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INT. THE CAVE
HAIRHEAD, WULF, SPEAKER4DATA, SKILLY, AND PSUE are gathered around a mold-covered, decrepit skeleton, outfitted in a leather jacket and a battered old fedora. Psue takes his wallet and stares at it.
PSUE: Hmm . . . RICHARD COBBLEPOT.
HH: Richard Cobblepot? I remember reading about him, back in the old Crankyland threads. He used to be a pretty big name!
WULF: Wasn't he an asshole?
HH: Oh, yeah, defnitiely.
SPEAKER4DATA: But guys--if this Richard was such a big name, and he didn't make it, what chance do we have? Huh? What chance do we have?
HH: Well, we're not assholes, for one thing . . .
WULF: *I* am.
At this, Skilly suddenly looks interested for the first time. She stares at Wulf with a hungry look in her eyes. He stares back, sligtly uncomfortable.
Psue casually removes all of Richard's credit cards and slips them in her pocket. Speaker4data stares at her. She shrugs.
PSUE: Student loans, you know?
They continue walking down the corridor.
A few seconds after they leave, we hear footsteps approaching from the opposite direction. And arguing--a LOT of arguing.
MIA: hey look at all of those bats up there on the ceiling do they make you horny, nick the perv, i bet they do, because you have a face like a bat.
NICK: Mia, I'm gonna fill every disgusting orifice on your disease-ridden body with guano and then set you on fire if you don't shut the fuck up . . .
GODMOTHER: Quiet, you two! There's something up there!
The three Fratellis appear. They gather around Richard's skeleton and stare down at it.
GODMOTHER: Richard Cobblepot . . .
NICK: So that's what happened to him . . .
MIA: does that make you horny, nick the perv, i bet it does
NICK: If I got horny looking at a disgusting pile of bones, I'd be after you, bitch.
GODMOTHER: Shut up, both of you! There's voices behind us. Let's hurry up and get out of here!
The Fratellis hurry off.
A few minutes later, the trolls appear.
X-MOUTH: And so I wrote *another* letter to President Reagan, telling him how much I respected him, and he didn't respond to that one either! And so I wrote back and said, hey, asshole, who do you think you are, that you can just go around forgetting things, like writing back to your bestest buddy? And then the Secret Service wrote back and threatened to ...
DARKER CONQUEROR: Hey, look, it's a skeleton.
HATE GUY: It's yo mamma.
DARKER CONQUEROR: Hey, that was pretty good!
While Darker Conqueror stops to write this new bon mot down in his insult notebook, Liquid Sunshine darts forward, a look of ecstatic bliss on his spastic face. He promply begins to have sex with the skull. The others watch him with horrified fascination. After a moment, they begin to offer advice.
X-MOUTH: Use your fist! Your fist!!
HATE GUY: No, you've got to discipline it! Spankings!
X-MOUTH: Call it a slut!
DARKER CONQUEROR: (still having trouble with the insult notebook) Y-O-M-A-M-M-A . . .
X-MOUTH: Baaaaaa!
LIQUID SUNSHINE: Quiet, you fuckers! Can't you see that I'm going against the norms of a regulated and morally-controlled society? This is daring, avant-garde nonconformism!
<long pause>
X-MOUTH: It looks like you're just fucking a dead skull to me.
HATE GUY: Yeah.
DARKER CONQUEROR: Yo mamma!
Sighing, Liquid Sunshine stands up, brushes the bone splinters off his prepubescent penis, and starts off down the cave, grumbling at how unappreciated he is.
LIQUID SUNSHINE: Nobody realizes how daring and cutting edge I am. *THAT*'s why I hate fanfics . . .
The other trolls follow him.
A few moments later, our final band of retarded travelers appear--Mr. Chunkiful and Slothrop. Apparently, in between episodes, they figured out a way to escape from the Fratelli's house.
Apparently.
Anyway:
SLOTHROP: So, as I infer it, you are indeed implying that the correct vernacular for referring to a woman's erogenous genital nether-regions is truly the term "snapper"?
MR. CHUNKIFUL: Yuppy-doo! Snappper! Pppppppppp!
SLOTHROP: Indeed. Quite fascinating. I do say, old chap, do you have any inkling of our present subterranian topological location? Or, to put it in distasteful layman's terms for the benefit of those deprived of the sublime art of pretention, where are we?
MR. CHUNKIFUL: Snapper-doo! Quartter in my braain! Pppppp! DDDDmajic, here i cum!
SLOTHROP: Quite right. Lead on, my world-weary companion. Lead on.
They head out of sight, futher down the tunnel, toward the inevitable bloodbath that's coming whenever the author runs out of ideas . . .
TO BE CONTINUED
--Slater
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