New script, Bob Scene 4

Scene 4:  Drunk Guy

Drunk Guy, Bartender, Waitress, SomeoneElse [maybe Male from Couple?], Female from Couple

[sitting at bar—can we view him from along the bar?  Some of Bartender at edge, but mostly Drunk Guy, various glasses, bar effluvia, change, scraps of his torn manuscript everywhere—disordered, mess, sticky.  Bartender might even emphasize this by wiping bar in wide swatch around him.]

Drunk Guy [sips his beer, sloshes some, crumples a few of his paper scraps and tosses them][outburst]:  Jane fucking Austen!  [drinks more, quickly].  Charles-the-dick.  ‘It was the best of times.’  Yeah?  [turns looking for someone to ask, no one there]  When the hell was that?

Drunk Guy [motions to the Bartender, who doesn’t acknowledge anything except drink orders]:  Know what they want? [rips a couple more manuscript pages].  They want ‘all the dogs to make it home.]   They want ‘daddy, teacher says every time a bell rings, angel gets his wings.’ [motions for shot, tapping empty overturned shot glass.  Bartender refills.]  They want to make Mrs. Doubtfire 2 with an animated Robin Williams, all manic and fine.  [slams half shot, dribbles]  They want to do Naked Lunch as a Disney film.

 

Drunk Guy [corners Someone stopped at the bar, perhaps will even in the next diatribe grab a shirt or arm.  This as Drunk Guy’s most irritating, reaching crescendo of dislike]:  Yeah, I drink too much.  And do drugs when I can afford them.  [belch or hiccup] I betray people every time I write.  And about everything I write sucks or I can’t finish it or some shit.  [drink, hopefully still holding on to someone]  And nobody reads anything.  [shakes someone, holds out handful of scraps]  You want to read this?

Someone [tries to escape]: 

Drunk Guy [lets go]:  No?  Can’t you read, you asshole?  Just gonna leave me here buried in a mountain of my own crap?  [throws of a blizzard of MS. Scraps]  You just want some fucking country song?  Mother in jail and the damn train and the pickup truck? [yells] Darlin’!

[shift, Drunk Guy turns in his chair, facing out away from bar, totally composed, hair combed, maybe even a crisp white shirt, etc, talks directly to the camera]

Drunk Guy:  So, do you get any of this? Have you taken time off from your cell phone to look up? [pause, as if responding to puzzled look from the camera]  What, you never saw Moonlighting?  Not even on Netflix?  You weren’t even born back when Bruce Willis had hair?  [he laughs, quietly, which also sounds out of character].  This writing.  [holds some of his scraps.  laughs]  Sure, we dream of writing the next Harry Potter, or a Great Gatsby, or even the next 52 shades of whatever.  But that’s not it.  [pauses, gestures with a few scraps of his papers, as if piecing them back together].  What I’m trying to say, is it’s the writing that keeps us human.  Keeping that something alive, not matter how much we screw up, no matter how much we fail.  That something that lets living on earth be worthwhile. 

[if still be available, both Waitress and Female from Couple will lean in and kiss him on opposite cheeks, same time.]

Drunk Guy [half smile]:  All worthwhile.  [then he turns back to bar, changes back to other self/disorder/shirt, yells for a drink, but also picks up a pen and starts scribbling…]

Re-Script, new scene

Ok, here's one piece for our new to-be-assembled script:

Cast

an Angel, split in two, Right self [talks business, drinks scotch on the rocks], Left self [talks ecology, drinks beer]  Both shirtless, at least…

Bartender.  Will serve drinks, polish glasses.  Never a reaction expression. Never a nod.  Never says a word.

A Couple, Man and Woman

Drunk Guy at bar, occasional outbursts, and after every drink or so, picking up a page or two of his stack of manuscript pages, and shredding them, tossing them on floor, bar, etc.

FBI-ish agent

Waitress

------------------------------ Scene (?) 2   Huh--this might work as part 1.  I did set up with envelope, etc.  Need to decide how to use Waitress beyond this scene.  //  I need to add an outburst by Drunk Guy.  Hoping to do most of his characterization by similar outbursts in first 3 scenes, and then his part, scene 4, be fairly brief.  Will try to write/post that in next hour.  bob

[Both halves of the Angel sitting at a table, watching others in the bar.  Each has a drink.  Shirtless.]

Left Angel  [looking at his split form]:  This is kind of fun, like in an old cartoon.  But I don’t think we’re supposed to split like this.

Right Angel [agitated, swirls his drink]:  Can’t even drive my SUV of the gods without a guilt-trip from you.  We’ve got an afternoon off from keeping tally on how much humans suck, and I don’t have to have all your damned ecology nonsense in my head.  Enjoy yourself.  At least half of you is…

 

Left Angel:  [rubs hand across his chest]: It is nice to not be in work clothes—no wings, no suit, no tie.  All those damn feathers.  They itch.  But won’t hanging out like this cause, you know, an incident here?

Right Angel:  Nah.  Humans are too stupid to see anything angelic.  How do you think they got in this situation?  Like those two over there [gestures at Couple].  No hope for them.

Left Angel [shrugs]:  There’s some chemistry there.  They might wind up humping into eternity.

Right Angel:  Bet?  Friendly wager.  Those two.  Passionate sex by midnight, or—my guess—one of them guns down the other before they reach the front door.

Left Angel [they click glasses]: Done.

Right Angel:  And if I win, we’re smoking a big ugly cigar tonight.

[Left Angel shudders, sips beer.]

Right Angel [settles back in his chair, swirls drink, {Tech-question:  any way to make it look like he causes his own glass to refill?}:  Time for humans to admit it—the lease is up.  It’s the big recall.  Product out of date.  New model on the way.  Obsolete.  The big sayonara.  Adios.  [still photos of fiery conflagrations should flicker through briefly]  One big ball of fire, soon as we get our orders to torch the place.  Where is that envelope?

Left Angel:  It won’t be fire.  No big Russian missiles, no asteroids.  It’s already in the works.  Climate change.  Just needs the right tipping point or two, a little shove on the Greenland ice sheet, total plankton death, and then the storm to end all storms.  Water World.  Into the Storm.  Maybe Soylent Green.  Whichever—humanity takes itself out. [could splice in images of tornadoes, ice shelves calving, factory smokestacks, etc., as he talks]

Right Angel [shrugs]:  If it isn’t the old-fashioned Four Horseman thing, I’d bet on The Purge.  Either way.  Gabriel’s marching orders. Humanity—“too big to fail”?  Don’t think so.  Here’s my prediction, what I think will be in the envelope—[we see Right Angel draw paper with glittery writing out of a fire.  Lets Left Angel read it]:  You want nervous?  Be glad you aren’t human. 

Left Angel [reads]:  To Whom It May Concern:  violation of lease:  Humanity, found in violation of its Second Covenant, is hereby given Notice that said Covenant is to be dissolved, forthwith.  No more rainbows.  Apocalypse will immediately ensure.  Have a nice day.

Right Angel:  Good, huh?

Left Angel:  Cliché. 

Right Angel:  Dumbshit.  There are rules for ending the world.  Even angels of our rank can’t just do it.  I can’t just call in my stock options.  Can’t just devalue the currency, write new terms, double the interest rate.  But wait till we get that envelope.  It’s a done deal.  Bank on it…

Both Angels [Both raise their glasses, click in a toast.]: Peace on Earth!

Left Angel [gestures toward Drunk Guy at bar]:  Wanna bet on whether that guy accomplishes anything else before the big Ka-Boom?

Right Angel [shakes his head]:  No way.  He thinks he’s a writer.  He won’t have any impact on the world at all.  [Both laugh.][Drunk guy shreds and tosses several paper pieces of his manuscript.]

Waitress [approaches, mostly business-like, hair up, hurried, long day, tired, not a real smile]:  You two ready for another round? [she blinks, looks at them harder].  Hey, you guys don’t have clothes on.

Left Angel:  Time out! [all motion in the bar stops]  Do you think she can really see us for what we are?

Right Angel:  Duh.  If you weren’t me, I’d kick your ass.  Let’s just blast her with divine light.

Left Angel [to other self]:  You have no imagination. [Stands, holds out his hand to Waitress.] Time in!

[they dance]  [use whatever part of this to time limits—have the “two” angels spin waitress back and forth between them, in one spin revealing her rose-tattoo…]

Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Now do you believe in rock and roll
Can music save your mortal soul
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you're in love with him
'Cause I saw you dancin' in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues

I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died

[Chorus]
I started singin' bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
Singin' "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"

[Verse 2]
Now for ten years we've been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin' stone
But that's not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me

Oh, and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned…

Left Angel [sits back in his chair, pulls Waitress onto his lap, kisses rose on her shoulder]:  I think you belong with us.  Stick around for the big show.

Waitress: __________________  [depends on how used in other sections, whether she stays there or not or simply “re-assembles” her uniform and goes on]…

 bob

Bob's script part 2

Border Wars

 

Cast

Will “Wolf” Smart, FBI agent.  High-strung, given to pessimistic outbursts, a self-created legend in his own mind.  Dressed well (i.e., cheap gray suit, white shirt, tie) though this should decay through the scene.

Allison Crosby, FBI agent, Wolf’s partner (female).  Efficient, worldly, bored with Wolf’s hysterics, always surprised he doesn’t lead them to death and disaster.  Never less than perfectly coiffed. // Also plays OSD…in gauzy dress.

Bartender.  Will serve drinks, polish glasses.  Never a reaction expression.  Never says a word.

Comedian

Clown.  Angry.  Cynical.  Can be vile.  Has to do a corny magic act in this cheap dump, which angers him.  He is willing to take out all his anger on anyone in sight.  Small dog with him (Maybelle).

A Couple, Man and Woman

Drunk Guy at bar

Go-go dancer

Random other drinkers in the bar

 

Throughout, there will be jumps to a black and white image of a pocket watch, counting down a final hour…

And can put in Comedian voice at any breaks…

 

A bar.  Will have a long wooden counter.  An old dusty envelope tacked to the wall up behind the bar. An old-style juke-box off to one side.  A stage, currently occupied by the Comedian.  

Set-up  

Wolf and Crosby enter the bar.

Wolf:  So, [interesting name] was a junior associate of Herman Kahn, back in the 60s.

Crosby:  History bores me.  Can’t we just shoot all these yahoos and find a martini bar?

Wolf:  Kahn.  Mr. Nuclear War.  He was considered to be the model for Dr. Strangelove.  I love that movie.  Can you imagine riding an atomic bomb straight out of a plane?  All that power, right between your legs!

Crosby [pinches his cheek]:  Aw, is our little Chillie-Williedreaming bigger than his britches again?  

Wolf:  don’t call me Willie. I hate Willie.  The name is Wolf.  [Crosby snickers.]  Anyway, when [interesting name] —

Crosby:  was even more boring?  Wrote a dull book that got him shot or exiled here?

Wolf:  um, no.  He was a Pentagon liaison who sort of, how to say this nicely?  Sort of, oh, helped the U.S. lose about 2 dozen nuclear bombs.  Maybe a little bit of a Russian spy.  Maybe East German.  Whatever.  Since [interesting name] was from Kansas, he planted them all here in Missouri, with a 50-year trigger.

Crosby:  Missouri?

Wolf:  Kansas.  Football.  Basketball.  That Civil War thing.  Duh.  Anyway, after a life of luxury and successful blackmail, XX repented and just before he died, told us that this bar had the audio key to neutralize the bombs.  

Crosby:  I read the file.  So our one clue is music and “magic.” I’ll ask that suspicious character [points to Writer, leaning on jukebox].

[Pocket watch, further along in the hour, still ticking…]

Wolf-clown

[Wolf looks around, a little lost, then crosses over to the Clown, seated at far right, as if watching the Comedian across the room.]

Wolf [pulls out his i.d., flashes it at Clown]:  I’m Agent Smart, with the FBI.  

Clown [chuckles and grabs the i.d.]:  No way.  Agent Smart.  Let me see the phone in your shoe.

Wolf [grabs his i.d.]: I go by Wolf.  Wolf Smart.  What do you know about magic?

Clown:  Wanna see me pull a rabbit out of my ass?

Wolf:  No, I need to—no.  

[Clown reaches around and pull out a small dog.]

Wolf:  That’s not a rabbit.

Clown [picks up dog and stares her in the face, as if he’s never seen her before]:  Damn, you’re a regular Sherlock.  Wanna help me put her back in the kennel?

Wolf:  Sir, I don’t want to have to get physical here.  I’m on an urgent case.

Clown [in mock horror at the “threat”]:  I file my teeth!  

Wolf:  Ok, that’s it.  Hands on the wall, spread your legs.

Clown [makes throaty cat noise]:  now we’re getting someplace… [Wolf searches the Clown.]  Want to paint my toenails?

Wolf [finishes search and turns away]:  That’s not funny.

 

Clown:  Why does everyone hate clowns?  I’m not Chucky.   I don’t crap on people’s lawn.  I don’t piss in people’s beef stew.  I never ate a kid I didn’t like.  [Wolf tries to ignore him.]  

[Pocket watch, further along in the hour, still ticking…]

Crosby-Writer

[Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Crosby interviews the Writer.  She will have out a notepad or some cool electronic upgrade of that.]

Writer:  So, basically, this whole case is just about finding some audio clue, like on Jeopardy, then no doubt tapping in the right song title in the old standard jukebox here, and then the hidden microphones all over the room pick up the song, the bombs de-fuse, end of story.  Right?

Crosby:  Yes, sir, that seems to be the storyline.

Writer:  Well, that’s boring.  Not a thriller.  There isn’t even a plot.  Flat.  Dull.  No Emmy nominations here.  [He leans closer to her.]  What you need is the classic well-made play.  Standard story arc.  

Crosby:  There is an actual bomb threat.  

Writer [shakes his head]:  No reason to be boring.  You need the basic exposition, set up the situation, the basic tension, introduce your characters.  Then some complications…

Clown [We overhear Clown still calling out to Wolf]:  Give my best to Agent 69.  Wanna see my tongue?  What’s your favorite lingerie?  

Crosby [as if taking notes]:  uh-huh.

Writer:  Rising action for a scene or two, leading to a big confrontation and major climax, and then the ‘denouement’…

Crosby:  Uh-huh.  Sir…

Writer:  Oh, and you have to put in the OSD, in relation to the main protagonist.  [He pauses, hoping she’ll ask.  She doesn’t.]  The OSD?  [Sighs].  The Obligatory Sexual Distraction.  A distraction, yet a key turn that points the hero in the right direction, almost by accident.

Crosby:  I like that.

Writer:  And stick with a straight-forward story line.  None of that self-reflexive, postmodern crap.  Don’t bring up every TV show and movie that pops into your head.  Like here, don’t mention The Untouchables, or CSI or Law and Order.  And like in your story, don’t even consider mentioning The Sum of All Fears and all that agent Jack Ryan crap.  Your characters have to stand on their own.

Crosby [drifting away from Writer, mumbling to herself]:  I wonder what an OSD would wear in a bar like this?

 

Wolf-Drunk

[Wolf has wandered to the bar, where he nods to Bartender, unacknowledged, then talks to Drunk Guy.  Already seated and mid-conversation when we turn back to them.]

Drunk guy to Wolf:  Magic?  Yeah, that ran out 20 years ago, when I got married and divorced three times in the same week.  [Wolf looks away.]  Wound up with two kids, child support andgonorrhea in my ass.  

Wolf [standing]:  Thank you for your time, sir.  I—

Drunk Guy [points across toward jukebox]:  Whoa.  Is that dame your partner?

Wolf [stares, gawks, starts over…] Crosby?

 

Wolf-OSD

Crosby-as-OSD [draped across jukebox in gauzy gown, lipstick, martini glass, whatever looks over-the-top old movie seductress.  She beckons toward Wolf.  He approaches and she flaunts around him]: All this time, Wolf, and I’ve never been able to tell you… [she whispers in his ear, etc.]  

Wolf [nervous]:  Crosby, we’re on a case.  We have to stay focused.

Crosby-as-OSD [some seductive gesture, lick, whatever]:  I am focused.

Clown from across the room:  You go girl!

Wolf:  We’re about to be vaporized in an atomic blast.

Crosby-as-OSD [she starts loosening his tie]:  Then our particles will be mingled forever and forever, in that radiant cloud.

Wolf [he tries to repair his tie]:  If we could just put this on hold for a few minutes…

[flash to the pocketwatch, ticking down the hour…]

Crosby-as-OSD [seducing/pushing him back over the jukebox]:  If only you could figure out how to find the right music…

Wolf [glances and finally realizes there is a jukebox]:  That’s it, Crosby!  I just have to play the right song!  Something with magic.  [He pushes her aside.  Out of our sight, she will go sit at the bar, in her regular professional clothes.]

Wolf [tries to think of song titles, poking at the jukebox]:  [he rattles off a bunch of titles…, increasingly frustrated.]

 

Wolf-breakdown

Wolf:  Music.  Why does it always have to be music?  I hate music. [he backs away from jukebox, staggering into center space.]

[Round of faces/voices saying song lines at him.  Think 60s TV version of what a bad acid trip would be.]

_______ :  Hate myself for loving you…

Clown: Tequila makes my clothes come off

Woman:  

Man:  Blood on your face, big disgrace

Clown:  you don’t have to call me darlin’, darlin’

Drunk Guy:  ust another brick in the wall

Writer:  The end of the world, as you know it

Etc.

[hmm—somehow here work in that song, “Willie” by Sweet, with Wolf collapsing to floor, into fetal position.  Go-go dancer dances around and then over him.  Clown comes over to stare down.

Wolf [on floor, extreme self-dramatizing]:  Magic! [quotesBlanche from Streetcar];  “I don't want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people. I misrepresent things to them. [rises up part way as he gets into the speech] I don't tell the truth, I tell what ought to be the truth. And it that's sinful, then let me be damned for it!” [slips back to the floor after drama-queen moment]

Crosby:  He’s channeling his inner diva.

Clown:  Inner?  I could give him some lipstick and stockings and rent him out on south 7th for 250 an hour.  [nudges at Wolfwith his foot]

[Meanwhile, Crosby over at the bar.  Sitting.  Seems bored with Wolf’s hysterics.  She turns to Bartender.  Gets a drink.]

Crosby, to Bartender:  It’s a shame, me ending up like this.  Vaporized in a dive bar, just because my partner’s a desperate diva who can’t get over himself.

[Drunk guy is being noisy, trying to get Bartender’s attention.]

[Bartender, doesn’t say anything.  Pulls envelope off wall, hands to Crosby.]

Crosby [reads envelope]:  “For the most desperate guy on earth…” [opens envelope and reads] “from the most miserable guy on earth—a bit of magic…4545-444.” And it’s signed[interesting name].  Hey, Wolf.  Look.  Magic.

Wolf [stops his sniffling on the floor, jumps up, rushes over, snatches envelope and note from Crosby]:  I knew I’d find it.  The Bureau can always count on me.  That’s why I get the hard cases. [reads note].  Here’s the code.  [runs to jukebox]  This will do it.  [types in 4 numbers].  Nothing.  Why are there 7numbers here?  [Throws note on floor.]  This doesn’t even match this damn machine.  They probably changed it out years ago.  We’re all gonna die.  A string of nuclear explosions from Kansas to St. Louis, Springfield to Hannibal.  It’ll be The Day After—“ There ain't no Sedalia!” We’ll be back in the dark ages…Kansas will win.  No rematch!

Crosby [has followed him over.  Picks up note]:  Just type in the rest.  [reads aloud as she does]: 4-5-4-5, 4-4-4.

Wolf [on his cellphone]:  It’s over.  We’re all dead.

[There’s a click from the jukebox as Crosby types the last number in, and music starts.]: “Somewhere, over the rainbow…”

[Old RKO radio emblem, with those little radio waves going out…]

Wolf [still on the phone]:  What?  The countdown stopped? We’re all saved?  Yeah, of course it did.  I was just seeing if your nerves could take it….That’s why I’m a field agent, and you all are stuck in the lab.  Another last minute save by the Wolf…That’s me.  Wolf.  Wolf-Smart.

[In background, we see Drunk guy pick up an envelope from the bar, rip it in two, and throw it to the floor]

[Image, pocketwatch stops, 4:59…]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cast song:  <via Toby Keith>

 

We got winners, we got losers

Chain smokers and boozers

And we got yuppies, we got bikers

We got thirsty hitchhikers

And the girls next door dress up like movie stars

 

Hmm, hmm, hmm I love this bar

 

We got cowboys, we got truckers

Broken-hearted fools and suckers

And we got hustlers, we got fighters

Early birds and all-nighters

And the veterans talk about their battle scars

 

Hmm, hmm, hmm I love this bar

 

[Chorus:]

I love this bar

It's my kind of place

Just walkin' through the front door

Puts a big smile on my face

It ain't too far, come as you are

Hmm, hmm, hmm I love this bar

 

I've seen short skirts, we got high-techs

Blue-collar boys and rednecks

And we got lovers, lots of lookers

And I've even seen dancing girls and hookers

And we like to drink our beer from a mason jar

 

Hmm, hmm, hmm I love this bar

Yes I do

 

I like my truck (I like my truck)

I like my girlfriend (I like my girlfriend)

I like to take her out to dinner

I like a movie now and then

 

But I love this bar

It's my kind of place

Just trollin' around the dance floor

Puts a big smile on my face

No cover charge, come as you are

Hmm, hmm, hmm I love this bar

Hmm, hmm, hmm I love this bar

 

 

 

 

 

Bob's scripts part 1

Angels in Missouri

Cast

Abdiel, an Angel, split in two, good self, bad self.

Bartender.  Will serve drinks, polish glasses.  Never a reaction expression. Never a nod.  Never says a word.

Comedian

Writer

A Couple, Man and Woman

Drunk Guy at bar

FBI agents walking back and forth—Wolf and Crosby

Clown, seated beside the bar, watching the stage

Throughout the film, there will be jumps to a black and white image of a pocket watch, counting down a final hour…

Scene 1:  Outdoors, somewhere with a fire.  Angel, shirtless, is talking to himself, literally, in two pieces.  The two pieces rapidly begin to look different, one more pasty white, the other more ghoulish red.  Both sweat, not so much from the fire, but from the split/tension.    

Good Angel  [looking at his split form]:  This is kind of fun, like in an old cartoon.  But I don’t think we’re supposed to split like this.

Bad Angel [agitated, pacing, throwing stuff in the fire]:  Can’t drive my SUV of the gods without a guilt-trip.  Lost my pension in the last big Babylon fiasco, my 401k crashed in Babel.  Can’t drink my nectar without Chinese soot.

Good Angel: I like the old cartoons.

Bad Angel:  Time for humans to admit it—the lease is up.  It’s the big recall.  Product out of date.  New model on the way.  Obsolete.  The big sayonara.  Adios.  Big Chow with a purple tongue.

Good Angel:  You sound like that angel in Dogma.  I didn’t like that movie.  

Bad Angel:  Pandora’s Box.  Gabriel’s marching orders. Humanity—“too big to fail”? don’t think so. [Throws something else combustible on fire.]  I saved up some very special divine essence.  Watch this—[Bad Angel draws paper with glittery writing out of fire.  Lets Good Angel read it]:  You want nervous?  Be glad you aren’t human.  

Good Angel [reads]:  To Whom It May Concern:  violation of lease:  Humanity, found in violation of its Second Covenant, is hereby given Notice that said Covenant is to be dissolved, forthwith.  No more rainbows.  Apocalypse will immediatelyensure.  Have a nice day.

Bad Angel [runs his hand over a pile of slushy white stuff, sort of runny cottage cheese…and an envelope smooths itself out…]

Good Angel:  Not that you should, but why don’t you justsummon up Doom yourself?

Bad Angel:  Dumbshit.  There are rules for ending the world.  I can’t just do it.  Can’t just call in my stock options.  Can’t justdevalue the currency, write new terms, change the interest rate. But humans can.  One human yes.  One human has to reach out and open this envelope.  This lasts for one hour, plenty of time for humans to fall.  It’s a done deal.  Bank on it…

Scene 2:  A bar.  Will have a long wooden counter.  A differentold dusty envelope tacked to the wall up behind the bar.  An old-style juke-box off to one side.  A stage, currently occupied by the Comedian.  We will see the Comedian once or twice, but more often, hear one of his perfectly matched thematic jokes at key moments throughout.  Clown is seated over to far right, only occasionally there in background.  Bartender places the enveloppropped up on the center of the bar, leaning it against a napkin holder.  We see the pocket watch start ticking the hour.

Comedian: [a couple jokes…]

Writer [yellow legal pad with him, and a large manila envelope.  Sits at bar.  Nods to Bartender.]  Scotch, please.  [Bartender fills glass, sets it in front of him.  He keeps talking toward the Bartender who just stares.]  Another rejection.  [Taps the envelope.]  Old-fashioned at that.  They wanted a manuscript on paper.  I can’t even just delete this one.

Comedian: [line overheard]

Writer:  Listen to that.  More escapist crap.  This story… [pullsout a manuscript, titled “Zuzu’s Petals.”], this story would have given people a way to confront existential despair.  It’s about a character who thinks through all the basic conditions of life, separates himself from all the distractions,

[Loud laughter from crowd listening to Comedian]

Writer: past the mass media, all the stupid pop songs, the TV shows where all human problems get solved in 30 minutes, minus commercial time…I just use that classic movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, which sets up the main guy in a careful reflection…

Comedian [a line of a beginning of some joke story filters through]:  

Writer [distracted a bit, then shakes his head and tries not to listen]:  so I created this tender, layered meditation… [takesstory and rips it up, scatters it on the floor.]  I should have stayed in engineering.  [Drinks, glances at the envelope on the bar, picks up the envelope, which now reads, “I’ll give you the moon.“ ]  That’s funny.  Remember what George Bailey said in that film?  “What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon...”  [Stares at the envelope for a bit, we hear the Comedian’s voice…]

Comedian:  

Writer [turns over the envelope, as if to open it, then hears finish of Comedian’s story…Writer tries to suppress a laugh, then doesn’t.  Laughs, sets envelope down, takes his drink and goes off to stand in front of Comedian…]

Good Angel:  That was funny.  Hey, I know a joke.  Want to hear it?

Bad Angel:  I hate you.

[Couple passes Writer, they going to the bar and sitting about where he was.  They get drinks.  They sit facing each other, parallel to the bar.  The envelope is propped up between them.]

[Pocket watch, further along in the hour, still ticking…]

Woman:  I want to build castles

Man:  Capitalist bullshit.  I want to tear them down.  We’ve got what we need to be happy.

Woman [snorts]:  isn’t this where you say, ‘those clouds look like white elephants’?

Man:  And I think you mean ‘hills,’ not ‘clouds.’  And you’re making me the girl in this story?

Woman:  Depends on who you kiss

[Envelope:  what he did last night.]

Man: [sips his drink, semi-quoting from story]: "It tastes like licorice, everything tastes of licorice.”

Woman [playing along inside the story]:  "That's the way with everything."

Man [still in story-quote voice]:  “that’s all we do, isn’t it….drink and say clever things.” [Woman doesn’t respond this time.]  “We can go everywhere." [He pauses.  Behind her, Drunk Guy comes and sits at the bar, receives a beer.  He stares over at Woman.]  "We can have everything…the whole world…”

Woman:  Stop it.  [Man doesn’t say anything.]  I got you a dog.

Man:  I want a kid to play with my dog.  Maybe twins.

[Envelope:  She’ll leave you the kid and take the dog.  One more broken heart.]

Woman:  The way I’ve been drinking this month, it probably already has 7 tentacles and a double-penis.

[Envelope:  It’s a trap.  He’ll never let you have a real career]

[Both of them reach for the envelope at the same time.  Their hands touch.  They look up at each other.]

Woman:  Aw, my little honey-stick.

Man:  Umm, my sweet jelly-belly…

Good angel:  Whew, that was close!

Bad angel:  Not close enough.  If you weren’t me, I’d slap you up-side the head.

Good Angel:  This reminds me of Pinky and the Brain.  That was a good show.

Drunk Guy [mutters something inappropriate to Woman as she passes…Is ignored.  Scoots over one seat, where Woman was (and envelope visible).  Turns back talking to the Bartender, who just stares.]  I knew a girl like that once.  Didn’t work out.  Our souls matched, but she just couldn’t keep up with me.

[Shift away from Drunk guy, as FBI agent Wolf talks to him—we won’t overhear that.  Time for Comedian’s voice…]

Comedian:  

[Pocket watch, further along in the hour, still ticking…]

Drunk Guy [Wolf moves away, Drunk Guy is angry.  [[soliloquy, or to oblivious bartender…

[FBI agent Crosby sits at the bar, off to the left side.  Drunk Guy doesn’t notice.  Except that Bartender is occupied listening to Crosby and doesn’t respond to his request for another drink.]

Drunk Guy:  What, am I cut off?  FBI conspiracy now?  I work all week for barely minimum and now I can’t even get a drink?  

Drunk Guy [Picks up envelope, reads envelope aloud]:  “Everything you’ve always wanted.”  [He turns the envelope over and over, looking at it.  Holds it up to the light.  Knocks over his empty shot glass.]

Bad Angel:  This is it!  No more bail-outs.  Humanity—foreclosed. Sell off that retirement house in Fort Lauderdale!

Drunk Guy:  Bullshit.  We make our own lives. [Rips envelopein half, tosses it on the floor, orders a shot.]  

Bad Angel:  Huh.  Didn’t see that coming.  [Grabs Good Angel.]  Time for the old merger.

[Pocket watch slows, stops, near 5….]

Angel [now in a business suit, straightening his tie, wiping a last bit of white/red off his face]:  Yeah.  Humans.  Knew they’d pull through.  Just a little test. Good for ‘em, really…If I spin this right on my resume, I could still promoted… [Adjusts the rose in his pocket.  A few feathers fall out of his suit sleeve.]  Those will grow back.

Cast song:

The sun is hot and that old clock is movin' slow,

An' so am I.

Work day passes like molasses in wintertime,

But it's July.

I'm gettin' paid by the hour, an' older by the minute.

My boss just pushed me over the limit.

I'd like to call him somethin',

I think I'll just call it a day.

Pour me somethin' tall an' strong,

Make it a "Hurricane" before I go insane.

It's only half-past twelve but I don't care.

It's five o'clock somewhere.

Oh, this lunch break is gonna take all afternoon,

An' half the night.

Tomorrow mornin', I know there'll be hell to pay,

Hey, but that's all right.

I ain't had a day off now in over a year.

Our Jamaican vacation's gonna start right here.

Hit the 'phones for me,

You can tell 'em I just sailed away.

An' pour me somethin' tall an' strong,

Make it a "Hurricane" before I go insane.

It's only half-past twelve but I don't care.

It's five o'clock somewhere.

I could pay off my tab, pour myself in a cab,

An' be back to work before two.

At a moment like this, I can't help but wonder,

What would Jimmy Buffet do?

[last image, the pocket watch ticks on again, not quite at 5…]