Gather 'round, both of you. Nick is poised to preface another script from his past that he rediscovered in a desk drawer.
I spent much of the summer of '09 in Chicago, enrolled in a class at the Second City and writing scripts for a nascent webisode series called The Furries. A reductive description is along the lines of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia meets Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The premise was that a sleazy, ruined banker named Brendan lost his job and wife in the wake of the previous year's economic crisis. Forced to his rent-out his once-lavish apartment in order to make ends meet, three creatures move in—a squirrel, a bunny, and a bear. It remained a mystery, by design, whether they were humans in costumes or anthropomorphic animals.
The Furries had their own names, traits, and quirks, of course, but for my first treatment, I opted to focus on Brendan. He struck me as an embittered and remorseful character who would like nothing more than to relive his past in order to rectify the poor decisions he made. In a comedy with fantastical, sci-fi leanings, the ideal storyline for him involved time travel, naturally.
The ongoing, morbid gag, however, was that Brendan was doomed, that he could never overcome his past transgressions and return to the cushy lifestyle he once knew. Minus the charming mystery and redeeming qualities, I thought of Brendan as a socialite with swagger like Jay Gatspy who devolved into a slovenly loser like Al Bundy; his fate wasn't the sparsely attended funeral of Gatspy but rather a life of continual failure—and that was that.
With themes of dystopian technology and cruel fatalism, I decided that he should purchase a faulty time-machine from a shyster named Handsome Randy Carp—a kind of devil in disguise who behaved, yammered, and dressed like a smooth-peddling radio magnate from the 1920s. It was a fun challenge to write lines befitting of a sinister shill who makes esoteric references in outdated language.
The script went over well, long before the project petered out (as far as I know). The creator of the show—an eccentric 40-ish man with penchants for compassion and grandeur—asked me to write an infomercial to tie in with the story—a mock-promotion for the helmet-like device that made voyages to the past possible, The Timecrowave.*
I said yes and here it is.
###
EXT. BACK ALLEY – DAY
FRED carries a large disposal bag marked “Dead Rats.” He is understandably nonplussed by this activity. A cigarette dangles between his lips. He spots another carcass, gingerly bends over to pick it up, and lets out a grave sigh.
FRED: These lousy rat carcasses are everywhere. And who does the city pay minimum wage to clean 'em up? Me, that's who. For God's sake, I've got a degree in Communications and now I'm doing this for a living.
From a second floor balcony, a RUDE MAN turns over a garbage can stuffed with dead rats. A few of them bounce off of Fred's head and then plop onto the concrete.
RUDE MAN: Hey, chatty Cathy, I got some more rat carcasses for ya. Next time try majoring in something more useful, like Philosophy.
Repulsed and demeaned, Fred buckles his knees to scoop the latest batch into his disposal bag. HANDSOME RANDY CARP enters the scene, pushing a wooden wagon with squeaking wheels. Its load is box-shaped and concealed by a black cloth.
HANDSOME RANDY: Does the plight of this poor sap ring true for you? Have you found yourself stuck in a joyless existence, as forlorn as Herr Hitler the day his Aryan race was bested at the Olympics by the noble savages of Africa? If so, old Handsome Randy Carp has the solution for you.
FRED: A bottle of rat poison?
HANDSOME RANDY: Rat poison? Nay, perk your spirits, Hemingway; nary a soul fancies the company of a quitter, as the popular saying goes. What I've got for you is a doodad that can transport you into the past where you can make all the sound decisions you blundered years ago. Why, you can transmogrify from beggar to tycoon, Tom Joad to Mr. J.D. Rockefeller, with this wondrous contraption: The Timecrowave!
With brash showmanship, he pulls off the sheet to reveal his invention.
FRED: Timecrowave? Sounds ingenious. But how does it work?
EXT. STEEP HILL – DAY – CONTINUOUS
At the hill's apex, Handsome Randy stands beside his latest customer.
HANDSOME RANDY: Simply place this doohickey atop that noggin of yours, crony. Then press any odd day and time you like—say...August second, twenty-naught-one, when you made that odious choice to pursue the Telegraphy racket at the university. Next, shut the door of the Timecrowave and clod-hop down this hill quicker than Willaim H. Harrison's stint in the White House.
Fred obliges, but not without expressing misgivings. With his head stuck inside a microwave with a hole in its bottom, his trembling voice sounds in a muffled echo.
FRED: Isn't that dangerous?
HANDSOME RANDY: Jelly-necked cowards seem to think so. But just as picture-show star Marty McFly's time-auto won't work unless it speeds four-score and eight miles an hour, the Timecrowave won't conduct its abracadabra without the declination and acceleration offered by hoofing it down a steep hill. Now, off you skedaddle, Zelda.
With that he shoves Fred, who maintains a frantic and barely upright gait for a few strides before toppling over and tumbling Timecrowave-over-heels several times. He barrel-rolls twice, bashes his knees and hips in rapid succession, and mercifully approaches flat land. On the brink of nausea, he treacherously regains his footing, walks a few steps with aim akin to that of a demagnetized compass, and then collapses with a thud onto the grass.
HANDSOME RANDY: Wait for it...
Seconds later, Fred is consumed in a cloud of ashy and polluted smoke. Once it dissipates, his body has vanished.
HANDSOME RANDY: But our chum Fred isn't the only chap who's gone from philistine to phenom thanks to the Timecrowave. Have a look-see at these gratified patrons.
EXT. LAKE MICHIGAN BEACH-FRONT – DAY
Flanked by two buxom, bikini-clad WOMEN, CHUCK revels in the sunshine with his hands placed on the back of both ladies. He's in a neck brace and his face is severely bruised.
CHUCK: I went back in time and spent the money my past-self paid for my fat kid's braces on three hours with these high-class hookers. Thanks, Timecrowave!
INT. CASINO – SPORTS BETTING ROOM
His legs encased in rigid casts, BUCK grins broadly. He fingers a pile of loose change in his right hand. He sports a Lebron James jersey.
BUCK: I went back in time to bet my life-savings on King James and the Heat to beat the Mavs in last year's NBA Finals!
A nearby BOOKIE frowns, approaches Buck, and whispers into his ear. Buck's eyes bulge with sudden horror. He fumes and curses.
BUCK: Aw, son-of-a-bitch! Really? But they looked so good after game one...
EXT. GOLF COURSE – DAY
Fred has returned to the present, enfeebled by his nasty tumble, paralyzed below the neck and bound to a wheelchair. He speaks with the aid of a voice modulator a la Stephen Hawking.
FRED: Seeing the error of my ways, I traveled back to 2001, forgot to warn everyone about 9/11, and got paralyzed in the process. Since then, the scientific community assumes I'm a genius because of my stoic disposition and monotone speech. My proposed discovery of Alf's true home planet has generated shock waves in the field of astronomy. I consume two gallons of delicious orange Tang everyday and have learned to play games of Tetris with my tongue. I owe all this fortune to the Time, Time, Time...
The word repeats like a note of music from a broken record. A NURSE enters the scene to rap the malfunctioning modulator with her fist. When that does the trick, she promptly scoots off-screen.
FRED: ...Crowave.
EXT. STEEP HILL – DAY
Handsome Randy Carp poses with moxie. He cradles his diabolical product.
HANDSOME RANDY: Much obliged for the kind words, invalids. Now that your peepers have feasted on the splendorous effects of the Timecrowave, what's to stop you from purchasing one, viewer? Get off that ample keyster of yours and dial Handsome Randy on your rotary phone. Call within the next hour and I'll guess your body weight—free of charge. Bid good riddance to the present and give salutations to a sunnier future with the Timecrowave.
FADE OUT:
* While Google-searching “Timecrowave” for the hell of it, I discovered that Saturday Night Live featured a sketch about a product with the same name. Confoundedly enough, this is the second time I have written a piece I thought was original only to learn later on that—whether before or after the fact—SNL has done it, too. The other one, “Listen Drooly, I'm Going to Sue,” was about a dopey man who pursues legal action against a dog because of the animal's bad behavior. (The dog bit him but the man deserved it). Hmmm...Coincidence or fishiness? For now, it just feels like yet another kick to the creative nuts, but let me know if you spot a Lonely Island version of “Coach, the Short Story.” Together, we can take Lorne Michaels to court.
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