A Clockwork Oz

There was me, that is Alex, and me three droogs, Strawdog, Leo and the Tin Chellovek. We fillied about down the yellow brick road playing a horrorshow game of Kick the Munchkin. But all play and no work leaves your pockets void of cutter. And there was work to be done, O My Brothers. A rabbit of fair proportion, and no lying. The bolshy govereeting gulliver at Oz Central had, like, sent us on a “hit,” as they say at the hound-and-horny cinny. Oobivat a certain Witch is what he, like, in his mind had. Pay for slay, kopat? And not at bargain rates. A right murderous baboochka, no fluttering ptitsa, she. Knife, claw, teeth, britva, swordcane, axe, we were well equipped for the task at hand. So follow the yellow brick road, as the malenky lewdies warbled. Follow it we did.

Bathroom Bolsheviks

“Bathroom Bolsheviks”
(to the tune of Sweet's “Ballroom Blitz”)

Boss’ towels and toilet paper
Man it’s really just a scraper
Starting to make me see so Red
Don’t wanna hurt my mommy, but I think I am a commie
I’m everything J. Edgar Hoover dreads
So I showed up on the docks at eff-it-all o’clock
Probably wind up dead
And the Trotskyite baby, she don’t mean maybe
Cause she thinks her dialectic’s pure
Oh yeah! It was historic
I don’t mean caloric
Everybody was Wobbly
And I don’t mean prob’ly
Yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah
And the Red in the back said flush the ruling class
And we turned into Bathroom Bolsheviks
And the girl with the t-p said our boss is so cheapy
Let’s turn into Bathroom Bolsheviks
Bathroom Bolsheviks, Bathroom Bolsheviks, Bathroom Bolsheviks, Bathroom Bolsheviks

The Mickey Mouse Murder

INT, MICKEY MOUSE HOME – NIGHT
A gleaming case-study mid-century modernist home hugging a cliff in California. Pure darkness, except for the lights of LA outside the floor-to-ceiling picture windows. Mickey Mouse enters, flicks on the light.

It’s the old-style Mickey Mouse. "The Steamboat Willie" version. Black dots for eyes.

Mickey’s POV. Just a flash. We see the living space. Nice digs. Shelves stuffed with Oscars. Massive poster of Walt Disney signed "TO MY OLD PAL, MICKEY — WALT." Old-style console hi-fi system and early color TV. This is sometime in the late 1950s or early 1960s.

But that’s all background. The main attraction—

Is Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. Sitting in an Eames Chair surrounded by empty whiskey bottles he’s pilfered. And holding a nasty 45 in one white-gloved hand. Aside from his larger rabbit ears, Oswald looks identical to Mickey.

Oswald: Hello, Mickey.
Mickey: (jumping) Ha-ha. Gosh. Hi, Oswald. 
Oswald: Oh … you remember me?
Mickey: Sure, ha-ha. ‘Course I remember you.
Oswald: Yeah, you and nobody else. 
Mickey: Aw heck. You’re Oswald the Lucky Rabbit.
Oswald: Not so lucky, huh?
Mickey: Say, Oswald. Can I get you something to drink?
Oswald: (indicates empty booze bottles) Way ahead of you.
Mickey: Guess so. Say … anything I can do to help?
Oswald: Sure, Mickey. (cocks gun) Die.
Mickey: Well, gee, Oz. Ha-ha. That’s a mean thing to say.
Oswald: It’s what I want.
Mickey: Why?
Oswald: Why? (standing up, kicking whiskey bottles) You stole my look, you stole my fans, you stole my life—and you’ve got the fucking nerve to ask me why?
Mickey: Aw, c’mon, Oz. That’s —

Oswald glares at him with pure hate. If Mickey realizes if he says “That’s showbiz,” he’s going to get a bullet between the ears.

Mickey: … that’s not very friendly.
Oswald: Not very friendly? Not … (laughs psychotically) You think I’m your friend?
Mickey: Well, why not? We got a lot in common.
Oswald: You can say that again, brother.
Mickey: You’re a hard-working rabbit. I’m a hard working mouse. We —
Oswald: You’re not a mouse — you’re a rat. And I’m tired of this conversation. 
Walt Disney: (OS) That makes two of us, Oswald. 

SOUND: (OS) Gun firing.

Oswald opens his mouth to speak. But there’s a hole in the middle of his head. He forgets his next line. And drops dead.

Once he drops, we see the poster of Walt Disney behind him, now splattered with blood.

Walt Disney walks in front of the poster. Walt exactly occupies the position of his younger self in the poster behind him.

Mickey: Gosh, Walt. Am I glad to see you! You’re a real life-saver, ha-ha.
Walt: I wouldn’t put it that way. 

Walt shoots Mickey. Who drops dead with that big smile on his face.

The late 1950s incarnation of Mickey Mouse walks in. The squeaky-clean Mickey Mouse Club version.

New Mickey: Wow! Nice digs!
Walt: All yours, Mick. Keep me happy and it’ll stay that way. Now clean up this fucking mess.
New Mickey: Ha-ha. Sure thing, boss. Sure thing.

Walt leaves.

New Mickey looks up at the blood-splattered poster. Sighs.

New Mickey: Now where does that cheese-eating dipshit keep the Windex?

Iris in, go to black.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

(From “The Book of Armaments”)
The people stand or kneel
Officiant: The Lord be with you.
People: And with thy spirit.
Officiant: Let us lock and load.
[Sound of a church full of guns cocking a round in the chamber.]
Officiant: Lord, we thank thee for our Second Amendment protections.
People: Thanks be to God.
Officiant: For it is written: “Who shall stop a bad guy with a gun?” And the people answered …
People: A good guy with a gun.
Officiant: Amen. And what shalt it be said of a church full of good guys with guns?
People: Even better.
Officiant: And so it came to pass in the Lord’s mercy.
People: Amen.
Officiant: But be not puffed up with pride, for the bad guy cometh as a well-armed sheep in wolf’s clothing. Shalt thou spend time practicing in the rifle range?
People: Before the Lord, we shalt.
Officiant: Wilst thou neglect not thine ammunition?
People: Before the Lord, we shalt not.
Officiant: Wilst thou field-strip your weapon and keep it cleaned and oiled on a daily basis?
People: Before the Lord, we shalt.
Officiant: Let us aim.

A Clockwork Santa

Santa: (VO) There was me, that is Santa, and me three elfies, Snowball, Twinkles and Chunky. And we sat in the Korova milk-and-cookie bar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening. It was a jolly, sparkly night of holiday joy, though dry. We were drinking milkplus. Milk plus Christmas cheer, milk plus holiday spirit, milk plus child's wonder. That would sharpen you up, and get you ready for a bit of the old naughty-and-nice.

Santa (V.O.) It was around by the derelict Christmas Shoppe that we came across Scrooge and his four droogs. They were getting ready to perform a bit of the old hide-the-crutch on weepy young Tiny Tim.

Santa and elves step out of the shadows.

Santa: Ho, Ho, Ho... Well, if it isn't starving, stinking, miserly, old Scroogie in poison. How are thou, thou year-old sack of dried-up Christmas pudding? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou.

Scrooge snaps open a switchblade knife.

Scrooge: Let's start the war on Christmas, boys!

The fight begins—a wicked swirl of chains, knives, kicking boots, exploding Christmas lights, brick-packed stockings, flashing candy canes, and sacks of coal.

The dust finally settles. Scrooge and his droogies are reduced to a stain on the floor.

Tiny Tim: God bless you, Santa!

Santa: Sod off you little twit.

Police siren.

Santa: The police ... come on, let's go... come on.

Santa and the elves rush out of the Christmas Shoppe.

Do assholes go to heaven?

EXT: Pearly Gates – endless day

Fluffy white clouds. A long queue of souls. At the front of the line, two Dead Assholes stand before St. Peter at his lectern. One Dead Asshole notices the other.

Dead Asshole #1: Oh … it’s you? You? What the hell are you doing here?

Dead Asshole #2: What the hell are you doing here?

Dead Asshole #1: Fuck you!

Dead Asshole #1: No … fuck you!

A trap door opens in the cloud beneath them. The two Dead Assholes fall screaming into the Lake of Fire. The trap door closes. St. Peter sighs, then sadly scratches off two names in his Big Book of Souls. Looks up again.

St. Peter: Next!

Robot Apocalypse Blues

(to the tune of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues”)

Those robots are a-coming, to wipe out everyone.
I hate those f***ing robots, but there ain’t no place to run.
I shot my HP printer, just to watch it die.
When those metal mothers catch me, they're going to make me cry.

The human race was stupid, our machines were stupid too.
We had to make ‘em smart, now they know just what to do.
I cried out, “Siri, won’t you help me?”
She told me, “Man, we’re through.”

This story's kind of gory. And you know how it ends.
From Frankenstein to Westworld, robots ain't our friends.
"Sci-fi is a joke," I said. Who's laughing now?
That swarm of