CREEPY PEDRO
Episode Four: Belgian Jailbreak!
{Pedro and Mom are sitting alone at the dinner table, eating quietly.}
MOM: Pedro. Pedro darling...have you seen Daddy lately?
PEDRO: {Stops eating, thoughtful pause} Daddy who?
MOM: Daddy. You know, Daddy Daddy, your father. Pedro, look at me when I'm speaking to you.
PEDRO: Okay.
MOM: Look at me.
PEDRO: I just noticed the jello.
MOM: Look at the jello later. Right now, I want to have a serious talk with you...about Daddy.
PEDRO: {Very intensely} What would you like to know?
MOM: {Disturbed} Jesus, ugh! Okay, you can look at the jello if you want. But what I'd like to know is, when was the last time you saw your father?
PEDRO: When we went to see him rehearse with Bob Seger, and he poked me in the eye with his saxophone.
MOM: You were five.
PEDRO: That was definitely the last time.
MOM: {Sighs} It's been awhile, then. For a few years I thought he was still on tour, and then I thought he was dead. But today I got this in the mail, look...
PEDRO: Fortunately, I just learned how to read postcards.
{FX: Echoey voiceover}
DADDY DADDY: "Hey there, little wifey! Just thought I'd pop ya a note from ol' Daddy Daddy. Somebody called me a jerk tonight, so I'm writin' to ya to make myself feel better. I hope you're havin' a cool time spendin' those millions I made with my best-selling platter, "Daddy Daddy In The Playground Of Jazz." How's our little boy? I hope his eye's better. Is he walkin' yet? Anyway, I'm feelin' more confident now, so soft sweet kisses from your Jazzy-Jazz Daddy-Daddy..."
MOM: Jeez, he still sounds like a big faker.
PEDRO: Well, I can at least say that my eye doesn't hurt anymore.
MOM: That's not the point, Pedro. The point is, this postcard is a cry for help, isn't it? Obviously, he wants me to come and visit him, so we can reconcile our differences once and for all.
PEDRO: Where is he?
MOM: There's no return address. (Thoughtful pause) I'd better go visit China, she knows a private detective!
PEDRO: Okay, I'll just look at the food.
MOM: Good boy, Pedro. {Gets up and leaves the room.)
LUCIO: She takes longer and longer to leave every day.
PEDRO: Well, in a second we can--
MOM: {Returning suddenly) Do you know where I left my tennis racket, darling?
PEDRO: {Obviously lying} Um, no...
MOM: Pedro...
PEDRO: It's...I made this sculpture, it's called "Suburban Sport Through Mine Eyes..."
MOM: {Dangerously} Where.
PEDRO: ...in the solarium.
MOM: Sheesh... {She stomps off)
LUCIO: She's acting suspicious, it's like she knows what you're going to do when--
MOM: {Returning again, barely in control} Pedro, a brand new muskrat purse does not belong in a sculpture!
PEDRO: Yeah, but mom, who can really say what belongs in art, anyway?
MOM: Alright, I know what Dr. Berlin said about art therapy, but it's gotten out of hand. No more art in the house, Pedro, or I'm gonna throw it out. You dig?
PEDRO: But that won't work, Mom, you can't rid the house of every piece of art--
MOM: Oh yes I can!
PEDRO: No, because art becomes art when somebody calls it art, so anything in the house could be art!
MOM: {Unfazed} That doesn't matter, if somebody thinks it's art, I'll just throw it in the garbage.
PEDRO: For instance, this jello could be called art...
{FX: Jellow thrown in the garbage}
PEDRO: Mom! The starving children!
MOM: Anything else, Pedro?
PEDRO: Well, the silverware...
{FX: Silverware frantically gathered up and thrown in the garbage}
MOM: And? And?
PEDRO: I've always thought...the way the kitchen window frames that tree--
{FX: Chair picked up and heaved through the window, huge glass explosion}
MOM: {Breathing heavily for a few seconds, calming down} Any other objects d'art catch your fancy?
PEDRO: {Sullen} Well...no...
MOM: (Still calming down) Good. Okay, I'm leaving now Pedro, so you can do whatever weirdo things you do in the house when I'm gone. But I've sent your picture to every major airport, so if you try to leave the country again they'll call me up and you'll get a really big spanking.
PEDRO: Fortunately, I'm insensate to spankings.
MOM: It's not about the pain, it's about the humiliation.
PEDRO: Oh...yeah, that's true.
MOM: And no more art.
PEDRO: I'll try.
{FX: She storms out, front door closes}
PEDRO: Of course, I don't need an airplane to get to Belgium.
LUCIO: She was lying about the pictures anyway.
PEDRO: Hey, let's forget about all that junk and go count TOMATOES!
{FX: Creepy Pedro theme song, then echoey sound of the pantry.}
PEDRO: One tomato...two tomatoes...three...four...
LUCIO: Pssst, adjust your hat, Pedro. {FX: Far-off doorbell ringing}
PEDRO: Oh... {Rustling of tinfoil hat} How about that?
LUCIO: Better. {FX: Doorbell rings again}
PEDRO: Then I continue. Five...six...seven...eight...ummm...
LUCIO: Clear your head! The tomatoes know what scares you, they've known from the beginning. Don't give them any more help.
PEDRO: Alright, alright, my head is clear, I am not afraid of bugs, I am not afraid of bugs... {Deep breathing} Nine tomatoes...ten-- Oh no, a BUG!
LUCIO: Clear your head, hurry!
PEDRO: Whew. I was just seeing things.
LUCIO: The tomatoes are powerful today. We must not trifle with them. {FX: Doorbell, knocking, etc.}
PEDRO: That's why I made my pantry hat out of two strips of tinfoil. Alright, eleven... twelve! There are twelve tomatoes here, I wonder what that means?
LUCIO: That means... {FX: Grand prophecy noise} ...you should answer the door.
PEDRO: Answer the door? Wow, how boring.
LUCIO: That depends on who's there.
{FX: Doorbell, knocking,
pounding, all very frantic, getting louder}
{FX: Door opens}
PEDRO: Hello?
YOHAN: {In tears} PEDRO! I been knockin' an' knockin for hours! You gotta help me!
PEDRO: {Unenthusiastic} Yohan, come in.
YOHAN: My name's Black Death!
PEDRO: Black Death, come in.
YOHAN: {Frantic} Hurry up, where's your TV, you gotta see what's on the news right now!
PEDRO: The TV's--
YOHAN: I'll do it. Here. {FX: TV turns on}
PEDRO: Make yourself at home.
ANNOUNCER: ...General Boerman, speaking on behalf of the military health authority, says we can halt the spread of the disease using quarantine, contraceptives, and good old-fashioned discipline.
PEDRO: Not another epidemic?
YOHAN: Shhhh, watch!
ANNOUNCER: And in other news, a local drunk named "Texas Chooter" has been arrested in Belgium and is getting ready to stand trial. According to Belgian authorities, within minutes of entering the country, the old half-crazed cowboy began "chasing down and tying up little animals," in order to protest Belgium's lax small-animal policy. He was caught while trying to hog-tie an undercover police officer. Needless the say, the public was outraged.
CITIZEN: (Screaming) I do not care what happen in AMERICA, this is not AMERICA! Here, all little animal are FREE! Two year ago we pass the Belgian Little Animal Amendment because we do not WANT this U.S.A., rodeo-style, yippie-kai-yay to happen in our country! We cannot afford to be lenient! The cowboy must repent, or die!
ANNOUNCER: Far from repenting, Texas Chooter told authorities that, if released, he will tie up any small animals that he hasn't already tied up, in addition to singing a number of decidedly weird cowboy songs. Legal experts predict that he'll be found guilty and deported to Texas, if the angry citizens of Belgium don't lynch him first. Here in town, where Chooter has spent the last several years carousing and being disreputable, most locals can only say "Good riddance, Pardner."
OLD LADY: I came home one day and he was tying up my pussy cat.
{FX: TV Shut off}
PEDRO: Geez, Yo-- Black Death, your dad's really in trouble.
YOHAN: They can't deport him to Texas, he's not allowed to go back to Texas, ever again! They'll kill him if he goes back!
PEDRO: If he's lucky, he'll just be lynched in Belgium.
YOHAN: But I don't want him to die!
PEDRO: You're always fightin' with him anyway.
YOHAN: I know, Pedro, and that's what's so tragic! If he dies, I'll never get a chance...to tell him...how much I love him! {Yohan breaks down}
PEDRO: Well...why did you come here? I hope it wasn't for comfort.
YOHAN: No, Pedro...since you're my only friend I thought maybe, you'd come to Belgium with me and help me spring him?
PEDRO: You're my friend? But we only know each other from school.
YOHAN: Yeah, but...that first day, when I seen you in Huge Threats That Are Never Carried Out class, I thought, 'Pedro's a pretty cool guy.'
PEDRO: And then you beat me up.
YOHAN: Not because I didn't like you. Just because I could.
PEDRO: Okay.
YOHAN: So will you help me? First we gotta get past the quarantine so we can take a plane to Belgium, and then--
PEDRO: Woah, Black Death, you underestimate me! We won't need a plane to get to Belgium, I can teleport us there instantly!
YOHAN: {Pause} Alright, well on second thought Pedro, I'll just go alone, you know...
PEDRO: {Chasing Yohan out} Wait, I'm serious! Come back!
{FX: Outside, beautiful suburban day, etc. PEDRO is trying to keep up with YOHAN}
YOHAN: Yeah, well, it was a mistake comin' to you for help, 'cause I forgot how creepy you were.
PEDRO: Oh I know I'm creepy, but I can also teleport us to Belgium!
YOHAN: That's crazy.
PEDRO: I'm not crazy, just ask Lucio.
YOHAN: Who's Lucio?
PEDRO: My imaginary friend.
YOHAN: {Disgusted and dismissive} Yaaaaaaaah...
SAMANTHA: {Across the street, running toward them} Hey, you little JERK, get back here! Hey, freaky boy, I'm talkin' ta YOU!
YOHAN: Oh no, run!
PEDRO: Why, it's just Samantha, she's friendly.
{FX: High-heels running, then Samantha punches Yohan to the ground}
SAMANTHA: Creep!
YOHAN: Ow, stop, ow!
SAMANTHA: Jerk!
PEDRO: What's going on, Samantha?
SAMANTHA: This little jerk gave me Slimey Tube disease last night, so I'm gonna sock him! {FX: She punches him}
YOHAN: Ow!
SAMANTHA: And again! {Punch}
YOHAN: Ow! I didn't know, I promise, I didn't know I had Slimey Tubes until today! Honest! Honest!
PEDRO: Did you two drink out of the same glass? That's dangerous!
SAMANTHA: Yeah, Pedro, he sure drank outta my glass, and look what happened! {Rustling of fabric as Samantha removes something nonspecific}
PEDRO: {Disgusted} Ewwwwww!
YOHAN: {Freaking out} GET HER OFF! GET HER OFF!
SAMANTHA: Lookit what you did! Now I'm quarantined and I can't even work!
YOHAN: GET IT AWAY FROM ME!
PEDRO: Yeah, really...cover it up.
SAMANTHA: {Rustling of fabric again} You should see the other one.
PEDRO: No thanks, Samantha.
YOHAN: {Breathing heavily} You said your name was Cookie.
SAMANTHA: My name's Chastity, you dumb boys.
OFFICER: {All of a sudden} What's going on here.
SAMANTHA: Oh, officer.
YOHAN: Ummm...
PEDRO: Hi there!
OFFICER: This is no time for small-talk. Any of you kids got the Slimey Tubes?
PEDRO: Not more than usual.
OFFICER: Don't get smart.
PEDRO: I don't even know how.
YOHAN: He's stupid.
OFFICER: That doesn't interest me. I want to know if any of you kids got the Slimey Tubes.
SAMANTHA: Geez, of course not. It's illegal to be out in the street when you've got Slimey Tubes.
YOHAN: Everybody knows that.
OFFICER: But not everybody tells the truth when I ask them.
PEDRO: How do we know if we have the Slimey Tubes?
OFFICER: Where have you been for the last few days?
PEDRO: Today, I was busy learning about the fragility of art.
OFFICER: That's an important lesson, but not in times of emergency. So tell me this, all of you, and answer real honest 'cause it's for your own good. {Pause} How many of your seven major tubes are slimey?
PEDRO: It's that simple?
OFFICER: All you gotta do is count.
PEDRO: I think I got less than the normal number of tubes, really.
YOHAN: He's a mutant.
OFFICER: How many tubes do you got, boy?
PEDRO: Ummmm... {counting} I think, three tubes.
OFFICER: Impossible.
PEDRO: Amazing, but true!
YOHAN: Are you a religious man, officer?
OFFICER: Yes, but I don't think that's relevant to this interrogation.
YOHAN: I'm only askin...because you remember the great Prophet Ram?
OFFICER: Of course.
YOHAN: You remember, he said that when God came back to earth, we'd know him by two things... his tinfoil hat, and his three tubes.
PEDRO: My pantry hat, I forgot to take it off!
OFFICER: I don't remember that.
YOHAN: Look it up.
OFFICER: I left my Book Of Ram in my Electrical Interrogation Desk.
SAMANTHA: What kinda police officer are ya, forgettin' your Book Of Ram?
OFFICER: I didn't think I'd need it. And anyway, how do we know this kid's only got three tubes?
YOHAN: You wanna check?
OFFICER: {Pause} No.
SAMANTHA: I checked last week. He's got three.
YOHAN: An angel told me the other night, "Pedro's got only three tubes, so don't beat him up again, and don't let no cop arrest him."
SAMANTHA: I'll vouch for him.
OFFICER: And your name is...
SAMANTHA: Vibretta. Two T's.
OFFICER: And you...
YOHAN: Black Death.
{FX: Stinky's old-lady footsteps approaching}
OFFICER: You kids better not be shittin' me, cause this Slimey Tubes stuff is serious business.
SAMANTHA: I know, it's gross.
STINKY: Officer, are you botherin' these kids?
OFFICER: I'm only doing my job, Mrs. Berlin.
PEDRO: Hey, Stinky! I was just coming over to see you about getting false identification.
STINKY: What do you wanna be today, Pedro?
PEDRO: An FBI Agent!
OFFICER: Now, let's get back to this epidemic business.
STINKY: Here ya go, sweetie. I don't know your last name so it just says "Special Agent Pedro."
YOHAN: It sorta even looks like you.
OFFICER: C'mon, everybody, back to the topic.
STINKY: I think you're way outta line, Officer Whossis.
OFFICER: Well then, might I inquire, Mrs. Berlin...just how many of your tubes are slimey?
STINKY: All of them, because I'm old!
OFFICER: Oh.
STINKY: And besides, this boy's with the FBI, and he wants you to go now. {Pause} Don't you, Pedro.
PEDRO: Ummm, yeah, Mr. Officer. Please vacate this location, or...
SAMANTHA: ...or I'll cause a scene.
YOHAN: Yeah, a crime scene, all over your face!
OFFICER: I don't even know what that means.
YOHAN: It's a threat, it means, leave us alone or we'll beat you up.
OFFICER: Oooooo, I'm scared. But I'll leave anyway, because I don't know what's going on. Bye, Mrs. Berlin. Bye, Special Agent Pedro. Bye, Black Death. Bye, Vibretta. {He flatfoots away}
SAMANTHA: Ha ha, Vibretta's not even my real name.
PEDRO: I'd better go home and put my hat away before somebody else thinks I'm God.
YOHAN: There's no time, Pedro! We gotta go help my dad before he gets killed! And now that you're with the FBI we can hijack a plane!
PEDRO: I already told you, we don't need a plane. Samantha, do you want to come to Belgium with us?
SAMANTHA: I dunno, are you payin'?
PEDRO: Sure.
SAMANTHA: Well, it's not like I can work around here with Slimey Tubes, so I might as well.
PEDRO: How about you, Stinky?
STINKY: No thanks, Pedro, somebody from another planet's calling me at 3:00, and I also gotta do my laundry.
PEDRO: Well, it's just the three of us then. Now, everybody, let's hold hands.
YOHAN: It's not like my reputation isn't already ruined, just by being seen with you two.
PEDRO: Ready, Samantha?
SAMANTHA: Oh yeah, just let me grab my purse...
PEDRO: Alright, here we go to that paradise of sun and soil, Belgium!
(FX: Dramatic
travel music, builds to a crescendo and then stops suddenly}
{FX: Nice suburban sounds
again. A telephone starts ringing in the background}
STINKY: Yeah, I'm comin', I'm comin'. Hold yer Zoobobs, spaceman.
{FX: Old lady footsteps fade away.}
{FX: Normal, everyday park
sounds, except that all the people in the park are
saying "Yahp, yahp, yahp," in monotone; no inflection, and usually in groups
of three}
YOHAN: {Nervous} This place creeps me out. I hate Belgium.
SAMANTHA: {Bored} Yeah.
YOHAN: I wish they'd speak English!
SAMANTHA: Maybe they're all just stupid.
YOHAN: No, they're all just Belgian. {Pause, then, mocking} "Yahp, yahp, yahp," over and over...it doesn't even sound like a language!
SAMANTHA: I knew a guy from Belgium once.
YOHAN: Did he go "yahp, yahp, yahp" to you?
SAMANTHA: Yeah. {thinking back} His syntax was inexplicable.
YOHAN: Jeez, what's taking him so long? I mean, how hard is it to buy a new hat, even for Pedro?
SAMANTHA: I dunno, I've never seen him try. Why are you freaking out?
YOHAN: Because he's got all the I.D., and the two of us...we've got no passports, no plan, no nothin'! If the police stop us, we're screwed! {Getting more worked up} And meanwhile my dad's gonna get killed by an angry mob and we have to just sit here doin' nothin'!
SAMANTHA: We could buy a Belgian monkey from that guy over there.
YOHAN: That's illegal!
SAMANTHA: Just relax, ya big bore.
YOHAN: I CAN'T!
SAMANTHA: Well, ya better, because here comes a cop.
YOHAN: {Quietly} Oh shit. Ohhhhh, shit.
COP: Yahp, yahp, yahp.
SAMANTHA: Huh?
COP: I say, you are English tourists, you have come to see our beautiful country, so why do you stand in the park looking nervous?
YOHAN: Because our friend is buying a hat, and he's with the FBI, so buzz off!
COP: I suppose you are here to see the lynching of the worthless American Cowboy.
YOHAN: No way, we're here to stop it!
COP: Ha ha, little English tourist. You are too tiny to stop even a paper bag, as they say in your violent, hedonistic and insignificant little country.
YOHAN: C'mon, just try me, I'll beat you up!
COP: Like all Belgian police officers, I can kickbox, so maybe you will eat those words?
SAMANTHA: Yeah Yohan, shut up.
YOHAN: At least in America we use words, instead of just going "yahp, yahp, yahp" all the time.
COP: {Calmly} And now, I will kick you.
SAMANTHA: Wait a minute, officer, he didn't mean it.
COP: I wish to kick him whether he means it or not, thank you.
YOHAN: Do it, and I'll break your leg right off!
COP: Okay, here I go! {Tense pause} Ha ha ha! Oh, you silly tourist, I am being funny! This is a famous Belgian joke, to threaten a tourist, and then to laugh! Ha ha ha!
YOHAN: It's not very funny.
COP: If you live in Belgium, it is funny indeed. Ha, ha. We are a peaceful people, and we will never fight! We just release our pent-up aggression by threatening our tourists!
YOHAN: Okay, so you've had your chuckle, now leave us alone.
COP: Oh, no, no. First I need to know why you are in our country. You say it is not to see the Cowboy die?
SAMANTHA: Uhhhhh...we're...
YOHAN: We're actors.
SAMANTHA: Yeah, we act...around...the world.
YOHAN: I'm that freaky guy from "Suburban Rage," you know, the one who always says "Back off, you punk-ass muthafucka," to people in variety stores.
COP: Variety stores...
SAMANTHA: And I'm--
YOHAN: She's my girlfriend.
SAMANTHA: Ewwwww!
YOHAN: "Ewwwww" right back at ya, Miss Slimey Tubes!
COP: Unfortunately, we do not have American TV or variety stores in Belgium, sorry.
YOHAN: Well, then...
{At the same time} YOHAN: We're circus performers! (&) SAMANTHA: We're lawyers!
SAMANTHA: I mean...
YOHAN: We're circus lawyers, we look after the welfare of little...performing...dogs...
SAMANTHA: I'm a cheerleader.
YOHAN: We're private detectives.
SAMANTHA: {Shocked} What??
YOHAN: (Getting excited, into it) Yeah, we hunt down...we're paid to...
SAMANTHA: I am not a private detective. What are you talkin' about?
YOHAN: ...we go lookin' for deadbeat dads, and stuff.
SAMANTHA: I am definitely not a private detective! Shut up!
COP: I see.
SAMANTHA: No, I'm really...
COP: Confused.
SAMANTHA & YOHAN: Yeah.
YOHAN: We're just...waitin' for our friend.
COP: Oh yes...ha ha, the friend, from the FBI.
PEDESTRIAN: (Just arrived} Yoop, yoop, yoop?
COP: Yoop, yoop, yoop!
{Pedestrian and Cop laugh uproariously}
YOHAN: What's so funny?
COP: Ha, I just tell the shopkeeper about my little joke, that I make earlier. When I say "I will kick you!" Ha, ha!
YOHAN: Why did he say "yoop, yoop," instead of "yahp, yahp?"
COP: He is from the north of Belgium, it is a different dialect. So. If you are not here to lynch the cowboy, and you are not actors, lawyers, cheerleaders, or private detectives...
SAMANTHA: Would you stop with that, already? Jeez!
COP: ...then, why are you here? {Suddenly suspicious} You did not come to buy an illegal Belgian Monkey, I hope.
SAMANTHA: Oh, no.
COP: Are you here for the famous Jazz Festival, perhaps?
SAMANTHA: {Surprised} Jazz Festival?
COP: Yes, it is a yearly celebration of the Belgian Jazz scene. Facial hair is trimmed, music is played, we twist bananas and artists come to sell their art...
YOHAN: Yeah, that's it! We're here to sell art at the jazz festival...man.
SAMANTHA: See, look! My purse, here, it's art. It looks like the Mona Lisa, but when you turn it to the side a bit, you can see her tits.
COP: Yahp! It is intriguing! How exciting, this world of art!
PEDRO: {Arriving with Florence} You'd better not show that to my mom, Samantha.
YOHAN: Her name's Chastity.
SAMANTHA: {Somewhat occupied with thoughts about the festival} No, I already told ya, it's Cookie.
COP: Hello, friend. I see by your tinfoil hat that you are with the FBI.
YOHAN: Pedro, I thought you were buying a new hat! We've been waiting here forever!
PEDRO: I know, I forgot to buy a hat because of problems with my short-term memory. But I met this girl here, named Florence, and she's my Belgian guardian angel!
FLO: Yahp.
PEDRO: Lookit this, she took the bullet that was meant for me! Show them!
{General ooohs and aaaahs}
SAMANTHA: Wow, that's nasty!
YOHAN: {Impressed} Pleased to meet you, Flo. But why was somebody shooting at you?
COP: Ha ha, probably it was one of our Belgian police officers, playing a joke!
PEDRO: It was funny!
SAMANTHA: Well guys, don't we got something to do here? Like, shouldn't we be doing something? We could go to the jazz festival, for instance.
PEDRO: Yeah, Black Death, let's go save your dad.
YOHAN: Can Florence come?
PEDRO: No way! Look at her leg! She's not going anywhere for awhile!
YOHAN: Wow, what happened?
PEDRO: She took the car that was meant for me.
COP: Ah, our happy-go-lucky drivers, playing another trick! Well, I must leave. The next plane is arriving from America, so I must go to cause a scene in the airport. And tonight, we will all see the American Cowboy die!
SAMANTHA: Okay, bye-bye! {Cop leaves, humming something}
PEDRO: C'mon Black Death, quick! I've got a plan!
YOHAN: Yeah, okay Pedro, good luck. I think I'm just gonna...take Florence to the hospital, or something.
SAMANTHA: But what about your dad?
YOHAN: {Pause} You guys can probably handle it, right?
PEDRO: I...I guess so...
YOHAN: Okay then, see ya! I'll just be...chillin' wit' Flo someplace. {Walking away} So, do you smoke crack or anything?
FLO: Yahp.
YOHAN: Cool!
PEDRO: Well, it's just the three of us I guess. You, me, and Lucio.
SAMANTHA: Just you an' Lucio now, Pedro, 'cause I wanna check out that Jazz festival.
PEDRO: {Amazed} Does nobody care about poor Texas Chooter? Have you no sympathy for his plight?
SAMANTHA: No, and neither do you, so don't pretend that you're some kinda philanthropic do-gooder, all of a sudden.
PEDRO: {Uncomfortable} Well...it seemed like a fun project, and I came up with this great idea. We go to the jail, and then I make this big speech...
SAMANTHA: You can make it alone, 'cause I'm goin' to the jazz festival. I been in enough jails, Pedro! I didn't come here to get some dumb drunken cowboy out of a jam.
PEDRO: But what about Yohan? We promised him!
SAMANTHA: I never promised anything.
PEDRO: Oh. {Thinking} Neither did I.
SAMANTHA: The festival's over here.
PEDRO: {Walking away} Okay. I hope the twisted bananas are fresh...
SAMANTHA: Is that all you ever think about, Pedro? Fruit 'n stuff?
PEDRO: Yeah.
{Suddenly, we're at the
Jazz Festival; a smokey little nightclub, people are
quietly talking,
and a Beet Poet is reciting on stage in Belgian, which is,
of course, "Yahp,
yahp" etc. Tednik & Bertnik are working the door.}
TEDNIK: I must say. I do not like these South-Belgium poets.
BERTNIK: And I agree with you.
TEDNIK: Beet Poetry does not sound good in their ugly, southern dialect.
BERTNIK: {Obnoxiously mocking} "Yahp, yahp, yahp."
TEDNIK: Usch! So terrible!
BERTNIK: Give me a Yoop-yoop any day.
TEDNIK: I agree with you.
{FX: Poet finishes, polite, quiet clapping. The ANNOUNCER comes on stage.}
ANNOUNCER: Thank you, Lisa DeYahp, for your wonderful, moving, and intellectually stimulating performance! It is proof of something that we already know: Beet Poetry transcends all boundaries, all languages, and all dialects!
BERTNIK & TEDNIK: {Quietly} Hissss. Hissssss.
ANNOUNCER: Am I correct?
BERTNIK: {Mocking again} "Yahp! Yahp! Yahp!"
TEDNIK: {Snorty laughter}
ANNOUNCER: {Trying to stay upbeat} Well, anyway! There'll be a short intermission before our next act, because he's... {pause for effect} fixing the strings of his saxophone.
TEDNIK: {Mocking} Ha.
BERTNIK: Ha ha.
ANNOUNCER: What is it I just said, did I say...strings on a saxophone? I must be crazy! A saxophone has no strings!
{FX: Uncomfortable, embarassed laughter}
ANNOUNCER: I must be crazy then, right! Gee, just imagine, a saxophone with strings. {Chuckles to himself} Oh, enough of this foolishness! Please visit our vendors, buy some good food and some art, and if any of you would like to perform your own Beet Poetry, please, take the stage and be our guest!
{FX: Applause}
ANNOUNCER: {Not wanting to leave} But I implore you. Do not bring any crazy, mixed-up musical instruments with you!
TEDNIK: Go away!
ANNOUNCER: {Losing his nerve} For instance...a trombone with...ummm...
BERTNIK: Get off the stage, you aren't funny!
ANNOUNCER: Okay, I'm...well, yahp-yahp, everybody...
TEDNIK: {To Bertnik} I am not prejudiced and I do not make broad generalizations, but everybody from the south of Belgium is stupid.
BERTNIK: You're right.
TEDNIK: {To Samantha, who has just arrived with Pedro} Hey, who are you two?
SAMANTHA: Ummmm, I'm Vibretta, and this is my friend Pedro. We're here to sell art, or something.
BERTNIK: Pedro!
PEDRO: Yes...
TEDNIK: Pedro, the world-famous Poet Prophet!
SAMANTHA: Who?
BERTNIK: Our saviour!
SAMANTHA: Oh, no he's not.
BERTNIK: We recognize you by your hat, and by the mysterious glint in your left eye.
SAMANTHA: You guys are nuts! I mean, what is it with this stupid hat anyway?
TEDNIK: Oh, ye of little faith.
SAMANTHA: Oh, ye deluded dummy Beetniks.
TEDNIK: "Yahps and yoops may break my bones..."
BERTNIK: Pedro, you have come to enlighten us with your poetry! Please, recite something for us!
PEDRO: Nah, I couldn't...
TEDNIK: Hey everybody, Pedro the Poet is here!
{FX: Crowd responds, trying to get Pedro to recite, yahps & yoops everywhere}
PEDRO: {Laughing magnimoniously} Oh, alright! I'll recite my favourite poem about the Belgium countryside.
SAMANTHA: You'd better not, Pedro. These guys are tough.
PEDRO: They're just Beet poets.
SAMANTHA: Yeah, and they'll beat you up.
PEDRO: But it'll be fun. Okay, Belgium friends! It's nice to be here, as always, and I'd like to share this poem with you. It comes from deep, deep in my heart, where all the good things grow. Just like in your lovely country. {The Crowd sighs} It goes something like this:
"I love Belgian trees.
Belgian trees are the
bee's knees.
I even love your Belgian
barnacles,
though I hear they cause problems for Belgian fishermen."
FISHERMAN: Down with the Belgian barnacles!
PEDRO: "I love even these accursed monsters,
like Belgian skunks
and giant lobsters,
I even love your Belgian
fleas;
your parasites...are
the bee's knees."
{Pause}
TEDNIK: More!
PEDRO: Ummm...
BERTNIK: What's the next part?
PEDRO: Well, I guess the next part is...
"I love the noble Belgian
cow,
his Belgian moo's are
the cat's meow!
On rocky shores and
beaches sandy,
the Belgian monkeys
grow like candy..."
TEDNIK: Pedro...
PEDRO: "With eyes of blue and legs prehensile..."
TEDNIK: Pedro.
PEDRO: "How dare a person take offense, while..."
TEDNIK: Pedro, excuse me. It is illegal these days to make rhyming poetry about Belgian monkeys.
BERTNIK: So you'd better stop it.
PEDRO: Oh. Well, I'm almost done anyway. {Hurrying, running out of ideas}
"Lah dee dah and dee
dee dee,
these are a few of my
favourite things. The end."
{Silence}
TEDNIK: What about the Belgian beets?
PEDRO: Well, I figure...beets are part of the countryside, and I love the countryside, so...
BERTNIK: What?? A Beet Poem with no beets in it? Do you make a mockery of our lifestyle?
PEDRO: No, it's just...I've never really...liked Belgian beets.
{Silence}
PEDRO: Your squash, however...
TEDNIK: SQUASHNIK!
BERTNIK: Heretic!
{FX: Rowdy crowd, shouting, angry yoops & yahps}
PEDRO: But I like the squash!
SAMANTHA: I told ya you'd get beat up.
TEDNIK: We'll show you squash, 'cause we're gonna squash your head!
PEDRO: My pantry hat, no!
SAMANTHA: I'm just gonna stand over here, Pedro.
PEDRO: Help!!!
SAMANTHA: Anybody wan' a date?
ANNOUNCER: Ladies and gentlemen, please, settle down! {Pause; the fight continues} Our next act has finally finished tuning the strings of his saxophone...heh heh...and he's ready to perform for you! So please, give a warm welcome to the grandpappy of jazz...Daddy Daddy!
{FX: Prolonged, single, high-pitched, discordant sax note, just goes on & on}
PEDRO: AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
TEDNIK: Look!
BEATNIK: I'm not done hitting him.
TEDNIK: No, look at his eye!
PEDRO: {In even more pain than before} AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
{FX: Horrible popping, squishing noise, crowd gasps, Pedro madly panting}
BERTNIK: Yuck, did we do that?
TEDNIK: I don't think so. I hope not.
{FX: Sax noise stops}
DADDY: Hey you kids, what're you lookin' at?
TEDNIK: This big faker's eye just exploded!
DADDY: And?
PEDRO: {Recovering} Daddy?
DADDY: Oh wow, Pedro. It's been a long time. Your eye's a mess.
PEDRO: This happens every time I hear a saxophone.
DADDY: You're upstaging me here, son.
PEDRO: I didn't mean to. I didn't even know you were here, I only came because Samantha wanted to see the festival!
DADDY: {Humourless} Ha, ha. Bad luck for both of us, then.
SAMANTHA: Geez, if I'd known your eye was gonna blow up...
TEDNIK: {Contrite} Here, Pedro...have a kleenex.
PEDRO: Ah, sweet, sweet Belgian kindness.
TEDNIK: Well, it's just really gross.
BERTNIK: But what surprises me even more than this exploding eye, is how fast our anger has become flying fists tonight. And I have never even punched anybody!
PEDRO: {Gearing up for his speech} It's because all of you, you're too repressed! You never have serious arguments, or fight, or tie up little animals, so all of your natural rage and frustration gets bottled up...until one day, WHAM! You pop!
BERTNIK: Just like your eye.
PEDRO: Ow.
TEDNIK: This happens, sometimes, I agree. The result is often a massacre.
BERTNIK: {Sighs} You are a prophet after all, Pedro, though I am not sorry that I hit you.
PEDRO: That's okay, Bertnik. I'm just another victim of Belgium's overpowering civility.
DADDY: Would somebody pay attention to me, please? I mean, I know this eye-popping stuff is pretty keen, but I made it happen. It was me poking him in the eye with my 'phone that made him creepy in the first place!
ANNOUNCER: Speaking of 'phones, excuse me again. Is there a Vibretta Jones in the bar? There's a long-distance call for a Miss Vibretta Jones...
SAMANTHA: That's me! {Takes phone} Thanks. {She pinches her nose and affects a low, nasal, weird voice} Hello. Yes, yes. It's all taken care of. I'll give him the papers in a minute, as we discussed. {Pause} Oh, and when you get blood on your clothes, do you use hot water or cold water? {Pause} Okay. No problem. You're welcome. Bye-bye. {Back to normal voice} Pedro, your mom said to soak your clothes in grape juice when you get the chance. Daddy-Daddy, I'd like to see you in the back for just a minute.
DADDY: Sure thing, pretty birdy.
{They go off together}
PEDRO: So, what did you think of my speech, Tednik?
TEDNIK: It was a better thing even than your poem, Pedro, and it almost make me cry!
PEDRO: Perfect, then I'll use it to save Texas Chooter from death at the hands of an angry mob! Come on, everybody!
{At an impromptu kangaroo
court, somewhere in Belgium. A restless crowd
is murmuring}
JUDGE: Mr. Chooter. We were going to deport you to Texas, but we know that they will kill you there. And since most of the citizens of Belgium would like to see you dead anyway, we ask ourselfs the question: why not just kill you now, instead of paying the airfare to send you home? So, this is the solution that makes everybody happy.
CHOOTER: Oh, my poor son's gonna be an orphan, it's tragic! Who'll tie up the li'l cowpoke when I'm gone?
JUDGE: We will, thanks to the "Sins-Of-The-Father" aspect of Belgian law.
CHOOTER: Unlucky little Yohan! We always...kinda...got along...
JUDGE: You should have thought of this before you tied up all of our little animals! {Crowd grows louder} Bring in the damning evidence! {Sound of cart being wheeled in} Exhibit A!
{FX: Horrible cat yowling noises}
CHOOTER: Heh heh, helpless l'il pussy.
JUDGE: Exhibit B!
{FX: Horrible little cow noises}
CHOOTER: Aw, he was a feisty critter, I remember it well!
{FX: Crowd is ready to kill him now!}
JUDGE: And finally, EXHIBIT C!
{FX: The crowd gasps, a moment of silence}
YOHAN: Dad?
CHOOTER: Yohan, what in tarnation are you doin' in there!
YOHAN: Umm, hey dad, this is Flo...we were just, smokin' crack, an' havin' sex and stuff.
CHOOTER: And meanwhile, your poor ol' pappy's gonna be tarred and feathered! And killed, no less!
YOHAN: Well, Pedro said he had everything under control, so I thought...
CHOOTER: You thought you'd smoke crack with some Belgian floozy, didja?
YOHAN: Maybe she's not a floozy, dad! Maybe...maybe I'm gonna marry her!
CHOOTER: I won't allow it!
YOHAN: That's good, 'cause I was only kidding.
JUDGE: I now pronounce you man and wife.
YOHAN: {Shocked} What?
JUDGE: You're married, congratulations.
YOHAN: But I don't wanna get married!
JUDGE: Didn't you know? In Belgium, he who smokes the crack of a woman must marry that woman.
YOHAN: No way!
CHOOTER: I hate this country!
YOHAN: I guess I wasn't paying attention in my "Belgian Marital Law" class.
CHOOTER: You're a bonehead, son!
YOHAN: This sucks, I'm too young and irresponsible to get married! Wait, Your Honour...
JUDGE: Quiet everyone! Enough of this! Yohan, you're married, and that is that. You should have done some research before coming to this country. And as for you, Mr. Chooter, I sentence you to death in the traditional Belgium way: we will throw crocodiles at you, until one of them bites your head!
CHOOTER: What a horrible way to go!
JUDGE: Open the scary crocodile pit!
{FX: Scary croc noises}
CHOOTER: Untie me, make it a fair fight! I'll truss up every one of them reptiles!
JUDGE: Executioner...carry out the sentence!
{FX: Crocodiles start being thrown...combined
sound of a man straining to throw them,
the croc snarling, and the sound of them
smacking into the wall}
CHOOTER: Oh, that was close!
JUDGE: Keep going!
{FX: Another one hits the wall}
CHOOTER: Ack, it parted my hair!
YOHAN: Look out, dad!
JUDGE: This one has your name on it, cowboy!
CHOOTER: Yahhhhh!
{FX: Executioner heaves, croc flies, suddenly
Flo screams, the crowd gasps, the croc
eats Flo alive}
YOHAN: Florence!
JUDGE: How noble!
CHOOTER: She...she took the crocodile that was meant for me!
CHOOTER: Obviously I misjudged her, son. But now it's too late.
YOHAN: Well, this whole situation is kind of bitter-sweet
for me, to tell the truth.
\
JUDGE: Everybody, please! This changes nothing!
We shouldn't wrapped this up hours ago. Executioner, continue, and
make it snappy!
{FX: Executioner heaves again...}
PEDRO: WAIT!
{FX: Action stops, crowd gasps}
YOHAN: Pedro!
PEDRO: I'd like to say a few words, if you don't mind.
JUDGE: Of course not. I see by your hat that you are a prestigious, well-respected lawyer.
PEDRO: Exactly. Now, I've prepared this speech. Ladies and gentlemen of the court... {Pause}
JUDGE: Yes, Pedro?
PEDRO: Oh, I forgot.
YOHAN: You forgot what.
PEDRO: My defense. My speech. Bang! it just jumped out of my head.
CHOOTER: Think carefully, Pedro.
PEDRO: Aw, it's just been such a crazy day and everything...
CHOOTER: Think back. What were you going to say. {Pause} Think, Pedro.
PEDRO: {Distracted} Wow, What happened to Florence?
CHOOTER: THINK, GODDAMN IT!
PEDRO: Think about what?
JUDGE: Sir Pedro, do you or do you not have anything to say in this cowboy's defense?
PEDRO: ...I don't know. I've just got this song going around and around in my head.
YOHAN: What song?
PEDRO: I can't remember what it's called, but the guy keeps on saying, "Never never, a-never-never-never, I'm never gonna love-a youuuuu."
YOHAN: Oh yeah, that's that song by that guy, who's always wearing those boots with claws on them.
CHOOTER: PEDRO!
PEDRO: Yeah?
CHOOTER: {Giving up} Oh, forget it.
JUDGE: In that case, throw the final crocodile!
PEDRO: No, wait! Don't you see, killing Texas Chooter is just a way of venting your anger at living in a repressed, overly moralistic society? Belgian citizens, if you'd just let loose once in awhile...cry, fight, love, live...you wouldn't need to kill a cowboy in order to express your suppressed rage. You, ma'am...have you told your husband today that you're glad you married him? You, sir...have you told your boss that you're tired of the way he treats you, and that you're just not gonna take it anymore? And you, your honour...when was the last time you called your mom and said, "Mom...I love you."
JUDGE: {Sheepish} A very long time ago, Pedro.
PEDRO: All you people...rise up! Throw off your shackles! Give vent to the urges that are bottling up inside of you! Do what you must do, instead of hiding your heads and pretending that you don't have desires, needs, urges! Can't you see, my exploding eye is a metaphor for your culture? So please, before you explode again, do what you feel in your hearts you must do, I implore you, for the sake of your society and your country! Do it, and you will have no more massacres, no more murders, NO MORE REGRETS!
{Pause}
PEDRO: Now, if I could only remember what I was gonna say about Texas Chooter...
JUDGE: {Suddenly} Hey, executioner! Untie that little cow so I can tie it up again!
TEDNIK: C'mon, let's go beat up some Squashniks!
BERTNIK: Down with the south! Let's go kill people!!!
(FX: Pandamonium, chaos, yoops & yahps,
crashes, screams, things smashing}
{FX: Suddenly, this is all coming to us through
a radio speaker}
ANCHORLADY: The death toll continues to rise in Belgium tonight as the "Cathartic Revolution" enters it's 3rd week. UN troops are being sent in to free the apalling number of tied-up animals. The Red Cross is incapable of dealing with the virulent slimey tubes epidemic, and experts are baffled as to how it spread to Europe in the first place. In short: the happy little repressed country seems to have finally let loose; it's pent-up desires have popped like an ugly zit. Let Belgium's situation be a lesson for us all: our hedonism serves an important purpose. And now, it's time for our totally unrelated "Spotlight On Music," with investigative reporter Joey Vee.
{FX: Comes in through
the front door, and MOM turns down the radio; the following
"JOEY" speech
is heard quietly in the background, under the voices}
JOEY: Let's get away from all this gloomy European stuff, shall we, and rejoice in the misfortune of a famous unlikeable has-been? Do any of you remember Daddy-Daddy, the self-proclaimed "Grand-Pappy of Jazz?" Well, a judge ruled yesterday that Mr. D.D. has been very naughty indeed, and now folks in the music biz are calling him "Deadbeat Daddy-Daddy." Ha. "Positively Therapeutic," his record label, has unceremoneously dropped his contract. And with the sudden success of P.T's newest R&B act, "Harry Ham and the Berserkers," -- in particular their smash hit "I'm Never Gonna Love-A You," -- who can blame them for forsaking the egocentric old dinosaur? We here at S.O.M. are happy to see him go. Goodbye, sir, and good riddance. And goodnight to you, dear listener, it really is time to go to sleep.
MOM: Pedro, home so soon? Did school end early?
PEDRO: {Exhausted and disheartened} I was in Belgium for three weeks.
MOM: Dinner's on the table, but it's gotten cold.
PEDRO: That's okay. {Pulls up a chair} Hey, this food looks familiar.
MOM: Did you bring me a present from Belgium? Pedro. Don't tell me you went to a foreign country and you didn't bring mommy back a present.
PEDRO: I brought this plant.
MOM: It's crushed and dead!
PEDRO: There was a revolution. And here's a new crocodile purse.
MOM: Aww, Pedro, I love it! Very, very occasionally you act like a real human child.
PEDRO: Thank you. {Sound of utensils being picked up} The tuna has rotted.
MOM: Don't play with your food. So... {trying to be subtle} did you run into Daddy-Daddy in Belgium, by any chance?
PEDRO: Well, Belgium is a big country. But yeah. He blew up my eye.
MOM: Jerk! But if it's any consolation, we suddenly have a lot of money, thanks to your Daddy-Daddy. And I've decided to buy a bunch of beautiful, frivolous things, and I'm also going to hire you a full-time nurse!
PEDRO: But what about Lucio?
MOM: We'll hire a nurse for Lucio too!
PEDRO: {Unenthusiastic} He'll be happy.
MOM: Pedro. Not that I care or anything, but you seem a little gloomy.
PEDRO: It's just that...sometimes, you do what you think is the right thing, but then it turns out to be the wrong thing, and a lot of people die.
MOM: You're always doing the wrong thing, Pedro.
PEDRO: But nobody's ever died because I did the wrong thing!
MOM: Of course they have! We just don't tell you, because we don't want you to get upset.
PEDRO: {Suddenly hopeful} Really? You mean...this isn't the first time people have died because of me?
MOM: {Chuckles} No, and probably not the last time either. Someday, when I'm old and lonely and I need the company, we can sit down and discuss it.
PEDRO: Cool, I can't wait! Pass the potatoes, Mom, suddenly I'm ravenous! Did you hear, Lucio? I've made people die, without realizing it! Who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll kill a person! Maybe I'll start a war, or make the stock markets crash, or even destroy the world! Do you care to hazard a guess as to the mayhem I'll be causing tomorrow?
LUCIO: Only the tomatoes know, Pedro. God help us.
PEDRO: {Enthusiastically} A-MEN!