From his vanity mirror, PROFESSOR notices Whiskey standing in the doorway. He’s a rodeo clown with a British accent* and a friendly, yet majestic demeanor. A nearby phonograph plays the opera PAGLIACCI really loud.

* He’s the Narrator.

PROFESSOR: Welcome to the bullfighter’s inner sanctum, young lady.

Whiskey enters the room.

WHISKEY: Bullfighters, huh?

Professor rises, swirling the brandy in his snifter.

PROFESSOR: A noble profession, my dear. The bullfighter unselfishly tests his mettle in the arena every night. We are members of a rare breed who smile in the face of death. Am I not correct, Tobias?

Professor pulls away some hanging costumes from a clothes rack to reveal Toby’s hiding place.

PROFESSOR: Is that not correct, Tobias?

TOBY: Our smiles are painted on.

Professor raises his snifter as if to toast.

PROFESSOR: By Jove, Tobias. You’ve captured the spirit of the moment again. Good job, old bean. (sings) Even though your heart is breaking, laugh clown laugh. ( dramatic hand gesture) Or at least a variation on the theme.

Professor bows.

PROFESSOR: Professor. At your service. And you would be...

Professor reaches for Whiskey’s hand.

WHISKEY: Name’s Whiskey. Whiskey Dickel.

PROFESSOR: Intoxicating.

Professor lightly kisses Whiskey’s hand.

PROFESSOR: How can we help you, dear?

Toby points at an armoire.

TOBY: Open that door.

Whiskey jerks her thumb at the hallway.

WHISKEY: Tommy out there, he told me sit here till Mr. Smiley wudn’t so busy.

Toby furiously points at armoire.

TOBY: Open the DOOR!

PROFESSOR: Smiley, eh? The rogue.

Toby pats the door of the armoire.

TOBY: OPEN THE DOOR!!

PROFESSOR: You should open the door, Miss Dickel. Tobias is unrelenting.

WHISKEY (shrugs): O-kay. Heard ya.

Whiskey makes her way to the armoire and opens the door.

Another clown (BOBO) POPS OUT of the cabinet. He tips his bowler hat and hands Whiskey a goofy bouquet of fake flowers.

WHISKEY (accepts bouquet): Buncha wild-haired jokers, aren’t ya?

Toby closes Bobo back up in the armoire again.

TOBY: That was Bobo.

EXT. RODEO ARENA - STANDS - NIGHT

Identical twins w/ slicked back hair, seersucker suits and bow-ties, JIB and GIB (THE PANDY BROTHERS), fawn over a baby in a stroller. The mother is flattered by their attention.

GIB: What a blessing is this beautiful, beautiful child.

The smiling Pandy Brothers leave the Mother and baby to search for their seats.

JIB: Turned out to be a fine day, eh brother?

GIB: A gift from on high.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Whiskey finds herself in a preparation area far from the concessions and rides. She notices Toby talking with a BOUNCER outside the backstage door.

The Bouncer waves Toby through the door with his clip board.

WHISKEY steps up, but the Bouncer blocks her from entering.

BOUNCER: Name?

WHISKEY: Whiskey.

BOUNCER (annoyed): No bribes.

WHISKEY: Name’s Whiskey. Mr. Smiley said I’d be on your list there.

Bouncer gives her the squinty eye, then runs a pencil along the guest list on his clip board.

BOUNCER: Oh, right. Smiley’s guest list. Here it is.

INSERT: Tight on Mr. Smiley’s guest list as “Strawberry Blonde” is underlined in red ink. Other categories on the list include: “Bleached blonde,” “Doe-eyes,” “Raven hair,” “Legs to the Moon”, and “Big Cha-chas.”

INT. RODEO MAIN STAGE - PERFORMERS PREP STATION - HALLWAY

WHISKEY walks past a hall of closed doors until she reaches a slightly opened door and peeks inside.

NARRATOR (V.O.): She was standing in the great warehouse of rodeo legends...

INSIDE A DRESSING ROOM: ESKIMO FLO is at her vanity. Her pet seal, NUK-NUK, watches television. Nuk-Nuk claps flippers and barks at the screen.

NARRATOR (V.O.): ...cowboy myths, misfits, vintage fashions and lost barroom conversations.

Whiskey continues down the hall.

NARRATOR (V.O.): Once dropped behind the scenes of a genuine World class rodeo. . .

A few doors down, SMILING BUBBA exits his dressing room. He’s followed by TOMMY, a backstage director wearing a headset.

NARRATOR (V.O.): . . .her life would never be the same.

Whiskey attempts to catch her breath.

WHISKEY (to self): Wowee.

Whiskey jumps up on Bubba and gives him a big kiss.

WHISKEY: Surprised to see me?

Bubba releases his trademark smile. He’s a smarmy piece of work, but Whiskey basks in his glow.

BUBBA (faux sincerity): You bet I am. How ya doin’ there, squirt.

Whiskey is in heaven. Her eyes glaze over.

EXT. PALOMINO MOTEL - NIGHT - (FLASHBACK)

A flashing neon sign points to a seedy, small town motel.

BUBBA (O.S.): Well darlin’, you may’ve won yourself that trophy today, but...

INT. PALAMINO MOTEL - RM 6

Whiskey sits on an unmade bed, gobsmacked. There’s a 1st place ribbon pinned to her vest and a big gold trophy between her legs.

BUBBA (O.S.): ...you’re just about fixin’ to win...

Bubba opens a towel to expose himself to Whiskey.

BUBBA: ...the big prize.

FLASHBACK ENDS

BACK TO SCENE

Back in the Rodeo Prep Station Hallway, Bubba continues to flirt with Whiskey, He winks, mimes a pistol shot with his thumb and forefinger.

BUBBA (aside to Tommy): Tommy, git this sweet thang a coke and put her in dressin’ room 32, alrighty?

Tommy whispers in Bubba’s ear.

Bubba flashes that famous smile again.

BUBBA (to Tommy): Make that 38 then, Tommy.

Toby sneaks up behind Bubba.

BUBBA (still flirting): Tonight, when you see me hog-tie a calf, I’ll be thinkin’ of you, little girl.

Toby squeezes the side horn’s rubber bulb --HONK!!-- startling Bubba.

Bubba angrily chases Toby down the hall.

BUBBA: C’mere ya re-tard! I’m ‘bout t’ bust your skull in!

WHISKEY attempts to catch up with TOMMY as she pins a backstage pass to her shirt.

TOMMY: You’re gonna need one of these.

WHISKEY: Hey Tom, what’s the deal with that clown?

TOMMY: Toby? Usta be a bonafide bull fighter before his accident. He’s come to be a mascot, I guess.

TOMMY gets a message on his headpiece.

TOMMY (into headpiece): Yes sir. No rubes, goat ropers, or pole cats. Gotcha.

Tommy covers his headpiece to talk to Whiskey.

TOMMY: This is gonna take a bit. You can hang out in here. The Professor’ll love the company.

TOMMY points his clipboard at the dressing room marked “21”.

WHISKEY: Professor?

Tommy rushes down the hall.

TOMMY (calls back): Nice meetin’ you, Miss.

Whiskey hesitates before opening the door.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Far away from carnival activity, TOBY, a guileless rodeo clown clutching a sidehorn, has been slammed against a gate wall by a redneck delinquent named WES. With his free hand, Wes wields an unopened switchblade.

Two posters are plastered on the wall beside Toby:

Poster #1: The Int’l cowgirl logo with words reading “Reese Weise presents NEVA DIRTDOBBER And The International Cowgirls of the Wild Pink All Gal Rodeo performing one night only at the Camp Doughboy Fairgrounds. Pine Blossom, Arkansas. Gen Admin.”

Poster #2: The photo of a baby sucking on a pacifier. It reads “Missing! Have you seen this baby?”

WES: Gimmee the horn, clowny.

Toby holds tight to the sidehorn.

TOBY: S’not mine. It’s Bobo’s horn.

Wes snaps open the switchblade.

WES: I will cut your painted ass. Give it here.

Wes pokes Toby’s red nose with the tip of his switchblade.

VOICE (O.S.): Hey, Greaseball!

WHISKEY DICKEL (20) smacks Wes in the face with her suitcase.

Wes drops hard, kissing dirt.

Whiskey stands over him, shaking her head.

WHISKEY: Blame THAT on society.

Toby taps Whiskey’s shoulder.

TOBY: Hello. My name is Toby. I think I know you. I know you from my dreams, but I don’t know your name. You could be an Alice, or you might be a Shirley.

WHISKEY turns to face TOBY. Three of Wes’s angry redneck friends, JIMBO, HANK and BIG ROY, come up behind Toby.

TOBY: I knew someone named Maria Louisa Raphaella DeMarco...

Big Roy looks down at his fallen friend Wes, then slowly raises his head to glare at Whiskey.

BIG ROY: Eeew Whee!

Eyes locked on Whiskey, Big Roy adjusts/cracks his neck. Krrk!

BIG ROY: This here’s gonna cost you, bitch

SHOWDOWN! Whiskey strikes a wrestling pose.

WHISKEY: Bring it on, hotdog!

Big Roy pushes Toby (still rambling) aside.

TOBY: But you really don’t look much like a Maria.

Whiskey and Big Roy scrap. She’s too agile for the big lug, but he keeps swinging.

TOBY (rambles on): I’m partial to the name Dot or Dotty. You could even use a period for a signature. (laughing, mimes signing with a dot) Dot!

Whiskey lands a Popeye punch that sends Big Roy flying.

As Big Roy hits the ground, Whiskey turns to face Jimbo and Hank. She threatens them with a feint.

They flinch, then hold their hands up and back away.

WHISKEY: Thought so.

Whiskey scowls at Jimbo and Hank as they drag their injured friends from the scene. After they’ve gone, she turns her attention back to Toby.

She spits in her hand, then offers it to Toby.

Whiskey and Toby shake hands.

WHISKEY: Whiskey.

TOBY: Never touch the stuff. It burns my throat. But Professor, well, he has been known to drink a snifter of brandy before showtime. Now and again.

Whiskey is not sure what to think of Toby.

Toby shows Whiskey the sidehorn in his hand.

TOBY: This is Bobo’s horn.

Toby squeezes its plastic bulb and the horn lets out a terrible HONK!

TOBY: Don’t tell him I have it, okay?

WHISKEY: Sure thing. You know, maybe you could help me out. Are you acquainted with Mr. Bubba Smiley?

Whiskey leans down to pick up her suitcase. But when she rises, Toby has disappeared.

WHISKEY (shakes her head): Funny little fella.

A NARRATOR with a British accent provides voice-over commentary as Whiskey totes her suitcase through the main entrance to the carnival fairgrounds. Missing children posters are everywhere.

NARRATOR (V.O.): Miss Whiskey Dickel had inadvertently discovered the home of homeless things, shiftless carnies, alimony jumpers, bucking ponies, livestock perfume, cotton candy kids, longnecks, longhorns, inflated hair and forgotten cow punchers.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—ACT THREE (con’t) —

INT. SMOKEY’S TAVERN - DAY

The mounted television above the bar plays a news report with the sound off.

ON TV SCREEN: Cops escort the cuffed Burly Man to a waiting squad car outside KEWL-TV. The area is bustling with cops, media, familiar studio audience members, and assorted rubberneckers.

SMOKEY, the bartender, points at the screen.

SMOKEY: You must be proud.

Del Dickel is hunched on a barstool. He’s a mournful drunk surrounded by empties, peeling a beer bottle label.

DEL: You heard what she said, didn’t ya? On that teevee show. Ya heard what she said?

SMOKEY (cocks head): Kiss my heinie?

Del slugs one back.

DEL: That stuff about her mama. She believes it, too.

Smokey leans in, concerned.

SMOKEY: Jeebus, Del, your daughter almost got shot today. What are you goin’ on about?

Del won’t look up. He’s full of shame.

DEL: I told Whiskey her mama died givin’ birth. That was a damnable thing to say. Makin’ a child believe she kilt her own mama.

Smokey collects the empties on the bar.

DEL: It was me. Months later. I done it. But, I swear, I didn’t know the damn thing was loaded.

Del downs his beer.

SMOKEY (wiping bar): I think maybe you had enough, hoss.

DEL (mumbles): It needed cleaning.

Del’s eyes well up.

DEL: How could such a thing happen? My beautiful, precious wife.

Smokey pours a cup of coffee and scoots it to Del.

DEL: I ain’t fit to live. Not fit for nothin.

EXT. MOONSTAR CEMETERY - SUNSET

Whiskey, holding a bouquet of pink posies, stands over her mother’s grave. A limousine raised on Monster truck tires idles in the background.

Headstone reads: “Elizabeth Dickel - Devoted Wife, Beloved Mother - 1948-1967”

Whiskey places flowers on her Mother’s grave.

With tearful eyes, she turns to face another headstone.

WHISKEY: Keep yer pants on, Mamaw, I’m comin’ t’ visit you, too.

Mamaw’s headstone reads: “Dixie ‘Mamaw’ Dickel - She rode ‘em hard, put ‘em away wet! 1910-1981”

Whiskey kneels at Mamaw’s grave. Rummages through her bag. She pulls up a Mass card and kisses it.

WHISKEY: Blessed Virgin.

Whiskey places the Mass card beside the headstone. She pulls up a toy horseshoe and kisses it. She places it beside the Mass card.

WHISKEY: Lady luck.

Next, she takes an aerosol can from her bag.

INSERT: AEROSOL CAN (Label reads: “RED EYE PEPPER SPRAY”)

WHISKEY: Just in case.

Whiskey kisses the can, then puts it back in her bag.

Whiskey stands, looks up at the twilight sky, wipes a tear and smiles.

THE END

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—ACT THREE (con’t) —

EXT. KEWL-TV STUDIO - DAY

ON SET: Whiskey and Birdie Nell are once again seated at the original interview space. Birdie Nell reaches over her desk to touch Whiskey’s arm.

BIRDIE NELL: Say it this one time. Please.

WHISKEY: Well, um, I don’t know. Maybe.

RISERS: The studio audience applauds.

ON SET: Whiskey’s crumbling smile reveals her frustration. But she never disappoints her fans.

RAPID-FIRE FLASHES – WHISKEY’S SCHTICK

—- Whiskey bows before the Queen of England.

WHISKEY (respectfully): Kiss my heinie, your highness.

—- Whiskey speaks at a podium with laughing, fez wearing Shriners seated on either side of her.

WHISKEY (leaning into microphone): So I told him to kiss my heinie!

—- Whiskey performs a lariat trick at a kids birthday party.

WHISKEY: Kiss. My. Heinie!

—- Whiskey, holding a trophy and bouquet, is sprayed with champagne by nuns.

WHISKEY (overjoyed): Well kiss my heinie!

—- Whiskey canoodles with a rodeo clown in a hayloft. She sweetly whispers in his ear.

WHISKEY: Kiss my heinie.

RAPID-FIRE FLASHES END

BACK TO SCENE

ON SET: Whiskey jumps up from her seat, gathers some gusto, spins around so the cameraman can get a close-up of her butt, and cuts loose.

WHISKEY(slaps ass): Kiss my heinie!

RISERS: The audience goes WILD, whooping it up. The Pig busts loose and runs on stage squealing. Everyone is jubilant, except for the Burly Man. There’s a fury building up inside him, swimming in his angry eyes.

The show’s musical signature plays.

ON FLOOR: The FLOOR MANAGER holds a hand in the air, fingers spread.

ON SET: Birdie Nell takes the cue, looks directly into the camera.

BIRDIE NELL: When we come back, Whiskey’s gonna tell us all about her brand new movie “Bunkhouse Bloodbath.” You don’t wanna miss that.

ON FLOOR: FLOOR DIRECTOR: We are out! Back in five.

RISERS: The studio audience settles down. They turn their attention to the commercial advertisements playing on the TV monitor.

The Burly Man is oblivious to the commercials. He glares at Whiskey, teeth gnashing as he watches her chat with Birdie Nell on set.

TENSION BUILDS until the Burly Man finally. . . EXPLODES!

The Burly Man STOMPS down the riser tossing audience members aside.

PANICKED VOICE (O.S.): He’s got a gun!

The audience and the station crew scramble for the exit.

ON TV MONITOR: A COMMERCIAL ADVERTISEMENT features a PITCHWOMAN voiceover and shows rambunctious kids driving their mother crazy.

PITCHWOMAN (V.O.): When your rowdy kids drive you straight up a wall, don’t you dare pull out your hair. Do what I do –– open up a can of WHUP ASS!

ON SET: Birdie Nell crawls on all fours to hide behind her chair. The Pig is already back there, shivering.

PITCHWOMAN (V.O.): Turkey flavored WHUP ASS is loaded with tryptophan. It’ll knock your babies out well before bed --

SKASSH! The Burly Man sends the TV monitor crashing to the floor, then aims his handgun directly at Whiskey.

BURLY MAN: IMPOSTER!! Gimme back my life!

Whiskey remains unfazed, quiet.

BAM! The Burly Man fires his weapon at Whiskey!

BURLY MAN: I’m Whiskey Dickel! The REAL Whiskey Dickel!

Whiskey avoids the bullet (slo-mo, Matrix style). She cartwheels toward the Burly Man. KICKS him in the face. WHACK! The Burly Man’s handgun goes flying.

WHISKEY: I don’t think so.

Whiskey catches the gun mid-air.

She immediately empties the chamber. Bullets drop to the floor.

WHISKEY: I mean, you got the hair right. The duds are damn near perfect. But, Mister Sister, ya got one thing wrong.

Whiskey tosses the empty gun.

The gun lands near the head of the unconscious Burly Man (lipstick smeared, wig tilted).

WHISKEY: I made a solemn promise to my daddy. Swore to it on the Bible.(sniffs) No guns. Never. No way.

TO BE CONCLUDED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—ACT THREE —

INT. KEWL-TV STUDIO - DAY

RISERS: The studio audience stare at a TV monitor on the main floor.

BIRDIE NELL (O.S.): You’re a rodeo queen, a diplomat, a movie star, a notary public, and a ding dang astronaut!

TV MONITOR SCREEN: An in-flight VOICE RECORDER counts down while a SPACE SHUTTLE fires up on a launch pad.

VOICE RECORDER: 10...9...8...7...

RISERS: The Burly Man infiltrates the studio audience, finds a seat. All eyes are glued to the TV monitor, so they barely notice him.

VOICE RECORDER (O.S.): ...6...5...4...

The Burly Man, in full Whiskey drag with ginger wig and pigtails, easily blends in with the Whiskey Wannabes.

VOICE RECORDER (O.S.): 3...2...1...

TV MONITOR SCREEN: The space shuttle TAKES OFF.

VOICE RECORDER: Blast off!

WHISKEY (from shuttle): Yaaaah–hoo

RISERS: Most of the studio audience cheer. The Burly Man seethes.

TV MONITOR SCREEN: NASA footage shows Whiskey, in a spacesuit, performing zero gravity acrobatic tricks on the rocky surface of the moon.

WHISKEY (V.O.): Every time one of my dreams comes true, every time my daddy busts his buttons with pride, I know I done the right thing.

INT. MAMAW’S BEDROOM - NIGHT - 1984 (FLASHBACK)

Walls are plastered with rodeo posters from the sixties. Many feature young Dixie “Mamaw” Dickel in her hat-waving glory. Mamaw’s dresser is topped with framed family photos, cowboy gewgaws, Catholic iconography, and medication.

WHISKEY (V.O.): I done it from the heart, too. Just like Mamaw taught me.

WHISKEY, 18, sits at her dying Mamaw’s bedside.

MAMAW: State Championship comin’ up?

WHISKEY: Yes ma’am.

MAMAW: You ready? Got your game face? Neck brace? Ointment for saddle sores?

WHISKEY: Yes ma’am.

MAMAW: Good girl.

Mamaw pulls Whiskey closer. Whispers.

MAMAW: Honey, something happens to me, I got muscle mags and porno under the bed. Be discreet.

WHISKEY: Nothing gonna happen, Mamaw.

MAMAW: And this years Miss Rodeo America is...?

WHISKEY: Me?

MAMAW: That’s right, honey. You can be anything you want. Do anything you’ve a mind to. And if somebody stands in your way, whatcha gonna tell ‘em?

WHISKEY (mutters): Kiss my heinie?

MAMAW: Dern tootin’.

Mamaw takes a deep, ragged breath, then turns serious.

MAMAW: You don’t ‘member your Papaw, do ya child?

WHISKEY: No ma’am.

MAMAW: A real gent, your Papaw. Skin white as a bedsheet.

Whiskey strokes Mamaw’s wispy hair.

MAMAW: Never got no sunshine. Spent his days hunched over a desk in a room without windows. (sideways glance) Me, out riding the range. In the sun all day. Or at the tavern. Or the track. A cock fight. Jail. Anyway, gone most the time. (reflective beat) He called me Pard.

Mamaw is hit with a jolt of pain, but tries to hide it.

MAMAW: Sat down to pee, your papaw did. Not like most cowboys -- shakin’ the last drops on the seat.

Mamaw grips Whiskey’s hand tightly.

MAMAW: Honey, don’t be too hard on your daddy. He don’t understand you got a callin’.

Mamaw lies still, a faraway look in her eyes. Her grip on Whiskey’s hand loosens. With her last gasp, Mamaw’s head limply drops to one side.

WHISKEY (whimpers): Mamaw?

After a long stretch of silence, color drains from Whiskey’s face. Her beloved grandmother is ... dead.

Del stands at the doorway, staring into the room, absorbing the pain in his daughter’s voice.

WHISKEY (O.S.): Mamaw! No. Come back, Mamaw!

EXT. DICKEL HOUSE - NIGHT

Del bounds out the front door. He hops off the porch and heads for his truck.

DEL: Damn old woman. She done ruint my child and now she’s up and left me here to deal with the mess.

He looks up at starry sky. A tear runs down his cheek.

DEL: Baby girl’s a handful. Wild as a deer. Wants to join a rodeo show. (hangs head) Why can’t she just work her groove thing at the Hoochie Hut like her Mama done?

FLASHBACK ENDS.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—ACT TWO (con’t) —

INT. KEWL-TV STUDIO – DAY

Birdie Nell’s interview with Whiskey Dickel has moved to an OPEN SET with a curtain backdrop. Whiskey is attempting to show Birdie Nell how to properly twirl a lariat.

WHISKEY: The flat loop, that’s an easy one. Simple mathematics, s’all it is. Start out with 70% rope in your loop. Slowly move your hands at a frequency of about two hertz.

Whiskey looks over at Birdie Nell. She cocks an eyebrow.

BIRDIE NELL: Easy?

Whiskey performs a “Kansas Tornado” next.

WHISKEY: I guess maybe you do need to know a little geometry, some physics, stuff about speed, timing, um, centrifugal force.

BIRDIE NELL: Uh huh. Tell me, girl, where’d you learn all this stuff anyways?

Whiskey stops twirling to cross herself.

WHISKEY: Catholic Girl’s School.

A MARIAN APPARITION twirling a lariat materializes behind Whiskey. Bursts of wavy gold rays project behind the Apparition’s glowing halo. Above that, a flowing banner held up by angelic cherubs reads: “OUR LADY OF THE LARIAT.”

BIRDIE NELL: Uh huh. You learned all that mess at a Catholic Girl’s School?

ON THE FLOOR/RISERS: Camera operators, the floor manager, and the audience are mesmerized by the holy vision. Mouths and eyes open wide.

ON OPEN SET: Even Birdie Nell is surprised by the sound of a heavenly choir (”AHHH!”).

WHISKEY (O.S.): Sure did.

Whiskey “Texas Skip” jumps in and out of a loop, singing:

WHISKEY: Mother Superior’s outta-whack/She jumped a fence and skint her back—

The Marian Apparition rolls her eyes. In a puff of glitter, the Apparition disappears.

BIRDIE NELL: Sounds like a well rounded education. (mugs for camera) Nuns? Who knew?

INT. DICKEL FARMHOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY - 1978 (FLASHBACK)

Booger, catching a nap on the sofa, ignores Mamaw and Del arguing in the next room.

DEL (O.S.): I cannot believe a child of mine would behave so shamelessly.

The sound of rustling paper.

DEL: What’s it say here: “Father Finn refuses to listen to her confession due to its graphic nature.”

MAMAW (O.S.): Leave her be, Del.

DEL (O.S.): This is all your fault, Mama.

More paper rustling.

DEL: Looky here. Sister Tarsisius says my girl hog-tied some child during recess. (sarcastic) Well, ain’t that nice?

MAMAW (O.S.): Aww, Del, she don’t mean no harm.

DEL (O.S.): Get out of here, Mama. This ain’t none your damn business.

Shoulders sagging, Mamaw shuffles out of the kitchen into the living room.

DEL (O.S.): Come here, girl!

Mamaw crouches next to Booger and scratches behind his ear. She winces when Little Whiskey cries out.

LITTLE WHISKEY (O.S.): No, Daddy! No!

IN KITCHEN

LATER. Teary-eyed little Whiskey is all dolled up in a puffy pink dress full of ribbons, bows, and frills. Her boots replaced by patent leather Mary Janes.

DEL: When you ain’t wearin’ a school uniform, this is exactly how I expect to see you. Fum now awn!

WHISKEY (V.O.): My Daddy was dead set on me bein’ all girlie and bathin’ reg’lar. Junk like ‘at.

FLASHBACK ENDS.

INT. KEWL-TV STATION - LOBBY - DAY

There’s been a struggle of some kind. Chairs are strewn about. Walkie talkies smashed. A broken clipboard. Papers scattered across the floor. The television above the reception desk is broken and sputtering/sparking.

Behind the desk, the security monitors have either been smashed up or shut down. Wires pulled.

The security guard is back there, too. He’s rolling around on the floor, gagged and hog-tied.

WHISKEY (V.O.): Me, I had other plans for my life. I was gonna do things most folks only dream of doin’.

INT. KEWL-TV STATION - HALLWAY - DAY

Hog-tied and gagged station employees litter a long corridor leading to a closing door. A glowing sign above the door jamb reads: “ON AIR.”

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—ACT TWO (con’t) —

TELEVISION COMMERCIAL

ON TV SCREEN: A countrified DISCO BEAT plays. RED BOOTS strut down a Texas sidewalk Tony Manero (Sat. Night Fever) style. A husky voiced PITCHMAN’s voice breaks in.

PITCHMAN (V.O.): She cried with her boots on. Then she tried Whiskey Dickel signature boots.

Local shoppers stare at the red boots like deer caught in headlights.

On the street, cars swerve, drive up on sidewalk, knock out meters, and scare pedestrians.

PITCHMAN (V.O.): As much at home on a Persian rug as bluegrass or sage. Wherever you spend your days, put your West foot forward in Whiskey Dickel Signature no-tears, sure-fit poop kickers.

The music fades, but the boots keep strutting forward.

WHISKEY (V.O.): It’s sweeter than syrup when they slide in the stirrup!

TELEVISION COMMERCIAL ENDS

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

CU of the angry red eyes of the Burly Man. He’s moving to the sound of city traffic and the click-click-click of his own (red) boot heels.

Then, with a Spaghetti Western musical flourish we cut to:

EXT. DICKEL FARM – DAY - 1978 (FLASHBACK)

Little Whiskey’s tiny red boot slips into stirrup. Sitting up on her Palomino pony, Little Whiskey wriggles to get comfortable. She adjusts the coiled rope hanging from the saddle horn while her steely blue eyes scan the property.

MAMAW DICKEL hops up from behind to join her granddaughter in the saddle.

WHISKEY (V.O.): I guess my Mamaw knew just about everything there was to know about bein’ a cowgirl.

Little Whiskey catches sight of something out the corner of her eye and cocks an eyebrow. She takes hold of the reins and spins her pony around.

Mamaw squints. She sees it, too.

WHISKEY (V.O.): And she passed all that knowledge on to me.

Little Whiskey jabs heels into her pony’s side and they charge forward. She swings her lariat rope, letting the loop grow larger, and larger. Then she tosses the loop without slowing down.

LITTLE WHISKEY: Nyhaw!

Having lassoed her target, Little Whiskey pulls back on the reins until her pony comes to a hard, dust billowing stop. Then Little Whiskey hops off her pony and advances to her prize.

She’s lassoed BOOGER – a droopy-eyed, drooling hound dog.

Little Whiskey slowly raises a water pistol to Booger’s head.

LITTLE WHISKEY: I gotcha now! Ya snake-eyed, lowlife, skunk breathed, cereal eatin’, needle dingus, bug forkin’, pig-faced, son of a milk bud draggin’ weasel-y poohead!

A SPEEDING PICKUP TRUCK approaches the corral. The truck comes to a gravel spitting stop. Little Whiskey’s father, DEL DICKEL, spills from the cab. He’s unsteady. His eyes are bloodshot.

DEL: I can’t, um, believe, believe my eyes! What in tarnation are you tryin’ t’ teach that child? (mumbles) Crazy ol’ woman.

Del scrambles over fence with some difficulty.

DEL (to Little Whiskey): Put that, the thing, put it, put it down, little girl. Now!

Del grabs Little Whiskey’s arm and snatches the pistol from her hand. He’s so mad (and drunk) he can’t think straight.

DEL: No shooty, um, metal bullet ejector whatcha majigger –– (mimes shooting a gun) Combustible projectile squirt ––

Mamaw’s leaning against fence now. She squints.

MAMAW: Guns?

DEL (teetering): Damn right — guns.

Little Whiskey sticks her tongue out at Del.

LITTLE WHISKEY: It’s just water. S’all it is.

Del’s red, vacant eyes widen. He pulls a rolled magazine from his back pocket and raises it to strike the child.

DEL: By God, girl, I won’t tolerate no disrespect.

Mamaw squirts Del with her water pistol.

MAMAW: Don’t even think it.

Del releases Little Whiskey’s arm.

DEL: I’ll tell you what, this here’s your last warning. So you bess get that cowboy nonsense out your head. Hear me? (points finger at Mamaw) And you, old woman, I’ll deal with you later. (tosses magazine) I don’t want no more rodeo hogwash in my house. Got that?

Del kicks the magazine, then staggers off.

DEL (mumbles to self): There’s gonna be changes made. You bet your life. Yes sir. Grumble-grumble-grumble.

A Rodeo fan periodical lays at Little Whiskey’s feet. The title on the cover: “INTERNATIONAL COWGIRL MAGAZINE.”

Little Whiskey plops down on the ground, cracks open the magazine, and pours through the pages.

LITTLE WHISKEY: Ooh! I’m gonna stump ya now, Mamaw. Here’s one even YOU won’t know.

Little Whiskey reads aloud from the magazine.

LITTLE WHISKEY: “This blubber eatin’, nose rubbin, Arctic Miss is the kind of gal who would open up the gut of her favorite husky to warm the frostbit hands of a good friend.”

MAMAW: Easy. Eskimo Flo.

LITTLE WHISKEY: Doggone it! Right again. You sure know your stuff, Mamaw.

Little Whiskey continues reading. A cloudy glaze appears in her eyes.

LITTLE WHISKEY’S FANTASY

Hazy clouds spread open revealing a Busby Berkley-esque production number featuring spinning circles of INTERNATIONAL COWGIRLS on an elaborately decorated stage. Their native costumes accessorized by Western gear. Synchronized moves, swooping arms, and the grandest of jetés are driven by an up-tempo bluegrass breakdown featuring both traditional and exotic instrumentation.

Little Whiskey is drawn into the undulating cowgirl mandala.

WHISKEY (V.O.): I wanted to be a cowgirl like my mamaw. Daddy, well, he had other ideas.

In the big finale, the Int’l Cowgirls surround Little Whiskey. She’s wearing a ten–gallon hat and waving sparklers.

FANTASY ENDS.

FLASHBACK ENDS.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

This episode brought to you by:

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—ACT TWO (cont’d)—

EXT. KEWL–TV STATION - DAY

A huge advertisement is plastered outside the KEWL–TV Station. It features the bright white teeth of the host of THE BIRDIE NELL WIGGUMS SHOW (weekdays 2-3pm).

INT. KEWL–TV LOBBY

A SECURITY GUARD flosses his teeth at the reception desk. The TV mounted above his head is tuned to Birdie Nell’s interview with Whiskey Dickel.

BIRDIE NELL (on screen): I was there the day you won Miss Rodeo America.

TV SCREEN

The interview continues.

BIRDIE NELL: You were standing TALL in the stirrups, glistenin’ in the sunshine. Everybody cheerin’ ! (mutters to self) Me, up in the stands, blisterin’ in a tube top with no sunscreen.

There’s a new O.T.S. (off-the-shoulder) Fill behind Whiskey and Birdie Nell.

FILL: Whiskey, 18, holding a bouquet of roses, waving at cheering fans. Mascara streaming down her cheeks.

BIRDIE NELL: You were cryin’. Everybody cryin’. Bawlin’ our eyes out. (mumbles to self) Salty tears on sunburnt cheeks—mm— stings like the dickens.

Whiskey speaks directly to the camera.

WHISKEY: I ‘member that day. My nipples stood tall as little soldiers. Toes all curled. Heart pumpin’. Got so stirred up, I lost my head. Bounced a little TOO HIGH in the saddle. Come down way too HARD on the saddle horn. Straight up my . . . YODEL-A-HEE-HOO!!

INT. KEWL–TV STUDIO

RISERS: The audience laughs/applauds.

ON SET: Birdie Nell leans over her desk and fixes her gaze on Whiskey for a long, uncomfortable time.

WHISKEY (whispers to Birdie): You strokin’ out, hon?

Birdie Nell claps hands once, then points at Whiskey.

BIRDIE NELL: We all know you trick ride, chew gum, two-finger whistle, do the Hokey Pokey, and twirl lariat like a champ. (hand twirl; showbiz laugh) But I’ve heard tell you have this OTHER talent ––

WHISKEY: Birdie, what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their own double wide is ––

BIRDIE NELL: Lawd no, not THAT. Nothin’ like that. This is a family show.

Whiskey’s cheeks turn cherry-red.

BIRDIE NELL (O.S.): I’m talkin’ about . . .

EXT. DICKEL FARM - DAY - 1978 (FLASHBACK)

LITTLE WHISKEY, 12, an awkward freckle–faced kid with cat-eye glasses, dusty overalls and boots, gets schooled by her grandmother.

MAMAW (O.S.): If’n you can spit at least fit-teen feet an’ make it cling to the wall, you got it made. That there, that kinda talent, that’ll get you the respect you need to get by in this mean ol’ world.

Mamaw rears back, gathers phlegm. SPITS!

Mamaw’s hocker rockets to a bulls-eye painted on a barn. The slimy lump SPLATS on target, clings for a bit, then slowly slides down the wall.

LITTLE WHISKEY (slaps leg): Wowee! That was a goodern.

FLASHBACK ENDS.

BACK TO SCENE

At the KEWL-TV studio set, Whiskey regains her composure and revisits the question about her “other” talent.

WHISKEY: Oh, you mean how I have a way with horses? That kinda talent?

BIRDIE NELL: What exactly is a horse whisperer? Tell us about that.

WHISKEY: It was Mamaw taught me how to form a telepathic link with animals. She could crawl up inside their heads, see. Swim around in their critter brains. Know what I mean?

BIRDIE NELL (hand on chest): I, for one, don’t need to know what a horse is thinking. Ever. (to camera) And nobody needs to know what’s going on -- (taps head) -- up in here neither. No thank you.

Whiskey ponders a moment, then stands.

BIRDIE NELL: You going somewhere? Ain’t you gonna stick ‘round for the whole hour?

Whiskey holds out her hands to Birdie Nell.

WHISKEY: Let me show you something, Miss Birdie. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. (smirks) Much.

Birdie Nell reluctantly obliges.

BIRDIE NELL (to camera): Things are about to get woo-woo. I can feel it.

Whiskey stands nose-to-nose with Birdie Nell.

BIRDIE NELL: I don’t normally swing thisaway, but all right. What next?

WHISKEY: Look in my eyes and . . . relax.

Whiskey’s nose presses against Birdie Nell’s nose.

WHISKEY: Breathe me in. Become familiar with my scent.

Whiskey deeply breathes Birdie into her lungs.

BIRDIE NELL (whispers to Whiskey): I had one mimosa at breakfast. Don’t judge. I’m not an alcoholic.

Whiskey closes her eyes and softly clacks her tongue.

Birdie Nell twitches, whinnies. Her nostrils flare. She paws at the ground with the toe of her right boot.

WHISKEY (soothing): Atta girl. Cool on down now. Shhh.

Birdie Nell’s shoulders droop. She’s so relaxed it looks like she’s melting.

BIRDIE NELL: Oooh, that’s better than deep tissue massage. (then) Wait one cotton pickin’ minute! That ain’t right.

Whiskey pulls a carrot from her back pocket and hands it to Birdie Nell.

The show’s musical signature plays.

BIRDIE NELL (turns to camera): We’re gonna take a little break, but when we come back there’ll be lots more Whiskey. (bites into carrot) Dickel, that is.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—ACT ONE (con’t) —

INT. MAMAW’S BEDROOM - DAY - 1967 (FLASHBACK)

Dixie “MAMAW” Dickel gently plants her granddaughter BABY WHISKEY (Dickel) on a queen-size bed.

MAMAW (O.S.): Every blessed thing has a purpose, baby girl.

Mamaw shakes out the contents of her handbag on the bed beside Baby Whiskey.

MAMAW: Mamaw’s gonna show you what that means, jelly belly. (tickles the baby’s tummy) Mush be jelly. Jam don’t shake like that.

Baby Whiskey giggles, wriggles.

Lesson One: Mamaw shows the baby a handful of bobby pins.

MAMAW: See these here? They’re good for pullin’ hair out your eyes.

Mamaw jams a bobby pin in her ratted locks.

MAMAW: Dandy little lock pickers, too.

Lesson Two: Mamaw shows the baby some cosmetics (polish, lipstick, eyeliner).

MAMAW: A girl needs her war paint.

Mamaw smears red lipstick over her lips, face, and teeth.

MAMAW: Gotta look pretty.

Baby Whiskey shudders.

Lesson Three: Mamaw presents a Mass card. There’s a wad of chewing gum stuck to it, just above the head of a Virgin Mary illustration.

MAMAW: Blessed Virgin. She’sa good ol’ girl. Helped your Mamaw through a scrape or two.

Mamaw flips the card over. She spots the gum wad, pulls it off, then pops the gum in her mouth.

Mamaw studies the illustration. Sighs.

MAMAW: Poor ol’ thing. She just looks so gosh darn sad. Guess it’s cos the world’s in such a mess.

Mamaw signs the stations of the cross. She kisses the card.

Lesson Four: Mamaw shows the baby a horseshoe.

MAMAW: Lady luck. For when the Virgin’s busy.

Mamaw kisses the horseshoe and sets it aside.

Lesson Five: Mamaw brings up a pistol.

MAMAW: Last resort. The Belle Starr series pearl handled ladies pistol. (strokes handle) Ribbed for her pleasure.

Mamaw kisses the pistol. There’s a sparkle on the barrel. And that sparkle is reflected in the baby’s eyes.

Baby Whiskey reaches up to grab the pistol.

MAMAW: Too soon, darlin’.

Mamaw’s lessons are interrupted when her son STORMS into the room.

DEL DICKEL, 30s, shows faint evidence he might’ve been a handsome buck when he was younger.

DEL: Mama, leave that baby be. And don’t go putting all that rodeo nonsense in her head. We talked about this.

Del scans the room.

DEL: Any chance you seen my good Sundy-go-to-meetin’ teeth?

Mamaw lifts the baby from the bed. She carries Baby Whiskey across the room and places her in a crib.

MAMAW: Hang on a sec, Del.

Tucked in, Baby Whiskey stares up at the spinning mobile hanging over her crib. Colorful horses rotate around and around.

MAMAW (O.S.) : Dern it, Del. Those aren’t your teeth, they’re my spares. Try these.

Del’s definitely got the wrong dentures this time.

DEL: Naw, these got canines. Must be the dogs. Where’s mine?

Baby Whiskey finds Del’s dentures in her crib.

FLASHBACK ENDS

—END OF ACT ONE—

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Based on the winning entry in the 2000 Klasky Csupo Screenwriting Contest.

—TEASER—

TELEVISION SCREEN

KLK! Static snow, then a live broadcast of a RODEO EVENT comes into focus. Rodeo clowns open a double gate while the booming voice of a loudspeaker ANNOUNCER addresses the packed arena.

ANNOUNCER: Won’t ya please say howdy and give a big, honkin’ welcome to...

WHISKEY DICKEL, a thirty-year-old, freckle-faced cowgirl with fiery red hair, ENTERS the rodeo arena performing rope tricks on a galloping horse.

ANNOUNCER: ...the fabulous Miss Whiskey Dickel and her trusty horse Daisy!

The crowd loves her! They’re on their feet, madly cheering.

Decked out in spangles, sparkling in sunlight, Whiskey circles the arena performing trick riding stunts.

INT. MOBILE HOME – DAY

The vintage TV tuned to the rodeo event is located in a cramped room chock full of Whiskey Dickel fan memorabilia.

ON TOP OF THE TV CABINET: A porcelain figurine lamp depicting Whiskey on a rearing horse.

ANNOUNCER (on TV): Look at her go! Ain’t she a wonder.

ON THE WALLS: Tacked news clippings, velvet paintings, photos, and banners featuring Whiskey.

ANNOUNCER (on TV): Son of a biscuit! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that before.

BULL HORN FURNITURE with spotted cowhide seats are loaded up with Whiskey Dickel fan magazines and throw pillows embroidered with Whiskey’s image.

ANNOUNCER (on TV): Hooo-wheee!

ON THE BULL HORN COFFEE TABLE: A box of Whiskey Dickel endorsed cereal. A silver cosmetic compact with Whiskey’s embossed face on it. A notebook marked up with departure/arrival times. And a spread of surveillance photos showing Whiskey going about everyday activities.

The only items on the table that don’t reference Whiskey: A television remote control, pharmaceuticals, and a HANDGUN.

ANNOUNCER (on TV): Holy guacamole! Now, that right there is exactly why Miss Whiskey Dickel is Queen of the ding-dang rodeo.

The thick, hairy hand of a BURLY MAN with painted fingernails hesitates over the handgun, but then snatches up the nearby compact.

He flips the compact open.

COMPACT MIRROR

Red lipstick is applied to cracked lips on the Burly Man’s stubbly face.

The compact SNAPS SHUT.

CUT TO:

TELEVISION SCREEN

Whiskey performs a handstand leap off Daisy’s saddle and lands in front of a flapping banner that reads: “KEWL-TV Rodeo Showcase!”

WHISKEY (smacking gum): Hey there, y’all! I’m gonna be on the Birdie Nell Wiggums show today.

The Burly Man’s hairy hand appears in the foreground. He points the remote control at the screen.

WHISKEY (salutes): We’re gonna have us a time.

The power button is pressed, and the TV switches OFF.

—ACT ONE—

INT. KEWL-TV STUDIO – DAY

“THE BIRDIE NELL WIGGUMS SHOW” is in progress. It’s a two camera LIVE TALK SHOW with a studio audience on risers. Whiskey Dickel and the show’s host, BIRDIE NELL, 40s, are seated in a faux living room set on a circular stage.

Birdie Nell sports a tall bouffant and an embroidered, pearl snap Western shirt with bolo tie. Whiskey, in a knot-tied crop top, red boots, and a Stetson hat, recounts her humble beginnings.

WHISKEY: I was birthed on the flatbed of a ‘46 Chevy pickup with a ‘62 Buick V8 engine, Turbo 400 automatic transmission and a front suspension treated to a Volare clip with disc brakes.

Birdie Nell looks impressed.

WHISKEY (winks for camera): Guess you could say I’s born to giddy-up and GO!

RISERS: The STUDIO AUDIENCE cheer. There are folks dressed in Western wear, WHISKEY WANNABES in cosplay, and a ROTUND WOMAN with hoop earrings and daisy barrettes in her “space buns”. She’s the one holding a PIG.

ON SET: Birdie Nell feigns empathy.

BIRDIE NELL : Look here, girl, I don’t mean to pry, but is it true your mother kicked the bucket giving birth? I mean she bought the farm, took a dirt nap, rode first class on the death train?

Whiskey bites her lip, shyly nods.

WHISKEY: It was tractor pull night. Hard to find a proper doctor on tractor pull night.

RISERS: The audience releases a sympathetic “Aaahhh.”

ON SET: The interview continues.

BIRDIE NELL: Then you were raised by your grandmother. Raised on rodeo, I expect.

WHISKEY: Oh, yes ma’am, you know it. Mamaw was a fine trick rider back in the ‘50s and ‘60s. She could flip, flop and fly better than just about anybody. Every night, she’d “Spin the Horn”, “Forward Fender”, “Spritz”, “Back Drag”, “Roman Stand”, “Hippodrome”, then finish up with a classic “Cossack Drop”!

Whiskey pops up from her chair to mimic the Russian Gopak Dance.

The Gopak ends with a squat hop. Arms open wide.

WHISKEY: HEY!

Whiskey plops back down in her chair.

Birdie Nell fans herself while the audience cheers.

WHISKEY: I’m tellin’ ya, that ol’ gal could do just about anything. She was a wise one, too. Ya never knew when she might up and drop a pearl of wisdom on ya. (smacks head; clacks tongue) Sometimes they’d leave a welt.

BIRDIE NELL: Drop one them pearls on us, why don’t ya?

Birdie Nell urges applause from the studio audience.

BIRDIE NELL: What’dya say, folks? (waves arms) Give it up for some down-home wisdom!

There’s a boom of cheers, whistles, stomping, and applause. The Pig is not the only squealer in this bunch.

WHISKEY (hesitates, then): Well, there was this one time Mamaw said to me, right out the blue, she said, “Hound dogs know when you’re menstruating.”

A collective gasp followed by huge applause.

BIRDIE NELL: Earthy.

WHISKEY: Mamaw dished out advice, too. Did you know hormone injected chicken can give a lady a mustache? (clacks tongue) Mamaw knew her stuff. She sure did.

RISERS: Even more applause. The ladies in the crowd are really whooping it up now. A close view reveals that most of them actually have mustaches.

BIRDIE NELL (O.S.): Words to live by.

STUDIO MONITOR

On screen, there’s an O.T.S. (over-the-shoulder) FILL behind Birdie Nell and Whiskey that shows b/w footage of Dixie “MAMAW” Dickel, 60s, tossing one-year-old BABY WHISKEY in the air.

Mamaw’s a feisty old girl with a leathery tan. She looks like she can take a punch and give back as good as she gets.

BABY WHISKEY’S mostly bald head sports a sprout of red hair. The baby performs a twist flip and lands in Mamaw’s arms.

BIRDIE NELL: Here they are! Way back in... 1967. Ain’t that adorable?

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Whiskey Dickel, Int’l Cowgirl © Mark Scott Ricketts and Mike Hawthorne

GO HERE: DRAW IS LIFE with Mike Hawthorne

Apocalypse Cow written by Mark Scott Ricketts & Illustrated by Eric Wight

EXT. OUR LADY OF THE LARIAT RODEO ARENA – DAY

Dark, foreboding clouds gather. A YOUNG PRIEST eats popcorn in the cheap seats of an empty arena.

In the CENTER RING, a chain-smoking, grizzled MOTHER SUPERIOR (40s) in a cowboy hat checks her watch.

Two skittish priests––FATHER LIDDY and FATHER BARNES join her.

Father Barnes (20s) begins chanting text from the ancient, over-sized tome cradled in his arms.

Book cover reads: “FEELING THE BURN. AN IDIOT’S GUIDE TO EXORCISM.”

Father Liddy (50s) holds a huge, ornate cross.

FATHER BARNES (reads): Get thee gone! Ye be unwelcome here, vile beast from Hell.

Tight on the crest of a Catholic Girl’s School jacket that features a haloed saint twirling a lariat.

WHISKEY DICKEL (17) , in cowboy hat and spurred boots, has a determined look on her freckled face as she tosses her school jacket aside.

Whiskey is straddling a noisy, but unseen WILD BULL hidden behind a metal stall. The NUNS and PRIESTS attending her can barely contain the beast.

One of the nuns, SISTER ANNE (30s), controls the gate.

SISTER ANNE (yells): Now, Mother Superior?

WHISKEY (grumbles): Just pull the chute, sister.

Mother Superior nods.

Whiskey holds tight as the Wild Bull flies out the chute. This is not just any bull, it’s a flame snorting, violently bucking, saw-toothed, long-horned MONSTER!!

WHISKEY: Yeee-Haaaw!

Father Barnes joins the nuns and priests sitting on the fence.

FATHER BARNES (still reading): Return to the infernal regions from whence ye came.

Whiskey hangs on tight as the Wild Bull jumps up into the air and spins like a mini tornado.

WHISKEY (gritting teeth): You two–bit, side windin’, ding-dang, cud chewin’—

The Wild Bull’s head twists around until he’s face-to-face with the girl on his back. Its eyes are fiery red.

WILD BULL: How dare you mock LOTHAR! You will pay for such insolence.

WHISKEY: Kiss my hi-yi-yi-!!!!!

Whiskey ducks just in time. Barely escapes a blast of flame shooting from the Wild Bull’s nostrils.

MOTHER SUPERIOR (O.S.): Keep your head, girl!

WHISKEY: Quit jawin’, sister. I’m tryin’ to concentrate.

FATHER BARNES (still reading): I command thee. Rejoin thy dreadful brethren in the sulfurous pits of thy most unholy haunt.

The Wild Bull’s tail has become python-like. It wraps around Whiskey’s neck and squeezes until her eyes bulge.

The tail lifts Whiskey up from the Wild Bull’s back. Suspends her in the air.

Then Whiskey is brought back down and slammed to the ground. WHAM!

The Wild Bull drags Whiskey all around the arena.

WHISKEY: Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

A group of ARMORED PRIESTS wearing flack scapulars and mitre (pointed headdress) helmets with visors rush into the arena.

Father Liddy, now carrying an ornate box, joins them.

Box reads: “S. ecret E. cumenical C. ounter T. errorism T. eam, Special Order”

Emerging from a cloud of dust, Whiskey manages to loosen the tail around her neck.

WHISKEY: I take my steak (chomps down on tail) rare!

The tail unravels, but Whiskey maintains a two-fisted hold on it. Now she’s skiing behind the Wild Bull, her rolling spurs sparking, raising dust.

WHISKEY: Wait up, Bossie! Don’t go nowheres.

Whiskey pulls herself closer to the Wild Bull’s hind quarters.

WHISKEY: No need to be shy, sweet thing.

Whiskey’s plaid skirt billows as she takes to the air.

Much to the Wild Bull’s surprise, when Whiskey comes down, she lands heels first into its haunches and digs in.

WHISKEY: I just wanna be friends.

Holding onto the Wild Bull’s tail with one hand, Whiskey thrusts her free hand inside its anus.

WHISKEY: Put ‘er there, pardner.

WILD BULL (startled): Omph!

Whiskey is up to her neck, digging around inside the Wild Bull’s bowels.

WHISKEY: You don’t happen to have the keys to my daddy’s truck in here, do ya?

She finally pulls a calf-sized demon (LOTHAR) from out of the Wild Bull’s orifice. The Wild Bull collapses in a heap, throwing both Whiskey and Lothar aside.

The Wild Bull loses its horns and magically grows utters, transforming from a bull into an emaciated (female) cow.

As Whiskey attempts to raise herself, the demon Lothar, dripping afterbirth and syrupy bile, towers over her. Yeh, that demon calf got bigger. Real big.

LOTHAR: Pale before Lothar, lowly creature.

Surrounded by S.E.C.T.T. agents, a very nervous Father Liddy makes an awkward attempt to open the ornate box.

FATHER LIDDY: Okay, I’ve–let me just–– (a bottle drops from the box, rolls away) Dog–gone–it–all.

The bottle is marked: “GENUINE, CONCENTRATED HOLY WATER. BLESSED IN THE WEST.”

FATHER BARNES (still reading): Back, back to the rotted hole of thy origin. Get thee back, back down to thy foul domain.

Mother Superior snatches the book from Father Barnes.

MOTHER SUPERIOR: This ol’ tome o’ yours ain’t worth a piddle.

Mother Superior rears back and tosses the book at Lothar.

The book smacks Lothar in the head. WHAP!

THIS is just the distraction Whiskey needs. Whiskey rolls over cowboy–style, nabs the bottle of holy water, takes a big swig, rears back, and spits it straight into one of Lothar’s eyes.

Smoke rises from Lothar’s eye socket as he goes into convulsions.

LOTHAR: This cannot be. I am the mighty Lothar! Warrior beast of the netherworld. Scourge of Chaos. Terror of ––

WHISKEY: Yeh, well, you may be slicker’n snot back home, but you’re playin’ on my field now.

Lothar’s flesh cracks, crumbles, turns to ash and falls away until all that’s left of him is a standing skeleton.

WHISKEY: Git along, little doggie.

Whiskey kicks the skeleton. Bones scatter.

WHISKEY: Happy trails to ya.

Whiskey dusts her top, hikes her skirt, adjusts her hat, sniffs, and quietly strides towards the exit.

MOTHER SUPERIOR (lighting cigarette): Ya done good, girl, but you still have detention all week.

Whiskey tips her hat as she passes the Mother Superior.

The S.E.C.T.T. team helps Father Liddy to his feet.

MOTHER SUPERIOR (claps hands): Alright people let’s clean this up.

The Priests and Nuns hop off the fence and go to work.

A Priest sweeps Lothar’s ashes into a bag while another collects his bones. Two Nuns, carrying sloshing buckets of bile and afterbirth, waddle past them.

MOTHER SUPERIOR: We’ve got a MONSTER Truck Rally comin’ in tonight. Look alive.

Father Barnes watches Whiskey leave the scene. He tugs on Mother Superior’s habit.

FATHER BARNES: Who was that angel of mercy?

MOTHER SUPERIOR: T’weren’t no angel, that’s for damn sure.

WHISKEY (O.S.): Heard that, sister.

Whiskey reaches the exit, stops, turns around and calls back.

WHISKEY: And you can kiss my hiney!

Mother Superior wickedly grins.

END

Whiskey Dickel: Apocalypse Cow © Mark Scott Ricketts

Whiskey Dickel: Apocalypse Cow Illustrations © Eric Wight

Hard handbags and soft white plastic sandals.

Cowgirl Housewife” was her CB handle.

Puffed up hair, stacked to the sky . . .

. . . makes me wonder why . . .

. . . she was the sweetest thing that ever was to die.

Oh, Shelley Martinez, a woman with all her teeth she was.

She was the one I was to wed, she was. . .

. . . the little bobbin’ head on the dashboard of my bed.

She was everything that mama never was.

That’s what she was.

What She Was © Mark Scott Ricketts

Moose Mountain © Mark Scott Ricketts

Earl Hornswaggle claims to be the oldest man in Bangor, Maine, clocking in, according to him, at 121 years old. However, this is the tamest of his assertions. Find yourself drawn into his gravity, and he will regale you with stories of his days as a lumber baron, schoolteacher, river driver, newspaper man, ferry operator, inventor, escape artist, and, well, the list goes on and on. It would be easy to write him off as a pathological liar, but in his oddly charismatic presence, each of his extraordinary yarns seems so very real . . .

Earl Hornswaggle does not recommend, but is frequently quoted in a book entitled A FLATLANDER’S GUIDE TO MAINE published by Islandport Press.

Earl Hornswaggle © Mark Scott Ricketts

Earl Hornswaggle claims to be the oldest man in Bangor, Maine, clocking in, according to him, at 121 years old. However, this is the tamest of his assertions. Find yourself drawn into his gravity, and he will regale you with stories of his days as a lumber baron, schoolteacher, river driver, newspaper man, ferry operator, inventor, escape artist, and, well, the list goes on and on. It would be easy to write him off as a pathological liar, but in his oddly charismatic presence, each of his extraordinary yarns seems so very real . . .

Earl Hornswaggle does not recommend, but is frequently quoted in a book entitled A FLATLANDER’S GUIDE TO MAINE published by Islandport Press.

Earl Hornswaggle © Mark Scott Ricketts

Earl Hornswaggle claims to be the oldest man in Bangor, Maine, clocking in, according to him, at 121 years old. However, this is the tamest of his assertions. Find yourself drawn into his gravity, and he will regale you with stories of his days as a lumber baron, schoolteacher, river driver, newspaper man, ferry operator, inventor, escape artist, and, well, the list goes on and on. It would be easy to write him off as a pathological liar, but in his oddly charismatic presence, each of his extraordinary yarns seems so very real . . .

Earl Hornswaggle does not recommend, but is frequently quoted in a book entitled A FLATLANDER’S GUIDE TO MAINE published by Islandport Press.

Earl Hornswaggle © Mark Scott Ricketts

Earl Hornswaggle claims to be the oldest man in Bangor, Maine, clocking in, according to him, at 121 years old. However, this is the tamest of his assertions. Find yourself drawn into his gravity, and he will regale you with stories of his days as a lumber baron, schoolteacher, river driver, newspaper man, ferry operator, inventor, escape artist, and, well, the list goes on and on. It would be easy to write him off as a pathological liar, but in his oddly charismatic presence, each of his extraordinary yarns seems so very real . . .

Earl Hornswaggle does not recommend, but is frequently quoted in a book entitled A FLATLANDER’S GUIDE TO MAINE published by Islandport Press.

“Ricketts’s colorful illustrations pop from the pages, and you get a chance to see some of the full range of his talents as an artist as well as humorist.”
––The Maine Edge

“Maine may have top-drawer humorists like John McDonald and Tim Sample, but now we can add cartoonist and satirist Mark Ricketts to that august list.”
––Bill Bushnell, The Kennebec Journal

Earl Hornswaggle © Mark Scott Ricketts

Moose Mountain

© Mark Scott Ricketts

All Rights Reserved

If you still don’t remember Monty, check out these toons:

Moose Mountain

© Mark Scott Ricketts

All Rights Reserved