Cattle Call – Upcoming Extravaganza!

A VILLAGE SQUARE

BATELEUR steps up onto an overturned soapbox. He looks in his pants pockets. Nothing. Searches in his right shirt pocket. Nothing....Looks inside trousers. BUTTERFLIES stream out.


Searches trouser cuffs. A half-hatched RUBBER CHICKEN flies out feet-first, (BLUUUUUCK buck buck buck buck)


Sound of toaster popping. BING. TOAST flies out of left shirt pocket. BING. Toast flies out of right pocket. BING BING BING BING. Toast fires in rapid succession from various pockets, hitting man in nose. Man falls backwards off box. (sound of plates SMASHING).



He crawls back onto soapbox. Stands up. Slicks back hair.


He searches inside waistcoat pockets. Left and right sides, frowns. Flings out woman's lace corset, (sound of WHISTLE and SCREAM) feels backpockets. Smiles. Pulls out yards and yards of tied together silk scarves. Last scarf is tied to a piece of paper covered with penciled writing. He breathes sigh of relief.


He folds his speech and yards of silk scarves into big wad. The wad turns into a two blue doves that fly away.

Camera pans down into an old west saloon. Cowboys play poker and laugh. A player piano plays in the background ("Oh Susana") pans down and zooms to a rubber chicken lying in a pool of booze next to a mostly empty whiskey bottle.



Hand grabs Morty and throws him towards the batwing doors.



Morty bounces a few times and slides out under the batwing doors between the boots and spurs of someone who enters. We don't see who.

Morty slides over to a pony. It's not a real pony, but a bunch of erasers glued together to make a pony. These are the pencil erasers you get off #2 pencils. These are all cut off. Except for three which are chewed off. 15 are red, and 7 are green. One big kinda rhomboid one makes up the body.
Morty slides/folds himself up onto the Pygmy Pony.



Heroic western themed music swells, camera pans back as EraserHead, the Pygmy Pony rides off in a cloud of dust, camera pans back to arial view of battered old western town w/activity (CGI or live?)

Title Screen[/center] Western Lettering "Morty, and his Pygmy Pony - The Early Days"

Camera comes in as helicopter shot and zooms to side dolly shot of The Pygmy Pony (not a real pony, but a bunch of erasers glued together to make a pony. These are the pencil erasers you get off #2 pencils. These are all cut off, except for three, which are chewed off. 15 are red, and 7 are green. The body is made up of one of those big kinda rhomboid bigger ones…anyway…he’s running along



Camera zooms back to bring Morty in view. He’s floppin’ around like a stiff fish on the back of the Pygmy Pony who’s at full gallop.



The Pygmy Pony slows down to a quick walk and winks at camera still following on dolly shot. Background shot is obviously a miniature movie studio backlot where a western town is turning into an 1810 Paris neighborhood. Hands reach down and switch buildings, desert cloth is pulled up and replaced with cobblestone streets.



A hand places a guillotine in the town square, the blade swoops down and cuts off Morty’s words. They both look and then look back at the camera. They shiver in realization.


during the last portion of the conversation the entire puppet stage behind them begins to turn revealing yet another hidden stage consisting of a campfire, a slightly battered gypsy fortune telling wagon, and a table lit by an oil lantern, covered with a lace cloth that gently moves in the air-conditioned wind of the puppet stage. A hand reaches in and twists a tree. The stars turn on.

Morty dismounts the Pygmy Pony by falling very close to the fire, and scrunches himself over to the table and sits in one of the two chairs.

The Pygmy Pony munches on some pencil shavings and sings softly to herself.

(singing) Gonna erase some readings, gonna erase some readings, gonna erase some readings.

So who’s friend needs a reading?

Don't forget to tell them to follow the rules spouted by the Bateleur above!

Uh...you just did Pygmy...You just did.

Sniff sniff ........... mmmmm ....... roast chicken ........ rubs tummy as it gurgles.........

Huredriel wanders in clutching a wad of envelopes ........ aaarrrgghhhhh Morty ........ but, but, but ....... I thought you'd moved to Spain .... oooohhh I gotta sit down ....... where's the comfy spots ....... arrghh right that looks nice and soft (squishes into a long leather squishy sofa looking thing) ........ now how's about some service ........ this is a saloon right??? Now just slide me a nice southern comfort and coke ...... make it strong .......... and gimme an ashtray ....... can't have a drink without a smoke ya know .........

Severe squawking is heard from behind the bar

Oopps, you mean you're not masquerading as a barmaid this time ..........

Huredriel lays the envelopes down ........ amazed at how quickly they were despatched to her ......... now which one ......... ahhhh this one ........ it looks a bit scrawled out mind ......... not too good at spelling this one ....... hmmppfff, let's just rephrase it a bit too eh ........

My friend (who really seriously isn't *normal* ya know) *ouch* ..... has a choice looming in front of them ........ they gotta move ........ move far and wide ........ but aren't sure of their destination yet ......... looking for *home* ....... spiritual home I guess ....... any chance you could help them out?

And with that, Huredriel slowly withdraws a cigarette from the packet and coolly lights up, while trying to stuff the words of *roast chicken* back into her mouth

Julien enters, dressed in a long duster, chaps, and square-toed boots. Her hair is neatly pulled back, and there's a cowboy hat on her head. As she enters, she takes off a pair of work gloves, clearly having spent a good deal of time working hard today.

Cough, cough, cough. Sits next to Huredriel, waving the smoke away and beams a warm smile to her colleague, Huredriel.

Julien: Hello, my dear! How are you this evening?

She then looks around, searching for Bateleur but sees Umbrae -- and frowns. She never knows what to say to Umbrae.

Julien: Wherever is our dear French friend? The one who recently belonged in a dance hall rather than a Western saloons, but appears to be paying us a visit? Oh, there she is! I didn't recognize her without the parrot on her shoulder!!!

Julien then reaches into the inside pocket of her duster and pulls out a long piece of parchment -- a good two feet in length. It has a long, drawn out question on it. Paragraph after paragraph after paragraph of black ink in little tiny squished writing with the occaisional tear stained smudge. She reads through it and sighs. You can see from her face that she very much wants to roll her eyes, but out of respect for the dear friend who gave her the parchment, a gentleman she cares a great deal about, she chooses to treat the request with respect. It is a conscious choice, however and a difficult one as you can see in the set of her shoulders and her chin. She sighs -- a long, deep sigh.

Julien: Dear me. Awhile back, I asked a reader -- what was her name, I have forgotten -- I cannot recall -- but she read with the Victorian Romantic, in another place, another time -- about a friend of mine. Now, I have to ask a follow-up question of you, dear Morty and Pgymy, because I lost my temper with him, and he made me promise to help him find an answer to the dilemma that seems to plague him (and so that he won't drive me nuts anymore, I have said I'd try)... He wants to know why when he finally decided he had found "the one", she left the country. (Quite literally, TWICE -- left, returned, made promises, then left again, expecting him to stay on the hook -- the first time he did not, this time he did hoping she might change her mind). He wants to know what we all want to know -- why he can't make a relationship work... But he may have a point in thinking this isn't typical -- as she really did take flight... Literally. In planes. Away. To different countries...

Julien takes a deep breath (again) and sighs it out, drawing her eyebrows together and shaking her head. She then places the parchment back in her pocket. She calls to the barkeep and orders a whiskey, then sits back and waits.

Huredriel pats Julien on the shoulder ......... Ahhh you got one of them!!!! Poor guy ........ poor you ...... how many times has he asked you this question? Pretty drastic action though ........ to leave a country, physically ...... and TWICE

Julien had just taken a long draw on her whiskey, closed her eyes. As she feels Huredriel's pat on her shoulder she opens her eyes and slowly nods.

Julien: Well now, there's the actual asking, and in that he's only asked a couple of times. But in a way, or rather in multiple ways, he's been asking for help for a long time now. Months and months, in fact. And I haven't met the lady in question because I moved, and because after she left and returned and announced her departure again, he decided not to introduce her around... I only know him, and I know he's a very sweet person, who is really very successful in the life he's made for himself. One never knows what happens in a relationship, but I do know him well... He sometimes seems to punish himself for a big mistake in his past that almost cost him his whole future. I've begun to wonder if that isn't what this is about somehow -- unfortunately, while I can usually read for friends, I cannot read for him. I think I'm too empathic with him -- and it fouls up the readings. It's almost like when I read for myself. Which I find very odd as well, but let's not discuss that part of things.

Julien smiles at Huredriel again, and then takes a nice long drink from that whiskey... Another seems in order... Her head hurts...

The batwing doors are pushed open and in walks Netzach. From the way she is dressed, it would seem that she is still editing the town newspaper - although her green eyeshade, rolled up shirtsleeves and braces (suspenders in American, I think) look somewhat strange with her elegant red woollen skirt and high heeled black patent shoes. In her hand she holds a piece of paper.

"OK," she says, looking around the saloon, "One o' my sources tells me that the chicken's answering questions again. And I got a question."

Huredriel and Julien look at her with interest, noticing that, since the last encounter with the rubber chicken, she seems to have picked up the sort of accent found in all the best Western B-movies.

"Not my question," says Netzach. "Somebody wrote to the paper . . . to "Dear Abby" . . . but we don't have no Abby on the paper . . . and then I gets to thinking . . . "Abby" . . . well, sounds a bit like "Morty" to me, so he'll have to do."

"What's the question?" asks Huredriel.

Netzach pulls out a piece of paper and studies it, then scratches her head.

"Don't make no sense to me," she says, then reads slowly "What did Sunday's butterflies mean?"

Ambling over to the bar, she calls "Gimme a slug o' gin.", then slumps down on the sofa next to Huredriel.

Julien leans forward (on the other side of Huredriel) and looks over at Netzach:

"Howdy... You do have an interesting and new accent -- I can't say as I've ever managed to adopt Westerner... But at any rate, I like your braces -- er, suspenders..." She smiles... "Butterflies you say... At this time of the year... My that's most interesting..."

She leans back in her alcohol induced relaxation to meditate on butterflies on a Sunday...

Hic...

Julien shifts, after hiccuping from that whiskey, having just remembered...

She saw butterflies on a Sunday, too... In a place and at a time of year where they shouldn't be... Pretty little yellow butterflies... Isn't that intriguing? Global warming, perhaps.... She eyes Netzach with curiousity... Well, at least she won't be the only one drinking around here.

((hic)) "Cheers. I like that new accent of yours, by the way."