Beer Wars: A Tasty New Hope, Part 6

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
should be.

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...

OWE-ME: Yeah?

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...

OWE-ME: Yeah?

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.

DUKE: Hello.

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
and 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
in embarrassment.

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
malfunctioning midget.

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.

Art farts.

TRIPEO: Hell no! I don't like you either.

Art farts mournfully.

TO BE CONTINUED...........

Beer Wars: A Tasty New Hope, Part 5

EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- ROCK CANYON -- SUNSET.

The gargantuan rock formations are shrouded in a strange
heady foam and the ominous sounds of aluminum cans
cracking open fills the air. Art moves through the rock
canyon without a care in the world. He inadvertently farts.
Suddenly, he hears a distant, hard, metallic sound. He
stops for a moment half expecting snow to start falling and
a silver train to rush by. Convinced he is alone, he continues
on his merry way.

Ahead of him a pebble tumbles down the steep canyon wall
and a small dark figure darts into the shadows. A bit
further up the canyon a slight movement inside a cracked
boulder reveals a pair of beer goggled eyes in the dark
recesses.

The unsuspecting Art waddles along the rugged trail until
suddenly, out of nowhere, a powerful blast of air freshener
shoots from the rocks and engulfs him in an eerie glow. He
manages one short fart before he topples over onto his
back. His eyes flicker closed, then open, then closed again.
Out of the rocks scurry three Worts, no taller than Art.
They holster strange and complex weapons as they
cautiously approach him. They wear grubby cloaks and
their faces are shrouded so only their glowing beer goggled
eyes can be seen. They hiss and make odd guttural sounds
as they heave Art onto their shoulders and carry him off
down the trail.

EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- ROCK CANYON -- SUDCRAWLER -- SUNSET.

Eight Worts carry Art out of the canyon to a huge keg-like
vehicle the size of a four-story house. They adhere a small
coaster to the side of Art's head and put him under a large
vacuum tube on the side of the vehicle. One of the Worts
flick a switch and the little guy is sucked up into the giant
machine faster than shotgunning a Budweisenheimer. The
filthy little Worts scurry like rats up small ladders and
enter the main cabin of the transport.

INTERIOR: SUDCRAWLER -- HOLD AREA.

The hold area of the giant sudcrawler is dim. Art pulls a
small flashwand out of his satchel, flips it on and begins to
search the cargo area. The narrow beam swings across
junk and an array of drunks. He lets out a pathetic fart
and stumbles off toward what appears to be a door.

INTERIOR: SUDCRAWLER -- PRISON AREA.

Art enters a wide room with a four-foot ceiling. In the
middle of the scrap heap sits a dozen or so drunks in
various states of inebriation. Some are engaged in
mumbled conversation, while others simply puke on
themselves. A voice of recognition calls out from the
gloom.

TRIPEO: Art Deetzo! It's you! It's you!

A battered Tripeo scrambles up to Art and embraces
him.

EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- ROCK CANYON -- SUDCRAWLER -- SUNSET.

The enormous Sudcrawler lumbers off toward the
twin suns, which are slowly setting over a distant
mountain ridge.

EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- DESERT -- DAY.

Four Imperial Beertroopers mill about in front of the
half-buried lifepod that brought Art and Lee to
Brewooine. They're sucking down cans of macro-swill.
A trooper yells to an officer some distance away.

FIRST TROOPER: Someone was in the pod. The tracks go off in this direction.

A second trooper picks a small metal beer can tab out
of the sand and gives it to the first trooper.

SECOND TROOPER: Look, sir... drunks.

EXTERIOR: BREWOOINE -- DUNES.

The Sudcrawler moves slowly down a great sand dune.

INTERIOR: SUDCRAWLER.

Tripeo and Art bounce along inside the cramped prison
chamber like two rednecks in the back of a pickup. Art
appears to be asleep.

TRIPEO: Wake up! Wake up!

Suddenly the shaking and bouncing of the Sudcrawler
stops. Tripeo's fist bangs into Art's head and wakes him
up. He lets out a noxious fart right in the direction of
Lee's face. At the far end of the long chamber a hatch
opens, filling the chamber with blinding white light. A
dozen or so Worts make their way through the odd
assortment of drunks.

TRIPEO: We're doomed.

A Wort starts moving toward them.

TRIPEO: Do you think they'll throw us in detox?

Art responds with a mournful fart as the Wort
approaches and raises his Febreze-gun.

TRIPEO: Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Will this never end?

TO BE CONTINUED...

======================================================

Beer Wars: A Tasty New Hope, Part 4

CIGGS: Duke, I didn't come back just to say good-bye. I shouldn't tell you this, but... you're the only one I can trust.

Duke's eyes grow wide with anticipation over Ciggs' seriousness.

DUKE: What... are you talking about exactly?

CIGGS: I made some friends at the Beer Academy. (he leans in and whispers) When our frigate goes to one of the central systems, we're going to jump ship and join the Brewers Alliance.

Duke, dazed and stunned, is almost speechless. And disappointed.

DUKE: Join the Rebellion?! Are you kidding! How?

CIGGS: Quiet down will ya! You got a mouth bigger than a meteor crater!

LUKE: All the better to... never mind. I'm sorry. I'll be quiet. (he whispers) Listen how quiet I am. You can barely hear me.

Ciggs shakes his head angrily and then continues.

CIGGS: My friend has a friend who has a cousin on Beersteine who might help us make contact.

DUKE: Your crazy! You could wander around forever trying to find them.

CIGGS: I know it's a long shot, but if I don't find them I'll brew what I can on my own. It's what we always talked about. Luke, I'm not going to wait for the Empire to draft me into brewing macro-swill. The Rebellion is spreading and I want to be on the right side -- the side I believe in!

DUKE: And I'm stuck here...

CIGGS: I thought you were going to the Academy next term. You'll get your chance to get off this rock.

DUKE: Not likely! I had to cancel my application. There has been a lot of unrest among the Dirtpeople since you left...they've even raided the outskirts of Anchorhead.

CIGGS: Your uncle could hold off a whole colony of Dirtpeople with one racking cane!

DUKE: I know, but he's got enough mash tuns going to make the place pay off. He needs me for just one more season. I can't leave him now.

CIGGS: I feel for you, Luke, you're going to have to learn what seems to be important or what really is important. What good is all your uncle's work if it's taken over by the Empire? You know they're starting to nationalize beer commerce in the central systems. It won't be long before your uncle is merely a tenant, slaving for the greater glory of the Empire.

DUKE: It couldn't happen here. You said it yourself. The Empire won't bother with this rock.

CIGGS: Things always change.

DUKE: I wish I was going...Are you going to be around long?

CIGGS: No, I'm leaving in the morning.

DUKE: Then I guess I won't see you.

CIGGS: Maybe someday. I'll keep a lookout.

DUKE: Well, I'll be at the Academy next season...after that who knows. I won't be drafted into the Imperial Brewer's Guild that's for sure. Take care of yourself. you'll always be the best friend I've got.

CIGGS: So long, Duke.

Ciggs turns away from his old friend and heads towards the power station.

To BE CONTINUED...

===========================================================

Beer Wars: A Tasty New Hope, Part 3

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...

Beer Wars: A Tasty New Hope, Part 2

EXTERIOR: Brewooine -- BEER WASTELAND -- DAY.

A beer wasteland stretches from horizon to horizon. The tremendous
heat of the planet's twin suns settle on a lone figure, Duke
Flymalter, a hopfarm boy with heroic aspirations who looks much
older than his twenty-one years. His dreadlocks and baggy tunic
give him the air of a simple deadbeat with a goofy smile.

A light wind whips at him as he adjusts several valves on a
large battered brew kettle. He is aided by a beatup tread-robot
with six claw arms - three of which hold cans of beer. The little
robot appears to be barely functioning -- much like Duke, and
moves with jerky motions.

A bright sparkle in the morning sky catches Duke's eye.
Instinctively he dry heaves thinking it a figment of his hungover
imagination. Realizing it's not, he grabs a pair of mangobinoculars
from his prized imitation Batman utility belt and scans the sky.
He stands transfixed for a few moments studying the heavens, then
dashes toward his dented, crudely repaired hoopty... a '27 Galaxy
Groundcruiser (an auto-like vehicle that travels a few feet off
the ground on a flatulence-resonance field). He motions for the
tiny robot to follow him.

DUKE: Hurry up ya sorry sack of bolts! Come with me! What are you waiting for?! Get in gear!

The robot spins around in a tight circle, stops short, and pops
his lid. Smoke begins to pour out of every joint. Duke throws
his arms up in disgust. Exasperated, the young farm boy jumps into
his '27 Galaxy Groundcruiser and leaves the smoldering robot to
hum madly.

INTERIOR: REBEL GROWLER -- MAIN HALLWAY.

The awesome, seven-foot-tall Dark Lord of the Macro makes his
way into the blinding light of the main passageway. This is
Darth Fermentor, right hand of the Emperor. His face is blocked
by flowing black robes and a grotesque breath mask, which
stands out next to the fascist white armored suits of the
Imperial Beerstapo. Everyone instinctively backs away from
the imposing figure and a deathly quiet sweeps through the
Rebel troops. Several of the Rebel troops break and run in a
frenzied panic.

INTERIOR: REBEL GROWLER.

A woman puts a card into Art Deetzo's hand. Art burps.

INTERIOR: REBEL GROWLER.

Lee Tripeo stands in a hallway, somewhat bewildered. Art is
nowhere in sight. The pitiful screams of the doomed Rebel
soldiers can be heard in the distance.

TRIPEO: Art! Art Deetzo! Where the hell are you?

A familiar farting sound attracts Tripeo's attention and he spots
little Art at the end of the hallway in a smoke-filled alcove. A
beautiful young girl (about sixteen years old) stands in front of
Art. Surreal and out of place, dreamlike and half hidden in the
smoke, she finishes adjusting something on Art's face, then
watches as the little guy joins his companion.

TRIPEO: WTF?! You weren't doing what I think you were doing?! WERE YOU!?

Beerstapo troopers can be heard battling in the distance.

TRIPEO: They're heading in this direction. What are we going to do? We'll be sent to the torture racks of Guantánamo or smashed into who knows what!

Art waddles past his goofy friend and races down the
subhallway. Tripeo chases after him.

TRIPEO: Wait a minute, where are you going?

Art responds with a fart.

INTERIOR: REBEL GROWLER -- CORRIDOR

The evil Darth Fermentor stands amid the broken and twisted bodies
of his foes. He grabs a wounded Rebel Officer by the neck as
an Imperial Officer rushes up to the Dark Lord.

IMPERIAL OFFICER: The Beer Star plans are not in the main computer.

Fermentor squeezes the neck of the Rebel Officer, who struggles
in vain.

FERMENTOR: Where are those transmissions you intercepted?

Darth Fermentor lifts the Rebel off his feet by his throat.

FERMENTOR: What have you done with those plans?

REBEL OFFICER: We intercepted no transmissions. This is a beer wagon! We're on a beer delivery mission!

FERMENTOR: If this is a beer wagon... where is the Dalmatian?

The Rebel refuses to speak but eventually cries out as the
Dark Lord begins to squeeze the officer's throat, creating a
gruesome snapping and choking, until the soldier goes limp.
Fermentor tosses the dead soldier against the wall and turns to
his troops.

FERMENTOR: Commander, tear this ship apart until you've found those plans. Bring me the Dalmation alive. Oh, and while you're at it... a a cold beer too.

The Beerstapo troopers scurry into the subhallways.

INTERIOR: REBEL GROWLER -- SUBHALLWAY.

The lovely young girl huddles in a small alcove as the
Beerstapo troopers search through the ship. She is Princess Leia
Hopgana, a member of the Alderaan Brewers Association. The fear
in her eyes slowly gives way to anger as the muted crushing
sounds of the approaching enemy grows louder. One of the
troopers spots her.

TROOPER: There she is! Set for stun!

Leia steps from her hiding place and blasts a trooper with
her hopistol. She starts to run but is felled by a paralyzing
ray. The troopers inspect her inert body.

TROOPER: She'll be all right. Inform Lord Fermentor we have a prisoner.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Beer Wars: A Tasty New Hope

A long time ago... in a galaxy far, far away...

The awesome silver brew kettle of Sudsooine emerges from a total
eclipse, her two moons throbbing against the darkness. A tiny
silver spacecraft, a Rebel Beer Wagon known as a Growler, firing
hop pellets from the back of the ship, races through space. It is
pursued by a giant Imperial Beerdestroyer. Hundreds of deadly
streams of macroswill (highly condensed and focused beams of
bitter beer capable of destroying taste buds and blasting holes
into armor plating) streak from the Beerdestroyer, causing the
main solar fin of the Rebel craft to disintegrate.

INTERIOR: REBEL GROWLER -- MAIN PASSAGEWAY.

An explosion rocks the ship as two dudes, Art Deetzo and
Lee Tripeo struggle to make their way through the shaking,
bouncing passageway. Both feel old and battered. But that has
more to do with the hops and cannabis than their actual age.
Art is short, some would call him a midget. His face is a mass
of wrinkles surrounding one radar-like eye. A patch covers
his bad eye. Tripeo, on the other hand, is a tall, slender man
with sleek, angular, almost robotic features. Not a single
follicle of hair resides on his gleaming chrome dome. Another
blast shakes them as they struggle along their way.

TRIPEO: Did ya hear that? Geezuz! They've shut down the main brew kettle. We'll be destroyed for sure. This is madness!

Rebel troopers rush past the two dudes and take up positions
in the main passageway. They aim their weapons toward the
door.

TRIPEO: We're doomed!

Little Art makes a series of burps and farts that only Lee can
fully understand.

TRIPEO: Crap! There'll be no escape for the Princess this time.

Art continues making farting sounds. Tension mounts as loud
metallic latches clank and the scream of heavy equipment is
heard moving around the outside hull of the ship.

TRIPEO: What the hell... ?

EXTERIOR: SPACECRAFT IN SPACE.

The Imperial craft has easily overtaken the Rebel Growler.
The smaller Rebel ship is being drawn into the underside
dock of the giant Imperial beership.

INTERIOR: REBEL GROWLER.

The nervous Rebel troopers aim their weapons. Suddenly
a tremendous blast opens up a hole in the main passageway
and a score of fearsome, foamy white, armored Beerstapo
troopers make their way into the smoke-filled corridor.
Seconds tick by...

Suddenly the entire passageway becomes awash with
streams of macroswill. The deadly swill ricochets in wild
random patterns creating huge, wet explosions. Beestapo
scatter and duck behind empty kegs. Bolts of macroswill
hit several Rebel soldiers who scream and stagger through
the smoke, their Bitter Beer Faces telling the whole story
behind their horror and misery. An explosion hits near
the dudes.

TRIPEO: I should have known better than to trust the logic of a half-sized spaced out, homeless, douche bag like you!

Art counters with an angry burp as the battle rages around
the two hapless dudes.

TO BE CONTINUED...