John Carpenter’s “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

EXT, ICY LANDSCAPE, NORTH POLE -- DAY
Hermey the Elf and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer enjoy a sleigh ride. Then holler in surprise and abruptly stop before a large, perfectly spherical crater in the ice. They peer down from the edge and see ...

Hermey: Look Rudolph! A flying saucer!

Rudolph: Wow, the door's busted open. Hey -- let’s look inside! 

Hermey: I dunno, Rudolph. Looks awful dark in there.

Rudolph's nose lights up.

Rudolph: I'll light the way!

One side of the crater has collapsed, forming a convenient ramp. They climb down and enter the saucer, which is canted at a slight angle. Sleigh won't fit, so they leave it behind.

A Rankin Bass-type swirly snow effect obscures our view.

EXT, WRECKED SAUCER - DAY

An ice block slowly emerges from the wrecked saucer door. Gradually, we see the obscure form of a dead alien inside — like a fly in a practical joke ice cube. The ice block seems to magically move out of the door by itself. Once it's nearly free, Hermey and Rudolph emerge — we see they're behind the block, pushing it. The ice block finally tumbles out. Hermey and Rudolph strap the ice block to the sleigh. With red-faced effort, they pull the sleigh up the ramp and keep dragging the sleigh through the icy wasteland.

Hermey: Wait’ll Santa gets a load of this!

Swirly snow effect.

EXT, SANTA’S WORKSHOP – NIGHT

Santa stands expectantly, Mrs. Claus behind him. Rudolph and Hermey flank the workshop door. 

Santa: Ho-ho-ho. You don't need to surprise me, boys. That’s my job.

Hermey: Not this time, Santa. (nods to Rudolph)

Rudolph opens door to workshop ...

Rudolph: Surprise!

Santa confronts a twisted living pretzel made of bloody mutated reindeer bits all fused together.

Alien Reindeer Mutant Thing: Myelleeagghhrrggh!

The Reindeer Thing leaps at Santa.

Santa: Jesus!

Hermey lights it up with a flamethrower. It screams horrifically. Finally dies.

Santa: Hermey? 

Hermey: Uh ... yeah, Santa?

Santa: Where did you get that flamethrower?

Hermey: Oh, uh, back at the workshop.

Santa: Back at the workshop?

Hermey: Yeah. We're cranking 'em out like crazy this year, Santa. Kids love ‘em!

Santa looks at him disapprovingly

Hermey: Am I in trouble, Santa?

Santa: Ho-ho-ho! No, Hermey. We can always get more reindeer.

Rudolph looks pissed.

Santa: I’m sure everything’s all right, now. Right, Mrs. Claus?

Mrs. Claus smiles ... shudders. Her head splits open. Writhing tentacles emerge.

Showing seriously quick reflexes, Hermey roasts the Mrs. Claus Thing like a marshmallow. It screams hideously, takes a long time to die. Santa looks on in horror.

Rudolph: It's OK, Santa. You can always get another ...

Hermey in the background continues to incinerate the fragments of the Mrs. Claus Thing.

Santa: (to Rudolph) Shut up, you dimbulb ... Don't you get it?

Rudolph shrugs, looks puzzled.

Santa: I have no way of knowing who's ... naughty.

Hermey toasts some remaining drops of Mrs. Claus' blood on the ground. The blood sizzles and writhes.

Hermey: Maybe we do, Santa.

Elf: (OS) Hey, what's cooking?

Hermey, Santa and Rudolph turn to look …

At the various Elves who've all joined the party.

Swirly snow effect.

INT, SANTA'S WORKSHOP - NIGHT

Hermey, holding his flamethrower, faces various Elves tied to chairs.

Santa: Ho! Ho! Ho! There's nothing to worry about, boys! 

Elf: Nothing to worry about? 

Santa: No. Rudolph’s just going to take some blood!

Elf: This is seriously …

Rudolph trots up, pricks one of the Elves. Its face immediately splits open. Tentacles and ichor pop out. The other Elves scream. Hermey raises flamethrower. It sputters, doesn't fire.

Santa: You gotta be f—

Swirly snow effect.

EXT, ICY ARCTIC LANDSCAPE, SANTA'S WORKSHOP IN DISTANCE - NIGHT

The Burl Ives Snowman rolls into frame, stops.

Burl Ives Snowman: Well, it was a Christmas to remember for Santa and his friends. But things turned out all right.

Unholy screams in the background.

Burl Ives Snowman: Really. Heh. Like I said, things turned out all right. 

More screams. Explosions. The Burl Ives Snowman rolls up to the camera. Extends his snowy hand.

Burl Ives Snowman: Turn that damn thing off!

BLACK

Title: John Carpenter’s “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

Coming soon to a theater near you.

From Russia, with Hate

INT, DACHA - DAY

Vladimir Putin, shirtless on the floor, is doing stomach crunches.

Putin: 558 … 559 … 600.

He shouts triumphantly, leaps to his feet like Jackie Chan.

Putin: 600 crunches! Fuck you, American Psycho!

Aide: American Psycho?

Putin: You are not well read.

Feints punch. Aide flinches. Putin is disgusted.

Putin: Answer this question truthfully. Are you faggot?

Aide: N-no sir.

Putin. “N-no sir.” Tell you what. Punch me in stomach.

Aide: What?

Putin: Punch me in stomach!

Aide: N-no sir.

Putin: Punch me in tfucking stomach!

The terrified aide punches him weakly.

Putin: Harder!

The aide punches him again.

Putin: Harder!

Outside the dacha, two security guards stand impassively while Putin’s grunts and shouts of “harder” emerge from the walls.

Putin: Enough! Turn on TV.

Aide fumbles for the remote. Turns on ridiculously large flatscreen TV.

Hillary Clinton is speaking. Cyrillic subtitles.

Putin: (snorts) Look at her.

Aide: This woman?

Putin: So-called. This bitch wants to be American President.

Aide: I don’t follow American …

Putin: No. Why should you? I only pay you to fold towels and hand me water bottles.

Aide: I’m sorry, sir. I will begin research starting –

Putin: This soulless bitch thinks White House is her birthright! "White House" … you know what this is?

Aide: American seat of …

Putin: Look at her! She calculates her every breath, this bitch. Do I want her to be American President?

Aide: Do you … I don’t know, sir. Do you … What is her ideology?

Putin: Fuck ideology. Go to Fox News! Show me other guy …

Aide: Other guy?

Putin: Trump, you idiot! Trump! The one with orange face and bad hair!

Aide fumbles with TV controller. Goes through various channels. Finally gets to Fox News. Where Trump is speaking.

Aide: Is this the one?

Putin: Who else? Look at him!

Aide looks.

Putin: What do you see?

Aide: Orange-faced man with bad hair. As you say.

Putin: You see nothing. Look at him, really look! This man Trump is world-class at smashmouth football of American TV, yes?

Aide: Smashmouth?

Putin: American expression. Breaking of teeth. Violent contact sport. That is meaning.

Aide: Ahh.

Putin: A talented man, in his limited way. But impulsive, hmm? A lousy chess player. Easily manipulated. So. Do I want this man Trump in the White House?

Aide: Of course not, sir!

Putin smiles. Walks up to the Aide, then snaps his neck. Aide drops like a sack of rocks. Putin walks up to a locker, pulls out a cell phone. Punches number.

Putin: Hello. Gufficer 2.0 I wish to speak to? (Beat) Yes. I will hold.

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.