ACT TWO (CONT'D)
INT. HOMER'S CAR – MOMENTS LATER
Homer strangles the steering wheel and grimaces; he is as anguished as a madman in a straight-jacket with a fly crawling on his face.
INSERT:
A thought balloon appears above his head.
He pictures teenage STU nuzzling up to teenage Marge. As homage to Freddy Mercury, Stu wears a gaudy leather ensemble that barely covers his nipples and shows his chest hair and belly-button.
STU: Baby, my love is true/ So don't look for someone new/ 'Cause the only one for you/ Is your man Glam-Rock Stu.
Won over and smitten, Marge smooches him on the lips and then tends tenderly to Stu's neck. As she does so, he reaches behind her and grins at the notepad in his hand. The opened page is titled, “Words that Rhyme with Stu.” Several appropriate words have been scribbled beneath the heading.
STU: (TO SELF) Heh, heh. Never fails.
Homer's thought bubble goes poof. He bashes the steering wheel and exerts a primal and furious growl.
EXT. STU'S DISCO PARKING LOT- MOMENTS LATER
Homer's sedan screeches to a halt across two parking spots.
INT. STU'S DISCO
The club is vacant except for a MUSTACHED MAN who sweeps the dance floor, which is littered with confetti, long spoons, and rolled-up dollar bills. Homer barges through the entrance.
MUSTACHED MAN: (CHARLES BRONSON VOICE) Hey, not so fast, KC and the Stout-Sized Waist Band. The place don't open 'til five.
HOMER: Can the insulting disco-puns, wise guy. I need to speak to the manager.
MUSTACHED MAN: Well, you just did, paly-boy. Will that be all then?
HOMER: What are you talking about? Where's Disco Stu?
MUSTACHED MAN: Ooh. Well, Stu made some shoddy investments. He financed a Monkey Dancing League that went bankrupt in two weeks. He was up to his sunglasses in debt, so he sold me this dump for ten-grand and a Carl Douglas Greatest Hits album. “Kung Fu Fighting” is the only song on the entire friggin' record. Still, that was the deal-breaker.
HOMER: Well, why is this place still called Stu's Disco? Why not name it after yourself?
MUSTACHED MAN: (DEADPAN) Hey, swell idea. “Adolf's Disco.” It's got a nice ring to it. (BEAT) Look, if you really want to track him down, he's got an apartment at the Casa Nova.
HOMER: (WOODEN) Thanks.
MUSTACHED MAN: (CALLING) And tell him those monkeys in the basement aren't gonna drive themselves to rehab, will ya?!
EXT. CASA NOVA APT. COMPLEX PARKING LOT – LATER
Stu's rusted jalopy approaches a parking spot. Its muffler drags on the cement. He is (naturally) grooving to disco music. The tunes cease as he transfers the cassette from the tape deck to a boombox on the passenger's seat, and then the tunes resume. Clad in the uniform of a Planet Hype waiter, Stu exits his car and boogies all the way to the entrance with the boom-box perched on his shoulder.
From the shrubby fringes of the lot, Homer spreads apart two bushes to reveal his obsessive stare.
He prowls along the side of the building. He gazes at the rickety porches of the dwellings on the second floor and sneaks past three dumpsters of increasing size. They're labeled: “Recyclables,” “Trash,” and “Outdated Porn.” Homer closes the lid on this third dumpster and uses it as a platform to aid his strenuous climb up to Stu's porch.
INSERT:
From inside the dumpster, Moe thrusts open the lid and shakes an angry fist at Homer.
MOE: Hey, I'm scroungin' down here! Do ya mind?
INT. STU'S APT.
Stu's place is squalid and dimly lit. Homer can be seen through the sliding glass doors, peering discreetly. The front door opens and Stu steps in. Still abuzz with swagger, he does the splits and flips on the light switch as he springs back to his feet. He then slams the door shut at the halfway point of a 360-degree spin.
Once the door is closed, however, his posture sags and he thumb-punches the STOP button. Suddenly silent and haggard, he looks down gloomily.
EXT. STU'S PORCH
Squatting like a catcher expecting a pitch off the plate, Homer grovels, beset by envy and delusions.
HOMER: Stupid big shot can't tear his eyes away from his faaaancy leather shoes.
INT. STU'S APT.
STU: Disco Stu needs a Hot Pocket and a cologne bath.
He mopes into the kitchen, snags a Hot Pocket from the barren freezer, and opens the door of the microwave. He yanks out the dirty laundry stored inside and tosses the heap onto the carpet.
EXT. STU'S PORCH
HOMER: (AWED) Great dancer, renowned lover, and gourmet chef?
INT. STU'S APT.
As the microwave hums, Stu plops down on a lawn chair in the living room. Remote in hand, he flips on the TV.
KENT BROCKMAN: (O.S.) Tonight on Smartline, the collapse of the Monkey Dancing League has led to an outbreak of drug addiction in Springfield's once-proud primate community. Channel 6 anchor Scott Christian is live outside of Stu's Disco with more on the story...
Stu turns off the TV and buries his careworn face in his hands.
STU: Oh...Stayin' Alive just ain't what it used to be...
Someone knocks urgently at his door.
STU: (HUSHED) Crap! That's either the landlord or the cops.
The microwave beeps and Stu—overcome with panic—hushes it from afar. He grabs a pillow case strewn on the carpet and starts to shovel records and discarded clothes (a rhinestone codpiece included) inside it. He rushes over to the microwave and snares his Hot Pocket before escaping toward the porch, where Homer slinks anxiously out of view. Stu is halted in his tracks by a resounding call from the hallway. It's KIRK VAN HOUTEN.
KIRK: (O.S.) Hey, it's me—uh, Kirk! Are you in there, Stu?
His composure regained, Stu sighs and backtracks toward the door. He opens it.
STU: That's Disco Stu to you.
KIRK: Sorry. Listen, could you be a pal and work my shift at Planet Hype tonight?
Stu reaches into the pillow case, extracts the steaming Hot Pocket, and boldly munches on it.
STU: Among other things, working a double shift is beneath Disco Stu.
KIRK: Aw, come on. Milhouse is in the hospital with third-degree Indian burns on his forearm. (BEAT) Look, if you don't cover my tables tonight, I'll tell the boss you're the one who stole the Travolta codpiece from his wax statue.
Stu's shades droop to reveal eyes that dart fretfully like a trapped animal. He adjusts his sunglasses, lets out a timid cough, and conceals the pillow case with the codpiece stuffed inside behind his back.
STU: That codpiece could be anywhere but inside my pillow case. (SIGHS) Fair enough. You've found my one weakness: kleptomania, coupled with compulsive lying and a lousy work ethic. Plus I have a drug problem. You leave me no choice but to say yes, Kirk.
KIRK: Call me Mr. Van Houten!
STU: (FEEBLE) Yes, Mr. Van Houten.
KIRK: (GASPS) My God! That actually worked? What a breakthrough for my manhood...
Disgusted by both Kirk and himself, Stu slams the door shut.
EXT. STU'S PORCH
His eyes aglow with shifty mischief, Homer strokes his chin.
HOMER: So...Disco Stooge will be waiting tables at a classy restaurant, eh? This give me an idea. Heh, heh.
He begins his descent from the perch of the second floor porch.
Beneath Homer's dangling legs, Moe hasn't gone anywhere; he gapes lewdly at a dirty magazine inside the dumpster.
MOE: Ho, ho, the mother load! Probably 18 magazine. I can't believe they still print this. Oh, somebody up there likes me.
Unwittingly, Homer's foot kicks the upraised lid of the dumpster. The lid teeters and crashes down with great force on Moe's head. Homer lands safely on the platform, oblivious to Moe's concussion.
EXT. NEARBY PHONE BOOTH – A BIT LATER
Homer studies the digits scrawled on the napkin he took home last night. He dials the number of Krusty the Klown.
INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION – CONTINUOUS
Draped in a bathrobe as he lounges on an extravagant couch, Krusty sips on a highball glass. He's watching TV but doesn't seem like he's enjoying it.
KRUSTY: Buy a vowel, you moron!
GAME SHOW HOST: (O.S.) Survey says?
A buzzer razzes on TV to indicate a wrong answer.
KRUSTY: Ah, the poor schmucks just don't want to listen...
The nearby phone rings and Krusty answers it.
EXT. PHONE BOOTH
Plagued with doubts, Homer's fingers coil and twist the cord connected to the receiver.
HOMER: Um, Krusty? Hi. This is Homer. Homer Simpson. I got your number from a bar last night? Remember that?
KRUSTY: Yeah, I guess so...the fat, chrome-domed sex-o-phobe, right?
EXT. PHONE BOOTH
Homer's shoulders go slack with relief.
HOMER: (FLATTERED) Aw...you do remember. Listen, I need a favor. A double date. You, me, and two of the glitziest, prettiest, fake-boobiest women you can find.
An operatic dirge of grim foreshadowing plays.
FADE OUT
END OF ACT TWO
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