Scene 6.08 - The Creeper
EST: INT. PORSCHE'S ROOM - CASTLE CALDERON - NIGHT
(PORSCHE is sweating during his sleep and coughs as if struggling with some disturbing thought.)
PORSCHE
Darukkus... Dank... Jungle Planet...Darukkus... Jungle Planet... moving... moving.
DARK WATER - MENTAL IMAGE
(We see Porsche's dream. It is very dank.)
PORSCHE V.O.
Darukkus... Dank... Jungle Planet.
MS: Still waters
(Suddenly a drop falls into the black, and white hot widening rings appear on the dark water's surface. Again, we see the trickle of urine. Darkness again. Two moons rise in the darkness, appearing as lop-sided breasts, with their aptly-placed craters and all. As the second appears:)
VOICE
The second moon, your moon...
(There is a brief twinkle of light on the nipple of the second moon.)
FX: TWINKLE
(Spreaking of nipples, this is the only opportunity I see to insert the following rant, for it is loosely-topical as an example of how certain things should not be overlooked when looking at a notable event, especially on how to keep your cool if you are the notable event. Janet Jackson coolly-reacted to her exposure to the world in a way never seen -- certainly more cool than I would have reacted in a similar situation, as if my right testicle suddenly became the dominant water-cooler conversation of Post-Super-Bowl America.)
LOSE FX
(Rant: The American brand of false modesty and indignant posturing makes Americans look like the biggest butt-wipes on the globe, at least when it concerns Mother Nature. There is nothing amoral or morally-inferior about any community who views nudity as a natural expression of displaying one's self. As an artist, I think there isn't a darn thing wrong with the human body -- whether clothed or unclothed. There, I said it.)
FIND FX AGAIN
(To paraphrase Professor Harold Hill from The Music Man, this is perhaps more along the lines of what my more-prudish half says about Ms. Jackson's wardrobe malfunction:)
MS: LAST SHOT
(Just a nipple! Just A Nipple! Well, either you're channel-surfing away from a situation you do not wish to acknowledge, or you are not aware of the caliber of disaster indicated by the presence of a nipple in your community. Ya got trouble, my friend, right here, I say trouble right here in the F-C-C, why sure, I'm an arm-chair quarterback and I'm mighty proud to say -- I'm mighty proud to say it. I consider that the hours I spend with my remote in my hand are golden. Helps ya get the quick-record-reflex -- a stool break within a time-out. Never screamed and cussed at the call of a near-sighted, half-witted referee? But just as I say it takes beer, guts and fireworks to put on a good Halftime show, I say any boob kin take everybody's hard work and throw it all in the crapper. And they call it a mishap. The first big step on the road to deg-ra-day- I say first, a tank-top on a soccer mom, then MILFs in a centerfold! [Gasps!] And the next thing you know, your son is wolf-whistling at the mom of a milk-fed tot, and still-framing shots of a hottie on Lifetime here to talk about "nursing a baby" -- not some medicinal milk from a bottle, but a babe at an actual breast! Would you like to show Our Lady Liberty's teat to the third world? Give me your fired, your whores, your befuddled asses mooning on the TV? Make your blood boil? Well, I should say! Now guys, lemme show you what I mean - Count em, you got one-two, one-two, one-two nipples on a chest. Nipples on a chest with breasts that mark the difference between a gentleman and a goil, with a capital G that rhymes with B that stands for Boob! -- And all this time you turn a blind eye, your youth'll be streakin' away, I say your young gals will be streakin'! Streakin' away during pre-show, time-outs, halftime too! Show your silicon to the world, never mind about the tatt or the guy glued to the screen wanting his beefsteak pounded. Never mind clearin' your web-browser history, 'til your parents catch you with the lotion bottle empty -- late on a Saturday night -- and that's trouble, oh, yes we got lots and lots a' trouble. I'm thinkin' of the tweens in the twain, web-surfin' young ones, peekin' at the boob-mags in the clubhouse after school, look, folks! Right here at Halftime: Thirty-seven-still-framed pixels on zoom. Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with B and that stands for Boob! Now, I know all you folks are the right kinda parents. Tit-for-tat, I'm gonna be frank. Would ya like to know what kinda conversation goes on in the locker room at the half? They're showing off their piercings, talkin' 'bout Boobies, referring to Chi-Chi's like Knocker-loving fiends! And braggin' all about how they're gonna cover-up a tell-tale boner with a jock strap and a cup. And on one fine night, they leave the 50-yard line, headin' for the topless bars! Beer-chugging men and bra-flinging girls! And Hip-Hop-Pop, shameless music, that'll grab your son and your daughter within the arms of nipple fever! [Gasps!] Mammary-hysteria! Friends, the exposed breast is the devil's end-zone! People: Trouble, oh we got trouble, right here in the F-C-C! With a capital T that rhymes with B and that stands for Boob! That stands for Boob. We've surely got trouble! Right here in the F-C-C, right here! Gotta figger-out a way to keep a them nipples off the tube! Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble... Muthas everywhere! Heed the warning before it's too late! Watch for the tell-tale sign of corruption! The moment your daughter leaves the house, does she remove her brassiere? Does her cell phone have pictures that require a password? Does your son have Boob-Tube as a link on his webpage? Is he starting to memorize jokes from Hooter Humor Magazine? Are certain words creeping into his conversation? Words like Juggs? And Melons? Boulders, Nips and Darts? Well, if so my friends, Ya got trouble, right here in the F-C-C! With a capital T And that rhymes with B And that stands for Boob. We've surely got trouble! Right here in the F-C-C! It makes a nice young boy become a goob! Oh, we've got trouble. We're in terrible, terrible trouble. That game with the halftime act is the devil's lube! Oh yes we got trouble, trouble, trouble! With a T! Gotta rhyme it with B! And that stands for Boob!)
DISSOLVE
(Thank you for your attention. I feel much better. Now, back to the movie...)
INT. FIRE PIT - TREE SABRE - NIGHT
(Dark again. A figure turns toward PORSCHE. It is a TOTALLY HOT GIRL silhouetted against a bonfire, almost nude, like in a leather bikini or something. She speaks, handing him a cold beer.)
TOTALLY HOT GIRL
Tell me of your homeworld, Coozy.
INT. PORSCHE'S ROOM - CASTLE CALDERON - NIGHT
CU: Porsche's face in fitful sleep.
EXT. COURTYARD - CASTLE CALDERON - NIGHT
(In a small stone courtyard, the back-lit figure of a curvy, sexy woman moves towards us through the darkness, silhouetted against the outdoor lava flow. As she nears us, the large, protective light of the blowglobe overtakes her and in an instant we see a scantily-clad, hair-braided woman -- JEZEBEL.)
JEZEBEL
(Inner voice:) I know she has come to test him... no man has ever been tested with the bong... only Been Lez-a-bit women. I may lose my son.
(The doors open, she meets the Reverend Mother Hell-On-Gaia Mohawk [The Emperor's truthsayer] and takes her back toward the Castle. The lava gushes loudly nearby.)
INT. PORSCHE'S ROOM - CASTLE CALDERON - NIGHT
PORSCHE
(Whispering again:) Darukkus... Dank... Jungle planet... moving... moving.
CU: PORSCHE'S face.
(PORSCHE'S eyes snap open. He hears footsteps outside his door. As the door opens he closes his eyes, however, and he pretends to be asleep. JEZEBEL and the REV. MOTHER enter and stand in the doorway looking at him.)
REV. MOTHER
We'll salvage what we can... but I can tell you.. dear Bog... for the father... zilch-ola.
(JEZEBEL turns to the REVEREND MOTHER, stunned! She turns back to look at PORSCHE. Her hands tremble.)
REV. MOTHER (Cont'd)
Did you really think that you could bear the Nick-knack-paddy-whack?... How dare you!
JEZEBEL
Cheeto wanted a son; it was important to him.
REV. MOTHER
That shall be his undoing. A Mercedes daughter could have been wed to Frayed, the male Narc-On-Em heir; now both houses may fall in this futile, fruitless feud! My greatest student... and my greatest disappointment.... He's awake!... He's listening to us. (Considering:) Good... Ready yourself, young Porsche Mercedes... I want to see you in your mother's chamber at four twenty sharp. You're gonna toke-up like never before, boy...
(She turns and walks away. JEZEBEL remains at the door and calls out to PORSCHE in the darkness.)
JEZEBEL
Porsche? This is very important...
(JEZEBEL leaves, closing the door behind her. PORSCHE sits up in bed.)
PORSCHE
Nick-knack-paddy-wack?... For the father... zilch-ola?
INT. JEZEBEL'S CHAMBER - CASTLE CALDERON - 4-ish, Calderonian Midwich-Cuckoo Time
(JEZEBEL and the Reverend Mother enter. It is quite dark. JEZEBEL whispers a code number and a blowglobe lights on a very dim setting.)
REV. MOTHER
(Angrily:) Jezebel... Sure, young Porsche Mercedes may take after his handsome father and is rugged and masculine and still yet boyishly-cute and innocent and all, like a young muscular hunk of love-meat half naked under see-through silk sheets kinda cute-and-innocent, and I'm sure his pappy was quite a smooth talker and pretty convincing umpteen years ago, but you were stronger then. You know the Been-lez-a-bit mascot -- Carla Cougar -- you know her credo: "Toys before boys." That hasn't changed in sixty-nine generations and won't change today. You were told to bear only daughters to the Mercedes... Jezebel!
JEZEBEL
It meant so much to him...
REV. MOTHER
You thought only of a Duke's desire for a son?... Desires don't figure in this! If they did, don't you think your boy would still be in his bed feeling a heck of alot better about meeting me and getting some "diplomatic relaxation" before his upcoming move and... and... Believe me, desires don't figure in this! A Mercedes daughter could have sealed the breach; opened up a good-time for everyone. We may lose both blood lines now.
JEZEBEL
I vowed never to regret my decision. I'll pay for my own mistakes.
REV. MOTHER
And your son will pay with you. I've got a few toys for him to play with -- no batteries necessary...
JEZEBEL
Reverend Mother-
REV. MOTHER
Would you rather it be you?
JEZEBEL
Oh, please, if it could only be so!
REV. MOTHER
(Offers red, white and blue joint to JEZEBEL:) Well it can't be, doll, so toke up and go make sure your son isn't late, or I might find more for him to do to gain my acceptance -- and protection...
JEZEBEL
Protection? Protection from whom?
REV. MOTHER
Truthfully? Can a Truthsayer know differently? I see pieces of the future, yes- (Blazing a joint of her own:) Tell you what; when I eventually learn that answer, I'm more than quite sure that you'll be the very first one to learn it from me. Go get your son, Belle.
INT. DUKE CHEETO'S QUARTERS - CASTLE CALDERON - NIGHT
(Under a dim blowglobe, CHEETO has written a note on a scroll-like piece of paper. Finishing reading it, the Duke seals the message in a cylinder and presses his signet mood ring, with a blue peace-sign symbol of House of Mercedes, into a hole, which seals the cylinder with a swift hissing. He pauses, studying the metal tube, and kisses it before placing it on the desk, picking up a huge stone, plasma-pipe and an ornate, ebony toothpick. With a command, he extinguishes the blowglobe above him. He leans back in his chair as lava erupts outside the window. He's toking-up pro-style, picking his teeth between tokes from his large, obsidian pipe. He's about as content as he can be, considering. He simply tokes in the darkness, feeling a sense of accomplishment.)
CHEETO V.O.
"Narc-On-Em, Your offer of a meeting is refused. I have offtimes met your treachery and this all men know. That said, I'd like to take this opportunity to relay a few things to you since I may not get the chance or inclination later. I am fully aware that CHONG offers your homegrown ditch-weed free to the tourists at Shi-It-Kan because they can't seem to unload it otherwise. But what I'm not aware of is whether you know that when I was a teenager and not-so-street-wise, I got so like totally burned on a bum dank deal and got a seedy pound of your Greedy Grime Half-Baked Schwag-Weed in lieu of an ounce of Simoleon Spice. Now I was young and experimental at the time, so I figured since I got totally juked anyway and there wasn't anything I could do about it without it costing more effort than it was worth, I decided to try some of it. Cousin, you should call it "no-bake" schwag-weed. You could probably get a better high smoking some of that bird dung that totally coats your planet; serious. Oh yeah, speaking of the space-turd-looking snowball you call home-sweet-home: I hear that your next season's crops got all washed-out in some planet-wide tsunami on Greedy Grime right after the Emperor rightfully-kicked your lame butt off of Topiary IV. Too bad you weren't back at home in time to see the disaster for yourself, all up-close and personal-like. Heard you got delayed at the space-port and that on the Highliner there was a dispute over whose cargo bay you were gonna stink up -- too bad I didn't see that one coming like them Been Lez-a-bit seers or I would have booked you first-class on any ship in my fleet in order to ensure you were home in time to meet that wave head-on. Either way, good crops or no, you're still kinda like totally screwed, cuz. I mean, both you and I know that without control over the Toparian shares of the CHONG market, you're back to that tired, failing, water-logged, schwag-based economy. It doesn't take a Mental to do those calculations; why, you'll be sucking-up to every CHONG case worker who can give your planet a tax break or grant you some Imperial aid. Speaking of assistance, lemme impart upon your royal ear a word of serious financial advice, because I know money's gonna be tight and for you its really only gonna get tighter and tighter. And I'm not gonna say that it's coming from a guy who's fiscally been there because, well, I've never fiscally been there and I'm not sure it's even possible for me to fiscally go there even if I tried. I mean, you've done so much already and racked-up so much spiritual debt in such a different direction than where my own spiritual profits lie... anyway, in keeping with this, I'll try to be direct and waste little time. Please know, that while a helping-hand is right out, I'm still thinkin' that while you're heading all the way down there to the rest of the cosmic bottom-feeders, I can at least offer a piece of priceless instruction that is spot-on, perhaps a gem of wisdom in a time where services for obtaining such are not usually free. Yet, since you are my great-uncle twice removed and you were married to my loony second-cousin in that short year after she joined a commune and totally freaked-out from a bad batch of bathhouse acid and somehow ended-up eloping with you -- well, anyway, I figure blood is thicker than water and that's what family is for -- to help with a positive suggestion or a word of caution when it is needed. You may be my elder and all so take it with a grain of salt if you think it's already too late for you, but I think you really should heed this one maxim: Be frugal! Dude; like shop at the thrift stores; like don't buy anything new for a while; like maybe a long while; like maybe forever. And don't even think of buying that new, plasma-powered suit-levitating thing that I know you've been eyeing in the Best Pix From Kix Catalog; yeah, sure, I seen it, I'm sure as "Chantilly Lace" that you did too -- all black and sleek and evil-looking; you know that they must have had you in mind when they stitched and riveted all those bolts of levitation-leather together because they couldn't even find a living person big enough to model it for the photo; they had to wrap it around that lame-o, inflatable snowman that all the Kix Big Boy stores fly over their banners. [They should have called you, huh?] Well, as much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, I'm afraid you'll need to make due in that ugly, atomic, pee-stained long-underwear-slash-diaper-looking thing that's been carting you around since your last bath way back when the Spaced-Out Guildmasters were still normal non-freak guys like you and me. Well, non-freak like me, anyway. Anyway, it must sure suck to be you, cousin. Great Aunt Gracie says hello to you repeatedly, but that's all she really says anyway because she really doesn't recognize anyone and that's only one part of the reason we're leaving her senile bag of Narc-On-Em-lovin' bones behind in a palacial rest home on Calderon, and sure as Shitake mushrooms, no one else on this side of the family has anything to say to anyone on your side except that your fifth-cousin Bruce on the distant Purrina-Clyntynn side of our shared tribe says that your nephew Frayed still owes him two tons of spice over that last bet on the bowl game and that he's sure as shaving-cream gonna collect on it with a can of whoop-ass if Frayed doesn't make good -- which I had already informed him was buisness as usual from your side of the house. Hmm... You know, thinking about your bloated carcass floating around in that moldy diaper has kinda got me shaking my head in wonderment. I'm sure surprised and amazed that a stroke ain't got you yet. Oh yeah, dude, like, speaking of which -- Remember your cute, but-not-so-little goldfish, Scaley? You know, the really shiny-scaled, multi-colored one that looked like it was always smiling so you picked it out when you won second place at the ring toss at some Galactic Fair on Shi-It-Kan like forever ago when you were just a little kid and weren't the old, washed-up gas bag you are now? I mean, it's all Auntie Raisin -- I mean, your Great-Aunt Gracie -- it's all she ever talks about when she isn't asking everyone what time it is. Remember how your mom wouldn't let you keep your prize fish on Greedy Grime because it would grow to be like a hundred feet long? Anyway, remember how you had to keep him in the Imperial Lava Pool all the way out here on Calderon because he couldn't live on Greedy Grime with all the fish-eating birds there and remember how you used to wait all year long, and remember how you had to forego eating any of your spice licorice at lunchtime all school year just to have enough spice to bribe a Guildsman so you could jaunt-on-over and visit little Scaley for two weeks every summer vacation for like... twelve years in a row? Sound right? Auntie Raisin seems to remember it all very well. Do you remember all the times you would feed it your special home-grown molasses taffy and those special reeds you hand-picked from your Peppermint swamps from your filthy garden back at home, all the time calling them "carp-carbs?" I mean, it's all Auntie Raisin talks about when she makes sense... Remember how you kept feeding it until it wasn't a little goldfish anymore but a really, really big one that even outweighed you by a ton and remember how we've had to feed it with our own native blend of "carp-carbs" and take care for it for like the last umpteen-odd years since you went all bonkers and became a little tyrant and turned-into the infected, bloated, festering pimple on The Universe's sickened butt that you are? Anyway, I just thought you might want to know that your little goldfish that once had a cozy little home in our quint little moat is like so dead, man. Like as dead as disco. Dead; lifeless; kaput! Dead! Dead! Dead! Kicked the bucket almost a whole month ago -- just seems like yesterday... Too much chlorine or urine in the decorative moat or something caused a stroke. A serious floater. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that we all sure liked Scaley a whole lot because he sure was like... like... so scrumptious! I mean like totally delicious after they pulled the mud vein and he practically fed the whole Mercedes clan! Auntie Raisin just ate an eyeball, since she can't chew anymore we cut-it-all-up for her real good... So worth the wait, I think. Like all those peppermint willows must have sure paid off, because Scaley sure went down as sweet as honey. Anyway, Cousin, as I finish-off the last delectable frozen-and-reheated left-over of Scaley's tail section -- and, believe me, the last bite is as sweet as the first! -- I just thought that letting you know that your endeared pet found a lasting place in fish-fry heaven and I realize the finality of it as I exhale a full, tasty, belch. Anyway, I thought that this news might somehow bring you some true closure in that elusive, living-things-that-still-love-you department. The Art of Kanly still has admirers in the Empire. Your Replacement And Always The Better Man, Duke Cheeto Of Darukkus."
DISSOLVE TO:
BACK TO SCENE
(PORSCHE enters the room and JEZEBEL closes the door behind them.)
JEZEBEL
Porsche, this is the Reverend Mother Hell-On-Gaia Mohawk. She is going to... observe you... (To Reverend Mother:) Please...
REV. MOTHER
Jezebel, you know it must be done. I enjoin you to stand guard at the door and practice the meditation of peace. (Offers joint:) Blaze-up one of these, it's some serious creeper...
JEZEBEL
Yes, your Reverence.
PORSCHE
(Inner voice:) What does she fear? (Out loud:) What about my Father?
JEZEBEL
Porsche... please, Porsche... listen to the Reverend Mother and do what she tells you.
(JEZEBEL leaves the room. The Reverend Mother speaks to the lad using The Tongue, a Been Lez-A-Bit training which permits an adept to control others merely by selected tone shadings of the voice. It sounds as if two people are talking -- one normal and the other kinda moaning like they're doing something dirty. The effect is strange, yet subtle.)
REV. MOTHER
(Using The Tongue:) Now you come here.
(PORSCHE finds he cannot help but obey her, yet he fights her controlling him.)
PORSCHE
(Inner voice:) She's using The Tongue. (Out loud:) No.
(She sees him struggling.)
REV. MOTHER
(Inner voice:) Some strength there. Surprising! (Out loud:) Come here.
(The Reverend Mother holds up a green metal vase.)
REV. MOTHER (Cont'd)
See this... Put your lips against this.
(PORSCHE stares at the brim of the vase.)
PORSCHE
What's in the vase?
REV. MOTHER
Pain.
PORSCHE
Lady, you're kinda hot in a kinky, sorta "milf" way, but I'm so not into...
(Just then, she raises one hand to his neck. PORSCHE sees a glint of metal. He tries to back away.)
REV. MOTHER (Cont'd)
(The Tongue:) STOP! Put your lips on the vase.
(POSCHE'S lips touch the brim of the vase. Fear passes over his brow.)
PORSCHE
(Inner voice:) The Tongue again.
REV. MOTHER
I hold at your neck the bong ajar. Don't pull away or you'll feel that poison. A Duke's son must know about many poisons -- this one kills only lightweights.
PORSCHE
(Out of the corner of his eye and his mouth:) Are you suggesting a Duke's son is a lightweight?
REV. MOTHER
Let us say I suggest you may be a hardcore, pipe-slammin', bong-cashin' toker. Your awareness may be powerful enough to control your instincts. Your instincts will be to hack and cough and to remove your lips and cease toking, or wost yet, to not inhale at all.
PORSCHE
It is insulting to imply that House Mercedes tokes like House Clyntynn. We're deep-chongers; pearl-divers.
REV. MOTHER
Relax, relax -- I'm only saying that if you do not keep the bowl lit, you will die. (She sparks the bong. He begins toking.) You will feel an itching at the back of your throat -- there... see? Now the itching becomes burning... heat, upon heat, upon heat.
(Smoke begins to pour from the vase and PORSCHE'S nostrils.)
PORSCHE
(Whispering:) It burns. My lungs...
REV. MOTHER
SILENCE... SILENCE. (Leans in, sexily:) Toke... toke it... toke it up!
PORSCHE
(Inner voice, struggling to compose himself:) I must not cough. Coughing is the toke-ender. A cough is the little death that brings total obliteration to the lively hit. I will face my cough... I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the watery inner-eye to see its path. Where the cough has gone there will be nada. Only I will remain.
(The REVEREND MOTHER moves her smooth, sexy face up to his. Her ancient, porcelain face with her perfect teeth gleaming inches away breathes hotly. She is smiling.)
REV. MOTHER
You feel the rush, boy?
PORSCHE'S MENTAL IMAGE
PORSCHE V.O.
Mmm-hmmm!
(PORSCHE'S inner mind sees all kinds of moving linoleum designs, all plasmic and psychedelic.)
INT. JEZEBEL'S CHAMBER - CASTLE CALDERON - NIGHT
REV. MOTHER
(Smiling, aroused, excited, stepping it up a notch:) Now, tracers.
(He sees tracers while scoping the cougar. He keeps chonging, red-faced, watery-eyed, still not coughing. HIs face registers extreme pain.)
PORSCHE
(Slightly exhales: cannot help the explosion:) I must cough... to get off!
REV. MOTHER
NO! ENOUGH! W-T-F? No woman child ever smoked that much. I must have wanted you to fail. Take your lips from the bong and exhale, young stoner.... Do it!
(He looks to the REVEREND MOTHER. He exhales a fresh breath, no cough. No real smoke? An hallucination?)
REV. MOTHER (Cont'd)
(Explaining:) A phantasmic high through nerve induction... Can't go around choking humans, eh? There're those who would drop some serious grip to know the secret of this bong. Pain is merely the axis of the test. A human can chong any spleef.
PORSCHE
But the pain-
REV. MOTHER
Pain, hah! A human can override any nerve in the body... Our test is crisis and observation.
PORSCHE
(Yeah, an hallucination:) Far-out. I see the truth of it.
REV. MOTHER
(Inner voice:) He senses truth! Could he be the one?... Maybe... but will he be ours to control? (Out loud:) So, you know when people believe what they say? When they speak the truth?
PORSCHE
Babe, I knows it.
REV. MOTHER
Your mother took this test once. It imparts truth, it sets you free.
PORSCHE
Free?
REV. MOTHER
Once men turned their thinking over to machines in the hope that this would set them free. But that only permitted other men with machines to enslave them.
PORSCHE
"Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a man's mind."
REV. MOTHER
Right out of the The Orange Grokwork Bible. But what the O-G Bible should've said is this: "Thou shalt not make a machine to counterfeit a human mind."
(Suddenly, the REVEREND MOTHER holds her hand against PORSCHE'S head. She closes her eyes.)
INT. FIRE PIT - TREE SABRE - NIGHT - REVEREND MOTHER'S MENTAL IMAGE
(She sees a blurred image of PORSCHE'S earlier dream. She sees the leather-clad girl turn. She hears a muffled voice say "Tell me of your homeworld, Coozy".)
INT. JEZEBEL'S CHAMBER - CASTLE CALDERON - NIGHT
REV. MOTHER
(Leans in, close again.) Your mother wants you to tell me about your dreams. I only want to know one thing.... Do they come true?
PORSCHE
(Closer still:) Not all of them... I know which ones will. Unfortunately, it never seems to be the wet ones...
REV. MOTHER
A pity, I'm sure. (Hot breath in PORSCHE'S ear:) Perhaps you are the Nick-Knack-Paddy-Whack.
REVERSE ANGLE
PORSCHE
(Into her ear, seductively.) Nick-na- Whazzat?
REVERSE ANGLE
REV. MOTHER
(Profoundly:) The boy-toy who can smoke in many places at once... the one who bridges space and time.... He can toke where we cannot.
PORSCHE
Where's dat?
REV. MOTHER
(Leans back, eyeing him:) Do you know of the Resin Of Fruitful Life?... the Truthsayer hash?
PORSCHE
I've heard about it. Word on the streets says it's some seriously wack sh-
REV. MOTHER
(Pulls away, looks at him.) It is very dangerous... very painful. The Been Lez-a-bit sisterhood smoke it to see within, and occasionally when a sorority party gets out-of-hand, but no matter... There is a place terrifying to us... to women. It is said a man will come... the Nick-Knack-Paddy-Whack... he will go where we cannot... Many men have tried...
PORSCHE
What? Did they try and fail?
REV. MOTHER
(Seeing his misunderstanding:) Oh no, they tried and died. (She calls out loudly.) Jezebel!
(JEZEBEL enters immediately and sees with great relief that PORSCHE is still active; i.e. alive.)
REV. MOTHER
(Teasing her locks of hair:) I sense your teachings in him. Ignore the regular order of training. His safety requires The Tongue.
PORSCHE
I've heard enough of my safety... What about my father?... I heard you talking. You talk as if he was gone already. Well, he ain't!
JEZEBEL
Porsche!
(She tries to hold him.)
PORSCHE
Well he ain't... and he won't die... Tell me he won't die!
REV. MOTHER
What can be done has been done.
PORSCHE
Please! Tell me!
(The REVEREND MOTHER covers herself and moves quickly to the door, nodding to JEZEBEL.)
WIPE TO: