!



JACK: Bad news, Eddie?



EDDIE: (furious)

            News from Dick Cheney’s Undisclosed Location! He let Barack Obama get away!



FRIEDA: And?!



EDDIE: Barack’s gonna make the Inauguration!



JACK: Heh heh.



FATTINA: Eddie, can’t you just settle down with Twixie the waitress? World domination is so 1997!



MAXWELL: Does this Twixie have a sister, Eddie?



EDDIE scowls.



FRIEDA: (impatiently)

              I need some loving, Jack. Take me home.



MUSIC: “Take Me Home” from Bill Conti’s ‘For Your Eyes Only.’



FATTY: Go on, you two! The Fat Clone nightmare is over!



EDDIE hurls Nuclear Clipboard at FATTY.



Clipboard knocks FATTY unconscious.



JACK: No!



FATTINA: Fatty!



EDDIE clucks tongue.



JACK scowls.



FATTINA opens fire.



DOG Soldiers lose guns.

DOG Soldiers clutch ‘gun hands.’



D: Forget this. You people ruined my Armageddon.



D walks away.



FATTINA: Maxwell, call an ambulance.



EDDIE draws Luger.



EDDIE: Drop your weapons. Everyone!



ALL drop weapons.



JACK You’re still outnumbered, Eddie.



EDDIE: Yeah?! Ya think I care about odds?!



W grabs .45.



EDDIE ‘cocks’ Luger.



FATTINA: Just shoot him, Decider!



W: It goes like this. Sam and the women get to leave.



MAXWELL: Georgie!



W: Oh, what the hell? Maxie gets to leave, too.



EDDIE scowls.



W: Chivlary, Eddie.



EDDIE winces.



W: Chivlary!



FRIEDA exits.



MAXWELL exits.



FATTINA exits.



SAM exits.



JACK: Until next time, friends.



EDDIE: You people have ruined my Fat Clone Project.



W: Eddie, you started a count-down to Armagideon!



JACK: Clipboard-smacker!



EDDIE cackles.



W: Do the right thing, Eddie. Confess to the world. Abort the doomsday script. Do it today.



EDDIE clucks tongue.



FATTY regains consciousness.



EDDIE: (calmly)

            I can’t abort anything, Decider.



W: Huh?



EDDIE: Obama Buzz commands the Fat Clone Army! I just do propaganda.



W: Call it off, Eddie! Tell Buzz to call it off! The Fat Clone Army could start World War Three!



EDDIE: Knock it off, Georgie. Knock it off—and drop the gun.



W drops .45



EDDIE: Plan B, gentleman!



JACK rolls eyes.



EDDIE: In the month of Berberber, 2010, we replace the world’s supply of BUR-Fresca with a mind-control serum known as BER-Fresca! They won’t know what hit ‘em!



W: You won’t know what hit you after I—



EDDIE: Wanna talk to the Luger, Decider?



W frowns.



JACK: Eddie, you brain-snatchin’, clipboard-smackin’ Nazi.



EDDIE grins.



EDDIE: Mr. Bronstein! You amuse me!



JACK: The feeling is not mutual.



W laughs.



W: Hold it. I recognize Jack’s ‘The feeling is not mutual’ quote. It’s Roger Moore, as 007, in ‘A View To A Kill’!



JACK: Yep.



MUSIC: “Wine With Stacey” from John Barry’s ‘A View To A Kill.’



W grins.



EDDIE: (annoyed)

            We’ve been over this! 007 died in 1977! The magic died. The wit died. The romance died.



W: Did it, Eddie?



EDDIE makes a face.



JACK: 007 dead?



FATTY: The real 007, the book 007, or the movie 007?



EDDIE: What?!



JACK: I thought Ian Fleming was the real 007!



W: (bemused)

      The truth certainly is stranger than fiction, gentlemen.



EDDIE: Nobody’s stopping my Armagideon. Not the real 007. Not the book 007. Not the movie 007. Got it?



FATTY: If only 007 were here now!



EDDIE: He’s not!



W: How about I give old 007 a call?



EDDIE: You wouldn’t dare!



JACK: James Bond is a fictional character. What’s going on here?



EDDIE: (concerned)

            I’m not sure.



W shrugs.



JACK: OK, sure. There are parallels between the 007 Armagideon plots, and real-life Armagideon plots. But 007 is still fictional. He’s imaginary!



W: Oh yeah?



EDDIE: Imaginary, Jack? Ya mean the real 007…or the movie 007?



W chuckles.



JACK: You two are crazy. I know the difference between real life and the movies.



W: Do ya, Jack?



JACK:  Yes!



MUSIC: “Introduction” from Prokofiev’s ‘Cinderella.’



Twixie TRUE enters.



JACK: Twixie! I thought you were stuck in Bronstonia!



TRUE smiles.



JACK: Can you help us?



TRUE: Well, I can try.



EDDIE: Twixie?



TRUE smiles.



TRUE: What are you doing, Eddie? I thought you were serious about marrying me.



EDDIE: Serious?



TRUE: You said I wouldn’t have to wait tables anymore. You said you made a deal with Obama. You said—



EDDIE: That was just talk, Twixie.



TRUE: (dismayed)

          You said you loved me!



EDDIE: People say lots of stuff!



TRUE: So, I came all the way from Bronstonia for nothing, Eddie?



EDDIE clucks tongue.



TRUE: Eddie?



FATTY: Save your breath, Twixie. He only loves power.



EDDIE cackles.



EDDIE: Take a hike, Twixie.



TRUE hurls ring at EDDIE.



TRUE: Shove your power up your ass, Eddie!



EDDIE laughs.

EDDIE scoffs.

EDDIE smacks clipboard.



TRUE: (vengefully)

          Kick his ass, Jack!



W laughs.



JACK: I may need help, Twixie.



TRUE: Good luck, movie boy.



TRUE exits.



JACK: Fatty? Decider? I think 007 is probably the only one who could save us right now!



EDDIE sips Berfresca.



JACK: (urgently)

          Decider, is 007 dead or alive?



W: (amused)

    The real 007…or the movie 007?



Film critic Leonard MALTIN enters.



JACK: Oh, no!



MALTIN grabs microphone.



MALTIN: Ha ha ha.



W: Lenny! That Tarantino essay was genius!



MALTIN nods smugly.



FATTY: Quarantine your Toronto some other time, Decider! Eddie and Lenny are gonna kill us!



W shakes head.



MALTIN: Not here to kill, friends. I’m here to read.



JACK: Huh?



FATTY: I don’t trust him, Jack. They call him the Scourge of Bronstonia.



MALTIN: Shut up, Fatty!



W shakes head.



MALTIN: Here we go. I’m reading from Bob Nemtusak’s ‘Requiem for 007.’



W nods.



EDDIE cackles.



FATTY sighs.



JACK clears throat.



MALTIN: (reading aloud)

              “Phoebe Phibes as Lisa Kudrow in ‘Phibes and Friends: The Final Mission of The Abominable Doctor’s Abominable Daughter’ are proud sponsors of ‘Requiem for 007’.”



JACK: Amazing.



FATTY: Unbelievable.



W: Fascinating.



EDDIE: My prediction, gentlemen? You’re gonna need more than 007 when this is over! Ha!



JACK flinches.



Leonard MALTIN: (reading from ‘Requiem for 007’:

                              “How much do you know about the vaunted James Bond 007 entertainment franchise?”



JACK Bronstein: Tons! I once—



MALTIN: “Shut up!”



W laughs.



FATTY: That’s in the book?



W smirks.



MALTIN: It’s all in the book, Fatty. It’s all in the book!



JACK: (annoyed)

          Continue, please.



MALTIN: “Students of history take note. 007 entertainment product may not just be propaganda. It may have really happened. It may still be happening today! Often, life imitates art. And art often imitates life. Is 007 more than just a fictional spy? Don’t answer yet. We’ve heard prophecies about World War III ever since World War II ended. What if, dear reader? What if World War III actually occurred from 1982 to 1988? World War III, pal! What if? How would we know?”



JACK shakes head.



MALTIN: “Shake your head all you want. Insist that the Cold War concluded with the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the subsequent dismantling of the Soviet Union. What if that isn’t what really happened? How would we know? Maybe we should consult the 007 franchise. Here we go. 007, James Bond,, was all over the 1980s. All over. Remember the dates 1982-1988? I’m not saying that 007 single-handedly masterminded the overthrow of the U.S.S.R.’s storied Iron Curtain. I’m not saying that at all. But, hey—how do you know he didn’t? HOW DO YOU KNOW HE DIDN’T?”



W sips Berfresca.



EDDIE Berthanse writes on clipboard.



JACK shrugs.



FATTY shrugs.



MALTIN: “Let’s focus on 007. Let’s see what he was up to between 1982 and 1988. In 1983, Hollywood released ‘Never Say Never Again.’ True, ‘Never Say Never Again’ was not an ‘official’ 007 film. It was ‘off-franchise.’ The film was writer-producer Kevin McClory’s ‘middle finger’ to 007 author Ian Fleming. This celluloid ‘middle finger’ was a tongue-in-cheek reprise of the 1965 ‘on-franchise’ 007 odyssey, ‘Thunderball’.”



EDDIE: “Tongue-in-cheek”? More like head-up-ass!



W laughs.



JACK shakes head.



MALTIN: “Moving forward. The official ‘franchise’ 007 film of 1983 is called ‘Octopussy.’ ‘Octopussy,’ dear reader, is one of the worst movies ever.”



FATTY nods.



JACK nods.



W frowns.



MALTIN: “Hindsight, like George Benson says, is ’20/20.’ Did the makers of ‘Never Say Never Again’ watch a sneak preview of ‘Octopussy’? It seems they knew, ahead of time, how awful ‘Octopussy’ was going to be. Who knows? Maybe they were psychic. In the event, ‘Octopussy’ hit movie theaters in the summer of 1983. It was a good 2 or 3 months before director Irvin Kershner and company responded to the outrage that was ‘Octopussy.’ Respond they did. Franchise-model 007, Sean Connery, back from ‘Zardoz,’ starred as the legendary super spy in ‘Never Say Never Again.’ The film packed quite a wallop, dear reader.  And then some. ‘Octopussy,’ in hindsight, would have looked bad compared to some of the worst movies ever made. So, in a way, it wasn’t fair. But since when do 007-types care about fair? Huh, pal? Since when? Here’s what happened. ‘Never Say Never Again’ makes ‘Octopussy’ look so bad, it’s a wonder the 007 franchise didn’t just give up. As in, surrender. As in, a permanent vacation for director John Glen and ‘franchise 007’ Roger Moore. But we go back to fairness. In fairness, ‘Octopussy’ really wasn’t ALL bad. There were the smooth melodies of ‘franchise music composer,’ John Barry. Rita Coolidge belts out the John Barry/Tim Rice theme song, ‘All Time High,’ like she’s trying to hurt someone! Plus? Faberge eggs.”



W: Eggs? Ya know, my stomach is growling.



MALTIN: “Moving forward. Let’s return to ‘Never Say Never Again.’ ‘Off-franchise’ as it is, ‘Never Say Never Again’ is basically a re-make of a ‘franchise 007 film’ called ‘Thunderball.’ Remember ‘Thunderball’? I do. Terence Young directed ‘Thunderball,’ after a one-movie-long ‘007 franchise’ ‘directing sabbatical.’ The John Barry music score was devastating! Who can forget the theme song, with vocals by Tom Jones? And what about Luciana Paluzzi as Fiona, pal? Fiona remains the most sensational of the ‘Bond Bad Girls’!”



FATTY: Fiona! Talk about THUNDER-



MUSIC: “Hombre Secreto” by The Jewish.



JACK nods appreciatively.



MALTIN: “’Thunderball’ has been called the greatest 007 film of all time. It had seduction. It had devastation. But that’s not all. There was gallows slapstick, courtesy of SPECTRE big-shot, Blofeld. It had Fiona’s controversial decision to get out of 007’s bed, and jam a gun in his face! And ‘Thunderball’ had boats! How do ya re-make such a great movie. I’ll tell ya how, pal. Ya hire Sean Conner to play the main character. For the music score? Get Michael Legrand! He’ll deliver an erotic theme song, with vocals by Lani Hall! And for the finale? Flame-throwers, pal! It’s like Eddie Berthanse says: ‘The World is Barbecue’!”



EDDIE laughs maniacally.



W: Take it easy, ‘clippy.’



EDDIE frowns.



MALTIN: “’Never Say Never Again’ boasts some premium acting. Carrying 007’s golf clubs? ‘Man Who Fell To Earth’ veteran Bernie Casey, ‘Bounty’ veteran Edward Fox, and erstwhile ‘Mr. Bean,’ Rowan Atkinson. Max von Sydow plays Ernst Stavro Blofeld, who seems to have survived the old ‘Smoke-Stack Sayonara of 1981.’ Kim Basinger made hearts race as Domino. As the duplicitous Fatima Blush (based on Fiona), Barbara Carrera lampoons both Fiona—and Fatima Blush! Taking over for ‘Thunderball’ star Adolfo Celi, Klaus Maria Brandauer, veteran of ‘The Mountains,’ plays Largo, bad-ass of the high seas.”



W sips Berfresca.



MALTIN sips Berfresca.



MALTIN: “Let’s not obfuscate the obvious, pal. ‘Never Say Never Again’ does have a plot! It concerns Middle Easterners, water, and caves. Of course, we know all about that, from a snuff film called ‘The War Against Terror’.”



W frowns.



FATTY laughs.



MALTIN: “All kidding aside. It’s plain to see, pal. ‘Never Say Never Again’ should have been 1983’s official ‘franchise’ 007 film! Alas, ‘should’ doesn’t always happen. And so, the 007 franchise hurled ‘Octopussy’ at an unsuspecting public. Roger Moore played super spy James Bond, also known as 007. The plot/ Ya ready for the plot? Soviet defectors—from the U.S.S.R.—want to start World War III.”



EDDIE: Hold on, pal. He said World War III started in 1982!



W: Yeah, yeah. World War III, Lenny? As in, ‘nukeyalur’?



FATTY shakes head.



MALTIN: You mean ‘nuclear,’ Decider?



W: (ominously)

    I says, ‘nukeyalur.’ Mind your manners, Eddie.



MALTIN: (ruffled)

              Manners minded. Back to the book. “In ‘Octopussy,’ 007 saves mankind from a ‘nukeyalur’ World War III. Baby Octopus Drones eat humans. Magada, played by Kristina Wayborn, actually says, ‘That’s my little Octopussy!’ ‘Swamp Thing’ veteran, Louis Jourdan, plays a luke-warm super-villain. ‘Outland’ veteran Steven Berkoff plays a deranged super-villain! Kabir Bedi, as Gobinda, takes the cake. Gobinda is the film’s third super-villain. He wears a turban. He refers to Jourdan’s ‘Kamal Khan’ as ‘Excellence.’ During the films’ airborne climax, Khan says, to Gobinda: ‘Go. Go up, on top of the moving airplane! Go get 007!’”



EDDIE clucks tongue.



MALTIN: “Gobinda says, ‘Yeah, OK. Sure’.”



JACK chuckles.



MALTIN: “Nobody would really do that. In the event, Gobinda plummets to his death. The jet crashes, cancelling Khan. Later, Maud Adams’ ‘Octopussy’ character helps 007 work out some of the ‘kinks’ in his muscles. But let’s not obfuscate the obvious. How can a 007 film have three villains?! Having three villains, shouldn’t the film be THREE TIMES AS DOPE as the average 007 film? Shouldn’t it? Guess what, pal? It’s not!”



FATTY: (concerned)

            Wow. I guess ‘Octopussy’ really was a bad movie!



EDDIE: (disdainfully)

            You’re easily influence, Fat Guy. You don’t even need Berfresca!



W sips Burfresca.



JACK: Hey, Eddie. Lenny’s still reading. Have a little respect.



EDDIE: Respect? I’ll have you—



MALTIN: Bite off, Eddie! I’m reading here!



EDDIE gapes.



MALTIN: (flustered)

                “The decline of the 007 franchise continued. In 1985, the franchise released John Glen’s ‘A View To A Kill.’ Once again? Several big bright spots. First? The theme song, performed by Duran Duran. Second? The part where Roger Moore’s 007 rescues Tanya Roberts’ Stacey from a burning elevator shaft. Third? Christopher Walken as super-villain Max Zorin. Zorin is quite a curiosity. He’s part human. He’s part genetic experiment. Careful, pal. Don’t call him a ‘physiological freak.’ The life you save may be your own. Walken’s Zorin is not friendly.”



SCENE: White House, Washington, D.C. Obama’s Eve.



Obama BUZZ makes a face.



George W Bush: Buzz?



BUZZ nods smugly.



W: You’ve been awful quiet. How do you feel about this Bob guy’s analysis of 007?



JACK Bronstein coughs nervously.



BUZZ: (concerned)

          I’m not sure. The name sounds familiar.



W: 007?



BUZZ: No, you dummy! Bob! He wanted a job or something.



FAT GUY laughs.



W: OK, OK. But about 007? I’m not sure James Bond wasn’t involved in World War III! Think about it.



BUZZ: Think on your own time, Georgie.



BUZZ stands.



JACK: “Think on your own time”? He’s got 3 hours left, Buzz.



BUZZ scoffs.



BUZZ: I’d like to remind the ‘peanut gallery,’ what today is.



FATTY: Sunday?



BUZZ: No, dummy! It’s Obama’s Eve. Hello, I must be going.



BUZZ exits.



W: (dumfounded)

    Eddie?



EDDIE Berthanse: Georgie?



W: Are we seriously entrusting the future of the free world to that genetic experiment?



FATTY: Yeah! Seriously?



EDDIE: (amused)

            You’ll see. Lenny?



Leonard MALTIN clears throat.



EDDIE: (ominously)

            Proceed.



MALTIN: Heh heh.



Film critic Gene SHALIT enters.



W: Buzz, I thought you—Shalit? What the hell?



JACK raises an eyebrow.



SHALIT: Take it easy, Georgie.



W frantically sips Berfresca.



EDDIE: This is a private party.



SHALIT: Party? I know all about your parties, Berthanse!



EDDIE blanches.



JACK throws up hands.



SHALIT: Rahm Emanuel called for extra muscle.



FATTY smiles.



SHALIT: I’m it!



MALTIN: Get off my stage, prima donna.



SHALIT: (evenly)

              Fair enough. Keep reading. Just watch the comments.



MALTIN: (flabbergasted)

              “Comments”?!



SHALIT nods sharply.



MALTIN clears throat.



JACK grins.



JACK: The magic of Hollywood.



W: Lenny? Hit it.



MALTIN: (reading aloud from ‘Requiem for 007’)

                “Max Zorin drops people out of blimps. He machine-guns them for fun. Ultimately, Zorin betrays his chief side-kcik, Grace Jones’ Mayday. But Walken turns in a wonderful performance. And there are some more bright spots in ‘A View To A Kill.’ For ‘Black Stallion’ fans, ‘A View To A Kill’ features a horse race. For fans of ‘Hot Tub Time Machine,’ there’s KGB agent Pola Ivanova, played by Fiona Fullerton. Mayday jumps off the Eiffel Tower! And, for fans of the Beach Boys’ ‘California Girls,’ Bond does a one-ski snowboard routine! The film is much better than ‘Octopussy.’ And it marked the retirement of 007 franchise fellow, Roger Moore. Timothy Dalton became 007 in 1987.”



EDDIE: The real 007…or the movie 007?



W: Eddie?



EDDIE clucks tongue.



W: (flustered)

    Eddie, that is just disrespectful. What would Dr. Biddaddy say, huh?



EDDIE: (vexed)

            Shut up, dummy! I’ll kick your lame duck ass all over the street. What are you even doing here?!



W sighs.

W shakes head.



FATTY: Kick his ass, Decider!



EDDIE: You shut up too, fat ass!



FATTY gapes.



JACK: Here’s the odds, Eddie. Me, Fatty, and Gene against you and Lenny.



EDDIE: Want to make it interesting?



W: Knock it off! Everybody shut up! NOW!!! I do the deciding in this White House.



EDDIE: For the next 3 hours…



W: (furious)

    Right! For the next 3 hours. Now let Lenny finish the damn book excerpt! Gosh!



EDDIE sips Berfresca.



W sips Berfresca.



MALTIN: “In ‘The Living Daylights,’ Timothy Dalton’s 007 faces off against three super-villains. There’s Jeroen Krabbe’s Georgi Koskov, a Soviet ‘defector.’ Andreas Wisniewski plays an assassin named Nekros. Finally, there’s Joe Don Baker as Whitaker, a shadowy arms merchant. Whitaker stands to get rich off of another ‘manufactured Armagideon’ between the U.S.A., and the U.S.S.R.”



FATTY: That’s the ‘From Russia With Love’ plot! Again!



JACK rolls eyes.



SHALIT: Easy, fellas.



W holds up hand.



MALTIN: “Again, we go back to these questions. Was the Cold War a manufactured crisis? When Gore Vidal wrote a book called ‘Perpetual War For Perpetual Peace,’ was it non-fiction? Was the Cold War based on an Ian Fleming novel?”



EDDIE: (smugly)

            Hey. “Perpetual Peace” is a classic Karl Marx work, devoted to—



W: Bite off, Eddie!



EDDIE gawks.



SHALIT: There ARE some unanswered questions here.



MALTIN: Hey! Jerky! I’m the guy holding the book here! Got it?



SHALIT: It’s just a movie, Lenny.



MALTIN: WHAT’S just a movie, Gene?



SHALIT: (calmly)

              ‘The Living Daylights.’ Yes, it had defectors. Yes, it had shady arms dealers, J.P. Morgan types, who made money off BOTH SIDES in an Armagideon-style fight to the death. But it’s still just a movie.



EDDIE: You’re a pain in the ass.



W: (perplexed)

    Who is?



EDDIE: All of you! Lenny? Keep reading!



MALTIN: “To learn the truth about the Soviet Union, you should read anything written by ‘Ace of Spies,’ Sidney Reilly.”



JACK grins.



MALTIN: “But, between you and me? You probably don’t want to know. Moving forward. Koskov lies to 007. Nekros kills 007’s partner. And he was just 3 days from retirement!”



W: (gleefully)

    We’re getting too old for this stuff!



SHALIT laughs.



FATTY laughs.



JACK laughs.



MALTIN laughs.



EDDIE clucks tongue.



EDDIE: See the parallels, Georgie?



W: (cordially)

    Sure, Eddie. Predictably, bogus left-right paradigms distort the bigger picture. Force-fed a diet of inane popular entertainment, the average American usually succumbs to the allure of cheap beer, naked people on television, and football, before they even make it halfway to the voting booth.



FATTY nods.



EDDIE: (coldly)

            When I want a lame duck’s opinion. I’ll smack it out of you! I mean, the parallels between you and 007’s partner.



W gapes.



EDDIE: Three days for him…three HOURS for you. Any last words? What do ya want on your Tombstone, Georgie? Pepperoni?



W: (calmly)

    Eddie, you’re a sardonic, stick-in-the-mud Jag Bag. Bite off. Lenny? Bring it home.



MALTIN: “Dalton shows real promise as 007. He makes love to innocent bystanders, steals telephones from innocent bystanders, and saves the luscious Maryam d’Abo’s Kara from the Red Menace. They invited Dalton to play 007 again! In ‘Licence To Kill,’ Dalton—“



EDDIE yawns loudly.



MALTIN makes a face.



W: (pained)

    He’s right, Lenny. Lenny? Cut to the chase, huh?



MALTIN nods.

MALTIN turns a page.



MALTIN: “’The Living Daylights’ is a winner. A big winner! It’s the official ‘007 25th anniversary film. John Barry delivers the last of his dozen 007 soundtracks—and it’s a powerhouse. Barry’s score features vocals by Morten Harket of A-ha, and Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders. One track, no kidding, pits Hynde’s ‘Where Has Everybody Gone? ‘melody against Harket’s ‘Living Daylights’ melody!”



EDDIE: (perplexed)

            Lovely, lovely. So 007 won the Cold War in 1987?’



JACK shakes head.



FATTY: (absent-mindedly)

            It’s strange. They say, in Pierce Brosnan’s 007 debut, 1995’s ‘Goldeneye,’ that the action takes place in the Soviet Union.



W raises eyebrows.



EDDIE sips Berfresca.



SHALIT rolls eyes.



FATTY: History books say the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991! What gives?



W: Give over, Lenny. I know Bob Nemtusak may have departed, but…where is this book going?



MALTIN: “In 1995, Pierce Brosnan brought new glory to the 007 franchise. Director Martin Campbell, of ‘Reilly Ace of Spies’ fame, got things started with a breath-taking, bungee-jumping, Onatopping introduction. Brosnan co-starred with Sean Bean’s Trevelyan, and Famke Janssen’s Xenia Onatopp. Brosnan wears a tuxedo. He cracks wise. He—“



W: (loudly)

    Oh, what the hell?! Is 007 dead or alive?



EDDIE: Ludicrous. He can’t help you now—wherever he is! Shut up about 007!



W sips Berfresca.



FATTY: Can I have something to drink?



SHALIT: Fatty, that stuff will kill you.



MUSIC: “Bond Meets Stacey” from John Barry’s ‘A View To A Kill.’



W rolls eyes.



EDDIE: I grow tired. The next person to even mention 007 gets smacked. I’m running this show! Even if Barack Obama does save the Inauguration from Obama Buzz. I have a Plan C, gentlemen. I call it The Burfresca Option—for obvious reasons.



W: I don’t like this.



EDDIE: When I want your opinion, I’ll clone you! Then, I’ll ask the Clone!



W: (sharply)

    I’m OK with a Fat Clone Army. I’m even OK with a Clone president! But this Berfresca Option could give mind control a bad name! I want you to call it off, Eddie.



EDDIE scoffs.



FATTY shakes head.



W: Explain it.



EDDIE: Huh?



W: Explain this Berfresca Option, “Dr. No.”



EDDIE: Very well. We replace the best-selling ‘black and blue’ cocktail known as ‘Burfresca,’ with ‘Berfresca.’



W: (astonished)

    How?



JACK: Never mind, Decider. It’s a mind-control tonic! Eddie wants to pump Berfresca into the world’s water supply!



FATTY gapes.



W: Then what?



JACK: (sadly)

          Then? Reverse-flouridation horrors that ‘Dr. Strangelove’ veteran, Sterling Hayden’s General Jack D Ripper, never dreamed of!



W gapes.



JACK: People will get sick. They will cause trouble. They will follow Eddie Berthanse’s orders until all hell breaks loose.



W: How the hell can we stop him?



EDDIE: (mirthfully)

            Stop me? Ha! You’d have to be on her majesty’s secret service! You’d have to be James Bond himself! Ha! Not even the legendary 007 ca bail you chumps outta this one!



JACK: Not so fast, Eddie.



FATTY: (amused)

            “Fast Eddie”!



JACK: Easy, Fatty. Eddie? Bob left out a few details.



W: (impatiently)

    Jack?



JACK: It pertains, Decider. Eddie’s positive that 007 can’t help us. Well, I disagree. In 1985, Roger Moore’s 007 really stepped up. He had to!



SHALIT: (perplexed)

              007 is alive, right?



JACK: We know how tough it can be, even if you’re 007, to match wits against a character like Christopher Walken’s Max Zorin. I refer to the San Francisco Elevator Barbecue.



FATTY nods ominously.



W takes notes.



JACK: 007 has to rescue Stacey from the burning elevator.



W nods.



EDDIE: (bored)

            Yes?



JACK: First? Some primo Zorin dialogue. Zorin says, “Intuitive improvisation is the key to genius.” 007 answers, “I’m beside myself with admiration.” Does Zorin punch 007? Does he shoot him? NO. He gives him a dirty look! A killer dirty look!



EDDIE: There! You said it! 007 died in 1985, the victim of a killer dirty look. Now, it’s settled.



FATTY: Boss! Tell him more about the 1995 Pierce Brosnan Resuscitation!



JACK: Psst. Fatty?



W: Shut up, both of you. Let’s suppose that killer dirty look DID kill 007. How did they keep making 007 movies?



JACK: I think he was in a coma.



FATTY nods.



W: So what kept him alive, Jack?



JACK: The music of John Barry.



FATTY: Yes!



W: (skeptically)

    But a twelve-year coma? Jack?



JACK: No kidding. And the warning signs were there long before! Even with a killer ballad like Carly Simon’s ‘Nobody Does It Better,’ penned by Marvin Hamlisch and Carole Bayer Sager, ‘The Spy Who Loved Me,’ from 1977, left a bad taste in Bob’s mouth, in Stromberg’s mouth, and everybody else’s mouth.



W: The Shrimp Scampi Send-off.



JACK: Nonetheless, Roger Moore soldiered on. He kept punching. ‘A View To A Kill’ came out when Moore was close to 50 years old. Yep. 50. But Moore was still…still…ahh, skip it. Suffice it to say, he went out in a blaze of 007 glory. He makes love to four different women in ‘A View To A Kill.’ He snow-boards

to ‘California Girls.’ And, with the help of John Barry, he dances into the fire!



W: Whoo-hoo!



JACK: Plus, Moore’s last 007 outing features the Eiffel Tower, gallows slapstick, and Grace Jones as Mayday.



EDDIE: Cute, Jack.



FATTY smiles.



EDDIE: Cute…but not very convincing.



W: I think he won, Eddie! 007 lives! Even with the franchise in a coma! Bite off, Eddie!



FATTY bites into Oreo brand cookie.



EDDIE: Not so fast. Heard of the ‘Go Get Him’ fallacy, Jack?



JACK: Uh-oh…



EDDIE: Hear hear. Hear here. In 1983, the 007 franchise unleashed the ‘Go Get Him’ fallacy. Kamal Khan tells his side-kick, Gobinda, to walk on top of the airborne plane, and ‘get’ Bond!



W throws up hands.



FATTY: I knew he was gonna—



EDDIE: Bond hits Gobinda with the plane’s antenna. Gobinda hurtles to his death.



JACK cringes.



EDDIE: And, in 1985, Walken’s Zorin pulls another ‘Go Get Him’ fallacy in ‘A View To A Kill.’ Mayday bombs out, Zorin takes a dive, and 007 becomes Timothy Dalton.



JACK: No!



EDDIE: Yes! Two ‘Go Get Him’ blunders in a row, Jack.



W sighs sadly.



EDDIE: “Resuscitation,” Jack? Ha! I think it’ll take more than a shot of Pierce Brosnan, and 10 cc of Halle Berry, to “resuscitate” 007 after that!



W: So they did kill 007!



EDDIE: (triumphantly)

            Here it is. In stereo! The Shrimp Scampi Send-off of Seventy-Seven is the beginning of the end of 007. ‘Octopussy’ is the middle of the end. And ‘A View To A Kill’ is the end of the end. Timonty Dalton? Pierce Brosnan? Daniel Craig? Good actors. Fine. But 007 is in the history books, you schnooks!



JACK weeps.



W: (sadly)

    R.I.P., 007. Armagideon rolls on. Super spies need not apply.



FATTY: I got an idea.



MUSIC: “Peter Gunn” by the Art of Noise.



MALTIN hands red boxing gloves to EDDIE.



FATTY: Weighing in at 160 pounds! Biddaddy’s right hand man! If You Can Make It, He Can Clone It! The Czar of the Body Banks! Edward Voorhees Berthanse!!!



Carmen ELECTRA dances across stage.



MUSIC: “Candidate” (demo) by David Bowie.



Gene SHALIT hands blue boxing gloves to JACK.



FATTY: In this corner! Weighing in at 150 pounds! Known to his friends as ‘Neighborhood’! The king of B movies! He’ll Make You A Deal! John Methuselah Bronstein!!!



KIM Kardashian dances across room.



Bell rings.



W: Sky-box! Trainers? Talk to your fighters.



MALTIN: Look at him, Eddie! He’s nothing! He likes 007! Take his ass out!



EDDIE clucks tongue.



SHALIT: Go for Eddie’s pancreas, Jack! Stay on the ropes! Use his own strength against him! Do it!



MUSIC: “Armagideon Time” by the Clash.



W: (into microphone)

    Armagideon will now begin.



FATTY: This is more like it!



Bell rings.



JACK knocks EDDIE out with one punch.



Bell rings.



SCENE: The Olive Garden.



SAM: You did it, Jack!



FRIEDA kisses JACK.



FATTY: Good job, boss.



W presents JACK with a trophy.



JACK: So that’s it, right? No more Eddie means no Fat Clone Army, and no Berfresca Option. Right?



W: (pained)

    Jack, there’s no script for reality. Barack Obama, Dick Cheney’s cousin or not, is still a question mark. He could be a benefit…or a hazard.



JACK: So World War III isn’t over yet?



W: Depends.



JACK: Huh?



GEORGE LAZENBY: “Yes, we live in an age of avarice and deceit.”



FATTY: Poor George.



FATTINA: Fatty?



W: It all depends on the Buzz, friends. It all depends on the Buzz.



Cut.



SCENE: The White House. January 19, 2009. The First Inaugural of Barack Hussein Obama.



Obama Prestonpans BUZZ: Five minutes to destiny, Barack.



BARACK Hussein Obama: Huh?



BUZZ: We’re on in five minutes!



BARACK: Both of us, Buzz?



BUZZ laughs.



BARACK: There’s only one president.



BUZZ: Fair enough.



BARACK nods smugly.



BUZZ: So, who’s going out there?



BARACK: I just said, there’s only—



BUZZ: (cordially)

          I’m joking, Barack! Take it. Take the glory!



BARACK smiles.



BARACK: (contentedly)

                Glory.



BUZZ shrugs.



BARACK adjusts Oreo Cookie with the authority and grace of a warrior poet.



BUZZ: I’m impressed. You adjust the Oreo with the authority and grace of a warrior poet.



BARACK: (concerned)

                Is there an echo in here?



BUZZ laughs.



BARACK smiles.



BUZZ: Cute, Barack.



BARACK nods.



BUZZ: Just remember. I invented cute!



BARACK makes ‘brush dirt off shoulder’ gesture.



MUSIC: “Dirt Off Your Shoulder” by Jay-Z.



BUZZ: Are you sure you can rescue America, Barack?



BARACK: Huh?



BUZZ: Tall order. Bush and company bankrupted the country. Killed millions of people. Tarnished America’s image.



BARACK sighs.

BARACK finishes his Oreo cookie.



BUZZ shakes head.



BARACK: Buzz? You’re blocking the mirror.



BUZZ steps aside.



BARACK studies mirror.

BARACK admires reflection.



BUZZ: You’re only fooling yourself, Barry.



BARACK glares at BUZZ.



BUZZ: Fooling one person is easy enough. How are you gonna fool 6 billion?



BARACK: Step back!



BUZZ steps back.



BARACK: I got goals, Buzz. Policies. Ideas. All you got is a pretty smile.



BUZZ: (smugly)

          Yes, indeed.



BARACK: I’m doing this, Buzz. With or without you!



MUSIC: “With Or Without You” by U2.



BUZZ: Are you firing me?



BARACK: There’s only one president, Buzz.



BUZZ: You won’t get far without Buzz. Without Buzz, you’d still just be “Mr. Help Is On The Way”!



BARACK frowns.



BUZZ: I introduced you to politics, Barry! I put you in the game—and I will send your ass back to the being what made it!



BARACK makes a face.



BUZZ: You’re deluded.



BARACK: You’re diluted!



BUZZ: Your whole campaign was a marketing exercise!



BARACK shakes head.



BUZZ: Fine. Fire me.



BARACK lights cigarette.



BUZZ: What happened to the Year of The Blade Runner?



BARACK: (alarmed)

                That was cancelled!



BUZZ: And the Year of the Buzz?



BARACK: (tersely)

                Ditto.



BARACK puffs on cigarette.

BARACK blows smoke.



BUZZ: Quit blowin’ smoke, bloke. Sooner or later, America will miss the Buzz. YOU will miss the Buzz.



BARACK slams door in BUZZ’S face.

BARACK walks outside.



BUZZ: (miffed)

          Thanks. I’ll find my own way out!



SCENE: January 19, 2009 Presidential Inauguration To-Do.

            Big crowd.



INTERIOR: Elevator.

                  Going up.



BARACK lights cigarette.

BARACK puffs on cigarette.

BARACK blows smoke.



BARACK: Am I just blowing smoke? Are they buying this? I’m buying it! Help IS on the way. Alas, politics is a fickle business. Will the sun come up tomorrow? Will I still be perfect tomorrow? Will they still love me tomorrow?



MUSIC: “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” by the Shirelles.



BARACK exits elevator.

BARACK flicks burning cigarette backwards into elevator.

BARACK walks forward.



Elevator explodes.



Jump Cut.



BARACK approaches Inaugural Podium.

BARACK smiles.



Crowd roars.



EDITOR’S NOTE:

Barack Hussein Obama was re-elected President of the United States in November of 2012.

While Barack tries to mend fences, and build bridges between ‘sanity’ and ‘reality,’ Buzz lingers on in the subconscious mind.

“The mirror has two faces.”