Welcome to Scoreville.

To most folks Scoreville is one of those quaint little burgs that just may have dropped off the pages of a Bradbury story or perhaps the memory and pen of Sinclair Lewis; you see, everyone knows everyone else in Scoreville. And everyone knows everyone else's business. Which doesn't count for much, really, as there isn't much business going on. Why, here in Scoreville folks are just as happy as pigs in a mud hole to see the sun rise each morning and the moon bathe in the glory of a starry summer night. And as long as there's plenty of heat and hot water in the cold, cold netherworld of winter and one of Ma Hue's fresh baked lemon meringue pies always within striking distance--and most important, good music bringing cheer to even the lowliest of souls among them--the denizens of Scoreville are quite satisfied. You see, most of them are up in years and as such have found contentment in simple things.

That's the way things are, in Scoreville.

Didn't used to be that way, just sort of came about. History records that back in the Score Wars period one Thaxton the Terrible a/k/a Ford the Frick and his band of marauding pirates landed on the shores of movie music's Twin Cities in order to inspire mayhem and all sorts of mischief amongst the serious and self-proclaimed priesthood of movie music protectors. And after a particularly riotous and rebellious series of events, the mayors of both cities joined voices via the method of the day, that of corporate merger. Achievement of his ultimate goal--total domination of movie music discussion--in serious doubt, Thaxton the Terrible prematurely unleashed the nuclear warhead he had gotten his hands on for some future event (rumored to be the destruction of the Mountain of Megiddo) and destroyed himself and his band of cohorts--and alleged cohorts, save one--in the process.

The Twin Cities that had become One survived, but not without casualties. Among the casualties was the particular sage who went by the handle "Al", also known as the Al-with-the-last-name-that-sounds-like-the composer-of-Of Mice And Men (1939). Way back in Aught 1, Al had urged the citizens of the city to which he had established residence not to forsake tidiness of speech and rules of basic conduct in order to encourage newcomers and potential adherents to The Cause. Another casualty was Stephen Lister, whose publication of "Principles of Personality Behind the Name" proved a key turning point in the negotiations that led to the uniting of these two important purveyors of same Cause.

Most regrettably numbered among the losses, moreover, were the mayors of both Twin Cities/founders of Scoreville. In their foresight, however, they had placed their katras in the mind, or should we say, "guise" of one of the characters in the drama that follows.

This, friends, in a nutshell is how things came to be, in Scoreville.

The time...is 35, 40 years into the future. For all intents it may be 2036 or 2006; hard to tell exactly because it has been snowing outside of the Sunnyvale Rest Home for the Aged Priesthood and it is night...and it's said that a snowy night is the great equalizer to one's concept of time no matter the world. Inside, the venerable residents of Sunnyvale Rest are engaged in the usual banter typical of havens such as these; among the residents this night are the Elderly Mr. Kinsinger, Crotchety Old (formerly "Sweet") Lou Goldberg, Congressman Ruger (Ret.), Senator Hatfield (Ret.), Jeron the Less, the feisty His H'ness (emeritus) Rocco, Andre O Gigante Velho Lux, a charming and unassuming little fellow called LKPK and other assorted Old Film Music Folk. And, oh yes, a nameless soul shoveling outside in the "unearthly, white-laced dream world." The gruff grinding off in the short distance breaking the eerie standstill of snow falling heavily plays throughout our drama as does the occasional lilt of wind chimes; both sounds are broken only by infrequent and short, measured moments of silence.

Messrs. Kinsinger and Goldberg are squinting, barely making out the shoveler through a window and through the blanketing gossamer shower.

The play begins.

(end of introduction)

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Have your fun...

My only real objections to what I have read (above) are:

1.) Drop the other shoe NOW, dammit!

I'm fed up with these little dramas you feed us, because YOUR SPOON IS WAY TOO SLOW!

I mean...how long must we wait for this thing to actually get going??? AND YOU NEVER EVEN FINISHED THE LAST ONE, YOU POOP!

2.) Get your facts right, OK?

If I am expected to play a role in this thing WITHOUT my consent, then at the very least you could be charitable to me.
I'm only 48, I still have my virility! And I can romp through Cupid's Grove with great agility!
The "Elderly" Mr. Kinsinger shall not even consider retiring to a "Rest Home" until the advent of his 95th Birthday (I have GREAT genes!) on October 12, 2047!
And on that date, I resolve to consider it...

NOW, Mr. Liv-...er, Howard L,, would you kindly get this thing GOING, PLEASE???

Perfect. You're already auditioning.

"I mean...how long must we wait for this thing to actually get going??? AND YOU NEVER EVEN FINISHED THE LAST ONE, YOU POOP!

Get your facts right, OK?"

The "last one" was not a "Fact or Fiction?" entry. Get your facts right, OK? You won't be satisfied until I remove one of the H's in His H'ness's name (in addition to the aforementioned "emeritus")

Goldberg: That's a checkmate, damn you!

Kinsinger: Lou, you dumb sh-t . There isn't any checkmate in MONOPOLY!

Goldberg: But I won all the railroads! I got you coming and going, you old fart!

Kinsinger: I may be an old fart, but YOU are a DUMB sh-t ! We aren't playing CHESS! We're playing MONOPOLY! Now roll the dice, you nincompoop!

Goldberg: This isn't how Howard told me it would go...

Kinsinger: WHAT?

Goldberg: Howard told me that I would WIN!

Kinsinger: Howard WHO???

Goldberg: "L"

Kinsinger: "L" WHAT???

Goldberg: He told me not to say.

Kinsinger: Lou, I don't CARE about this "Howard" dweeb you keep talking about. I just want to win Park Place and Boardwalk, so would you PLEASE THROW THE DICE?

Goldberg: OK, OK...here they go.

The dice are rolled...

Goldberg lands on BOARDWALK!

Part Two will begin sometime soon, whenever I feel like it, or maybe if all of the Planets are in alignment, or some other COSMIC thing like that!

(I wouldn't hold your breath if I were you!)

Whilst Kinsinger exerts his authority over the thirty-six squares on a monopoly board and the two squares leaning over it, Senator Hatfield and H Rocco sit comfortably in rocking chairs, observing the landscape.

HATFIELD: I was just thinking ... what was that Shaun and Howard and the guys ... we were raving about some soundtrack that night. Some score. The Detroit night.

ROCCO: God, that was a lifetime ago. I don't remember.

HATFIELD: Damned if I do. I want to. (pause) Hey, I know! We could go check your memoirs!

(Rocco firmly shakes his head.)

HATFIELD: The review, then. Maybe you mentioned it ...

ROCCO: (irritable) Gone! Gone in the war! Gone in the fire! Just like everything else!

HATFIELD: Oh. Right. (pause) Hell, not everything! Not everything you ever did. Chris saved a copy of your "Papillon" article, remember? Remember?

ROCCO: I remember.

(Long silence.)

HATFIELD: When did we get so old?

ROCCO: I don't know. It must be Howard's fault somehow.

(Another silence. They watch the sunset for a while. Hatfield starts humming something, then stops as he realizes what it is. Rocco hears it too. They turn to look at each other.)

BOTH: Grand Canyon!

ROCCO: I'll be damned!

HATFIELD: How could we forget that?

ROCCO: We didn't.

(Hatfield nods at this wisdom. They sit, satisfied for a moment, until Hatfield checks his watch and looks around.)

HATFIELD: Isn't it about time?

ROCCO: Not yet.

HATFIELD: What if everyone isn't ready?

ROCCO: They'll be ready.

HATFIELD: What if they're not ready?

ROCCO: We're ready.

HATFIELD: Where's Wedge? And Shaun? And Andre for that matter? Or any of the other little guys?

ROCCO: We've only got ten years on them.

HATFIELD: Ten is enough. (A thought occurs to him. He holds up his left hand and smiles.) Got by on less than ten for years.

(Rocco smiles at this, shakes his head.)

ROCCO: You're a piece of work, Senator. (pause, frowns) Say, what were you senator of again?

HATFIELD: (frowns, tries to remember) I ... (changes the subject) Where are those guys?

ROCCO: (shrugs, closes his eyes) Wedge said something about shooting craps out back.

- SCENE SHIFT -

(Out back: Marian is holding up the soundtrack to James Horner's "Glory." PAN to Wedge, who is hefting a double-barreled shotgun.)

WEDGE: PULL!

(Marian chucks the disc into the air, where it is obliterated by Wedge's rifle.)

WEDGE: Pull!

("Titanic" flies into view and is shattered.)

WEDGE: You know, I used to advocate gun control until I found out how much FUN this is! Thank you Mr. Kinsinger! Pull!

(Elfman's "Sommersby" flies into the air and Wedge fires.)

WEDGE: DAMMIT ANDRE!

(Back to Marian, where Andre is running away, sniggering.)

WEDGE: Yeah, you'd better run! (He fires off a few rounds into the air.)

- SCENE SHIFT -

(Back to the front porch. Hatfield looks around, startled.)

HATFIELD: Did you hear something? H? H? You okay, guy?

(Rocco has fallen half-asleep.)

ROCCO: (muttering) Wake me when it's time ...

HATFIELD: (nods, leans back, closes his eyes) When it's time.

She handed the two players their pie and announced, “I don’t do
windows. And I wish you two Viagra starved, game cheating,
old curmudgeons would get off your scrawny butts
and take me to town to see the Chippendale show and to a
movie music concert. And I want to go dancing afterwards if
you guys can remember something call rhythm. Are we going? Well?”

-

Of course, Goldberg and Kinsinger were much too concentrated on their Monopoly game to even notice Ma Hue or her pie (consciously that is, they did automatically start to eat it once it was handed to them). With a little sigh, Ma Hue went back to her chair and started polishing her Paul Newman photo.

-

(As Wedge's storyline didn't interfere with yours, I don't see any problems with continuing them both )

Goldberg: SHUT UP! I'm counting!

Kinsinger: What's this?

Goldberg: A pecan pie, fart-face. I thought YOU the master chef around here.

Kinsinger: Where did it come from?

Goldberg: Somewhere around the time I took Boardwalk, you dozed off for your 700th nap of the day, and that choice Hue tart stopped by to give us pie and insults.

Kinsinger: Insults?

Goldberg: She called us "two Viagra starved, game cheating, old curmudgeons with scrawny butts!"

Kinsinger: Viagra starved? VIAGRA STARVED??? Why that - I'll show HER who's Viagra starved!

Goldberg: Yeah, well yer butt isn't scrawny either, and Bonita's on her way over here, so you'd best keep it zipped, pal.

"Howard, you don't seem to have anything better to do with your time than to hang around underneath street signs all day!"

If you had said "a lamp post on a corner of a street" and "with toothpick sticking out of corner of mouth, filing your nails"--well, I...uh...er...

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Jeez!

VERY in-character; as most anyone who knows me by now can verify, I make fun of The Claw whenever I can.

A VERY clever thread, Howard. Sweet.

Everybody wants ta get inta d'act, ha cha-cha-cha!

PS
hornerized skeet shooting--LOL

*********************************************************************

Goldberg: SHUT UP! I'm counting my MONEY!

Kinsinger: Well HURRY IT UP!

While Lou is counting, Chris's eye wanders over to the bay window. His dear, old friend Howard L, otherwise known as "Max Bialystock", "Thomas Jefferson" and of course, "The Amazing Livver Antz" (in his Vaudeville days) was resting in his wheelchair, peering out the window, and seemingly dozing. Chris watched as Howard slowly leaned over in his chair toward the right. A rest home worker quickly straightened his body in the chair. Within a few seconds, Howard was leaning over toward the left, and once more a rest home worker quickly straightened his body upright in his chair.
Goldberg wasn't nearly finished counting his ruples, so Chris wandered over to see his old friend Howard.

Kinsinger: Hey, Livver Antz! How are ya' buddy? Do you like it here?

Howard: It's OK. Except that they don't EVER let you FART!

Howard: FFFFFFAAARRRRHHHHHTTTTHHGGHH!!!!

W. Knight