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INT. THE DIPSHITMOBILE--NIGHT
Mia and Bubbles race down a one-street in the wrong direction, occasionally leaping up on the sidewalk to avoid the oncoming vehicles. Elderly grandmothers and crippled retards are casually mowed down by the weaving vehicle. Grundle is in the backseat, furiously masturbating to a photo of RBB and sobbing bitterly.
The car screetches to a stop in front of Psue's shot-up house, and the dumbasses exit the vehicle.
BUBBLES: Hmm . . . it looks deserted. They must not be back yet.
MIA: Can I poop on their beds, then?
Bubbles fixes her with a withering stare.
BUBBLES: What did I tell you, Mia? No pooping until the job's done!
Mia and Grundle look crestfallen.
BUBBLES: Well, let's check it out . . .
They approach the house. Suddenly, the front door flies open and Retard-In-The-Theater emerges, a sawed-off pump- action shotgun in each hand, and a look of insane rage on his moonface.
RETARD: FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH!!!
He begins firing wildly. His first shot grazes their heads, but his second shot hits Bubbles directly in her left breast. The breast instantly deflates with a small hissing noise.
BUBBLES: Aww, SHIT . . .
In his best "Terminator" stance, Retard flicks his wrists violently, snap-cocking the dual shotguns.
RETARD:
SKIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS
SSS!!!!!!!!!!!
He takes careful aim. Which is odd, seeing as how he's a murderously insane retard and all...
Mia turns to run, a look of panic on her face. An instant later, the twin guns roar and a blast of buckshot narrowly misses Mia's head. Her nose is instanly disintigrated, flying away in a red spray. Shrieking, she dashes for the car, with Bubbles in hot pursuit. Grundle follows them on all fours.
Retard strides after them methodically, a look of cold detachment on his normally vacant face. He snap-cocks the shotguns again.
Bubbles wrestles with the door handle. This is normally a difficult task for her even in the best of situations, which this most clearly is not.
BUBBLES: C'mon, c'mon, C'MON, YOU FUCK! OPEN!
Retard bellows into the night air behind them.
RETARD:
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCKKKKKKKAAAAAAAAADDDDDDOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDL
LLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!
Bubbles opens the car door and dives into the driver's seat. Mia's already in the car, bouncing up and down frantically. Grundle leaps in behind them, landing on their laps. Bubbles slams the door behind him.
There's another roar and the windshield explodes inward. Grundle's head explodes, showering the inside of the car with highly-contagious pus, a large quantity of which goes inside the girls' screaming mouths.
Retard snap-cocks the guns again, but now the car squeals to life and takes off down the street. He fires again, turning the back of the Chevette into shredded metal. The car disappears around a corner.
Retard glowers after them, his skinny chest heaving.
RETARD: Snapper-doo . . .
Hairhead emerges from the house, blearily rubbing his eyes.
HAIRHEAD: What'd I miss . . .?
Retard glares at him, tosses him one of the shotguns, then turns and begins to walk down the street, after the departing vehicle. Hairhead stares after him, confused, then he hurries to catch up.
HAIRHEAD: So where'd the lesbians go, man?
RETARD: Fish.
HAIRHEAD: Oh. Right.
EXT. INSIDE THE CAR
Mia is shrieking hysterically.
MIA: By dose! Dey shob off by dose! I can't bewieve dey shob off by fubbing DOSE!
BUBBLES: Shut up.
Bubbles is furiously wiping the grundlepus off her face, nervously wondering how contagious it really is.
BUBBLES: Somebody's gonna pay for this . . .
CUT TO:
SPEAKER'S ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT SUSHI SHACK
Wulfgar's CatMobile pulls up in front of Speaker4Dead's All- You-Can-Eat Sushi Shack. He slowly and painfully pries himself out of the tiny car, which is filled to the brim with thousands of writhing kittens.
He passes Slater, who is passed out face-down in the gutter without giving the drunk a second glance. It's obvious that he doesn't recognize him.
Wulfgar enters the Sushi Shack. It appears to be empty. The buffet bar is thirty-feet long, the length of the entire restaurant, but it only has a single tiny piece of sushi resting on it. Wulfgar stares at it, confused.
WULFGAR: This is aww you can eat? Unbewievable.
Speaker emerges from the backroom, holding a heavy crate of firearms. He freezes when he sees Wulfgar.
SPEAKER: Aww, shit.
WULFGAR: Surpwised to see me, Speakew?
SPEAKER: Huh?
WULFGAR: I heaw that you'we the man to see fow iwwegal fiweawms. I'm in need of some vewy heavy fiwepower.
SPEAKER: What?
WULFGAR: It's vewy simple, Speakew. I need wifles, I need wocket waunchers, and I need wadio-contwolled wemote detonatows.
SPEAKER: Listen, man, I don't understand a single fucking word that's coming out of your mouth.
Wulfgar frowns, displeased.
WULFGAR: Weww, in that case, perhaps you could tawk with my two widdle fwiends.
He pulls two twin Derringers from his breast pocket, matching solid gold with fluffy kittens engraved on the sides. He points them at Speaker, who pales.
SPEAKER: Listen, man, now's not exactly the best time. Maybe you could come back wader--fuck, I mean LATER.
Suddenly, Nick and Coaster emerge from the backroom, also carrying large cases of heavy artillery. Wulfgar trains the Derringers on them, and they freeze.
WULFGAR: Nobody twy anything twicky.
COASTER: What???
WULFGAR: This is working out vewy well, I think. I came to purchase fiweawms to destwoy you, only to find you compwetewy unpwepawed! The iwony is vewy thick, I think.
Nick stares at Coaster.
NICK: Do you understand a fucking thing he's saying?
Coaster shakes his head.
Wulfgar flushes, furious.
WULFGAR: Wisten, it's a vewy simple speech impediment! Fousands of people thwoughout the continental United States suffew fwom a simiwar affwiction!
SPEAKER: Dude, why do you have CATS in your pants??
Wulfgar stammers nervously. This isn't turning out like he had planned.
WULFGAR: Well, for stawters, it's a mattew of comfowt. Then thewe's the question of warmth . . . fuck, it's none of your bithness! Don't you weawize that I'm going to shoot you all?
Coaster shakes his head slowly.
COASTER: I dunno. Maybe it's Latin or something. Or Sanskrit. I've never heard anything like it.
Wulfgar sighs and thumbs back the hammer on each Derringer. There's an audible CLICK, and the other three stare at him nervously.
SPEAKER: Um . . . is the foreign guy gonna shoot us or something.
Wulfgar smiles darkly.
WULFGAR: Pwepawe to meet your makews.
Suddenly, the door to the Sushi Shack opens and llamasex dashes in.
LLAMASEX: Hey, Speaker, you gotta come see this! Some drunk in the street woke up, and he's pulling kittens out of this car and tossing 'em into oncoming traffic! It's fucking HILARIOUS!
Wulfgar shrieks, a high-pitched, girlish scream. He turns and dashes for the door, his guns forgotten at his side.
Speaker lets go of the case of guns he's holding. With one fluid motion, he crouches and snatches a gun out of the crate before it hits the ground. Spinning around, he fires a shot at the fleeing fat man. It hits Wulfgar squarely in the asscheek, and he howls. Then Wulfgar is out the door and gone. We hear a commotion from outside, then Wulfgar's Catmobile screams away down the block.
The Sushi Shack door opens and Slater stumbles in, rubbing the back of his head.
SLATER: Fucker donkeypunched me . . .
Speaker slips the gun into his belt and turns to the others.
SPEAKER: Seems like you've got some interesting shit going on here. Mind if I tag along?
Nick shakes his head.
NICK: Fine by me. We've gotta get moving, though. If my hunch is right, that cat-molesting fuck is gonna lead us right to Bubbles Peppercunt and my little bitch buddy Mia. Let's go.
SLATER: I'll drive.
Grabbing armfuls of heavy artillery, they head for the door.
TO BE CONTINUED.
--Slater
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