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EXT. CITY STREET
The car carrying MEB, Violet Beauregarde, skilly, Hairhead, Retard-In-The-Theater and Pseudonym streaks down the street at a breakneck pace.
MEB: Fuck! I don't believe those stupid bitches tried to kill us!
VIOLET: Well, maybe there's a reasonable explanation . . .
MEB: It's *Bubbles* and *mia*!
VIOLET: Oh, right. <long pause> Fuck me.
Hairhead leans forward eagerly.
HAIRHEAD: Well, now that all of the shooting's stopped and everything, howsabout we all head back to my place and relax with a few hours of sensual massage therapy? I've got this great hot tub . .
MEB: Not now, Hairhead.
Hairhead leans back and gives Retard a "Well, I tried!" shrug. Retard grins blankly and gives him a thumbs-up.
SKILLY: The kid is pathetic, but he's got a point. Near- death experiences always make me horny. Got anything, M.E.B.?
Miss-enthropic Bitch nods, and motions to the glove box.
MEB: I keep CFL in there. Feel free.
Skilly reaches into the glove box and pulls out CFL. The midget grins at her.
SKILLY: What's your name this week, CFL?
CFL: Well, that's a fascinating conundrum you've presented here. One the one hand, the name "Presley" carries with it a sort of historical stigma which lends itself well to many different social settings. Taking a Darwinian approach to the matter, however, yields an entirely different set of parameters which must be--
The rest of his sentence is muffled, as skilly takes the oportunity to ram the midget inside her.
SKILLY: If you see Slothrop in there, pull him out, wouldja?
She begins hammering away with CFL, an absent expression on her face.
In the backseat, Hairhead and Retard-in-the-Theater can barely contain their delight.
HAIRHEAD: Dude, this is AWESOME . . .
Retard sniffs the air, one eyebrow raised.
RETARD: Fish . . . ?
Psuedonym turns to the other girls.
PSUE: Listen, we've got to figure out why these two dopey bitches are trying to kill us. I think we need to go see . . . HER.
The other girls stare at her, shocked.
CUT TO:
INT. CAT MANSION
Bubbles and Mia Wallace slowly enter the foyer of a majestic palatial estate. The walls are covered with massive murals filled with violent slashes and splashes of paint, most of which probably could have been painted by an elephant. Or Jackson Pollack. Whoever.
Gigantic cat statues surround them, leering tigers, pumas, and lions. The marble floor is covered with small individual tiles, each one imprinted with the distinct outline of a feline. Plus, there's catshit everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE.
MIA: so where's this guy you're talking about who's got all of the really big cool guns blam blam brrrrrrpow! bap! brrrrrap!
BUBBLES: Settle down, mia.
MIA: i wanna see the bossman! i want more guns! brrap- powza!
VOICE: And who might you be?
A shadowy figure emerges from the . . . uh . . . err . . . shadows. It is JUSTSARAH, although, amazingly enough, she looks EXACTLY like Conqueror wearing a cheap blonde wig. Go fucking figure.
JUSTSARAH: Nobody talks to the boss without my permission.
BUBBLES: Out of the way, you little disease.
Justsarah throws back her manly head and laughs.
JUSTSARAH: Disease? DISEASE? Lemme tell you something about diseases, bitch. Alcoholism isn't a disease. Drug addiction isn't a disease. Chronic nocturnal emmissions isn't a disease. Hepatitis isn't a disease....
Bubbles shrugs.
BUBBLES: Yeah, but severe cystic acne IS.
Bubbles snaps her fingers, and GRUNDLE leaps from the shadows. We don't see much--kind of a pepperoni pizza on fat, stubby legs, and then the beast falls upon justsarah, tearing the helpless she-male apart in seconds, screaming all the while.
GRUNDLE: JESSE VENTURA! WELLFARE HOUSING! PLANNED PARENTHOOD! BUGS BUNNY! GUN CONTROL! ACUTANE! THONG BIKINI! AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!
The sight is grisly and horrifying. Bubbles and Mia watch with interest.
MIA: So THAT's how you do it . . .
Suddenly, a voice rings out from the top of the staircase.
WULFGAR: Vewwy impwessive, Ms. Powerpuff.
They turn and see the infamous WULFGAR decending down the staircase. He's an enormously fat man, covered with blotches of paint, and puffing an enormous cigar. Incidentally, his pants are stuffed with writhing kittens. Kinda weird, but it's his thing.
WULFGAR: So, what can I do for you . . . errr, *ladies*?
Bubbles smiles.
BUBBLES: We wanna start a war...
CUT TO:
EXT. ITALIAN VILLA, THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN.
The Crankyladies enter a large, shadowy room. The score of "The Godfather" is playing in the background, and a life- size picture of a smiling Sylvester Stallone eating a plate of pasta adorns the left wall. Cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air. The chair in the center of the room is turned away from them, but we know it's not empty.
VIOLET: Uh, excuse me, Ma'am. . . ?
The chair swivels around. GODMOTHER gives them a slow, solemn nod.
GODMOTHER: Ehh, you want dat I should do a favor for you, eh?
VIOLET: Um . . . yeah, that's right, actually.
Godmother nods sadly.
GODMOTHER: Always wit da fuckin' favors. I shoulda nevah taken dis gig . . .
She motions toward them.
GODMOTHER: Come a little closer. Tell me what de problem is . . .
TO BE CONTINUED. I GUESS. MAYBE. WHATEVER.
--Slater
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