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EXT. CITY STREET
Psuedonym's house sits in the background, still shot to shit from the firefight earlier. UBER emerges from the bushes, limping a little bit. Blood is pouring from his ass. Evidently, his liason with Bubbles didn't go so well. Moaning, he makes his way to the street.
UBER: Ha! I bet you guys thought that I had dropped out of this fanfic forever, didn't you? Well, guess again! Uber's stickin' around! Uber's gonna survive this crummy fanfic, even if Uber has to--
He is interrupted by Miss-enthropic Bitch's Land Rover, which smashes into him at ninety miles an hour. He explodes in a geyser of Conqueror-shaped intestines. The Land Rover screetches to a halt. M.E.B. looks in the rearview mirror, grinning.
MEB: That oughtta thin the ranks a little bit.
She suddenly notices something in the mirror. It's LIQUID SUNSHINE, dashing toward the vehicle as fast as he can, waving his arms wildly. His jizz-soaked jeans are around his ankles. Kinda creepy, y'know.
LIQUID: Wait! Please, put me in your fanfic! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE! I've tried everything I can think of, but I'm too embarrassed to come right out and say how much I admire and love all of you! Please, I'm not such a bad guy, I'm just kinda stupid and--
M.E.B. throws the Land Rover in reverse and roars backwards. It comes to a halt with its rear wheels resting directly on top of Liquid's ruptured head. Blood is everywhere, but not much brain matter. Go fucking figure.
MEB: Okay, THAT oughtta do it. Everybody out.
The Crankyland women pile out of the vehicle, followed by Hairhead and Retard-in-the-theater, who are giggling like schoolgirls.
HAIRHEAD: Dude, you KNOW they're gonna have to take showers after that firefight . . .!
RETARD: Ann eats skitttles! Snapper-doo!
VIOLET: Okay, first things first. There's a crate of AK- 47s in the basement that we'll have to get, and--
She is interrupted by a muffled screaming. Skilly abruptly stops, looking sheepish.
SKILLY: Whoops, forgot.
She reaches into her crotch and pulls out ARON. The midget splutters a little bit, wiping slime out of his eyes.
SKILLY: You okay?
ARON: MY REVIEW OF SKILLY'S PUSSY: At first I was wary of another pussy, especially after last summer's dismal display of overblown and insipid spectacle-driven pussies. Add to the fact that the pussy in question belongs to skilly, well known for her bombastic love of excess and larger-than-life theatrics, and you can imagine my trepidation going into this one. After all, if you've seen one giant gaping twat, you've seen them all! Fortunately, this pussy (which goes into wide release this Friday--check your local listings!) is not nearly as garrish and hollow as the previews have made it out to be. I was pleasantly surprised to discover a thin layer of subtlety and restraint hidden deep within the pussy, aided by strong, masterful performances by skilly regulars such as Labia and Clitoris. While the special effects are no doubt the reason that most audiences will experience skilly's pussy this summer, many audience members will no doubt walk away pondering many of the existential questions posed throughout the vagina. Another pleasant surprise was the level of depth and maturity I found lurking beneath the surface. While at times the visuals somewhat overpower the narrative arc, this is hardly surprising considering the source material. Indeed, I was relieved to find that skilly's pussy was more than simply a one-hit wonder, and the previously unnoticed subtletly and range of the pussy's supporting cast proves that this is one summer ride you'll want to take again and again. Personally, I can't wait to see what skilly's pussy holds in store for us in the future! My score: 8.5/10.
Everybody stares at him, shocked. Drew Atreides pops up out of the bushes.
DREW: Well, I loved it! It's the best one I've ever seen! I'll give it an 11 out of ten! No, wait . . a 12 out of ten! No, thirteen . . . !
Everybody stares at him, shocked. Skilly turns back to Aron, who is looking quite pleased with himself.
SKILLY: You done?
ARON: What, are you kidding? That's just my opening paragraph. Here's my IN-DEPTH review . . .
Skilly grabs the midget, picks him up like a football, and drop-kicks him across the street. When she raises her leg, Slothrop falls out. He lies on the ground, coughing and spluttering. A big shit-eating grin is stretched from ear to gangly ear.
SLOTHROP: What year is it? Did I miss Final Fantasy X?
SKILLY: Oh, you're still alive?
SLOTHROP: You betcha. GIRLFRIEND.
She stares at him for a moment, then starts laughing. Hard.
SKILLY: "Girlfriend!" A-hahahahaha! Oh Jesus, that's a good one . . . just wait here, Art Garfunkel . . . I'll be back in a minute with the wedding rings . . .
Laughing, she turns and walks into the house. Slothrop watches her go, looking both utterly confused and blissfully happy.
SLOTHROP: I'm the luckiest guy in the world. . .
ARON appears beside him.
ARON: You got that right!
Slothrop screams in terror.
SLOTHROP: Aaaaaauuuugggghhhh! A black man!
Slothrop runs away into the night, shrieking. Aron watches him go, looking confused.
INT. PSUE'S HOUSE
Hairhead and Retard emerge from the basement, straining under the load of the heavy wooden crates they're carrying.
HAIRHEAD: So . . . what's . . . in these . . . boxes . . . my little . . . chickadees . . . ?
RETARD: SKITTTLESS??
Violet glares at them. She's wearing a Matrix-esque black leather jumpsuit and sunglasses, which the boys are oggling with little to no shame.
VIOLET: Don't drop those crates. There's enough C-4 in there to cover this entire block with gigantic, festering craters.
RETARD: Grundle-doo?
The other Crankyland women emerge from the back room, all wearing similar jumpsuits. It's an immature boy's ultimate masturbatory fantasy. Too bad Liquid-Sunshine is already dead, huh?
PSUE: All right, ladies. Ready for some action?
Hairhead falls to the ground in a dead faint, a beautific smile on his face. Retard begins hopping up and down in excitement. Somehow, somewhere he's gotten a tube of Castor Oil, and he begins smearing it all over his chest, trembling madly. The girls watch him, more than a little repulsed.
PSUE: Uhh . . . what about them?
MEB: Hey, Retard! There's one last box in the basement. Bring it up, and we'll let you have your way with us.
Retard doesn't understand much of this, but he gets the general drift. He dashes down the basement stairs, tripping and falling halfway. There is a tremendous CRASH, followed by an angry "FISH!" A minute later, he rushes back upstairs, the last crate slung over his shoulder.
The room is empty. The Land Rover's tires squeal in the distance.
Have you ever seen a Retard get his heart broken? It's not pretty.
RETARD: Fucker-doo . . .
He looks down, snivelling miserable Retard-tears, furious at being tricked. The crate he was holding lies on the ground, half-open. Two sawed-off Winchesters lie at the bottom of the crate, glistening.
Retard smiles darkly. He just got an idea.
EXT. AIRPORT.
We're at the Crankyland Municipal Airport. Planes are taking off left and right. A gigantic 747 with the words AIR DIVA-B written on the side in huge gold letters blasts across the highway. It's upside-down, and streaking along about ten feet above the ground at a nice 800-mile-an-hour clip. It promptly plows into the side of a mountain in a rupturing belch of flames. Just another day in Crankyland.
Nick-the-Knife roars up to the side of the airport on his motorcycle. He screetches to a stop too fast and falls forward over the handlebars. Nick picks himself up, grinning.
NICK: That's the best thing about motorcycles--no pesky motherfucking LAP BARS.
COASTER hurries over to him, looking worried.
NICK: Hey, Coaster.
COASTER: whooeee.
NICK: What's wrong? You don't sound like your normal hyperbolic self.
Coaster fidgits, looking nervous.
COASTER: Well, it's Slater. He already showed up, but he's . . . well . . .
NICK: Lemme guess--he's loaded?
COASTER: How'd you guess?
Nick shakes his head, looking disgusted.
NICK: Fuckin' wannabe Hemmingway-bullshit . . . Well, it's not like we didn't expect this, right?
COASTER: Yeah, but . . .
Slater stumbles over. He's missing his pants, and his shirt is caked with dried vomit.
SLATER: Yerrsh talkin bout me, arencha? Motherfuckerssh. Lemme tell you shomething--I'm a . . . I'm a fuckin ARTISHT, man! I've got all thish fuckin ANGSHT and shit! I've got to . . . hold on . . got to . . . no fat chicks . . . I've gots to . . .
We don't find out what he's got to do, however, because the dipshit projectile vomits and smashes face-first into the concrete, completely unconscious.
Coaster wrings his hands nervously.
COASTER: Like I was saying, I'm worried because Slater was the one with all of the GUNS! Now that he's drunk, he can't remember where he left them!
Nick pauses, realizing the shit-storm he just rode into.
NICK: So you're saying we're trapped in a town with two insane dykes who have more firepower than an Iraqi family reunion and less brains than a bucket of hairy jizz . . . and we don't have any way to defend ourselves?
Coaster nods.
NICK: Aww, FUCK . . .
TO BE CONTINUED...
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