EXTERIOR: SPACE.
The Imperial Beerdestroyer comes over the surface of the
planet Brewooine.
EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- DESERT.
Wortland Wastes, or "No Beer Land", where the rugged desert mesas
meet the foreboding Suds Sea. The two helpless dudes kick up
clouds of sand as they leave the lifepod and clumsily make their
way across the desert wasteland. The lifepod in the distance
rests half buried in the sand.
TRIPEO: How the hell did I get into this mess? We seem to be made to suffer. It's our lot in life.
Art answers with an agreeing fart.
TRIPEO: I've got to rest before I fall apart. My joints are killin' me.
Art continues to respond with a series farts.
TRIPEO: What a desolate place this is.
Suddenly Art whistles, makes a sharp right turn and starts off in
the direction of the rocky desert mesas. Tripeo stops and yells.
TRIPEO: Where the hell do you think you're going?
A stream of bodily noises pours forth from the small guy.
TRIPEO: Well, I'm not going that way. It's too damn rocky! This way is much easier.
Art counters with a long whistle.
TRIPEO: What makes you think there are settlements over there?
Art continues to make burping sounds.
TRIPEO: Don't get technical with me you overweight blob of skin!
Art continues to make burping sounds.
TRIPEO: What mission? What are you talking about? OK, I've had just about enough of you! Go that way! You'll be S.O.L within a day, you nearsighted fart factory!
Tripeo gives the little guy a kick in the ass and starts off in
the direction of the vast Suds Sea.
TRIPEO: And don't let me catch you following me begging for help... because you ain't gonna get it!
Art's reply is a rather rude sound. He turns and trudges
off in the direction of the towering mesas.
TRIPEO: No more adventures! I'm not going that way.
Art burps to himself as he makes his way toward the
distant mountains.
EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- SUDS SEA.
Tripeo, hot and tired, struggles up over the ridge of a sand
dune only to find more dunes, which seem to go on forever.
He looks back in the direction of the now distant rock mesas.
TRIPEO: That outta shape piece of crap! This is all his fault! He tricked me into going this way... but he'll do no better.
In a huff of anger and frustration, Tripeo knocks the
sand from his shirt. His plight seems hopeless, when a glint
of reflected light in the distance reveals an object moving
towards him.
TRIPEO: Wait, what's that? A transport! I'm saved!
The now sunburned dude waves frantically and yells at the
approaching transport.
TRIPEO: Over here! Help! Please, help!
EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- ANCHORSTEAM SETTLEMENT -- BREW STATION -- DAY.
Duke and Ciggs are walking and drinking a malt brew.
Brewmeister and the others can be heard working inside.
DUKE: (Very animated)...so I cut off my power, shut down the afterburners and came in low on Beak's tail. I was so close I thought I was gonna fry my instruments. As it was I busted up the Skyhopper pretty bad. Uncle O'hen was pretty upset. He grounded me for the rest of the season. You should have been there... it was fantastic!
CIGGS: You ought to take it easy, Duke. You may be the hottest bushpilot this side of Mos Tooheys, but those little Skyhoppers are dangerous. Keep it up, and one day - WHAMMO, you're going to be nothing more than a dark spot on the side of a canyon wall.
DUKE: Look who's talking. Now that you've been around those giant starships you're beginning to sound like my Uncle. You've gotten soft in the city.
CIGGS: I've missed you kid.
DUKE: Well, things haven't been the same since you left, Ciggs. It's been so... lonely.
Ciggs looks around then leans in close to Duke.
TO BE CONTINUED...
