Alone

OPEN: multiplane animation effect--the camera swoops down from above through
battered, postindustrial urban decay: the discarded skeleton of what could be
any once-great American city. We close in a glass-strewn alley where a tiny
little mouse is shivering: FEIVEL, alone, looking forlorn. Music up.

FEIVEL: (singing) Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moonlight...

An enormous, #17 army boot descends from above, stomping the rodent into
Feivel pate' -- pull back to show the DOLEMAN, looking forlorn.

DOLE: Dole alone and afraid in world Dole never made.

ROBOMONKEY: (from high above city streets) ROBO already use that line.

A can of pineapples bounces off DOLE's head. DOLE stomps on, not noticing. It
begins to rain. Drops spattering on, then sliding of, DOLE's grey, lifeless
skin like an infomercial demo for some new autobody sealant. Sound: thunder.
More rain. The drops begin hitting the electrodes in the sides of his neck,
sizzling, popping with blue sparks, as smoke begins to rise.

DOLE: Dole want Yvonne De Carlo.

His dead arm rises involuntarily, obscenely. We hear music: "I'm All Alone in
the World," from "the Mister Magoo Christmas Carol." DOLE begins singing.

DOLE:  Where am voice to answer Dole back?
            Where two shoes to click to my clack?
            Dole all alone in the world.

Cut to: another deserted street where a tiny little car is sputtering along
unnoticed. Yet another mouse, STUART LITTLE, is driving.

STUART: Fuck you, Margalo--eat worms and die. "I'll fly away. I'll fly away."
Fucking birds. They're all the same.

Cut to: Xtreme c-u of DOLE's hideous, inhuman boot stomping down ominously...

Cut to: DR. FRANKENSTEEN and EYEGORE (the pop-eyed Marty Feldman) on the roof
of an enormous highrise. Light rain, lightning in the sky behind them. DR.
FRANKENSTEEN is furiously cranking an old Victrola which is playing "I'm All
Alone in the World" from its ridiculously large horn. Indolently, EYEGORE is
leaning up against a wall reading the "National Enquirer." A few raindrops
spatter the pages, but he ignores it.

EYEGORE: Look at this, boss. Sez here a woman gave birth to a live mouse.
DR. FRANKENSTEEN: (cranking furiously) That's disgusting.
EYEGORE: Sez he could talk like the first week after. They made him like this
little suit and a little car and everything.
DR. FRANKENSTEEN: And you believe it?
EYEGORE: It's in the paper.
DR. FRANKENSTEEN: I'll tell you what--instead of filling your mind with the
rubbish of the gutter press, why don't you crank it for awhile? Do you think
you could crank it?

EYEGORE, smiling twistedly, begins turning the handle much too fast. The
music plays, Chipmunk-style:

            Where are two shoes to click to my clack?
            Where is a voice to answer mine back?
            I'm all alone in the world

STREETNOISES: (garbled) Turn shut that you fucking off fucking thing shit up!

EYEGORE: Thanks, and hope we passed the audition. Want me to urinate on them
boss?
FRANKENSTEEN: No, no, no--we can't do that until we're in power. How many
times have I told you?

(retardedly, EYEGORE begins counting on his fingers)

FRANKENSTEEN: I only hope he hears this--he's alone out there. Lost.
EYEGORE: Stomping on mice.
FRANKENSTEEN:  I only hope we find him. Before it's too late. (looking at
camera -- suddenly brightening with hope) Perhaps you could help us find him?
Do you think you could help? (looking away, disgusted) No. Forget it. What
was I thinking. Forget I said anything. (to EYEGORE) Just keep cranking.

Cut to: c-u twisted leer on EYEGORE's face.

Cut to: silhouette of darknened, dangerous city streets. The music plays. At
regular intervals, tiny mice squeek out in agony.