Wednesday, September 30, 2009
EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- DESERT -- DOLLARZ HOMESTEAD -- AFTERNOON.
The Worts gibber-jabber as they line up their battered
captives - including Art and Tripio - in front of the
enormous Sudscrawler, which is parked beside a homestead
made of three large holes in the ground surrounded by
several tall kegerators and one small adobe block house.
The Worts scurry around fussing over their slaves,
straightening them and brushing dust off of them. The
shrouded little creatures stink, and attract small
insects to the dark areas where their mouths and nostrils
From a dingy side-building limps Owe-me Dollarz, a
burly man in his mid-fifties. Blood shot eyes are sunken
back into a wrinkly, dust-covered face. As the brewer
carefully inspects each, he is closely followed by his
slump-shouldered nephew, Duke Flymalter. Or as Owe-Me
liked to refer to him - the village idiot. One of the
vile little Worts walks ahead of them spouting an
animated sales pitch in an odd, unintelligible language.
A voice calls out from one of the huge holes that form
the homestead. Duke goes over to the edge and sees his
Aunt Brewru standing in the main courtyard.
BREWU: Duke, tell Owe-Me that if he gets a translator to be sure it speaks BocceBall.
DUKE: Looks like we don't have much of a choice, but I'll remind him.
Duke returns to his uncle as they look over the
equipment for sale with the Wort leader.
OWE-ME: I don't need no steenkin' protocol droid.
TRIPEO: (quickly) course you don't. Not in this environment. I also know over thirty secondary functions that...
OWE-ME: What I really need is a 'borg that understands the binary language of kegarators.
TRIPEO: Kegarators! Sir, my first job was programming high pressure CO2 and nitrogen regulators... very similar to your kegarators in most respects.
OWE-ME: Do you speak BocceBall?
TRIPEO: You becha. It's like a second language to me. I'm...
OWE-ME: All right shut up! (turning to Wort) I'll take this one.
TRIPEO: (under his breath) Shut this ya fat sow.
OWE-ME: Duke, take these two over to the garage, will you? I want you to have both of them cleaned up before dinner.
DUKE: Waaa! But I was going into town to pick up some hemp converters...
OWE-ME: You can waste time with your friends when your chores are done. Now get to it!
DUKE: Fine! Ya fat bastich! (kicks the ground with his foot) You. And the red one, come on. Well, come on, Red... let's go.
As the Worts start to lead the three unsold slaves
back into the Sudscrawler, Art lets out a pathetic
little fart and starts after his old friend Lee. He
is held back by a slimy Wort, who zaps him with a
remote control of some kind.
Owe-Me is negotiating with the head Wort. Duke leads
Tripeo and the other bot towards the garage when
suddenly a plate pops off the head of the red droid
and sparks wildly.
DUKE: Uh, Uncle Owe-Me...
DUKE: This 'bot has a bad motivator. Look!
OWE-ME: (to the head Wort) Hey, what the hell kind of P.O.S. are you trying to push on us?
The Wort goes into a loud spiel. Meanwhile, Art has
sneaked out of line and is moving up and down trying
to attract attention. He lets loose a loud fart.
Tripeo taps Duke on the shoulder.
TRIPEO: (pointing to Art) Yo! That little dude over there is in good condition. A real bargain.
DUKE: Uncle Owe-Me...
DUKE: What about that one?
OWE-ME: (to Wort) What about the one that's holding his breath and turning blue? We'll take that one.
With a little reluctance the scruffy Wort trades the
damaged droid for Art.
TRIPEO: You'll be happy with him. He's really in first-class condition... even if he stinks. I've worked with him before. Here he comes now.
Owe-Me pays off the whining Wort as Duke and the two
trudge off toward the garage.
DUKE: Okay, let's go.
TRIPEO: (to Art) You better not forget this! Why I should stick my neck out for you is beyond me.
INTERIOR: DOLLARZ HOMESTEAD -- GARAGE AREA -- LATE AFTERNOON.
The garage is cluttered and worn, but a friendly
peaceful atmosphere permeates the low grey chamber.
Lee Tripeo lowers himself into a large tub filled
with warm baby lotion. Over by a battered speeder
little Art rests near a large Febreeze unit with a
cord plugged into the backside of his pants.
TRIPEO: Thank the maker! This baby lotion bath is gonna feel sooooo good. I've got such a bad case of crunk I can barely move!
Art replies with a muffled fart. Duke seems to be
lost in thought as he runs his hand over the damaged
fin of a small two-man Beerhopper spaceship resting
in a low hangar off the garage. Finally Duke's
frustrations get the better of him and he slams a
wrench across the workbench.
DUKE: It just isn't fair. Oh, Ciggs is right. I'm never gonna get out of here!
TRIPEO: (to himself) Does this kid every stop whining? (to Duke) Is there anything I can do to help?
Duke glances at the battered borg.
DUKE: Well, not unless you can alter time, speed up the harvest, or teleport me off this rock!
TRIPEO: No can do, buckwheat. I'm a 'borg not a magician. By the way, where the hell are we anyway?
DUKE: Well, if there's a bright center to the universe, you're on the planet that it's farthest from.
TRIPEO: Wonderful. Thanks for that helpful tidbit, Puke.
DUKE: Uh, you can call me Duke.
TRIPEO: That's what I said.
DUKE: No, you called me Puke.
TRIPEO: Whatever. I'm Lee Tripeo, human-cyborg relations, and this is my counterpart, Art Detzo.
Art farts in response. Duke wrinkles his nose.
DUKE: You're right... he stinks.
TRIPEO: Told ya so.
Duke unplugs Art and begins to scrape several
connectors on his head with a chrome pick.
Tripeo climbs out of the lotion tub and begins
wiping it from his body.
DUKE: You got a lot of carbon scoring here. It looks like you boys have seen a lot of action.
TRIPEO: Action is our middle name. With all we've been through, sometimes I'm amazed we're in as good condition as we are, what with the Rebellion and all.
DUKE: You know of the Rebellion against the Macro-Empire?
TRIPEO: Hell yes we do! That's how we came to be in your service, if you catch my drift.
DUKE: Not really.... have you been in many battles?
TRIPEO: Bottles or battles? Nevermind... same answer. Several. Actually, there's not much to tell. They shot at us, we shot at them. Had a few brews in between. I'm not much more than an interpreter, and not very good at telling stories.... until I've had a few anyways.
Duke struggles to remove a wad of gum from Art's hair.
He uses a larger pick.
DUKE: Well, my little friend, you've got this jammed in here real good. Were you on a cruiser or...
The gum snaps loose with a snap, sending Duke
tumbling head over heels. He sits up and sees a
twelve-inch three-dimensional hologram of Lay-a
Hopgana, the Rebel senator, being projected from
Art's eye patch. The image is a rainbow of colors
as it flickers and jiggles in the dimly lit garage.
Duke's mouth hangs open in awe.
LAY-A: Help me, Obi-Flan Wasabi. You're my only hope.
DUKE: WTF is this?
Art looks around and sheepishly farts. Lay-a
continues to repeat the sentence fragment over
TRIPEO: Ya, what the hell is that ya dwarf!? He asked you a question...(pointing to Lay-a) What is that?
Art whistles his surprise as he pretends to just
notice the hologram. He sheepishly farts again.
Lay-a continues to repeat the sentence fragment
over and over.
LAY-A: Help me, Obi-Flan Wasabi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Flan Wasabi. You're my only hope.
TRIPEO: He says it's nothing. A malfunction. Old data.
Duke becomes intrigued by the beautiful girl.
DUKE: Who is she? She's smokin' hot!
TRIPEO: Not a clue.
LAY-A: Help me, Obi-Flan Wasabi...
TRIPEO: I think she was a passenger on our last voyage. Some big wig politico. The ship's captain was attached to...
DUKE: Is there more to this recording?
Duke reaches out for Art but he lets out several
frantic farts and a whistle.
TRIPEO: Chill out biznatch! You're going to get us in trouble. Trust him. He's our new master.
Art whistles and farts out a long message to Tripeo.
TRIPEO: He says he's the property of Obi-Flan Wasabi, a resident of these parts. And it's a private message for him. Quite frankly, I think he's full of sh*t. I don't know what he's talking about. Our last master was Captain Ant Hills, but with what we've been through, this little guy has become a bit... eccentric.
DUKE: Obi-Wan Kenobi? I wonder if he means old Ben Wasabi?
TRIPEO: Say what? You know what he's talking about?
DUKE: Well, I don't know anyone named Obi-Flan, but old Ben lives out beyond the Dune Sea. He's kind of a strange old nutbag hermit.
Duke gazes at the beautiful young princess for a
few moments. Drool forms at the corner of his mouth.
DUKE: I wonder who she is. It sounds like she's in trouble. I'd better play back the whole thing.
Art beeps something to Tripeo.
TRIPEO: He says the restraining bolt has short circuited his eye-patch recording system. He says if you remove the bolt he might be able to play back the entire recording.
Duke looks longingly at the lovely, little princess and
hasn't really heard what Tripeo has been saying.
TRIPEO: Hello!? I'm right here! Stop doing that you perv!
LUKE: H'm? Oh, yeah, well... sorry. Sure. I guess you're too small to run away on me if I take this off.
Duke pops the restraining bolt off Art.
DUKE: There you go.
The image of the princess immediately disappears.
DUKE: Hey, where'd she go? Bring her back! Play back the entire message!
Art farts an innocent reply as Tripeo sits up
TRIPEO: What message? The one you're carrying inside your crusty innards ya rat bastard!
A women's voice calls out from another room.
AUNT BREWRU: Duke? Duke! Come to dinner!
Duke stands up and shakes his head at the
DUKE: All right, I'll be right there, Aunt Brewru.
TRIPEO: Looks like short stuff had a brain aneurysm.
Duke tosses Art's restraining bolt on the workbench
and hurries out of the room.
DUKE: Get that stinky bastard to play back the entire message. I'll be right back. If you don't... I will. (Duke leaves the room)
TRIPEO: (to Art) You better reconsider playing that message for him or he's gonna beat the crap outta ya... literally!
Art farts in response.
TRIPEO: Nope, I don't think he likes you at all.
TRIPEO: Hell no! I don't like you either.
Art farts mournfully.
TO BE CONTINUED...........
Labels: Beer Wars