Businessman's Lunch #2

Flamo: Behold, Jesus Christ ...

Businessmen: Booo!

Flamo: The RepubliChrist.

Businessmen: Yayyyy!

Flamo: The character actor shown here represents Jesus Christ for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to indicate an actual divine manifestation, or endorsement of the Republican party, or endorsement of the Christian purposes by the Republican party except for entertainment purposes.

JC: Thanks guy. Hey!I just want to say I'm proud to be a part of the American family, and proud to be a part of what we're doing today. Because together we can make the American dream come true for all Americans in America. Family values--isn't that what the dream is all about? As God in human form I invented the family -- I'm all for it. But what does family really mean?

Businessmen: No fags!

JC: Exactly right! What does it mean?

They think. We hear crickets.

JC: Palatial homes, college for your children, a comfortable life in your
retirement years -- even if it means getting hairplugs and trading in your
first wife. So let's say "no" to fathers without families and no handouts to
families without fathers. Suffer the little children--it was true when I said
it 2,000 years ago, and it's still here today.

Lower taxes; save our children; build up a firmer policy with immigrants.
Yes, America is a land of immigrants, but you have to have your papers--and
we got here first.

The poor will always be with you -- theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven, and I
for one don't want to take that away from them.

Blessed are the rich for they've got theirs.

Blessed are the warmakers, for
they shall get contracts from the D.O.D. Blessed are they who take, for the
law shall be with them.

The talk rolls on incessantly -- a resistless tide of words. The REPUBLICHRIST ducks out of there, takes a check from FLAMO on the way out. More speakers appear.

About an hour into this, each table is visited by its own S. Clay Wilsonesque DEMON -- the SATANARIANS greet the DEMONS warmly -- lotsa back-slapping and gladhanding.

The talk rolls on, as does the food. Every 45 minutes or so the WAITERS emerge with more food. The SATANARIANS eat, helplessly engorging themselves on what, by now, are the equivalent of 6 or 7 main courses. Subtly, subliminally, what started as fine cuisine becomes progressively more vile. Until the WAITERS, at last are bringing out: Entrails. Worms. Roadkill on a Stick. The SATANARIANS are stinking drunk by now. But one of them, at finally, notices.

DEMON: (farting outrageously) Ahhh ... ahhhhhhhhh.

TEXAN: Say Bud, think you could hold it inside?

DEMON: Could if I wanted to. But it just. Feels. So. Good.

TEXAN: What is this?

WAITER: Liver.


Thye're palying the rocky theme

SATANARIAN: (pointing) I didn't order that!

SATANARIAN #2: Mmmm. There's something moving in there. Mmmmpppfffff.

DEMON: (holding bowl in front of his mouth) Don't waste it!

(He pukes vast soppy chunks into the bowl.)

DEMON: (offering bowl) Tastes better the second time.

S#2: (puking) Mmmmfffffff!

The DEMON catches all in the bowl--drinks all.

TEXAN: Garcon!

DEMON: I'd simmer down if I were you. We haven't even had dessert yet.

TEXAN: Well you sure as hell AIN'T me and I sure as hell didn't order that...that whatever it is.

DEMON: Listen--can I give you a piece of advice.

TEXAN: It's a free goddamn country, ain't it?

DEMON: If Satan's picking up the check, Satan gets to order what he wants. And you'd better eat it.

TEXAN: Hell no.

Why?

TEXAN: That's the way it is for the victims but it sure as hell ain't the way it is
for me.

Victims?

TEXAN: You know what I mean--

WAITER: May I help you sir?

TEXAN: Take this back and give me a goddamn steak. Well-done.

WAITER: Yessir.

TEXANS: All the whiners--you know. All that victim psychology. Making somebody else responsible for their own personal failures--when anybody knows if you want something all you gotta do is take it. Ain't no excuses.

DEMON: Just take it?

TEXAN: You got it.

DEMON: Even if you hurt somebody?

TEXAN: Well hell, that's what it's all about ain't it? Big fish eats the little fish, dog eats dog. Somebody's gotta win, somebody's gotta lose--and somebody's gotta get hurt.

DEMON: What if you want to hurt somebody just because you want to hurt somebody? Just because you can do it?

TEXAN: Well that's OK, too, heheheh. That's what makes them other people victims--and what makes us Republicans.

DEMON: HEhehehe.

SATANARIAN: What the hell IS that? There's an EYE in there.

TEXAN: Get a load of him, my my, goddamn pussy can't take responsibility for his own damn plate. Me on the other hand--I send it back.

SATANARIAN:

TEXAN: You're all right, pard, my kinda folks. Truth is, I kinda like settin'
people up to fall. Like these college kids I found out about workin' for this outfit
here in California. Buncha goddamn socialists. They thought, well hell, the
cable
companies and TV studios and production companies had a lock on the medium.
So they worked up this digital editing thing, just the little plug in
board--did it on their own time, garage programming--and they planned to sell it for something like
$2,000
American dollars so any goddamn punk with a Video Toaster could do studio
quality production work--studio quality editing and effects--and then go mix
and match tapes, make copies, make their own damn movies, decumentaries,
ray-por-tage just as cheap and easy as you please, workers of the world
unite. So I just went into their home office and handed the C.E.O. a
briefcase of money under the table--and told him to kill it. He sent the word
down this ain't worth our time, market this, positioning that--the usual
doubletalk. He tells me they just stood their with their goddamn mouths open,
hehhehheh....but sir, we don't understand...well no, hell no, they don't,
hehheheh...

DEMON: HEhhehheh...

TEXAN: and they couldn't believe their little revolution would not be
televised--and he couldn't even give 'em a good reason. But I knew. Hehehehe.
Just the way it goddamn is. Hehehehe. I wish I coulda seen their faces.

DEMON: I think I know what they looked like.

TEXAN: And what would that be, pard?

DEMON: Something like this.

The DEMON reaches out--clutches onto a bit of twisted bric-a-brac on the hearth, pulls. The entire floor of the restaurant opens up, suddenly, like an enormous trap door. The SATANARIANS fall, screaming, into the flames below. The DEMONS fly upwards. Moments later, the restaurant snaps back into place. WAITERS emerge, holding oval trays with the roasted remains of the former company, mouths stuffed with apples, skin glazed a la Cook Thief Wife Lover Pierce Fenner and Bean.

DEMON: Mmmmmm! Tasty, tasty fat Republicans--just the way I like 'em!

DEMON: (sucking out the eye-sockets of somebody's head) It's skull-licious!

Businessman's Lunch

EXT: Holiday Inn. One of the old fashioned signs with jittery neon star and marquee. Askew plastic letters announce: WELCOME FAUST & MEPHISTOPHELES. Rain pounding down. The camera closes. To the restaurant--

Another neon sign cries out: FLAMING PIT.

INT: FLAMING PIT. Preparations going on for a local-yokel civic gathering.
FLAMO, (a.ka. Jacques Flambeau, ex-circus performer, businessman, cannibal)
is storming about in red hood, red costume, red flowing cape. Barking orders
at the busboys and in general trying to micromanage everything. FLAMO walks
past one busboy, does a doubletake.

FLAMO: What did you just do?
BUSBOY: I jus kinda cleared offa table, y'know.
FLAMO: You cleared off the table?

BUSBOY: Whatever.

FLAMO: You mean--the crumbs? You cleared off the crumbs?

BUSBOY: Whatever.

FLAMO: Just sort of swept it off--like this?

BUSBOY: Yeah, like, y'know, it's like...messy eaters.

FLAMO: With your hand?

BUSBOY: Yeah, like...y'know.

FLAMO: Onto the floor?

BUSBOY: Yeah.

FLAMO: With your hand?

BUSBOY: Well, y'know.

FLAMO: (holding up odd-looking metallic intrument) Do you know what THIS is?

BUSBOY: (frightened) I'm REAL sorry, Mr. Flamo.

FLAMO: This is a crumber, hmmm? A crumber. And with the crumber we sweep the
crumbs off the clean white linen. Like this. (pantomiming)

BUSBOY: Cool. Didjoo invent that?

FLAMO: No. My second point. (hissing -- getting in his face) We do not EVER
EVER EVER sweep the crumbs onto the floor. We sweep the crumbs into our
HANDS.

BUSBOY: But that's like...it's been in somebody's mouth, OK?
FLAMO: What do we do with the crumbs?
BUSBOY: (muttering) Into our hands.
FLAMO: What?
BUSBOY: We sweep the crumbs into our hands.
FLAMO: Good. And then...what do we do with the crumbs?
BUSBOY: Uh. We uh, we like bring 'em back in the kitchen and put 'em in the
garbage.
FLAMO: Good. (brushing invisible, pantomime crumbs into his hands) Go and do
likewise.

DARTH VADER-like, FLAMO walks off, trailing cape behind him. BUSBOY watches
him go, looks down at his hands. Almost brushes invisible crumbs onto floor
-- but stops, afraid. Walks into kitchen, brushes invisible crumbs into
garbage can, then brushes hands together, wipes hands on pants, shudders.

Go to: long shot from above, INT of the restaurant. Sound quality has
changed: the get-together's just begun, folks are milling about, yapping,
sitting down. We see a huge fireplace and oversized video monitor at one end.
Bland decor, emphasis on red, phony-baloney sheet-rock on the walls and
ornately-carved pseudo-Spanish chairs with overstuffed vinyl seating. Lotsa
fat, cigar-chomping bidnessmen types (with a smattering of wimmin). Loud,
ribald, drunk--the SATANARIANS.

FLAMO: (taking the podium) Good evening, and WELCOME, my friends. How the
hell are you tonight? (they laugh) Yes, yes. I got my eye on you, Ralph.
How're you doing? OK, OK. Welcome to our 10th annual celebration of EVIL --
tonight's once-of-a-lifetime event will be featuring a live, pay-for-view
coverage of the Republican National Convention on our state-of-the-art video
monitor. This treat is on us, of course -- you've certainly earned your front
row seats. And you may notice another little gift...

Go to MED shot one of the tables. One of the BUSINESSMEN looks down. There's
a lucite chip (in the shape of an inverted-7) holding a digital clock. The
legend reads: "SATANARIANS: 1796-1996. The end is near!" He purses his lips,
nods to himself in a self-satisfied way, puts the clock down. It clicks to:
6:66.

FLAMO: Thanks to you, my dear merchants, we have succeeded in making Evil an
acceptable lifestyle choice both here in America and throughout today's
emerging global economy. We have moved from a world that thinks in terms of
"right and wrong" to one in which "winning and losing" are the only moral
categories. And, as the great poet Auden once pointed out, "the only two
sexes are the weak and the strong."

BUSINESSMAN: (Texas accent) What's that mean, exactly?

FLAMO: It means without power you're fucked.

(They laugh)

FLAMO: Hear now, the words of a great damned soul--Richard M. Nixon.

BIDNESSMAN: The bird is cruel!

(They all shield their eyes)

FLAMO: Channelled, in a gesture of hellish irony, through the possessed body
of Hillary Clinton. Behold -- Nixon's advice to the Republican media
handlers...