FSW: Payroll Edition

This week's theme was "payroll".

Richard said he had trouble with it, but turned in a fine sketch none the less.

No word from the theme originator yet.

Here's my effort this week. Not crazy about the ending. But it'll do for now.

Next week's theme is "Back to School".

And, as always, if you'd like join us, simply write a sketch and let us know where to read it.


The Meeting

(The backroom of a warehouse. A table sits in the middle of an empty room. A single, bare bulb swings from the ceiling. Eight of the roughest, meanest looking thugs sit at the table. Jimmy “The Clam” Garbosi stands at the head of the table. He has a briefcase and a large shopping bag.)
Jimmy: As you’s fellas know, it’s been a rough year for The Family. Peoples ain’t been able to pay as much for protection and whatnot.

(He takes a stack of stapled papers out of his briefcase. There is a colorful pie chart on the front page. He hands the stack to Ernie “The Node” Farconni.)

Jimmy: Take one and pass it around.

(They do.)

Jimmy: As you’s can see from the chart here-

Ernie: You do this?

Jimmy: So what if I did?

Ernie: It’s nice work.

Jimmy: Grazie. As I was sayin’. Our income is down 32% from this time last year.

Barry: Is that the yellow chunk?

Jimmy: (sigh) Yes, Barry, it’s the yellow chunk. Now, what this means, unfortunately, is that we’re going to have to let some of you go.

(Everyone tenses up. Some of them reach for the inside of their jackets. Everyone watches everyone.)

Jimmy: Whoa, whoa, whoa. It ain’t gonna be like that. Hands on the table guys. Come on.

(Everyone slowly pulls their hands out of their coats and puts them on the table.)

Jimmy: The Family understands that you’s gotta feed your own and if that means you gotta find work with another family, that’s the way the meatball bounces. But. Know this. If you choose this option and I see you out on the street, I’ll shoot your fuckin’ face off. (beat) Questions?

(Harry “The Limp” Barollo is flipping through the hand-out. He raises his hand.)

Jimmy: Harry.

Harry: It don’t say nuthin’ in here ‘bout our benefits.

Jimmy: Right. Good question. We will continue your benefits package for six months after your termination.

(Everyone tenses. A couple people reach for their coats.)

Jimmy: Tah, tah, tah. Relax.

(Everyone does.)

Jimmy: So you can still get free lunches at Gordo’s on 63rd and the fish fry Fridays is free at Sal’s, but only during Lent. The backroom at Mac’s is available to for parties, but you’re gonna have to pay for your own booze.

Ernie: No dames?

Jimmy: No dames, Ernie. You’re gonna have to settle for your wife like the rest of us.

(Everyone chuckles.)

Ernie: You disrespectin’ my wife?

Harry: No, he’s disrespectin’ you, ya mook.

Ernie: Who you callin’ a “mook”, ya hose?

Jimmy: Fellas, fellas. Please. Could we not live up to the stereotype for one stinkin’ meetin’?

Barry: So who’s goin’?

(Everyone nods and looks at Jimmy. He pulls out a sheet of paper.)

Jimmy: Before I read off these names I want you to know that this wasn’t an easy decision. We looked through your past performance records, took into account the number of years you’ve been workin’ with –

(Harry shoves himself back from the table, reaches into his coat, pulls out his gun and shoot’s the man across from him, dead.)

Jimmy: Wait!

(Immediately everyone is on their feet. Shots ring out. Goombahs dies. When the dust settles, Jimmy is still at the head of the table. Harry, Barry and Ernie are the only three left standing. Jimmy looks down at the piece of paper in his hands and shakes his head.)

Jimmy: What are the odds? Right. Get this mess cleaned up. There’s work to be done.

(Harry and Barry begin dragging bodies off.)

Ernie: Hey, Jimmy. What’s in the bag?

Jimmy: It was PSPs and iPods for the fellas that was gonna get axed.

Ernie: Can I have one?

Jimmy: You’re still here, Ernie.

Ernie: Yeah, but I’d like an iPod.

Jimmy: Well, you shoulda thought of that before you got all trigger happy. Now help these guys out before I get sore at ya.

(Jimmy walks off. Ernie is using one of the hand-outs to scoop up someone’s splattered brains.)

Jimmy: (To himself) Middle management sucks.

BLACKOUT

FSW: Highway Robbery

Not my best work. I'm going to leave it at that. I think it's a cute-ish setup, and I don't mind the payoff, but it's clunky and clumsy and the dialog sucks. Sorry. Blame David for picking this week's theme of payroll. Michael's up for next week's theme. My fingers are crossed that it doesn't hurt quite like this one!
 

(Payroll department. TIM, 30s and beige as the cubes and carpet of his department, sits at his desk. MARY, late 20s but holding tight to her early 20s, stands at his side.)
TITLE: WELLS FARGO SOUTHWEST REGIONAL DATA CENTER, PAYROLL DEPARTMENT, PAYDAY, 11:59AM.

MARY
I don’t understand why we don’t just send out an email.

TIM
Corporate needs hard copies of everyone’s AR-13s, in triplicate.

MARY
Tree killers.

TIM
That’s just the way things are done. If we don’t get those in, no one’s getting paid next month.

MARY
I know, I know. I’ll take care of it. I just don’t know why it’s got to be this way.

TIM
Personally, I like doing things the old way. I like knowing I’ve got a file cabinet filled with all the documents I need to get us through any audit. What do you have with an email?

(Gunfire announces the arrival of THREE COWPOKES, dusty, mustachioed, and 120 years too late. Ringleader DALE steps front and center and shoots his two six-shooters.)

DALE
Yeehah! Alright you lily-livered hangdogs. Hand over the loot.

MARY
Sir, you can’t fire guns in--

(Dale shoots Mary. Dead.)

DALE
Yeehah!

TIM
(sighing)
Great. Do you know how long it takes to train a good payroll clerk? What do you want.

DALE
We’re aimin’ to take your payroll off your hands, pardner.

TIM
Take our...you want to steal our payroll?

DALE
You betcha!
(to henchmen)
He ain’t the sharpest fella, is he?

TIM
You do realize that most of our employees just have direct deposit, right?

DALE
What in tarnation is that?

TIM
Pay is deposited directly into their bank accounts. No paychecks, no cash. All they get is a stub.

DALE
Goldang it all! The world’s just changin’ too fast for this ol’ outlaw.

TIM
I know how you feel.

DALE
I s’pose they get medical, too.

TIM
And dental.

(Dale raises his eyebrow suggestively. Lights come down and back up. Tim sits alone at his desk. Dale comes up in the same dusty cowboy gear. He shoots into the air.)

TITLE: WELLS FARGO SOUTHWEST REGIONAL DATA CENTER, PAYROLL DEPARTMENT, ONE WEEK LATER

DALE
Yeehah! Here are them AR-13s, boss!

BLACKOUT

FSW: Disney Edition

"Disney" was the theme tossed out by Richard this week in honor of his applying for the Disney-ABC Television Writing Fellowship. Here's hoping it was just the push he needed to get accepted.

His sketch this week brings us the Walt-cicle taking in the Olympics.

Dave jumped in last week after getting a reaming from the creator of Wall-E. Nothing from him yet, but the theme is in his hands should he choose to join us.

I think it's interesting that I chose to deal with Walt as well. Not sure what that says about Richard and I. Aside from the "great minds think alike" stuff.


Origin of Species.

(A dark and dingy basement/laboratory. A young man is standing over an operating table working on a body. We can’t really see what’s on the table. He is whistling while he works. Suddenly a light is turned on and we hear footsteps coming into the basement.)

Dad: What are you doing down here, Walt?

Walt: Knock! I asked you to knock before coming down here!

(Walt frantically throws a sheet over the body. His Dad enters.)

Dad: I’m sorry, son, but something's happened.

(He notices Walt’s apron is covered with splattered blood.)

Dad: What are you working on?

Walt: Nothing. Science experiment. Nothing.

(The body under the sheets twitches. Dad looks around Walt at the figure on the table.)

Dad: Is it alive? You’re not torturing one of Mrs. DeVille’s cats again are you?

Walt: No, Dad.

Dad: We talked about that, remember?

Walt: I remember, Dad. Now, what did you want to talk to me about? I have work to do.

Dad: There’s no easy way of saying this. It’s your mother.

Walt: What about her?

Dad: Well, she was out picking berries and some hunters mistook her for a deer…

(There is a sound from under the sheet. A strange guffawing, laugh-like sound.)

Dad: What the hell do you have under there?

(Dad whips away the sheet to reveal a strange humanoid looking dog. Dad recoils with disgust.)

Dad: Sweet Jesus! What have you done?

Walt: It’s not finished yet!

Dad: Is that Pluto?

Walt: No, dad. I would never hurt our dog.

Dad: Then?

Walt: It’s the Darling’s goofy-looking mutt.

(The “dog-man” twitches and guffaws again.)

Walt: He is going to be able to walk and talk, just like we do.

Dad: Oh son. Son, this is wrong. You have to stop this.

Walt: Why can’t you believe in me? My work.

Dad: Walt, trying to make animals behave like us isn’t work, it’s….it’s immoral.

Walt: You just wait and see. I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone!

(Walt bolts up the stairs.)

Dad: Son wait! Come back!

(We hear a door slam in another part of the house. Dad takes a look around the basement. The “dog-man” twitches and guffaws.)

Dad: Jesus. This is worse than those damn mice he kept putting short pants on.

(He picks up a shovel and bashes the “dog-man” with it. There are a couple of yelps and then it is still. He wipes his hands and heads for the stairs.)

Dad: He’s gotta cut this shit out. A thing like this can stick with a man forever. After all, it’s a small world out there.

(He climbs the stairs. A cricket in a top hat and coat leaps onto the table. It takes one look at the “dog-man” and vomits.)

BLACKOUT

FSW: Walt and the Olympics

Today's the Disney-ABC deadline. My application got in the mail yesterday, but in honor of the day, I suggested that this week's theme should be Disney. Hope you enjoy. Next week's theme *should* be up to David, but if he's not fully back in the battle, it'll fall to Michael.
 

(A lab. An odd mixture of modern and Gernsback-inspired equipment. THREE MEN in white lab coats hover over a metal tube. WALT DISNEY sleeps inside.)
TITLE: TODAY. A TOP-SECRET LAB DEEP BENEATH EPCOT CENTER.

PERRAULT
His vitals are almost normal, he should be up any--

(Walt pops up. A bell goes off.)

WALT
Oh boy, that was a good nap. Heya fellas.

HAND
It worked! It really worked!

WALT
Well of course it did, son. This is the best reanimation equipment money can buy. What's the date?

HAND
2008. August 2008.

WALT
That was a little longer than I expected. Darn. Tell me, how's the company doing? Did it get by alright once our copyrights went into the public domain?

LUSKE
Into the...no. Mr. Disney, we still have all our copyrights.

WALT
You did say 2008, right son?

HAND
Yessir.

LUSKE
You can thank Sonny Bono.

PERRAULT
Sonny Bono's dead.

HAND
Actually, he's in that tube over there.

WALT
Alright. So we've still got our characters. Good. What else. (BEAT) Hey! It's 2008. It's an Olympiad!

HAND
Yessir. Would you like to watch them while you're finishing your recovery?

WALT
Sure! Who doesn't love the Olympics?

(A TV is turned on, and we hear Bob Costas spinning a melodramatic tale of woe over a John Tesh score. Walt's face drops as he watches.)

WALT
Where the hell is Jim McKay?!?

CUT TO:

(Another lab room, the same mixture of high and sci-fi tech. Walt stands behind a bank of monitors and a board. The three techs operate the board.)
TITLE: 2012. A TOP-SECRET LAB BENEATH EPCOT CENTER

WALT
Hit is, boys!

(On the screens, we see an Animatronic JIM MCKAY.)

MCKAY
Hello. Welcome to ABC Sports coverage of the Thirtieth Olympiad. I'm Jim McKay.

BLACKOUT

Friday Night Sketch War: Procrastina-a-tion...

...is making me wait.

It's been a few weeks since I've done a Sketch War roundup, but we've been running strong. Michael and I have been fighting enameled-mouth-grinder and keratin-back-scratcher for weeks, and were happily rejoined by David and his rock-n-roll zombies this week.

The rules have changed recently. Our weekly battles are now themed instead of free-for-alls. The theme for this week's brawl was selected by Michael based on our usual approach to writing our sketches: procrastination. For those playing along at home and those of you brave enough to step onto the killing fields, next week's theme is Disney. Write your Disney-themed sketch and send it, or a link to it, to sketchwar AT dreamloom.com. Now, onto the mayhem!

• Coyote reaches back in time to a simpler age of short-sleeved dress shirts and black ties to tell a tale of engineering procrastination...
• Michael plays with his Wii...
• David slips on the floor. Eww!. His sketch gets a review from Andrew Stanton.

Enjoy!

Hot Rocks, Cold Bodies

(A morgue. Four bodies are covered with sheets. TONY PRATT, coroner, lifts one of the sheets and speaks into a handheld tape recorder.)

TONY
...and the renal and liver failure, along with the low sodium concentration in the plasma, makes for a textbook case of Legionnaires' disease. In younger victims, this would have been very treatable, but these subjects had elderly, oft-abused bodies, and this outbreak was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.
(TONY walks to another of the sheets and lifts it.)
Keith Richards lasted the longest, but the severe bouts of vomiting finally drained his body of all hydration, leaving him a dried husk of a man.
(TONY drops the sheet and begins walking across the room.)
And if I may add a personal note, I am saddened by the fact that the band I grew up worshipping, the band I thought would never die, has been felled by something as random as a bacterial infection spread by the air conditioning system of their five-star hotel. Their end does not hold with the hard-living reputa- WHOOP
(TONY has slipped on something. He bends down and examines it.)
What the hell?
(He leans closer.)
That’s disgusting.

(BRENT HERNANDEZ, an assistant coroner, enters. He has tears in his eyes.)

BRENT
Tony, have you seen- WHOOP
(BRENT has slipped too. He looks around him on the floor.)
Oh no. It happened again.

TONY
What happened again?

BRENT
It’s the new intern, sir. She keeps wandering in here, and, well...

TONY
Well what?

BRENT
Have you seen her? She’s fucking hot.

TONY
Brent, if the two of you have been fornicating in the morgue, I’ll see to it that you never work in the industry again.

BRENT
No! Not at all! In fact, she’s a bit of a tease... It’s, uh, it’s why I’m crying.

TONY (indicating the floor)
Then where did this come from?

BRENT
It’s the bodies, sir. I think... I think it’s from the bodies. This happens every time the new intern comes in here.

TONY
Are you serious?

BRENT
She’s really fucking hot.

TONY
Be that as it may, the floor is covered in corpse ejaculate, and I am not going to clean it up. Send the intern in here with a mop.

BRENT
All due respect, sir, that would cause a bit of a vicious cycle.

TONY
Tell her to wear some dowdy clothing!

BRENT
I can’t. She’d take us to court in a sexual discrimination case.

And Now, The Punch Line.

(TONY looks to the camera and rolls his eyes.)

TONY
This is the worst musical predicament we’ve had here since Roberta Flack’s lover went on that soft-song killing spree!!!!!!!!!

The End.

FSW: Procrastination Edition

The third week of our themed entries. And, true to the theme, I waited until the last minute to start working on it. Not that I haven't been mulling the idea over in my head all week. But still...

Next week's theme is "Disney" for those of you playing along at home.

Richard is already up with a scene from the historical moon mission.

Mine doesn't have nearly the honorable lineage.


Procrastination

(We see a television screen. A talking head news anchor.)

ANCHOR: And today is the 75th Anniversay of the passing of James McAveney. Mr. McAveney's passing is notable primarily because he was the last person known to have died in the past 75 years.

(The channel changes. We see a reporter standing in the middle of a massive crowd of people.)

REPORTER: Things have only gotten worse. With death rates still at zero, the planet's resources have been pushed to the brink. And with land becoming a scarce commodity as well, desperate people are looking to man-made islands to save the ever increasing population.

(The channel changes. A Reporter is talking to a distraught businessman.)

BUSINESSMAN: We thought it was a fluke at first. But it's been really hard to run a funeral home when there are no funerals.

REPORTER: I understand this has been particularly trying on your wife.

BUSINESSMAN: Yeah, well, she tried to commit suicide a while back, but it didn't work. I came home and she was just hanging from banister, frustrated that she had failed. Guess it was her third attempt that day too.

(We cut to a lavishly decorated office lobby. A beautiful woman sits behind the desk. The door opens and an incredible, white light fills the room. A voice emanates from the light and seems to be coming from everywhere at once.)

GOD: Is he in?

RECEPTIONIST: One moment, please. (Into intercom) Sir, the Great I Am is here to see you.

DEATH: (On speakerphone) Sweet! Send him in.

(We're in the Death's office. It looks like something from Edward Gorrey's nightmares. God enters.)

GOD: We need to talk. You've fallen behind on your quotas.

(We see a hooded figure standing in front of a large screen TV. A large sickle leans against one wall. He holds a Wii remote in his bony hand which he swings like a tennis racket.)

DEATH: Have you played this thing? It's like you're actually playing tennis. But without all the wear and tear on your joints. Amazing.

(Death continues to play. God just shakes his head and sighs.)

BLACKOUT