1% inspiration. 99% damnation.

INT, SATAN’S WORKSHOP - ETERNAL NIGHT

Satan looks over at a Junior Demon. It's grinning. Wildly, twistedly, horrifically, uh, you know, demonically.

Satan: Why are you grinning?

Jr. Demon: I just invented something.

Satan: Ah…

Walks over. Bends down over the Junior Demon at his little worktable.

Satan: And what do you call your invention?

Jr. Demon: I call it …. Facebook! Hee-hee-hee-hee!

Satan: And what will this invention do?

Jr. Demon: It will …

The Jr. Demon’s grin widens. Becomes, if such a thing were possible, more hideous.

Jr. Demon: … turn everyone on Earth into politicians!

Jr. Demon laughs. Satan laughs. The demons in Satan's Workshop laugh. The pandemoniacal cackling builds, resonates, shakes the Earth …

Mark Zuckerberg sits up in bed in his Harvard dorm room.

Zuckerberg. Wow … I just had the coolest idea!

He writes it down.

Donald Trump considered as the new Number Two

The Prisoner wakes up in a spot-on replica of his London flat in the Village. After the initial period of jarring disorientation, he bursts into the office of Number Two. And finds none other than Donald Trump sitting in the iconic Egg Chair. The Prisoner looks at him, shaking with Celtic rage. He asks the obvious question ...

Where am I?
In the Village. Not just any village, lemme tell you. You've just been abducted to the greatest village in the world, right here, right now. This is a Village of winners. This may be politically incorrect to say, but all those other villages are for losers. Greenwich Village, Potemkin Village, any village you want.  They're full of Mexicans and village idiots. I don't have time for them.

What do you want?
Since you ask, information. You ask me that. A lot of people ask me that. Really, really important people. James Bond, Elvis, Marilyn, whoever. My response? Straight up, I tell them what I tell you: "I want information." Now you know what I want. That's a form of information! It's a win-win situation. I give you information, you give me information.

You won't get it.
You're wrong. Look at my track record. The information I get is amazing, it's colossal, it's unbelievable. I get so much information I forget how much information I have. You will too. Sooner or later, you'll come to me and ask to look at your file. "Hey, I forgot what I did in Istanbul in April Whatever, 1963." I'll tell you exactly what you did. I'll give you information about you. That's how much information I'll get.

Whose side are you on?
My own side. Everything else is negotiable.

Who are you?
Don... I mean, the new Number Two. Listen, the old Number Two is gone, he's history, he's out of here. We flushed him down the toilet like that other Number Two. Now I'm here, nobody predicted it, nobody expected it. I'm the "new" Number Two. That's not talk, it's not spin. The "new" I represent is a whole different level of new. Yeah. When I say "new," I mean newer than new, newer than yesterday, today, tomorrow you name it. The difference is huge.

Who is Number One?
That question comes up a lot. A lot of people ask me that. I don't know why, because the question is  stupid, just a waste of my time, so totally, unbelievably unimportant. I'm Number Two, that's what's important. Number One isn't here, I am. Who is Number One? I'll get back to you on that. The truth is I won't. I'll tell you who are right now. You're Number Six.

I am not a number! I am a --
Loser. Why'd we grab you in the first place? I like spies that don't get caught. You I don't like. You get deported. I don't want you here. How do you like that?

Jack Treacher: Let the Chips Fall

Ye Olde Fish and Chips

That's what the sign said. Below the sign, Jack Treacher worked the deep frier. Fish and chips, like the sign said. The Renaissance Fair swirled around him. Kings, Queens, Jokers, the whole deck. Half of them dressed like characters out of "Game of Thrones" lately. He hated that show.

The kid stood there watching him.  Fat. Contemporary clothes, not cosplay. Just watching. Pudgy face, intelligent eyes. Silent for about a minute. Then the kid spoke.

"They didn't have fry tanks in the Renaissance."

Jack Treacher said nothing.

"It's historically inaccurate."

You're historically inaccurate. He could've said that. He didn't. He told the kid about the Children's Crusade instead. Details. The kind a hardened medical examiner could deal with. The kid projectile-vomited in the fry tank. Then ran away crying.

Jack went back to work. He knew what would happen next. He waited about a minute. Then it happened.

The head of security paid him a visit. Assclown dressed like Robin Hood with a lanyard.

"You're through, Treacher. Pack up your things -- you're out of the Renaissance, permanently. Not just this fair. Ever Ren fair in the country! I'll see to it personally."

Jack Treacher said nothing. He packed up his things.

No more Renaissance Fairs. That left Medieval Fairs. The average civilian couldn't tell the difference. Jack could. The Middle Ages sucked. Medieval Fairs sucked. Almost as bad as county fairs. The kind with elephant ears and speed freaks running the Tilt-a-Whirl.

He was ready to drain the fry tank. Then a shrill sound cut into his thoughts. He walked outside to see what he was. Then he saw.

The kid. Lying on the ground. His face, burned off. A woman's voice. Screaming. Out of a woman's mouth. The shrill sound he'd heard earlier. The woman was looking at him. Then she pointed at him.

"That man! He stuck that kid's head in the deep fryer!"

He went back inside. And waited. Robin Hood returned. With the rest of Ren Fair security. They circled him, guns drawn. He said nothing. They said nothing. Seemed nervous. They should be.

Jack Treacher was right by the axe-throwing concession. Six rent-a-cops. Six axes. Easy. But he went quietly.

They put him in a jail cell. Portable jail cell. The Ren Fair people dragged it around. He wasn't alone for long.

Her breasts were pointy. He liked that in a woman. They entered the cell first and the rest of her shortly followed.

Didn't introduce herself, but he knew who she was. Sally Sears. Head of Ren Fair security out of Orlando. Robin Hood's boss. Or former boss, before she fired him. She'd flown in on the company helicopter. That thumping he'd felt earlier. Like a giant mechanical dog wagging its tail.

"Why'd you kill him?"

Jack Treacher said nothing.

"Seriously, why'd you kill him?"

Jack Treacher said nothing.

What could he say? What would Arthur Treacher say? His grandfather kissed Merv Griffin's ass. Metaphorically. But he started a fish and chips business. Went global, told Merv to kiss his ass. Arthur taught Jack everything he knew. All those years, working side by side. Then he died. People do, even former British celebrities in the fish and chips business. Jack Treacher wound up working for the Army. Brought his skills with him. Fried an endless supply of fish and chips for the hungry mouths of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Helluva lot better than MREs. But the Army decided to cut costs. Cut Jack, too. Threw him back into civilian life like a dead fish into the fry tank. But that woman was saying something. Rising intonation, probably a question.

"Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. The question was ..."

"Why'd you kill him Jack?"

Her first question. Evidently she'd been repeating it.

This time, Jack didn't say nothing.

"Fry Master 2000. Holds 40 pounds of oil, 45 if I push it. How do you think it works?"

"Frying."

"And what does that mean?"

Sally couldn't answer. Jack answered for her.

"Heat transference. The oil gets hot, anything in it gets hot. Then the Maillard reaction kicks in. The surface dehydrates, gets crusty, golden brown. The limits heat transfer to the interior, Stays moist, tender. In layman's terms, it's cooking from the outside-in. You see the problem?"

"The kid was cooked from the inside-out."

Smart lady.

Jack Treacher nodded.

"Microwave," he said. "Had to be."

"No," she said. "His head would explode."

"Urban legend."

Sally shook her head.

"It's in that book. Infinite ..."

"Yeah, I read it. That guy who killed himself. He's wrong. That's not what happens. The brain bubbles like a potato, sure. That's why you stick a fork in a potato. Make holes.  But the human head already has holes. Seven big ones. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, etcetera. That explains the enucleation."

She shrugged. Didn't know that word.

"Eye. Popped out of its socket. In this case, two eyes -- two cooked eyes, dangling on stalks like something you wouldn't eat in a Japanese restaurant."

That's when she projectile-vomited.

He liked that in a woman.

Phone Phun

So, I called up various directors getting quotes for an article getting the most out of live theater. One of the phone numbers was wrong. Purely innocent mistake, not mine, won't say who. So, I dial. The phone rings. The seriously wired dude on the other end picks up ...

Marty: Is this John?
Somebody: Yes and no. Who's this?
Marty: Marty.
Somebody: What do you want, "Marty"...?
Marty: Well, the idea is basically "Theater-Going for Dummies." I'm ...
Somebody: Let me stop you right there, bro. I've done what you've done before and I've done it better. I can sell ice to Eskimos and a sack of shit to flies, OK? Don't waste your time, man. Or mine.

He hangs up.

Being an idiot, I think "Gee, must've given the director the wrong impression." Like an idiot, I call back. Phone rings. Somebody picks up again. 

Marty: Yeah, hi, this is Marty again. I think I gave you the wrong impression. Do you think I'm trying to sell you something?
Somebody: No, man. You're not selling me anything.

He hangs up.

Like a supreme idiot, I call once more. 

Marty: Hey --
Somebody: Listen, motherfucker. I'm at work now, man. You call me one more fucking time I swear to God I'll --

I hang up.

Quake Kills Quisp in Vicious Beating

SAN FRANCISCO,(AP) - JUNE 17, 1973 Unemployed cereal spokesperson Quake viciously beat rival spokesalien Quisp to death in a protracted attack. The incident occurred at a Ralph's on the outskirts of San Francisco where Quisp had appeared in a cereal-related promotional event. As filming began, a visibly drunken Quake emerged from the grocery store floor and violently seized Quisp by his propeller. The fatal beating then ensued before an audience of 30 children and the Quaker Oats camera crew. Allegedly.

Following the incident, Quake immediately surrendered to San Francisco police officers called to the scene. When informed of his rights he replied, "I know my !@# rights, !@#$. I killed the little !@#, OK? !@#$# little !@#$ alien comes down to earth and puts me out of a job? !@# that @$#@!."

In 1972, the Quaker Oats corporation had asked cereal-users (primarily children) to vote on whether Quisp or Quake was their favorite cereal. Response overwhelmingly favored Quisp. Out of a sample base of 2,789,563 voters, only 39 expressed a preference for Quake. (Respondents repeatedly stressed the "threatening" or "menacing" nature of Quake's Paul Bunyan-like persona.) The Quaker Oats corporation immediately ceased production of Quake cereal and dismissed Quake as cereal spokesperson. A visibly humiliated Quake withdrew from public sight and did not emerge until this incident.

Authorities stress that, despite Quake's public confession and the 11.30 minutes of film footage of the beating, any discussion of Quake's motivation, guilt, or mental capacity is merely speculative until the trial.

House of Clods

With Richard III, Shakespeare created an evil genius who shared his twisted thoughts directly with the audience. Frank Underworld talks to the audience, too. Hey, he's no genius. But it's easy to look like one when you're living in a ...

INT, WASHINGTON DC SUBWAY STATION - DAY

Intrepid reporter Zowie Barnes stands at edge of platform. Frank Underworld is right behind her wearing a fedora.

FRANK: Now is our winter of discontent made glorious summer by pushing this pesky reporter in front of a train.

He does. Zowie goes splat. Frank smiles at us, knowingly.

FRANK: The cameras will see nothing, of course. (points at his fedora) I'm wearing a hat.

Subway cops appear, unspooling yellow tape marked: "Dead Reporter: Do Not Cross."

Frank slinks away in the confusion.

A cop points a nightstick at him.

COP: All right you! No breaking the fourth wall!

FRANK: Sorry, officer.

Frank passes a newsstand, does a double-take, buys a Washington Post.

The headline reads --

PRESIDENT FALLGUY RESIGNS
Admits to illegally downloading Metallica in 1999

FRANK smiles.

FRANK: Well, well. Guess everything's going according to plan.

Across the subway station, Shakespeare howls with disgust.

SHAKESPEARE: "Guess everything's going according to plan"...? What kind of lame-ass soliloquy is that?

EXT WHITE HOUSE LAWN - DAY
Frank's impromptu inauguration.  His hand is on the Bible. His nose extends to Pinocchio proportions.

FRANK: I, Frank Blahblah, do solemnly swear to blahblah defend the Constitution of the United States of so on and so forth. Blahblahblah. So help me, Blah.

INT, WHITE HOUSE CORRIDOR - DAY

FRANK: Now that pointless voodoo is out of the way, I'll spend some quality time with my psychopathic security chief

INT, WHITE HOUSE CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY
Frank enters. Dog sits alone carving a pentagram into the table.

FRANK: Well, Dog. To date, what have we managed to accomplish with our unique blend of lethal talents?

DOG: Well, Mr. President. So far, between the two of us, we've faked a Senator's suicide, killed the prostitute we used to set him up, driven the former President out in disgrace, put you in the Oval Office and flattened that reporter.

FRANK: What about Zowie's editor? That Lupus fellow?

DOG: Neutralized. An elaborate cyber sting

INT, LUPUS' NEWSPAPER OFFICE -- DAY

Lupus sees an envelope on his desk. The label says:

NSA Data Fork inside!!

He removes --

A four-pronged metal fork and an instruction sheet written in crayon.

It reads:

1) Go to National Security Administration.

2) Stick NSA Data Fork in electrical outlet.

3) Steal Frank Underworld's secret files.

INT CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY 

FRANK: Damnit, Dog! Lupus may be stupid but he's not that ...

The lights flicker and dim.

FRANK: Well, I stand corrected. Anything else?

DOG: (points to huge pile of papers) Uh, policy stuff

FRANK: Bores the hell out of me. Take the rest of the day off, Dog. Go kill somebody just for fun. You've earned it.

DOG: Thanks, boss.

INT, WHITE HOUSE MASTER BEDROOM
Frank enters. Sits with Eclair in the dormer window. They begin passing a cigarette back and forth.

FRANK: Well my friends. I guess there's nothing left to do but contemplate the sidereal distances between myself and the drop-dead-gorgeous ice queen who is my wife. Eclair and I share zero sexual chemistry.

ECLAIR: But we dearly love swapping ciggies.

FRANK: That we surely do.

He studies her.

FRANK: Well, Eclair, in the words of the vernacular, what's shaking in your part of the world?

ECLAIR: Same old, same old. I got through the first 24 pages of the Kama Sutra with the Russian Prime Minister this morning. After lunch, I set fire to the master negative of "Sam I Am." You?

FRANK: Some Girl Scout looked at me cross-eyed. I pushed her in front of a train.

Obnoxious yammering. (OS) Frank reacts, looks up.

FRANK: Who the ... Oh hell.

ECLAIR: What ...?

Frank points.

FRANK: E-election year.

Frank and Eclair look up in horror at the flat-screen TV mounted on their bedroom wall. The orange face of Donald Trump looks back at them.

TRUMP: President Underworld is a Southern-fried putz. You wanna know something else? The man talks to himself. All the time! I'm not making this up people. I've got it on film!

ECLAIR: That man scares me, Frank.

FRANK: Me too, Eclair. Me, too.

She looks at him intently.

ECLAIR: You wanna watch West Wing?