03 October 2008

FSW: It's the End of the World As We Know It

Michael's selection for this week was the prescient apocalypse. All too close to bearing fruit, I keep hearing hoof beats and horn blasts. I tell you, if seven brothers club seven baby seals for their seven brides, I'm stocking up on bottled water tequila.

Micheal's already come through this week with a sketch about the day after yesterday. I got chills reading this. Ken followed up with a hopeful story about tolerance, belief, and deli food. Honors for next week's theme fall to him, so be sure to check out his blog for an update to his post.

As usual, if you want to play along with us, email a link to your entry to sketchwar at dreamloom.com.

It's the End of the World As We Know It


MARISOL, HECTOR, and BRAD wear tattered rags and sit in the decrepit remains of a once grand living room. Marisol and Hector huddle in one corner, Brad in another. The former captain of industry looks as beaten as his cook and gardener. PHOEBE throws open upstage doors and glides in wearing a short skirt, pressed blouse, and new Christian Louboutins. Her hair and makeup are immaculate. Her arms are full of bags.


It's so stuffy in here! What is wrong with all of you? It was a beautiful day today, but you're all sitting right where you were when I left this morning. I bet you didn't even get up once.


Hector got up once, to shoot a giant ant that was coming toward the house.


Si. I shoot between the eyes.


Which ones? It had like, a million.


And what about you? And Marisol? You just sat there? I bet you didn't even clean and dress the carcass. We haven't had fresh meat in two weeks, but you just left it on the lawn, didn't you? It's probably already gone bad.


No. The flying cats come and drag it to their nest.


They're so pretty. Why I can't have one?


We've been over this before, Marisol. No dogs or killer mutant cats in the house. Mr. Finley has allergies.


Yes, Miss Phoebe.


Come on. Come help me with the bags.

The others trudge to Phoebe and take her bags.


I found a few cans of pineapple juice under the bar in the Jensen's pool house. I remembered Patrick made those killer hurricanes last Memorial Day.


Any Myers left?


No. No booze. Looks like squatters got it all. But they left the fruit juice.


Lucky us.


You're damn right, lucky us! What's with all of you?


What's with us? You're running around town like nothing's wrong, while we're here fighting off killer ants and flocks of flying cats. It's over, Phoebe! The world's over!

Marisol and Hector freeze.


No, Brad. The world's not over. Your cushy life is over. Your two-martini lunches and Wednesday golf and Thursday afternoons with that tramp, Charlotte Greggson, are over. Life goes on. The world goes on.


Oh? You didn't think I knew about her? I knew, Brad. I! Didn't! Care!

Phoebe is steaming, but keeps it together. She crosses her arms. Hector looks in the last bag, not finding what he wants.


Miss Phoebe, you not bring bullets?


Of course I did, Hector. Nine mills, .38s, and 12-gauge. They're right here.

Phoebe spins a little and we see the third arm jutting from the center of her back holding one last bag. Her blouse is perfectly tailored to accommodate the extra appendage.


Thank you ma'am.

Hector goes to Phoebe and takes the bag. As he walks away, we see he has two extra eyes on the back of his head.


No problem, Hector. It's nice to see someone else around here doing his part.

(Stares at Brad)

But you really have to get out of this house more. You too, Marisol. The weather's just been perfect. It's my favorite time of year, when the lung-squid walk up the beach at night to spawn and the ocean burns just a little brighter. Both the moons are full tonight. You and Marisol should take a walk on the overlook.



The bat-coons!


Marisol, you know those are a myth. I've never heard a notion as silly as a bat-coon. Now you two go watch the mating dance of the lung-squid before the cock-a-mice come fly off with their eggs.

Marisol and Hector exit.


That's just great. The world is burning and you're playing matchmaker.

Phoebe sashays up to Brad. She wraps her two front arms around his waist.


Someone has to repopulate the world. It certainly isn't going to be us.


It's just...you're different since you grew...that.

Phoebe flexes her third arm and strokes his face seductively





(Nods at crotch)




Michael Brownlee said...

LOL! "That" just killed me. Nicely done sir.

Ken Robertson said...

And people say mutation can't be sexy...sheesh!!!

And...despite the lateness (I had a show last night, and another tonight) the theme for this week is:

2old4this said...

Eeeew, no consideration at all for us homophobes.

Still, that was great. I loved the little zingers throughout, along with the punch at the end.

Great work!