Sound of buzzer. Doors open.
CONDOLEEZZA RICE enters.
She walks down creepy hallway looking prim, proper and tough – and, underneath it all, a little scared.
She walks past rows of barred jail cells containing various dictators and bad guys, a few that people know about (NORIEGA), but most (IDI AMIN, the AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI, etc.) are officially “dead.”
CONDI stops at end of hall in front of Plexiglas window with little breathing holes cut into it as if there’s a giant lizard on the other side. There, standing in the middle of the room and looking right back at her as if expecting her, is SADDAM HUSSEIN.
SADDAM: Hello Condi. Love your suit.
She tosses her head in frustration.
SADDAM: And the way you bob your head like that. Is very sexy but not, how you say, very black. I am quite curious, where did you learn this move?
CONDI: (holding out piece of paper) I brought you a test.
SADDAM: Watching Katharine Hepburn videos? “Philadelphia Story,” hmm?
CONDI: (ignoring him but flustered) If you could just …
SADDAM: Or the “Preppy Handbook,” perhaps? (like a snake) Dressss for successss…?
CONDI: Just take a moment …
Putting test in slide-out drawer pushes it into his cell.
SADDAM: (removing test contemptuously, but not looking at it) I know why you are here, sister. You want Osama, hmm? Osama yo mama, yes? And you think I will help. It takes the fox to catch the fox, yes? You think to crack open my head like egg of the mythical roc and scoop out the tasty yolk inside. Ah, you know once in my home country, a census taker tried to crack my egg. I put him through a meat grinder feet first and had his whole family killed. I will not take your stupid (looking at test, suddenly interested) Oh, this is a poser. (reading aloud) ‘If it takes sixteen bulldozers to dig 3,000 mass graves in six hours and there are 14 Kurdish villages with populations of …”
Fade to black.
Fade in to CONDI sitting cross-legged and prim, dead center in front of SADDAM’s cell, grading test and making significant “Hmmm” noises.
SADDAM: How did I do?
CONDI: It’s the highest score ever. You even beat out Idi Amin.
We hear a frustrated howl from down the hall.
SADDAM: Excellent. And it is the last information you will ever extract from me. (waving hand contemptuously) I advise you now depart and have your hair straightened.
He turns his back on her. She realizes it’s hopeless and walks away dejectedly down the hall.
From one of the cages, IDI AMIN hollers, “He cheated!” and throws a wad of his own dung in her hair.
CONDI: Damn! (wiping crap out of hair – reverting to Alabama accent) I’m fixing to fuck you up motherfucker!
SADDAM: Come back!
She runs back with a clattering of high heels.
SADDAM: If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s rudeness. Torture, genocide, OK. But rudeness I hate. I will help you. But it will be quizzybuck perquacky.
CONDI: You mean quid pro quo.
SADDAM: Yes, yes, Miss Stanford Faculty I-have-a-PhD Bitch. As you say, “quizzybuck perquacky.” Here are the rules: I answer question. You take off article of clothing.
CONDI: (shuddering groan, then with loathing and philosophical acceptance) Fine.
SADDAM: Are you wearing any underwear?
CONDI: No, I mean … Hey I’m supposed to be asking the questions!
SADDAM: (unzipping fly) Sorry. My bad. (smiling) Shall we begin?
Cut to…
CONDI with upper garments off, still wearing a bra.
CONDI: (removing earring) Where is Osama hiding?
SADDAM: Better you should ask what he is hiding.
CONDI: And that would be?
SADDAM: Phrase it in form of question.
CONDI: What is Usama hiding?
SADDAM: What isn’t he?
CONDI: You tell me.
SADDAM: As a question.
CONDI: What is it that Saddam isn’t hiding?
SADDAM: His manhood.
CONDI: Why not?
SADDAM: (smiling) You cannot hide what you do not have. (outraged) Hey, a watch is not clothing, a watch is an accessory!
Fade out…
Come back to …
Worm’s eye view from floor – shot of CONDI from behind, just her high heel shoes and a bit of her ankles. Her panties drop – unsexy Republican Underoos emblazoned with pictures of Ronald Reagan in a cowboy hat with a lariat. She kicks them away.
SADDAM: (groaning) It is all so obvious, Condi, so very obvious.
CONDI: If …
SADDAM: I have told you enough. A mind is terrible thing to be wasted. Use your mind! Go! But before you go, could I ask you to …
CONDI: No.
She bends down out of frame, comes back up holding pile of clothes, utter disgust on her face.
We hear her walk off.
Go to SADDAM watching in sexual frustration.
SADDAM: Quizzybuck perquacky, Condi! Quizzybuck perquacky!
Go to black.
Come back to CONDI in seat of jet plane.
She suddenly gets it.
CONDI: (sitting up straight in her seat) Showtunes! Of course. That’s it. SHOWTUNES!
Go to int., off-off-off Broadway theater. On stage, we see some over-the-top, pre-Andrew Lloyd Webber, old-school, loud, lush, gushy musical, the kinda thing Mel Brooks satirizes. There’s a female chorus line doing ba-da-boom kicks, grinning too widely. Close in. We see that a shaved, rouged OSAMA is in the chorus line, dressed as a woman.
From outside, the sudden sound of helicopters, troops. The music stops. OSAMA stops in mid-kick, fear in his eyes.
Go to ext., night, military airport. Much activity, jubilation. We infer OSAMA has been caught.
Go to int., brightly-lit hanger. G.W. Bush smirking at SADDAM who’s strapped vertically to a loading dolly.
BUSH: Well this is it, Ayatollah.
SADDAM: Saddam, you idiot.
BUSH: Whatever. The moment (pausing significantly) of destisity. American determification has freeified even more and securified even less than anyone, anywhere, anyhow. Now. In the past. And even beyond the future.
SADDAM: Please get to the point.
BUSH: The point. (thinking, rusty wheels grinding slowly) OK, the point. Well let me shoot it to you straight, pard …
SADDAM: (muttering to camera) How did a brain-damaged cowboy like him defeat my beautiful wickedness?
BUSH: Sure you won’t tell me where you hid them-there weapons of mass distraction?
SADDAM: No.
BUSH: Ever consider a career as a Vice President?
SADDAM: No. Now, please to, as you say in America, "fuck off."
BUSH: Suit yourself.
BUSH walks off.
Go to wide shot, looking down. Strapped vertically to the loading dolly, SADDAM’s in the center of the huge space. BUSH walks out of frame. We hear his footsteps echoing. Sound of big door opening, clanging shut.
Hold on SADDAM.
SADDAM remains in his rig impassively, totally alone in the enormous hanger. Camera goes in …
Close on his face.
His eyes shift side to side like the cartoon donkey at the beginning of “Hee-Haw.”
SADDAM smiles.
Grunts.
Releases himself from straps like Houdini.
Pulls nuclear warhead out of his ass.
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