Scottish Inn

EXT, ROAD - NIGHT

Somewhere in Georgia. A few miles from a poorly marked, forgotten exit off the I-75 corridor at an indeterminate location between Atlanta and the Ninth Circle of Dante's Inferno.

A car drives down a creepy dirt road, probably lost. It approaches a neon motel sign — SCOTTISH INN. The sign is unlit, except for an awkwardly hanging hurricane lamp illuminating the word: VACANCY. The motel behind the sign is completely dark.

The car slows and stops.

NIGHT SKY

Cloudy night, wind but no rain. A hole in the clouds opens, revealing the moon.

The moon briefly illuminates an unpleasantly grinning SCOTSMAN on the sign. The sign goes dark again, except for the word VACANCY in the flickering light of the lamp.

The car just sits there, idling.

The dome light goes on. Somebody’s looking at a map. Muted sounds of cursing, a couple arguing. The dome light goes off.

The car reluctantly moves again, slowly pulls into the motel.

The car is a 1995 Hyundai. But who cares?

INT, FRONT DESK, SCOTTISH INN

A MAN enters, walks up to the desk. He looks very tired.

A SCOTSMAN appears, carrying a candle in a sconce. He looks exactly like the icon on the sign, except he’s not grinning.

SCOTSMAN: Scottish Inn. What do ye want?

MAN: Well, your sign says "vacancy."

SCOTSMAN: Are you calling me a liar?

MAN: Well, no …

SCOTSMAN: Would I put it on me sign if it were nae true?

MAN: No. I didn’t say …

SCOTSMAN: No, you didn’t fancy man. Ye want a room or nae?

MAN: Yeah, I want ...

SCOTSMAN: Then a room ye shall have. Dollar a night, cash in hand.

MAN: Dollar a night? Seriously?

SCOTSMAN: It’s the Scottish Inn, man.

MAN: OK.

Hands him a dollar. SCOTSMAN studies it, holds it up to the light, finally takes it.

MAN: My car …

SCOTSMAN: Will be safe where it is. Ye’ll not get past the debris field.

MAN: But …

SCOTSMAN: I’ll lead the way, laddie.

SCOTSMAN puts hand over candle to shield it from the wind.

MAN: Is …

SCOTSMAN: Follow or be left behind.

SCOTSMAN walks out brusquely. The MAN follows.

The SCOTSMAN leads him to a room. Strange journey, full of strange sights.

This motel, evidently, was part of a major chain at one time, but now looks like it’s been abandoned for years. The pool is filled with weeds and dirt. No lights anywhere. One wing seems to have been blown up. Huge chunks of concrete are scattered on the parking lot. The SCOTSMAN was right about the debris.

SCOTSMAN finally stops before the door of one room.

SCOTSMAN: Here t’is.

SCOTSMAN barges in. The MAN follows.

MAN: Is …

INT, MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT

Inside is as dark as outside.

SCOTSMAN holds up candle to illuminate the space. No bed. Broken mirror. Battered motel furniture, three candles on top of one dresser next to a sconce.

SCOTSMAN: It is what it is. No refunds. Three candles a night. Matches are your own look out.

MAN: (daring to ask the question) Is the power out?

SCOTSMAN: The power? That's nae specific. Wha sort of power? Political power? The power of prayer?

MAN: You know, electricity?

SCOTSMAN: Oh, it’s electricity, you’re wanting! Candle’s not good enough for the likes of ye? (sticks it in his face) Nay. Bonnie Prince Charles has come back from the grave! Only the finest for your majesty! I bow before ye! Break out the good china and kill the fatted calf!

MAN: No, no…it’s OK.

SCOTSMAN: Oh .. It’s OK! It’s OK, is it? Christ, I’m so relieved.

MAN: Yeah, yeah. OK.

SCOTSMAN: (bowing) If it please your majesty.

MAN looks around.

MAN: Where do I sleep?

SCOTSMAN: Wh ... Are ye blind, man? (holding up candle — illuminating pile of straw in the corner) What do ye think that’s for?

MAN: Straw?

SCOTSMAN: Mind ye keep the candle away from it.

MAN: (sees it, but can’t believe it) There’s no bed?

SCOTSMAN: No bed? No bed? Oh. Fancy man! He wants a bed! Straw’s not good enough for his royal highness! Nay. The bedbugs might bite him on his royal arse! He’s used to finer accommodations! A bed to tuck his arse in, a mattress fit for kings far softer than any cloud in the sky. Oh, aye, but God forbid there’s a fucking pea below the mattress. His majesty’s arse is a sensitive one. He’d be tossing and turning all night! I suppose it’s air-conditioning ye’ll be wanting next!

MAN: No …

He looks around again.

Reluctantly. But he has to ask –

MAN: Where’s the bathroom?

SCOTSMAN: It’s well and truly boarded shut, ye daft fool. Bathroom! A prodigal waste if ever there be one.

MAN: No … No toilet?

SCOTSMAN: A toilet! I fall on my knees before your majesty! (he does) Fall on my knees and worship him! You’d like that, wouldn’t ye?

MAN: No –

The SCOTSMAN leaps up, enraged. Gets in the MAN’s face.

SCOTSMAN: Did the Lord Jesus Christ have a toilet? There were nae toilets in His day, man. Or fancy toilet paper! Just the trees that God Himself created and the grasses of the field. Aye! That’s your toilet and your wiping accommodations. It were good enough for Him! Are ye better than the Lord Jesus Christ?

MAN: No.

SCOTSMAN: I’ll take a stick to your —

A young WOMAN enters.

WOMAN: Is everything all right, honey?

The SCOTSMAN recoils with Calvinist horror.

SCOTSMAN: What manner of sin is this? Ye dare to bring a woman here?

MAN: She’s my wife.

SCOTSMAN: Ye think I was born yesterday?

WOMAN: I was waiting in the Hyundai and I saw you --

SCOTSMAN: Strumpet!

WOMAN: What’s his problem?

SCOTSMAN: Harlotry!

She rolls her eyes, holds up hand, shows wedding ring.

SCOTSMAN: That proves nought.

Two CHILDREN burst in. Crying.

SCOTSMAN: And here be the wee bairns. (gives them the stink eye – decides they’re not bastards) Aye, all right then, she’s nae trollop. I meant no calumny.

KIDS: (whining) We’re hungry.

SCOTSMAN: Hungry? You? (to the PARENTS) You disgust me, the two of ye. Christ, they’re fat as pigs. You call yourselves parents?

IRISHMAN: (OS) Are we having a problem, then?

SCOTSMAN: (whirling around) Stay out of this! This does nae concern you!

Framed in the doorway, the IRISHMAN stands grinning, like an Irish Spring ad come to life.

MAN: Who are you?

IRISHMAN: (answering the MAN but looking at the WOMAN) I’m Lord and Master of the Irish Inn. (smiling) Just next door. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

SCOTSMAN: I’ll make the acquaintance of me claymore with your spotted Irish arse.

IRISHMAN: Try it.

SCOTSMAN: Oh I will.

IRISHMAN: (he points, still looking at the WOMAN) You may be wondering about the lights above the trees where I be indicating.

SCOTSMAN: Get out!

IRISHMAN: Sure we got electricity then. And plenty of whiskey.

SCOTSMAN: Shut your hole.

IRISHMAN: Not consumed with martyrdom like this psychotic specimen.

SCOTSMAN: Get out!

IRISHMAN: (winking at her) Always room at the Inn. You are invited.

SCOTSMAN: Ye dare… Ye dare …

IRISHMAN: Spit it out.

SCOTSMAN: (with much spittle) Ye dare to come into me establishment with a mind to filch me guests?

IRISHMAN: Is that what you say I’m doing?

SCOTSMAN: Aye!

IRISHMAN: (indifferently — winking at the WOMAN) I suppose it is.

SCOTSMAN: (pulling a nail-studded cudgel) I’ll kill ye where you stand!

IRISHMAN: (pulling a knife) Not if I kill you first.

They start fighting, take it into the deserted parking lot.

A ROMAN CENTURION appears in the doorway. Fully decked out.

He makes a Roman salute.

MAN: Who the hell are you?

CENTURION: Centurion Reetus Alrightus, fifth cohort of the Roman Inn.

SCOTSMAN: (OS) Knife. You think I'm afraid of a fucking knife?

IRISHMAN: (OS) Not at all.

Automatic weapons fire. (OS) The FAMILY automatically ducks down. CENTURION doesn't blink.

CENTURION: Caesar has charged me with bringing you to safety.

WOMAN: (not buying it) Caesar. You mean like the salad?

Gunfire stops. Silence. (OS)

SCOTSMAN: (OS — distantly) That all ye got?

Violent explosion. (OS)

The SCOTSMAN’s singed, severed hand flies into the motel room.

Hold a beat.

SCOTSMAN: (OS) That all ye got?

CENTURION: Follow me if you wish to live.

They do.

EXT, SCOTTISH MOTEL - NIGHT

The CENTURION leads the FAMILY across the parking lot, which now resembles a battlefield.

Cut back to -- the SCOTSMAN who, insanely, makes a perfect target of himself. He stands up behind a pile of shattered concrete at one end of the ruined courtyard, holding the bleeding stump where his severed left hand used to be under his right armpit. No weapon in his right hand. But he’s holding something.

SCOTMAN: Ye want to know what I got, laddie?

IRISHMAN: (smiling, holding an AK-47 and all the cards) I burn with curiosity.

SCOTSMAN: A fucking dog whistle.

He blows it silently. An army of pit bulls appears behind him—lunging at the IRISHMAN

IRISHMAN: Well. Here’s a doggie treat then.

He starts blasting the dogs with an AK-47. But the dogs keep coming.

The FAMILY runs.

Explosions. Screams. Barks.

CENTURION: Let us make haste, good people. These are barbarian lands.

The FAMILY keeps running.

They run out of the SCOTTISH INN.

They crash through overgrown fields in the night …

… and enter the courtyard of the ROMAN INN, patterned after the classical, high-minded Augustan Rome. Various philosophers debate; musicians play lyres. Centurions stand strategically and discretely around the pool.

The pace slows down.

FAMILY strolls behind the Centurion. Looking around. Admiring the pagan splendor.

MAN: Hey, this place is …

WOMAN: Classy. In a classical sorta way, y'know?

MAN: (to CENTURION) Thanks for …

CENTURION: (pointing) There’s the man to thank.

CAESAR enters the motel courtyard from the door marked OFFICE. The ROMANS all kneel, but the FAMILY doesn’t.

CENTURION: (whispering) When in Rome, eh?

The FAMILY kneels.

ROMANS: Hail Caesar.

CAESAR: Rise.

The ROMANS stand up. FAMILY too.

CAESAR walks over and addresses the FAMILY.

CAESAR: I bid you welcome, good people.

WIFE: Mr. Caesar, sir. I just want to say. This place is really, really classy. I mean, compared to that dump next door, you know?

CAESAR: I am truly honored.

He takes her hand. She blushes. CENTURION gives the MAN a keep-an-eye-on-your-wife look.

The musician strums the lyre.

WIFE: God, that’s beautiful.

CAESAR: Lyre.

WIFE: No! I'm telling the truth! I sweartagawd!

CAESAR: Of course. Woman of truth that you are.

She melts into a puddle of hormones.

CAESAR: But what is truth? What is beauty?

WOMAN: I dunno. I've never really ...

CAESAR: Here at the Roman Inn, we ask such questions. We are devoted to a life of philosophy and the cultivation of the mind. But such life is never secure. Centurion. Issue these new citizens their weapons.

CENTURION: I wish you’d let me use proper machine guns.

CAESAR: It is not the Roman way.

CENTURION: Right, then.

He hands the MAN and WOMAN Roman swords.

CAESAR: And the children.

He hands them cute little Roman swords.

MAN: What’s going on?

CAESAR: Ah. Quid agis? The eternal question.

CAESAR nods to a Centurion across the pool, who tosses him a charcoal briquette from the barbecue grill. CAESAR bends down, skillfully draws a map of the motel on the markite pool pavers.

CAESAR: Here, is our position.

Continues to draw.

CAESAR: To the north, the Celts are ever at each other’s throats. To the west, the German Inn has fallen into madness. Each night, they throw themselves in vast human waves at our defenses. Berserker hordes ...

CENTURION: Used to be polka. But this is worse.

CAESAR: Should you be captured …

CENTURION: (mimes falling on his sword) Die as the Romans do.

CAESAR: As he has said. Here. (tapping with briquette) On the eastern wing of this very motel, the pretender Caligula lays claim to title of Emperor. Rooms #22 through #115 are in his sway. Such are places of decadence and debauchery, good citizens. You are well-advised to avoid them.

CALIGULA: (OS) Oh, I dunno. What’s wrong with decadence and debauchery?

The FAMILY and the ROMANS all look up.

And see CALIGULA standing on the eastern balcony, a smirking Malcolm McDowell-type, flanked by his own Centurions and barely dressed Satyricon-types of indeterminate gender.

CALIGULA: (gesturing with a goblet of wine) We’re all dead, y’know. Let decadence and debauchery rule! Until the end.

The non-decadent ROMANS in the motel courtyard below are enraged. Various shouts of “Shut it, you!” “Go back to your boys,” etc.

CALIGULA laughs, gestures with his wine goblet towards CAESAR.

CALIGULA: What? You think he’s going to save you?

CENTURION: Come here and say that, you pissant puppet.

CALIGULA: I feel a poem coming on.

CENTURION: Here we go.

CENTURION reaches for something behind his back.

ANGLE ON CALIGULA

CALIGULA: Night will fall …

An arrow pierces his chest.

CALIGULA: F..ff….

CALIGULA leans over the railing. Sputters. Tries to speak, but can’t.

CENTURION: Cat got your tongue?

CALIGULA pitches over the balcony. Falls, screaming, into the ice machine. The Satyricon-types scatter.

The ROMANS cheer. MAN and WOMAN look shocked. The KIDS applaud wildly.

CENTURION puts his bow away.

CENTURION: (winking to one of the kids) Ah, just a little target practice.

Hold a beat. CALIGULA isn’t quite dead. He lies on his back in a scattering of bloody ice.

CALIGULA: (bubbles of blood on his lips) Night will f –f …

CENTURION: Oh shut up.

CALIGULA dies, shuts up.

Silence.

CAESAR takes advantage of the moment. Addresses the crowd.

CEASAR: Night may fall. But not yet. Not this day. Today we stand!

A cheer, then silence.

The silence is broken by sounds of horrible screaming to the west. Faint at first.

CAESAR: Stand as one!

The Centurions form a phalanx.To the west, the firestorm of inhuman rage approaches.

CENTURION: (to MAN and WOMAN) Fight or not. Guests are under no obligation. There’s HBO in the rooms.

The guttural screaming gets louder.

CAESAR: They come.

Oral Office Update

INT, White House bedroom. CLINTON and HILLARY in bed -- not Hillbillies. CLINTON wakes up with a shocked expression on his face.

CLINTON: Dang, just had me the weirdest dream. You and me were hillbillies -- like Jed and Granny. Ain't that a kick in the head?

HILLARY snorts.

HILLARY: Just a dream, Bill.

CLINTON: Worse than that ... you cut me off 'cause I'd given up on health care. (puts hands over groin area nervously) "No more nookie for you." That's what you said.

HILLARY: That's no dream.

CLINTON: That ain't funny.

HILLARY: No it isn't. No more nookie for you.

CLINTON: Hon!

HILLARY: Not until you deal with health care.

CLINTON: But Hon...we tried that, remember? Try it again, they'll carve me a new asshole. Another one. (he shifts uncomfortably)

HILLARY: That's your problem.

CLINTON: Can't you just...

Abruptly, she turns away from him, her back an S-curve, the bumps of her spine like the ridges of a frozen mountain range, impossible, impassible. Clinton reaches out to touch her.

CLINTON: How 'bout just a massage, then?

He strokes her back. Electric sparks shoot out. He jerks his hand away.

CLINTON: Owwwww.....It's that damn vast right wing conspiracy again, ain't it? They put his idea in your head! I know it!

HILLARY: Stop blaming everything on the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy.

Go to -- INT, SPACECRAFT

ALIEN speaking into microphone looking at Interossiter display of HILLARY in bed.

ALIEN: Cut Bill off. No more nookie for you. Cut Bill off. No more nookie for you.

Cut to EXT, starfield. We hear a low, throbbing, thrumming noise due to the assholic convention of sound in the vacuum of space. A metallic sphere emerges into view: it looks like the Death Star out of Star Wars. It comes closer. In one quadrant, an enormous crack'n'peel label announces "VAST RIGHT WING CONSPIRACY STAR." Underneath, in smaller letters: "your ad here."

Go to: earth. EXT, rooftop. MINISTER FARRAKHAN squinting through a battered Tasco telescope.

FARRAKHAN: Goddamnit, I knew it! It's the cracker flying saucer! How come nobody believed me 'bout the cracker flying saucer?

INT: cavernous imperial audience chamber inside the VAST RIGHT WING CONSPIRACY STAR. NEWT, STARR and SCAIFE enter. The enormous, shimmering holographic form of Nixon's face appears before them. They kneel before their undead Emperor...

NIXON: I am the great and powerful Wizard of the Republican Party! Death has only made me stronger! What the fuck do you want?

SCAIFE: (in Darth Vader costume) We await your bidding, O master.

NIXON: Goddamnit, you know what my fucking bidding is. Dirty tricks. Do a number on that goddamn Arkansas hillbilly. Get to his wife! Put ideas in her pointy little head. Slap his hand when he reaches for the nookie jar! I told you what to do!

SCAIFE: We started.

NIXON: Goddamnit, don't start. Do it! Make a fucking example of him. He fucked with insurance. Nobody fucks with insurance. Nobody! That's the fucking third rail and he touched it and now he must pay. Clinton must be destroyed!

SCAIFE: We will destroy him, O Master.

NIXON: Dig for dirt. Throw some money at some hungry reporter on that American Spectator of yours. Keep throwing shit until some of it sticks!

SCAIFE: Yes, O Master.

NIXON: Today we shall see the democratic rebellion crushed for the...

Beeping noise.

NIXON: Our total domination of the...

More obnoxious beeping. NIXON stops talking.

We still hear the beeping noise. It's some gadget in NEWT's pocket.

Everybody turns to look at him, including the enormous and enormously displeased disembodied sepulchral head of NIXON. NEWT's desperately fishing in his pockets to find the beeping gadget...

NEWT: Uh...sorry.

NIXON: What the hell is that?

NEWT: PDA. Personal digital ...

NIXON: I know what the fuck it is!

SCAIFE: He's been unbearable, O Master. Ever since they put him on the cover of Wired magazine.

NIXON: You have failed me for the last time.

NEWT starts to choke. Continues to choke through the scene.

SCAIFE: I beg you not to kill him, O master.

NIXON: You're next, asshole.

SCAIFE: The plan, remember? We need him for the plan.

NIXON: The plan?

SCAIFE: Deprive Clinton of sex; Newt shuts down the government; we send an intern to the Oval Office with takeout food?

NIXON: -- and Clinton fucks himself out of the White House. Right. That's the plan.

SCAIFE: It's a very good plan.

NIXON: Of course it's a good plan! It's my fucking --

SCAIFE: He's turning blue, O Master.

NIXON: Oh, right.

NEWT stops choking.

Earth. EXT, city streets. Lone man running...

FARRAKHAN: (running through the streets) Watch the skies! Watch the skies!

The next day ...

EXT Washington DC. CLINTON in the Presidential limo. His driver is driving randomly around the beltway while CLINTON sits in the back, pouting, seething in the depths of sexual deprivation. He looks to the left, he looks to the right. Wherever he looks, everything seems sexual...

The Jefferson Monument. Very tit-like.

The Capitol dome. Owww.....

Washington Monument. Like an enormous, thrusting...

All those bursting cherries along the Potomoc.

He returns to the White House. SOCKS looks at him. CLINTON looks back. Smiles. SOCKS runs...

Go to: INT, White House bathroom. CLINTON taking cold shower...

CLINTON: Owww.....owwwwwwww.....goddamnit, oww. Cold showers my ass! This is supposed to work but is sure as hell ain't. Oww....

INT: hotel room. The Whitewater investigation team buried under a mountain of paper...

STARR: I can't believe this! He itemized the paperclips! Every last one of them!

FLUNKY: We've got to find something....

STARR: Then do it, OK? Do I have to do everything, people?

Go to: CLINTON in conference with JANET RENO.

RENO: ...may say you can't afford the budget for any more killer robots, but I can't afford to lose any more of my people.

CLINTON: (staring at her dreamy-eyed) Janet?

RENO: Sir?

CLINTON: Anyone ever tell you you've got beautiful eyes?

She looks at him. Blinks. Punches the shit out of him.

Go to black-eyed CLINTON at breakfast table, pouring mounds of saltpeter on his breakfast cereal, crunchingly eating it...

Go to, INT, Whitewater investigation team in an avalanche of paper...

FLUNKY: I'm afraid she did send thank-you cards.

STARR: Dingdong darn it! Throw somebody in jail or something. A woman or somebody who's dying. And harrass a journalist while you're at it...

FLUNKY: Yes sir.

STARR: (storming out) I'm having a very bad day, people!

INT, darkened parking garage. STARR storming along in a funk...

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Follow the pussy.

STARR: (stopping) Excuse me?

LINDA TRIPP steps out of the shadows.

LINDA: I said follow the pussy. It's all about pussy.

STARR: Get away from me!

LINDA: (grabbing him by the lapels) It's all about pussy, you little pussy -- don't you know that?

STARR: You're scaring me!

LINDA: Pussy!

STARR: Ew! I hate that word!

LINDA: (slaps him) Don't be a pussy, pussy! You want the President? Clinton's a dick -- wanna catch a dick? Find the pussy. Follow the pussy!

He runs away.

EXT, WASHINGTON DC

A tattered Washington Post blows into frame on the sidewalk. Headline reads: GOVERNMENT SHUT DOWN! Blows away. We see scuffed dirty shoes. Pan up to reveal FARRAKHAN, now in tatters, ringing a bell like the crazy prophet in The Stand.

FARRAKHAN: It's happening people! The Vast Right Wing Conspiracy! Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!

Go to, INT, CLINTON in staff meeting with Presidential interns, MONICA included, all of whom (though this may be a sex-starved distortion of Presidential perception) seem to be female and beautiful, none of whom seem to be wearing bras. It's day one of the governmental shut-down and he's just given them a peptalk.

CLINTON: ...assume additional duties. You up for it?

ALL OF THEM: (breathlessly) Yes, Mister President.

CLINTON blinks, pops a Spanish Fly bon-bon in his mouth, chews slowly, blinks again. All the women seem to be naked. He chews thoughtfully...

MONICA: Could I have one of those, Mister President? I think I want to put something in my mouth right now...

He smiles, hands her one. MONICA takes it. Slowly puts it in her mouth. Slowly, slowly chews. The other women shoot her dirty looks. One puffs up her mouth full of air, miming "No wonder she's fat." But CLINTON sees none of that. He's just chewing, chewing, chewing. MONICA does the same. They're in oral synch together...

CLINTON looks at MONICA; MONICA looks at him. Thick sexual tension. Rapid Tom Jonesish crosscutting of kissylip moues, winks, tongue licks...

CLINTON: (getting up from the table, stretching) Well, ladies. I'd like to thank y'all for com-com-com...for being here, but I guess that's it, y'all can go. Me? (loudly) Guess I'll take me a stroll back to windowless hallway adjacent to my study in the south south-west quadrant of the White House in approximately 7 minutes.

NIXON: And so it begins...


THEN:

MARILYN MONROE singing seductively....

MARILYN: Happy birthday, Mr. President. Happy birthday to you.

NOW:

MONICA: Can I suck your dick?

CLINTON leans back his head. Groaning....

CLINTON: Must...preserve...precious...bodily...fluids....


As in Porky's, NEWT and STARR have drilled a peephole into the White House and are peering in...

STARR: Ohmygod that's just awful.

NEWT: Let me see.

STARR: Ohmygod.


And so it goes on...


INT, Oval Office

ARAFAT walks into Oval Office. Sees CLINTON with fly open, dick hanging out.

ARAFAT: (Cornholio accent) Oh. A thousand apologies, affendi. Is this the customary greeting in your country?

He unzips his own fly -- but CLINTON shoves him out.

ARAFAT: Owww! The zeeeeeper!

Slams door.

CLINTON: (to Monica) Alone at last.

ARAFAT: (through the walls) Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

CLINTON: We have so much in common. I love Fleetwood Mac.

ARAFAT: Bactine! Someone bring me the bactine!

MONICA: And I love Fleetwood Mac.

ARAFAT: No, not rubbing alcohol you fool!

CLINTON: I've got plastic hair.

MONICA: And so do I!

They both smile wickedly. Clinch. Tongue-kiss. She slides down...

ARAFAT: Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

CLINTON: Wanna see my Southern strategy? (he slides down)

MONICA: No, no, no...it's my time.

CLINTON: (sliding back up) My you were raised right. But I see a way out of this, kiddo.

He reaches into a humidor stuffed with illegal, imported Cuban cigars -- thinks better of it -- reaches into another cheapo cigarbox and pulls out a White Owl...

The camera discretely pans to the window where ARAFAT is running around screaming in the Rose Garden...



Go to EXT, White House corridor. STARR and NEWT crouched down in the shadows. STARR peering in through the peephole...

STARR: It's so big!


And on....


INT, Oval Office. CLINTON and MONICA sit naked before a pentagram. Candles burn.

CLINTON: ...faust, aleph, null -- and let "do what thou wilt be the whole of the law!"

The candles flare. CLINTON turns, smiling charmingly to MONICA.

CLINTON: Anyways that's how we summon Satan back where I come from...

MONICA: Geez, Mr. President. You really know so much.

CLINTON: (looking at watch) Oh my word...the prayer breakfast. Gotta go, kiddo.

He runs out -- then runs back in for his pants and runs out again.




And so it goes on. The growing scandal. Throbbing just below the surface ready to burst at any moment...

INT, White House hallway outside the President's office. Two SECRET SERVICE AGENTS just standing there like beefeaters. Monolithic. Impassive.

MONICA walks by holding a pizza. Goes into President's office...

Next day...

MONICA walks by holding a sack of food from McDonalds.

Next day...

MONICA walks by with takeout from Long John Silver's.

GUARD #1: Something's up.

GUARD #2: You got that right.

Go to: INT, Oval Office...

MONICA and CLINTON sitting together, munching down on Taco Supremes...salsa packets and sacks from Taco Bell scattered recklessly across the room.

CLINTON: Goddamn this is better than sex.

MONICA: (mouth full) Uh-hmmm.

CLINTON: Goddamn it, I'm the President and I can eat anything I want! To hell with cholesterol! Never say diet!

MONICA: (pointing) Mmmm-mmm.

CLINTON: Oh. Here you go, kiddo.

He hands her a packet of salsa.

MONICA: Mm-ooo.

CLINTON: You're welcome.

(They continue munching...in hog heaven)

And then comes President's Day...

MONICA bursts into the hallway. CLINTON follows.

MONICA: You bastard!

CLINTON: I'm sorry, kiddo...

MONICA: My name's not kiddo!

CLINTON: Just the thought of honest Abe and little George Washington and the cherry tree. I just cain't...

MONICA: There's somebody else!

CLINTON: Hillary?

MONICA: I mean somebody else else.

CLINTON: There's nobody else else. (noticing the Secret Service agents) Oh. Hello, boys. Heh-heh.

AGENTS: Hello, Mister President.

CLINTON: Just a little old Christmas pageant we're rehearsing. Page 52.

AGENTS: Yes, Mister President.

CLINTON: Ain't that right, kiddo. I mean, Miss...

MONICA: And to think I supersized you!

She runs out weeping.

CLINTON: Great job, kid! Thumbs up! That was totally convincing.

He goes back inside the office.


INT, Oval Office. CLINTON kneeling in prayer.

CLINTON: Carter committed adultery in his heart -- and thinking's the same as doing it? The Clinton corrollary: If'n you don't think you did it, you didn't. And I didn't, Lord. (boyish smile) Honest. As far as I'm concerned, I didn't do it, besides which I repent, so I don't think I'm gonna do it anymore, and that's the same as not doing it. And I defy you to list me one passage in Your Holy Word dealing with blow-jobs as adultery or defining sex qua sex. Just one...hmmm? I didn't think so. Amen.


INT, MONICA and LINDA at breakfast table. LINDA stirring tea. The spoon dissolves. MONICA doesn't notice.

LINDA: Tea?

MONICA: Oh. Like thanks.

LINDA slides the tea to MONICA who lifts it up, sips it.

MONICA: Mmmm...

LINDA: It's tannis root.

MONICA: Is that, like, organic?

LINDA: Eee-heee-heee ... something like that.

MONICA: (sipping) You're really something special, Linda.

LINDA: Eh-heh-heee. Thanks, dearie.

MONICA: Thank God I gotta friend in this goddamn town, y'know?

LINDA: (wincing at the word "God") Yessss. Apple?

She hands MONICA an apple. MONICA takes it. Starts to bite.

LINDA: No, no, no...the OTHER side, yesss. It's so much...sweeter...eh-heh-heh...

MONICA, obediantly, rotates the apple, bites from the other side.

LINDA: That's it. Eat, my dear. Eat.....

MONICA: (chatty, chum to chum, talking with a mouth full of apple) Have you ever like cared about somebody but they don't like care about you? Or maybe, like, they care, but they don't, like, show it? Or maybe they're just, like, using you?

LINDA: Mmmhmmmm. (leaning forward, conspiratorial) Anyone I know?

MONICA: As if! Like if you knew you'd just like...you'd be all like, no way!

LINDA: Try me.

MONICA: Yeah. I mean no. I mean, like, I wanna tell you, but, like, I said I wouldn't and a promise is a promise.

LINDA: But a friend is a friend. It's not the same as telling someone else if you tell it to me, my pretty.

MONICA: OK. So...

We hear a loud, audible CLICK.

MONICA: What was that?

LINDA: Nothing, nothing. Just my...guess I'm just an old lady and I'm having a little problem with my pipes, dearie. You will excuse me?

MONICA: Anyth...

LINDA: I'll be all right.

INT, bathroom. LINDA removes microcassette recorder from her snatch. Opens it, reverses tape.

LINDA: Goddamnit, I KNEW I should've gotten the auto-reverse. That's what I get for being a penny pincher...

She slides it back in. Returns....

LINDA: Much better. You were saying?

MONICA: Try the P...

LINDA: Just a minute.

LINDA spreads her legs.

LINDA: Ah. That's better....


EXT, MONICA's apartment. LINDA heading out the door. MONICA saying goodbye. She seems grateful...

LINDA: Now, remember what I told you! He needs to make a commitment.

MONICA: God you're such a friend.

LINDA: Just trying to help, dearie.

CLINTON: Hey...you doing anything tonight? Aw...you know I care about you...I'm thinking about you all the time, why do you think I'm calling? So I'm just thinking if you're not doing anything, you want to come over, kiddo? Maybe we could do something. Maybe we could try something new. I'm thinking, like, y'know...you ever suborned purjury before?

The Arkansas Hillbillies

Arkansas Hillbillies Theme -- to the tune of the Flat/Scrugs Beverly Hillbillies theme...

Let me tell you story 'bout a man named Bill
Arkansas Gov who liked cheap sex and pills
Then one day he was looking for some poon
And a phone call came from Carville and his goons
"You can get that nomination. For President, that is....
A Democrat. In Washington DC"

The kinfolk said, "Bill, get your ass in gear
There's toilets, running water, and a fridge that's full of beer"
They said "inside the beltway is the place you oughta be"
So they pulled in lotsa favors and moved to old DC
Washington, that is...
Movie stars...cocaine bars...
The Arkansas Hillbillies!

(banjo riff)

Go to INT, White House. CLINTON coming down the stairs dressed like a hillbilly. He hollers out...

CLINTON: Hey Chelsea -- you done laundered that money yet?

CHELSEA: (hollering back) Almost, Pa!

Hillbilly CLINTON enters an enormous livingroom space where freshly-washed, still-wet, dripping money is hanging from a clothesline. CHELSEA is pinning up more, taking bills from an old washtub...

CHELSEA: (wiping back her hair) I reckon that about does it, Pa.

CLINTON: I surely do appreciate it.

CHELSEA: Pa...how come folks got a problem with what we's doing? I heard on the television set some folks think laudering money's bad!

CLINTON: Wellllll....I don't know about that, Hon. Way I see it, I reckon we gotta keep it clean. Specially with this here investigation. Old Ken Starr can get mighty peculiar.

HILLARY: (coming down stairs) Ken Starr -- that varmint! Don't even name that goldurned name in my house! Somebody oughta investigate him!

CLINTON: Don't get all het up, Hillary. I reckon he's just doing his job.

HILLARY: And I reckon he ain't. Trying his level best to put you in the pokey when all's you're trying to do is make this a decent country for hardworking ordinary people! Going after you when there's real corporate crime that needs a good investigator -- and Michael Moore cain't do everything, now can he?

CLINTON: No, I reckon he cain't.

HILLARY: Somebody especially oughta investigate them newfangled HMOs what's done a foul deed to plenty of sick folk and all what need good doctoring and some of my medicine -- but that ain't none of Ken Starr's concern! (holding up fist) I oughta give him some of this medicine.

CLINTON: Now Hillary...

HILLARY: Now Hillary nothing! You can sit here jawing all you want. I'm fixing to go out and tend to some sick folks in sore need of my ministrations! Somebody's got to do something, and you ain't gonna stop me.
CLINTON: I wouldn't dream to try.

She storms out.

CHELSEA: She's a regular Florence Nightingale, ain't she Pa?

CLINTON: (shaking head in admiration) She is at that. She is at that.


INT, hospital room. HILLARY leaning over a hospital bed where LOUISE (the one from the HARRY and LOUISE insurance commercials) lies suffering. Soap opera organ music through the whole bit...

HILLARY: Anythin' I cin do for you, hon?

LOUISE: How can you even help me...

HILLARY: Eh, fergit it -- what's done's done and I ain't studying the past. Them companies didn't do right by you but I reckon I can.

LOUISE: You're an angel. (coughing) How's... (coughing) How's...

HILLARY: How's Harry?

LOUISE: (nodding)

HILLARY: Harry's going to.... Harry's going to be just fine, darling.

LOUISE: You're a (coughing) bad liar...Hillary.

HILLARY: Goldurn it I ain't gonna stand for it! I'll make sure you get doctored up! And Harry too!

LOUISE: You can't. (coughing) No one can. The insurance companies. The HMOs. You tried...

HILLARY: Then, by thunder, I'll try again! I'll do it, Louise -- any which ways I can!

LOUISE looks up at her. Tearful. Grateful. Near death.

Firey, militant determination clamps down on HILLARY's face...

She squeezes LOUISE's hand.

Gorilla Suit Jesus

What if...at the end of time...they don't let you into heaven because of your attitude towards Messiahs in Gorilla suits?

No blasphemy intended. Hear me out. It's an important theological point.

If you take the New Testament literally, Jesus pulled a fake-out on the Jews.

Seriously.

As every good little girl and goy is taught in Sunday School, the Jews were expecting a triumphant Messiah. God sent them a humble carpenter instead -- the old King in Disguise trick. The Jews didn't believe that this working class guy in sandles was the Messiah because they were bad. Jesus, meanwhile, performed miracles -- but only when the people who didn't believe in Him weren't looking. If you believed already, then He would do the miracle. If you needed proof, you didn't get a miracle -- that was the rule. Besides which, Jesus wouldn't answer a straight question. Are you the Messiah? What do we do about work on Sunday? What wine goes best with fish? He acted sort of insulted and either answer with a riddle or walk away. Like -- why are you asking me this? You should already know.

So now, this time around, it's the Christians expecting the triumphant return of the King of Kings. Now WE think the Messiah is coming as a conquering king. OK. What if, yet again, Jesus pulls a fast one? What if Jesus returns -- not as a gorilla -- but a man in a gorilla suit? The Gorilla Suit Jesus...

We take you now -- live -- to the TELEVANGELIST CONVENTION at the Golgotha Inn Convention Center Auditorium. CHARLTON HESTON, dressed as Moses, is addressing the National Association of Religious Broadcasters.

CHARLTON HESTON: I'm not a prophet but I play one on television.

(They laugh -- then get cut off by some kind of noise -- a disturbance from above. Everybody looks up -- rows and rows of brittle, blow-dried hair moving as one...)

HESTON: What the hell...

We hear Oooh-oooh sounds -- then a man in a gorilla suit drops down from the scaffolding holding the stage-lighting. It's...GORILLA SUIT JESUS!

GORILLA SUIT JESUS: I am the Gorilla Suit Jesus! (conventioneers recoil in horror) I am the way, the tru-oo-ooth and the banana. Follow Me!

SWAGGART: Blasphemer! You can't be Jesus!

GORILLA SUIT JESUS: How do you know? I'm in a gorilla suit!

ORAL: Because it says in the Bible our loving and forgiving savior is coming to destroy the world with fire!

FALWELL: Yeah! The fire next time!

ORAL: You can't fool us!

GORILLA SUIT JESUS: Oh wicked generation that knows Me not! I speak unto thee the tru -- ooo -- ooo -uth yet ye hear it not! (He climbs back up onto the ceiling) Eeeeee! Eeeeee!

SWAGGART: Goddamnit, this is worse than that Little League World Series game!

FALWELL: Stop him!

They all rush outside....

EXT, ROOF OF GOLGOTHA INN - NIGHT

GORILLA SUIT JESUS emerges from an air vent. He runs to the edge where the TELEVANGELISTS, down in the parking lot, are shaking their fists at Him. GORILLA SUIT JESUS screams, shows teeth, pounds his chest. And then begins shouting down at the multitudes...

GORILLA SUIT JESUS: Oh hateful wicked people who-ooh dost ever kill my prophets whom I have sent to make straight the way before me! Did I not even send unto thee the Kong whom ye didst kill with machine gun fire -- both in the original version and even unto the Dino DeLaurentis remake, which didst suck? Didst thou not put Diane Fossey to the sword whom I had sent forth to minister unto the gorillas in the mist? Hypocrites! Ye have heard it said "thou shalt place one box upon another to draw unto you the bananas from the top of the cage," yet though dost pluck the banana from thy neighbor's eye while slipping on thine own banana peel! It has been said "thou shalt see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil," but I say unto thee RELEASE the monkey nor cage him not nohow. Ye have heard it said "love of monkey is the roo--oo--oot of all evil," but I say unto thee thou shalt love the monkey in the middle, nor spank thine own monkey, not thy neighbor's monkey, nor even thine own but love thy monkey even as thy self!

CHARLTON HESTON: (still in Moses costume, holding high powered rifle and looking in scope) Damn dirty ape.

We see GORILLA SUIT JESUS from HESTON's POV in the rifle scope. HESTON fires. GORILLA SUIT JESUS visibly takes the bullet, staggers dangerously close to the roof's edge...

GORILLA SUIT JESUS: And they knew-oo-oo me not...

He falls from the roof. We hear a thud...

The televangelists cheer. Suddenly the skies darken. Lightning crashes. The GRIM REAPER appears from behind a cloud waving a bony hand like Porky Pig going th-th-that's all folks...

VOICE OF GOD: OK. Now I'm really pissed...

HESTON: (handing Oral Roberts the rifle) Here. Take this.

HESTON runs. More judgmental wrath brewing in the sky. Fire. Brimstone. Smog...

VOICE OF GOD: Who did this?

ORAL looks over at dead body of GORILLA SUIT JESUS. Then down at the rifle.

ORAL: Uh-oh.

God hates puppets

What if...at the end of time...they don't let you into heaven, not because of something obvious like stealing, adultery or murder, but something trivial and stupid you'd never even thought of. Like puppets. Specifically, your attitude regarding puppets ...

ROD SERLING: (walking out, holding a limp ventriloquist's dummy in hands) I hold in my hands a sort of puppet pieta ... a very dead puppet, despite occasional appearances to the contrary. But his intermittent animation at cheesy nightclubs and children's birthday parties is only the ventriloquist's art. In point of fact, this effigy possesses neither a mind nor the instruments of speech. A lifeless figure of wood, resin, paint and string. But...don't feel sorry for this puppet -- or ventriloquist's dummy, as the case may be -- for this dummy was never alive in the first place. (drops dummy) Did you know that some religious groups consider puppets to be instruments of the devil, especially Danny O'Day? They're idiots. But in the Twilight Zone, idiots are often right. Consider what happens when you don't heed their advice ...

EXT - Pearl Gates
YOU stand before ST. PETER. He sits, like a Maitre D' at a lectern, before the entrance to Heaven. Looking into an enormous book. Not finding your name...

ST. PETER: (looking up from book) OK, pal. I'm sorry to tell you this. You ain't in the book. (reaching for Lake-O-Fire button)

YOU: Wait a minute!

ST. PETER: Hmmm?

YOU: I don't get it. What'd I do wrong? Just tell me that...

ST. PETER: What do you think, pal?

YOU: I didn't cheat on my wife. I never hurt anybody. I didn't steal -- not even a paper clip.

ST. PETER: Yeah, yeah. What about puppet shows?

YOU: Excuse me?

ST. PETER: Think back. You recall ever putting on any puppet shows?

YOU: Puppet shows? I don't remember that ...

ST. PETER: You don't, huh? Allow me to jog your memory, pal. You performed a puppet show once at your nephew's birthday.

YOU: I'm still not remembering...

ST. PETER: The book remembers. (points to a page) It's right here, pal. April 17, 1978...

YOU: Oh yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah. OK. Right. I couldn't afford a present, so I... Right. OK, OK, so I put on a puppet show. So what?

ST. PETER: (closing book) So, there it is, pal.

YOU: There what is?

ST. PETER: It's the puppets, OK? For what it's worth, I'm sorry. This is the part of the job I hate. (reaching for the trap door button)

YOU: WHAT...whoa, wait a minute, whoa whoa whoa, hold on -- you mean you won't let me into Heaven because of puppets?

ST. PETER: (coldly) God hates puppets, pal.

YOU: What do you mean God hates puppets?

ST. PETER: I mean God hates puppets. It says so in the Bible.

YOU: Where?

ST. PETER: The part about the idols.

YOU: What?

ST. PETER: Where it says no graven image...

YOU: That's not the same as puppets!

ST. PETER: Yeah it is. Sorry.

YOU: A puppet's not the same thing as an idol! I don't worship puppets. I don't get down on my knees and...

ST. PETER: Yeah, yeah. There you go -- defending puppets. (shakes head) That just proves my point.

YOU: But --

ST. PETER: (pushes button, dropping you into lake of fire -- then shakes head, shuddering with disgust) Freaking puppet worshiper.