Troubles have plagued John Wayne Airport of late. Not only are the constant protests causing unwanted attention, but stranger things are afoot. An unexplained mystic stank hangs in the air, and every day it seems something else is falling apart or breaking down. Is the airport cursed? Haunted? Sinking into a tar pit? Dying of AIDS? No one seems to be able to pinpoint the source of the problem, but the FAA can no longer sit on the sidelines, and the airport has been given an ultimatum. It has one week to solve all of its problems, or JWA will be shut down. Now it is up to one man, Airport General Manager Nick Reynolds, to save everyone’s job.

Can this chowder head really turn things around in seven days?

Copyright © 2020 by Greg Dent and Jeffrey Welker
All rights reserved.
First Edition
Epidemic Books
Seattle, WA USA
For more information, visit us at:
http://www.epidemicbooks.com

Principal Cast

Supporting Cast

Extras

A Note on Casting

Much of the humor in this script comes from well-timed celebrity cameos. We are fully aware that not everyone named in this script will be able to participate in the same movie. Consider this our fantasy casting. With a few exceptions, most of the actors named here can be substituted if necessary. We are well-willing to work with you on rewrites if you decide to pick up this script.

MONDAY

Scene 1 (Arrival, Outside JWA)

It is a beautiful day in Southern California. We see a dusty, rocky hillside, covered with cactus and dry, scrubby bushes. A nice, uplifting western theme plays. Birds circle lazily above. Toads hop happily about. There is an old wagon wheel leaning against a rock. The sky above is a perfect royal powder blue. There is a rumble, and a massive jumbo jet fills the sky, sending the birds flying, and tilting the cacti at an angle with its wind. A bush dislodges and begins tumbling down the hill. The sky behind the plane is filled with smog. There is a kind of a whoosh sound, and a cloud of brown liquid falls from the sky in the wake of the plane. It lands on the scene with a splat, burying the toad in a messy puddle. The camera does not linger, but instead follows the rolling bush, which tumbles along as the opening credits begin to scroll.

[OPENING CREDITS]

As the credits play, we see the scene begin to change from one of dry nature to one of broad streets, manicured lawns, pools, and identical mcMansions lined up row after row. The bush rolls down the street, across a park, through the parking lot of a mall, over a sleeping homeless person, and finally across a scrubby bit of land and onto a crowded freeway where it is smashed to smithereens by a white, speeding, stretch Ford Bronco. As the car passes, it takes the camera with it, and we see it weaving through the busy traffic. It is driving erratically as if in a big hurry, changing lanes often and accelerating quickly as soon as it finds a gap in the traffic.

The camera dips inside through the windshield, where we see a stoic driver (he looks to have some variety of native american ancestry) in a suit and shiny driving hat. There is a knock on the sliding window to the back, and it pops open, and we see the face of John Wayne Airport General Manager Nick REYNOLDS appear. He is holding a cell phone in one hand as if still on the call.

REYNOLDS: Hey Bruce, I thought I told you to step on it. I have a very important meeting this morning.

DRIVER: (grunts. He presses a button and the window slides closed, forcing REYNOLDS face to the side and eventually out, even though he tries to clutch at the window to stop it).

REYNOLDS: (into the phone) I gotta get a new driver. This guy is like on island time or something. Wait, what??? What do you mean you can't take the kids this week? Who the hell is Bob? I got the FAA Commissioner here all week breathing down my neck. One more shredded samsonite and he's going to shut this whole place down. Then who the hell is going to pay for your precious LL Bean addiction? Huh? Who? Does Bob make LL Bean money, Susan? I'll be lucky if I can find one empty street corner in this god forsaken town without at least three other bums on it. (Pauses to listen). Well, the kids are going to have to stay with your sister. (He holds the phone away from his ear to soften the blow of the angry yelling coming through). I don't care if she feeds them dog food and recycled crack, they can't stay with me this week. I won't be home!

The car jolts to a halt suddenly, and REYNOLDS lurches forward. He does not have his seatbelt on, and he slides forward off his seat, losing his phone, which tumbles into the air, coming down smack dab into the middle of a large mug of coffee which sits in the cupholder of some kind of little side table. A half eaten banana and a Cliff bar roll off the table.

REYNOLDS: Fuck!

The screen in the limo slides open, and the driver looks back. We can hear a number of other cars honking angrily nearby.

DRIVER: Uh, boss? (he gestures out the window)

REYNOLDS: Oh shit, not today!

REYNOLDS presses a button, and the rear window of the limo slides down. Outside we can see that a large crowd of protestors has gathered outside the entrance to John Wayne Airport. They have blocked the road with a giant banner reading "The only good airport is a dead airport". Most of the protesters are also carrying signs, which say things like "The color of the wind is red", "How many Sacajawea dollars does it take to buy justice", "Chem trails of tears", and "The real Duke is in my pants". Now that the GM has arrived, the crowd is amped up, and an androgynous blue-haired mixed-race agitator (Krys T. HIMMELFART) begins to lead them in chants, such as "What do we want? No more racist airports! When do we want it? Now!" A middle-aged woman (Sharon COX) at the head of the protest breaks away from the crowd to come over to the limo. She is dressed in buckskin and warpaint, but otherwise appears rather white.

REYNOLDS (smiling mockingly): Good morning, Pocohontas! Those buckskins really show off your generous ass.

COX: Fuck you too, Reynolds. Here, have some pemmican (she throws him something that resembles a hockey puck), looks like you are going to be here a while.

REYNOLDS: Nice crowd. How much are you paying them this time?

COX: Stuff it, Nick. Your bourgeois insinuations that everyone else has as little integrity as you only diminish your power.

REYNOLDS: Well, sorry to disappoint, but you are going to have to tell your people to step aside today. The FAA commissioner is flying in here in five minutes, and I've been subpoenaed to meet with him. So yeah, right about now, you are holding up an agent of the United States federal government. How many lawyer bills is that gonna cost you?

COX (laughing): Subpoenaed? Don't make me laugh. The only thing that'll happen if we hold you up today is you'll get your ass fired. And isn't that the whole point of this? Well, besides me getting to watch.

REYNOLDS: Look... (he leans in as if to tell her something in secret) I'll tell you what. You let me through now, and I'll tell the commish I'm ready to throw my weight behind renaming this place Cesar Chavez International Airport. Honest.

COX: That immigrant-hating bastard? You gotta be kidding me.

REYNOLDS: What the fuck ever. Shit I'll tell him you can pick the name. Call it Carrot Top Memorial Flughafen, I don't give a fuck. I just need to pay my child support. Besides, the goon they get to replace me won't play nice and talk to you. He'll just blast "My rifle my pony and me" cranked up to 11 from every loudspeaker on the planet on an endless loop until all your crisis actor SAG-rejects go fucking batman.

COX: Oh Nick, you know I'm not a dictator. Everyone in this movement gets a vote on the name. Wait... Carrot Top is dead?

REYNOLDS: Just daydreaming, sorry.

COX: Well, pardner, you got yourself a deal. (She reaches out to pinky shake, he kisses her finger and shooes her away).

COX turns to the crowd and begins waving them aside.

COX: Sorry guys, we gotta let him through!

There is a lot of moaning from the crowd as the limo starts moving forward. REYNOLDS begins to roll up his window just as a mostly full In-n-out burger cup hits it square amidships. A wave of strawberry shake splashes up over the top of the window and coats the right side of his face, staining his collar and light blue blazer.

REYNOLDS: Step on it Bruce!

The Bronco speeds forward, the crowd parts and the limo crunches over a mother duck just about to lead her babies across the street. The crowd goes nuts and starts throwing things as two guards valiantly try to close the gates behind the roaring limousine. A wave of venti frappuccino cups pelts the back window as the car speeds away.

Scene 2 (Circling the Wagons, Airport)

Scene opens with REYNOLDS rushing out of the Bronco in the load/unload zone, and into the departures lounge. He's barreling through crowds of fat tourists in Hawaiian shirts and kids with Mickey Mouse ears. There is a big fat dude pushing one of those big wheelie luggage racks with a tall stack of suitcases and boxes on it; as Nick blows past, a wheel pops off and the whole thing topples onto the poor guy. Nick keeps walking. Soon enough, he enters a tall, glassy chamber with a gigantic statue of John Wayne at the center of it. Nick pretends to ignore it as he passes and then suddenly drops to one knee and fakes like he is quick-drawing a gun on the statue.

REYNOLDS: Ha ha, old man. Gotch-

Before he can finish the sentence, REYNOLDS is flattened by airport security.

Security escorts REYNOLDS through a set of staff-only metal detectors, and soon he is joined by members of his team. Ed HAMILTON, JOE FRANK, JENNY Telida all converge on him from different directions, all talking as they emerge; they all power walk toward the concourse together. Along the way, they pass a number of balloons and banners welcoming the World Smear the Queer Championships to Anaheim. As they near the food court, a large plastic billboard for "Hot Carl's AC Repair" cracks and falls off the wall.

HAMILTON (waving a sheet of blue paper, coming toward REYNOLDS): Nick! This is the latest financial forecast from the Airline Association. It's not great-

JOE FRANK (coming in from another direction, talking over HAMILTON): Boss man, the commish is gonna crawl straight up your shit-chute if he sees-

JENNY (coming from another direction, talking over JOE FRANK): Reynolds, you got any kirschwasser in your office? (She is holding a gigantic foot-long deep fried zucchini on a stick.)

REYNOLDS (eyeing her zucchini): Where'd you get that?

JENNY (mouth full): Deano's "That's Zucchini!". They just opened in the food court.

They all form around REYNOLDS in a classic West Wing walk-and-talk formation. In the background the food court is swarming with the breakfast crowd. We will get a better look at this locale later on. For now they push on through. Somewhere in the middle of the open seating area, they pass a garbage can from which flames are spouting. REYNOLDS gets a concerned look on his face.

REYNOLDS (pointing to the can, to JOE FRANK): Get someone on that, please.

JOE FRANK nods and whips out his iPhone. In the crotch of the hallway leading from the food court to the various terminals and the bathrooms, there is some kind of farmer's market style booth set up. A banner hung in front of the stall announces "Free Samples! JWA Exclusive. Big Jake's Factory Surplus" A large man is out in front of the stall waving people in to see his wares. For some reason, it is SINBAD. He is wearing a shirt that proclaims, "You know it's good when it's from the Jake's". As the execs pass, he calls out to them.

SINBAD: Hey folks! Care to try a sample of 100% organic grass-fed, naturally-processed gardening tonic?

JENNY glances over at him, the others just power on.

JENNY: Gardening tonic? Are you talking about fertilizer? Like, shit?

SINBAD: Some folks may stoop to the vernacular, but this is prime grade recycled nutrition, perfect for your bush or lawn!

JENNY (shrugs): My bush could use a tune up. Sure, hit me with some fecal matter.

SINBAD hands over a small plastic cup full to the brim of what looks like chocolate brownie mix. A bright sticker on the cup advertises "Big Jake's Grade A Manure". JENNY takes it and hurries to catch up to the guys. Absentmindedly, she dips the end of her zucchini into the cup and then puts it into her mouth. Realizing her mistake, she makes a horrified face, gags, coughs, and then pauses to recognize the cup in her hand. She wretches a bit, making a series of sour faces. After a moment, she smacks her lips a bit pensively, shrugs, and then dips the zucchini back in for a second try.

As she catches up to the blokes, they are just stepping onto a moving sidewalk. As they walk and talk, a several-hundred-foot-long TV screen displays a flashy Amtrak advert making it look as if they are riding on a train in the old west. Old timey looking windows on the screen move with the walkway, and through them can be seen desert, bison, cacti, tumbleweeds, and the like. There is a clackety clack sound and occasionally steam goes by the windows. At some point, indians can be seen attacking the train, and at others, bandits. A gun battle between the train and the attackers is played out (and of course the train wins). Between the windows, folk in western garb are sitting, and a fashionable young man with a trolley cart moves up and down the aisle serving tea and snacks. Occasional slogans pop up on the screen, like "safety never goes out of style", and "some things only get better with age".

REYNOLDS: Ok. Damage report time. I have (looks at his watch), oh fuck me sideways; he's landing any second. Just gimme the highlights of this shitshow.

HAMILTON: We had a United flight crew taken to Orange County General around midnight, complaining of feeling overcome by fumes.

REYNOLDS (rolls eyes): Pussies! Next!

JOE FRANK: Coupla new cracks in the baggage claim floor; Carousel B keeps running backwards, throwin' the bags back onto the tarmac; there's been a few reports of weird moaning noises in the ladies' bathroom in International Arrivals; a handful of-

REYNOLDS: Goddammit that's enough. Jesus. (looks at JENNY) I suppose you have something too?

JENNY (pointing to his collar): What's all over your jacket?

REYNOLDS (slow-burning): It's a strawberry milkshake.

JENNY (nods): Sonic?

REYNOLDS: In-N-Out. (JENNY makes a grossed-out face) Ok, whaddaya got?

They are approaching the doors that lead to the tarmac, we can see the Commissioner's plane wheeling in.

JENNY: Electrical fire, radar dish creaking like an 85-year old whore, the pencil sharpener makes a terrible vibrator, and Amazon is for shit around these parts. All in all-

REYNOLDS (pushing through the doors): Fuck it. I'll salvage what I can. (pointing to HAMILTON and JOE FRANK) Don't forget, you're meeting me and Fudgy for lunch at the Hose.

JENNY (to HAMILTON and JOE): Aw, you boys finally gonna gag on some chowder together?

REYNOLDS busts through the doors, toward the plane. He calls back over his shoulder. A ground-crew guy rushes up to him, handing him a bunch of balloons.

REYNOLDS: Back to work! Try to fix something while I'm gone!

Scene 3 (FAA Commish Arrival, Runway)

Scene opens on a small private plane wheeling across the tarmac, cutting its engines as it nears the terminal. Cut to plane interior, we see FAA Commissioner Willy FUDGESON (Wayne Newton) sitting, looking out the little window, it's a beautiful summer day. He knocks back the rest of a whiskey soda and clucks his tongue.

FUDGESON: God, what a gorgeous Southern California day!

FUDGESON unbuckles his belt and stands. A STEWARDESS comes by, handing him his carry-on and a pair of sunglasses.

STEWARDESS (smiling): Welcome to John Wayne Airport, Mr. Commissioner.

FUDGESON takes the stuff from her and winks.

FUDGESON (oozing smarm): Danke Shane, darlin'. (He kisses her on the cheek wetly as he slides into the aisle and toward the exit.)

Cut to plane exterior, it rolls to a stop and the door swings down, we see REYNOLDS waiting at the bottom, dabbing at his pink-stained collar; he is holding a bunch of balloons reading "Welcome!". Cut to close shot of FUDGESON standing at the top of the little staircase. He pops the sunglasses on, grins and takes the first step down. Cut to wide shot of the exterior, we see REYNOLDS waiting at the foot of the staircase.

REYNOLDS (calling out over the propeller noise): Commissioner Fudgeson, I presume? (He laughs at his awesome joke.)

FUDGESON is about to respond when the propellers wash a blast of the ol' Mystic Stank into his face. His knees buckle and he has to grip the handrail. Quickly he digs into his pocket and pulls out a silk handkerchief, clapping it over his nose and mouth.

FUDGESON (muffled, through the mask): Sweet Liberty Valance, what's that smell?

He tries to regain his footing and get to the bottom of the stairs. As he reaches the bottom, a loud metallic clank is heard and one of the bolts holding the top of the stairway to the plane pops off, tilting the whole flight of stairs. FUDGESON topples the last couple of steps right into REYNOLDS' arms; he lets go of the balloons. The commissioner's carry-on falls to the ground and bursts open: we see some frilly lingerie and a bunch of pill bottles spill out. One of REYNOLDS' lackeys quickly rushes over and cleans it up.

REYNOLDS: Come to papa! I gotcha, sir.

FUDGESON regains his footing, standing with his legs wide apart. He peers at REYNOLDS over his crooked sunglasses.

FUDGESON: Reynolds! What the fuck is that smell?

REYNOLDS feigns not to notice anything. He sniffs the air ostentatiously, tries to hide a queasy look on his face.

REYNOLDS: Smell? Uh...I'm not sure, sir. I don't uh...

FUDGESON: You're telling me you don't smell that? (He gags a little) God, it's like a Florida daycare center on Taco Tuesday! (Dissolves into a coughing fit.)

REYNOLDS looks around awkwardly. In the background we see a bird drop out of the sky and one of those airport baggage jeep things run over it and tip over. REYNOLDS rushes to block FUDGESON's view, guiding him toward the terminal.

REYNOLDS: Uh. Certainly, sir. I'm sure it's just, uh, something coming in from off the ocean. Yeah, sea breeze or something. We get some pretty nasty Santa Anal winds around here sometimes.

FUDGESON (growing irritated): The what? Damn it, Reynolds. This airport is in a heap of muck as it is. Why do you think I'm here? Do you know how big the stack of complaints about JWA on my desk is?

REYNOLDS stutters and hems and haws, but FUDGESON just keeps going.

FUDGESON: You're on thin shit, pal. (Off-screen we hear glass breaking; FUDGESON looks around for the source.) So far, I gotta say, I'm not reassured.

REYNOLDS looks like he's sweating gallons, in fact the back of his suit jacket is soaked. He rushes them toward the terminal door as another waft of Stank nearly knocks them back.

REYNOLDS (subservient): Certainly, Mr. Commissioner, sir. I take all complaints very seriously. Every one is investigated thoroughly. I mean, you think you get a lot of complaints? I swear to god I spend half my day- (realizes he should stfu) You're absolutely right, sir. I'll get my best man on it right away. We'll get to the bottom of this scent.

FUDGESON (wagging his finger at REYNOLDS): This airport is the butt of every joke in the American airport system! It's turning into a black hole for passengers! No one wants to get stuck here, they just want to blast through as fast as possible. Hell, even Amtrak makes fun of us.

REYNOLDS: Wait, Amtrak is still a thing? I thought they just made VR rides? Anyway (placating), I assure you, Mr. Commissioner, I'm on it. My head maintenance guy is the best in the field. He's a real whizz.

They push through the doors and into the terminal building. They clang shut behind them; one comes off its hinges.

Scene 4 (Drone Hunting, Airport outer limits)

Cut to chief airport groundskeeper Jack HOFFMAN (OJ Simpson). He is an aging african american man, well built and muscular, but he has obviously let himself go a bit, and is losing the bulk of his graying hair. He is currently sleeping next to a pile of empty Mickey's Big Mouth bottles in the bed of a chocolate brown El Camino parked out behind the runways somewhere near the fence. He has a leather eyepatch strapped over his left eye. It is midday. His work overalls are filthy and It does not appear he has had a shower in at least a week. He is awakened by a disembodied voice, the mystical voice of the AIRPORT, that only he can hear. A voice that sounds suspiciously like John Wayne's (as portrayed by Larry Storch).

AIRPORT: Hey, wake up pilgrim. A man's got a job to do.

HOFFMAN: What time is it? (He lifts his wrist to his face and grunts when he realizes that he does not have a watch. He goes back to sleep.)

AIRPORT: Incoming!

A thick stream of bird shit splatters across HOFFMAN's head. He startles and sits up, clawing at his eyes.

HOFFMAN: Fuuuuccckkk!!!

AIRPORT: You best get on that stage, Dude. (A buzzing sound can be heard overhead.)

HOFFMAN (grabbing a half-full bottle of Jim Beam): Shut up! I'm getting pretty sick of your ramblings, old man!

HOFFMAN takes a swig from the bottle and then picks up a shotgun with his other hand. He kicks the tailgate of the El Camino open. The clatter and shatter of cans and bottles hitting the grass can be heard. He gives a bit of a lurch and rolls out the back of the car, falling hard on the ground out of view. The sound of cans crunching can be heard.

HOFFMAN: Owwww!!!

AIRPORT: I reckon you may be getting a bit too old to do your own stunts, pilgrim.

A massive airplane passes directly overhead, about 100 feet up, making a deafening roar and blowing more cans out of the back of the car. HOFFMAN staggers to his feet. He is still somehow holding the shotgun and the whiskey bottle. He takes another swig of the whiskey and then pours another swig out over his head. He shakes his face back and forth violently and makes kind of a flapping sound with his lips. He grabs a black cowboy hat off the ground and sticks it on his head.

HOFFMAN: Ok, ok, I'm up! (He starts to look around for the buzzing sound. A small drone is flying past about 80 feet up. It is carrying an Amazon package). Shiiiit!

HOFFMAN raises the shotgun and fires into the air. The buzzing sound continues, but a couple pigeons drop out of the sky. He fires again just as another jumbo jet rumbles overhead. Some random metal parts fall from the sky.

AIRPORT: Third time pays for the other two, chief.

HOFFMAN reloads the shotgun, takes another swig of Beam, and fires both barrels. The little drone explodes, dropping its Amazon package, which lands half buried in a bit of swampy ground, not far from where the El Camino is parked.

HOFFMAN: Ha ha, I got you, sucker!

HOFFMAN drops the whiskey bottle and pulls out a bowie knife. He saunters over to the package and jabs the knife into the top of the box, cutting it open.

AIRPORT: Say there, cowpoke, I don't suppose you remember what we ate last night, do ya, Jack? Something's stampeding through my insides like five hundred head of Grade C beeve. (The ground rumbles a bit).

HOFFMAN opens the package and pulls out an enormous, red, vibrating Garfield dildo.

HOFFMAN: Fuck you, Jeff Bezos! Give me something I don't already have once in a while, why don't you!

HOFFMAN stuffs the dildo in his pocket and heads back to the car.

AIRPORT: Oh yeah, something definitely is getting to me. Feels like the enchiladas. They're makin' a run for the border, goddammit! Oh oh, I don't think I'm going to make it... ohhhh!!! Uggghhh!!! OHHHHH!!! Urrggghh!!!

As AIRPORT makes sounds as if he is violently shitting diarrhea into his pants, a purple wind sweeps by, blowing HOFFMAN's hat off. He staggers a bit, clutching at his nose and mouth and gagging as if something smells absolutely horrible. He is interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. He staggers over to the car and digs around in a pile of taco wrappers for an iPhone. It shows "Nick Reynolds calling" on the screen.

HOFFMAN (answering): Hello?

REYNOLDS: Hoffman! Where the hell have you been!

HOFFMAN: Nowhere, man, I been here.

REYNOLDS: Well that's...uh...anyway, did you forget the FAA commissioner is here today? What the fuck is taking so long with finding the source of these confounded smells? I've got the commish in here right now and he's all up in my ass complaining about the stench.

HOFFMAN: Stank.

REYNOLDS: What?

HOFFMAN: It's a mystic stank, not a stench.

REYNOLDS: The fuck? What the fuck is the difference?

HOFFMAN: Ask the indians.

REYNOLDS: The Cleveleand Indians?? What? Fuck, Jack, just get the fuck into my office now!

Over the phone, HOFFMAN can hear the sound of REYNOLDS slamming down the receiver, missing, cursing, and then slamming it down again. As REYNOLDS goes for a third attempt, HOFFMAN clicks "end call" on his iPhone. He pulls a massive wad of keys out of his pocket bound together by a battered Saved By the Bell keychain. He opens the door of the car, sweeps aside a pile of Froot by the Foot wrappers, a tarnished Heisman trophy, and a blow up sex doll dressed like a squaw, and fires up the engine.

Scene 5 (FAA Meeting, Airport)

Scene opens in what looks like a tiny airplane bathroom. We see REYNOLDS snapping his backup flip-phone shut and staring at his pale, pasty reflection; he has huge bags under his eyes and generally looks like lukewarm shit. He blinks a few times then shakes his head.

REYNOLDS (to reflection): C'mon man. Pull yourself together!

In the middle of his pep talk he suddenly gets a queasy look on his face. Quickly, he bends over and dry-heaves into the teeny airplane bathroom toilet.

REYNOLDS (groaning): Oh god. Not today, please.

He heaves again. Finally, he stands back up and splashes some of that neon-blue toilet water on his face. He rakes his hands through his hair, straightens his tie, slaps himself a couple times.

REYNOLDS: You got this, Reynolds. It's showtime!

He turns and exits the bathroom. Cut to REYNOLDS's office; we see that the tiny airplane bathroom is actually his personal office bathroom. There's a good-sized desk overlooking a broad view of the tarmac; FUDGESON is standing at the window looking out, smoking an obscenely long, fat cigar. REYNOLDS fumbles with the door of the latrine; it pops open a couple times before he knocks it shut with his ass.

FUDGESON (turning toward REYNOLDS): I was beginning to think you fell in, Nick.

REYNOLDS (grinning, embarrassed): No such luck, sir. Just a touch of the ol' True Grit. (He rubs his tummy a little). Anyway, uh. I just got off the horn with my maintenance guy. He's all over this stink thing.

Overhead we hear a clanking of metal, like something is moving in the pipes. Both men ostentatiously ignore it.

FUDGESON: Damn well better be. (Takes a long puff, then becomes avuncular with REYNOLDS) Listen, Nick. We've known each other a long time. But I'm gonna level with you here. JWA? It's a mess. (Out the window we see one of the radar dishes on the control tower topple over, neither man notices.) FAA is under a lot, and I mean a lot, of pressure to make cutbacks. Shutting down JWA just makes sense in the long run. Saves a fortune on maintenance costs, we can route these flights to more profitable airports, rid us of this PR nightmare. I mean, these protests, Nick? What the hell is this? I got no trouble with John Wayne as an actor, but as an airport he's a pile, my friend.

REYNOLDS: Sir, I'm on it, I assure you. (He glances at his watch.) Maybe we'll feel better after a nice lunch. I've got reservations for us at the food court. Place called the Chowder Hose. (Smiles proudly.) Not to brag, but it was named "8th Best Layover Food in Southern California" by Business Lunch magazine in 1997.

FUDGESON sighs and puts out his cigar on REYNOLDS' desk. There is a rattling sound, louder now, from above them. They both look up. Smoke starts leaking in from the AC grate. REYNOLDS makes an oh-shit face, FUDGESON just rolls his eyes and drags his hands down his face.

FUDGESON: Nick. Face the facts.

REYNOLDS (feeling his oats): No, sir! You face them! I'm going to fuck this stank in the ass and save this airport! JWA isn't going anywhere! But (he smiles like a used car salesman), we are... (He takes FUDGESON by the arm and leads him out.) To the Chowder Hose!

REYNOLDS leads them quickly out as the room fills with smoke; as he passes his secretary, we hear through the closing office door REYNOLDS barking at her to, "Get me Hot Carl's!"

Scene shifts to the Chowder Hose. It looks like a mid-scale family restaurant, maybe a wood bar with a brass rail, several huge steaming pots of chowder, and a fire-hose looking apparatus attached to one. The sign outside reads CHOWDER H-OSE, with the U burned out. There's a bartender with a Rollie Fingers moustache, and a bunch of tables overlooking the airfield. FUDGESON and REYNOLDS arrive and are greeted by the proprietor GLEWIS Johnson (Mr T), who is wearing a Kiss the Cook shirt and a hat that reads "White or Red, Come Guzzle at the Hose!"

FUDGESON (gesturing at the sign): Isn't it supposed to say "house?"

GLEWIS: You think I can afford a "U" sloppin' clams in this dump? Where do you think you are, LaGuardia?

GLEWIS recognizes REYNOLDS and claps him on the shoulder.

GLEWIS (slightly chagrined): Hey, Mr. Airport Boss, how you been?

REYNOLDS shakes GLEWIS' hand and introduces FUDGESON.

REYNOLDS: Glewis, my man, this is the Commissioner of the Federal Aviation Administration, a living legend in the field of airport supervision, my boss and friend for a long, long time (FUDGESON is awe-shucksing), Mr. Willy Fudgeson. Sir, this is Glewis Johnson, publican of the Hose.

They shake hands and REYNOLDS slips a $2 bill into GLEWIS' hand.

REYNOLDS (under his breath): Your best table, if you please.

GLEWIS nods and leads them off. As they walk, REYNOLDS talks to FUDGESON.

REYNOLDS: A few of my team will be joining us for lunch, sir. I figure a few heads are better than one when it comes to big decisions.

FUDGESON nods. GLEWIS seats them. FUDGESON reaches out as he starts to walk off, to get his attention.

FUDGESON: Excuse me, I just have to know. The hose? (He gestures over at the hose by the bar). Is that thing real?

GLEWIS (sizing him up): Look bub, you may be an airport legend, but you don't look like you belong on the varsity level chowder team to me. You think you can guzzle with the best?

FUDGESON: Umm, what? Wait, that thing's legit?

GLEWIS (gesturing at the apparatus): It's not for show, mister. Once I burned out my U, I realized I'd found my calling--to bring pipin' hot chowder to the hardest core guzzlers at high volume and high speed. You the kind of man who can handle a cream stew fill-up from my hose? (He glares at FUDGESON and makes the chowder hose arm gesture.) Well? Are ya?

FUDGESON seems confused, but intrigued.

FUDGESON: Aw what the heck, bring i... OW!

He grabs at his shin under the table. REYNOLDS is sitting across from him waving his hands frantically in a series of increasingly desperate, "No, don't; cheese it you fool" gestures.

FUDGESON: Cream stew, eh? Actually... turns out I'm lactose intolerant. How 'bout a sourdough bowl of your famous Manhattan. Oh, and an Arnold Palmer; you only live once.

GLEWIS's eyes bug out. He mutters about being back in a moment to take the rest of their orders once Reynolds' team arrives, and stomps off.

REYNOLDS (sarcastically): Oh dear. Poor man, no one ever agrees to chug from his chowder hose.

FUDGESON: Imagine that. (He rubs his shin, then pauses, as though trying to figure out how to deliver bad news). Look, Reynolds, these protests. The ongoing maintenance issues (behind them we see a rail of track lighting fall from the ceiling). The fucking smell? FAA is spending more money and getting less in return on JWA than on any. Other. Airport. Of its size in America. And I'm talking about (he pops a finger with each one) Dubuque. Hoboken. Topeka! The numbers, Nick, they're just not in your favor.

REYNOLDS is about to respond when two men come up to the table; they are REYNOLDS' lackeys Ed HAMILTON and JOE FRANK. HAMILTON looks like a child molester: balding, caterpillar mustache, thick glasses; JOE FRANK looks like a slick kiss-ass social climber.

JOE FRANK (butting in): Beg your pardon, these seats taken?

He slides into the booth beside FUDGESON. He's got a toothpick in his mouth and he's wearing sunglasses indoors. HAMILTON awkwardly squeezes himself in next to REYNOLDS, sucking in his gut.

REYNOLDS: Fellas! You made it! (turning to FUDGESON) Sir, may I present the rest of my team. This is Joe Frank, my deputy airport director. And this big ox is Ed Hamilton, the chief of operations. Guys, this is Commissioner Fudgeson.

There's a round of handshakes and how-are-ya's. GLEWIS hurries up with some menus and a hopeful look on his face.

GLEWIS: Gentlemen! Always a pleasure to see your ugly faces! Y'all hungry enough for a suck off the ol' chowder spout? (He makes the chowder hose arm gesture).

HAMILTON and JOE FRANK look panicked and angrily rebuff him. Everyone orders chowder, FUDGESON asking where his bowl of Manhattan is. GLEWIS goes off muttering again. FUDGESON lays it out.

FUDGESON: Alright. I'm gonna bottom-line it for you fellas. You know why I'm here, and it ain't to suckle at the proverbial Chowder Tit. Your on-time record is abysmal, your lost baggage claim rate is through the roof, your roof is literally falling apart. You've got gloryholes in every other stall and half of em are too narrow. The shit is hitting the fan, which may be why everything around here smells like the clogged outflow of a hot dog factory. And to top it all off, these protests.

FUDGESON shakes his head. GLEWIS returns with four shot glasses full of chowder, three white, one red.

GLEWIS: Shooters, gentlemen! On the house! Or should I say, on the Hose!

They all slam their chowder shots. HAMILTON has chowder all over his mustache.

HAMILTON: Sir. If I may. Our operating budget for next year has a significant increase for maintenance and construction. And Orange County is debating right now as to whether to issue bonds to help finance-

FUDGESON waves him off.

FUDGESON: Bonds. Next year's budget. That's all horsetinkle, my friend.

JOE FRANK: Sir, what I think Big Ham here is tryin' to say is that, JWA might look like warmed-over trouser pie to the outsider, but we're taking active steps to rectify-

FUDGESON: Rectify? This place smells like it's been wholly rectified, pal. (sighs) I'm sorry, gentlemen, but unless the FAA sees some concrete, immediate improvement, there's really no other option. JWA will be decommissioned.

The four men sit quietly for a moment, then JOE FRANK squeezes his shot glass so hard it shatters, splashing his face with a gout of thick white chowder.

JOE FRANK: This is bullshit, Fudgeson!

REYNOLDS (patting the air): Now calm down, Joe, calm down. The Commissioner is just doing his job. And, y'know, he's right. We do have a couple of issues here and there. (Looks at FUDGESON) But y'know what? We're gonna get through this. We're gonna do whatever it takes!

HAMILTON: Let's organize a bake sale!

REYNOLDS and FUDGESON just stare at him. JOE FRANK is dabbing at his facial.

REYNOLDS: The fuck are you talking about? A bake sale? (HAMILTON looks abashed; REYNOLDS takes out his flip-phone again) I'm calling Hoffman again. This stink ends today.

Scene 6 (Shenanigans, Airport)

Long tracking shot, moving around the airport, giving us a view of the place and some of the characters who inhabit it. We open on a couple of hipsters busking around the fountain out in front of the airport main entrance: they are playing Fountains of Wayne's "I-95". Behind them is a guy holding a sign reading "Welcome Interstate Managers", and next to him is another guy with a sign that says "Pizorney & VanNuffle". There is a small cluster of protestors milling around (carrying Atlanta Braves inflatable tomahawks); one of them tosses spare change into the musicians' overturned porkpie hat.

The camera moves through the sliding doors into the ticketing area, there is yellow caution tape and a huge puddle of some murky brownish water on the linoleum floor. There's a guy in a loud pimp-style suit (lime green, orange, something) carrying a saddlebag over his shoulder; this is SHAW K. Herbert, who we will encounter later.

We move into the glassed-in atrium where the statue of the Duke towers. A bunch of protestors rush the place, yelling and whooping like western movie indians. Krys T. HIMMELFART scales the Duke's legs, getting stuck around crotch level for a while, basically motorboating the bronze bulge, before making it up to the top. They plant a huge Indian war-bonnet on the statue's head while another protestor climbs up and works a large, white, bloody glove onto Wayne's right hand, yelling out "If the glove fits, you're a racist shit!". The others march around the base of the statue chanting "Hatari! Hondo! Rio Lobo! The Duke's disgrace has got to go!" Airport security forms ranks in riot gear and goes full Portland on them.

Onward toward the food court. We see the Chowder Hose, as well as Deano's "That's Zucchini!", Bob Dylan's "Soft Serve Somebody", Greg's Dips (Phil Collins is sitting out front enjoying a vegemite & boysenberry jam), the Feed Trough, Orange Julius, Cinnabon, etc. We finally come to a halt in front of SINBAD's booth, where he's hucking at everyone who passes by; this time it's for Beano. (Product placement?)

SINBAD (to a passing couple): Hello, sir. You look like the kind of fellow who can clear a room. Now, how would you feel if I told you those days could be behind you?

The passerby flips him off and lets out a huge fart as he goes by.

SINBAD (calling after him): It's free, asshole!

SHAW K. Herbert mosies up to the booth while SINBAD is looking the other way.

SHAW: Did you say "free asshole"?

SINBAD starts.

SINBAD: Sorry, man, that's Thursday. But anyway, howdy, sir (he fakes tipping a hat). Where are your travels taking you on this fine day?

SHAW (looking around the place, shifting his saddlebag): Haven't quite decided yet.

SINBAD shrugs and picks up an old, dented, rusting can of Nalley chili, opens it and pours it into a plastic cup. It comes out looking like chunky diarrhea.

SINBAD: Well, while you decide, why not try a bit of the Nalley Valley's finest?

SHAW (Taking the cup): Oh man, thanks, if there's one thing I love, it's chili. (He takes a few bites). Well, if there's two things maybe... this chili is definitely number two. (He belches). Dang, this stuff has got some kick. Where can I buy a can?

SINBAD: Buy? Well, actually, you can't. But if you are looking to make a purchase, why not follow it up with the sweet soothing relief of (from behind his back whips out a couple tablets) Beano! Yes, friend, kiss that bloating goodbye! Your colon and your immediate surroundings will thank you, once you-

SHAW continues glancing around, not really looking or listening too closely; without looking he downs the chili, licking the cup clean. A young lady walks by and he rotates his entire body to watch her pass.

SHAW (under his breath): Damn it, Shaw. Another missed opportunity!

SINBAD is waiting for the chili to kick in.

SINBAD: How are you feeling, there, friend?

SHAW seems to remember SINBAD and snaps back to face him.

SHAW: Feeling? Why, I'm...I'm feeling like I'm on a mission from God, actually.

SINBAD peers at the chili can.

SINBAD (under his breath): Well, fuck me.

SHAW: No, not until Thursday. What I mean to say is, my life has meaning again. Three months ago I was a loser, sitting in my mom's basement, building my own Mikasa Ackerman sex doll and waiting for the Rona to kill me. Then, bam. I won the lottery! $37 million smackeroos! I couldn't believe it. All my problems were gone. I could do anything I wanted. And I did for a while. I blew a ton on the greyhounds, the Cessna derby, Big Ethanol. But I was dead inside. Then, one night, as I was corncobbing this farmer's daughter from Bethany State, I had a revelation. I knew what I needed to do, and the next morning I drove to Wichita Airport and got on the first plane I could.

SINBAD: Oh yeah? What's your mission?

SHAW extends his hand, as if for a handshake, but with the ring finger bent back. SINBAD hesitates, then extends his own hand. As their hands near, SHAW's quickly moves down toward SINBAD's groin. SINBAD leaps back; luckily the booth blocks the move.

SINBAD (hysteric): What the fuck was that?

SHAW (grinning:) It works better on ladies, but I'm travelling around this great land of ours trying to replace the stodgy, frankly homosexual handshake with the Shocker!

SINBAD: Shocker?

SHAW: The Shocker! The Pride of Wichita! Two in the pink, one in the stink, my good man!

SINBAD gets it.

SINBAD: Ohhhh, that Shocker. Um, the handshake is gay?

SHAW: Two men holding hands? Hands that have touched their (looks around and lowers his voice) peepees? Yeah that's pretty gay (scoffing), pretty gay I should say.

SINBAD is mulling this over and seems convinced. Also realizing this guy is insane.

SINBAD: Well, sir, I wish you well. Now, about this amazing Beano-

SHAW rips a paint-curler and SINBAD gets blown back a step.

SINBAD: Quick, swallow these! (He throws the Beanos at SHAW; as he bends to pick them up, he lets out another cheekclapper and the booth scoots back an inch or so).

SINBAD quickly pulls down the "Closed" sign and ducks.

SINBAD (calling out): Sorry folks! Technical difficulties!

SHAW manages to take the Beano and wander off, waving absently to SINBAD, fingers in a Shocker formation. As he passes through the crowd a potted palm wilts and an elderly lady gets her feet tangled in her walker and goes ass-over-teakettle.

Scene 7 (What's the Plan?, Chowder Hose)

Scene opens around a cluttered table at the Chowder Hose. Various half-empty cups and bowls are scattered about, mixed in with a few dented beer cans, torn chip bags, and crumpled napkins. All in all it looks like a complete ballroom blitz. HAMILTON, JOE FRANK, and REYNOLDS are all sweating like pigs, clutching their stomachs and moaning, while JENNY is finishing up dry heaving into her purse. She comes up for air, gasps a few times, and then roots around the table until she finds a bowl still half full of manhattan with some soggy croutons from a caesar salad tossed into it. She hunts down a spoon, wipes it off, and tucks into the chowder. JOE FRANK pulls out a toothpick and starts fishing out the clam bits, while HAMILTON nurses a tiny moustache cup, and REYNOLDS is actively tearing his hair out. JENNY lets out a massive belch, and everyone is shaken out of their food comas. REYNOLDS begins to shuffle around on the table, looking for some papers. The AC is clearly broken and everyone looks a bit sweaty and flush.

REYNOLDS: Let me see that plan again! (He pulls out a stained piece of paper with scribbles on it; it looks like the back of a utility bill envelope. He squints to try to make out the handwriting for a moment, sounding out a few random words) Miss thick stank?? (Finally he gives up and tosses the paper over his shoulder). Fuck!

JENNY (softly, through a mouthful of food): Did I ever tell you how I won the Miss Thick Stank pageant back in Sheboygan?

Everyone stops what they're doing for a second to stare at her; collectively they decide to ignore it and they go back to whatever they were doing.

GLEWIS (appearing suddenly and stomping on the cast off envelope with his foot): Hey! I pity the fool who litters in my restaurant! (He glares at REYNOLDS until he gets uncomfortable.)

REYNOLDS: What?

GLEWIS: Pick it up!

REYNOLDS: Hey, I don't work here. How about we get some table service; things are getting a bit crowded around these parts.

GLEWIS: I got a better idea. How 'bout you pick that up?

REYNOLDS: You know I'm the director of this airport right? We could shut you down. Or at least... (he lowers his voice) take our business to the Feed Trough (JENNY shudders).

GLEWIS (not backing down): Don't make me ask you again, foo!

REYNOLDS meets his stare for a brief moment of deadlock, and then finally REYNOLDS flinches and gets up to pick the envelope off the floor. He disposes of it properly in the trash. For good measure he picks up a couple soiled napkins and a soda cup lid as well.

GLEWIS: Thank you. (He begins to walk away until JENNY flags him down).

JENNY: Hey big G, hit me with another oversized ramekin of your finest Boston cream stew. Oh yeah, and a side of ranch.

GLEWIS: The Wade Boggs, eh? Comin' right up... 'less you up for a hit from the hose? (He makes the chowder hose arm gesture and gives her a serious stare).

JENNY: Oh, um...yeah, no thanks. Just Bogg me.

GLEWIS grumbles and goes off to find a clean mug.

REYNOLDS: Ok, let's take it from the top. Problem one: this airport smells like diarrhea took a shit. Problem two: everything here seems to be falling apart. (As he says this, a light bulb above them shatters, spraying tiny bits of glass everywhere and dimming the scene slightly.) Fuck! Where the hell is Hoffman!? Problem 3: We seem to be dealing with an increasingly hostile army of protestors. Problem 4: If we don't solve the first three problems, the FAA is going to turn this entire place into a Zappos warehouse and we will never work in this town again. Now does anyone have any ideas, or at least any fucking idea what is going on here?

HAMILTON: No idea. To be honest, this place is starting to resemble my uncle Ethan.

REYNOLDS: What's wrong with your uncle Ethan?

HAMILTON (slurping at his moustache cup): Everything. He's in a facility. He's dying of AIDS. Full blown. He smells horrible, and like every day it seems like there's something new that's gone wrong with him. And he even has to deal with protestors too, since he's in Topeka.

JENNY: Does he have a hole in his sock?

REYNOLDS (ignoring her): Wait, what? Really?

HAMILTON: Oh yeah, it's depressing as hell.

REYNOLDS: No, I mean, are you really trying to tell me you think John Wayne Airport is dying of AIDS?

HAMILTON: Well, it makes a lot of sense. What else have we got?

JOE FRANK (nodding sagely): Yeah, I can see it.

REYNOLDS (losing it): Are you out of your fucking mind? I can't tell Fudgeson that the airport is dying of AIDS! Do they even make pills that big? Come on man!

JENNY (to HAMILTON): The fuck is that thing anyway?

HAMILTON (gesturing to his mustache cup): This? It's a mustache cup.

JENNY: What in McLintock's exclamation point is a mustache cup?

HAMILTON: Jesus Christ, Jenny, don't you know anything? A mustache cup is a-

At that, JESUS approaches, holding out her hand. Jesus is actually a rather attractive and sexually-amped older woman (Joey Heatherton), dressed in white Jesus robes.

JESUS: Hello boys, I do believe I heard my name. Spare a few talents for the light of this world? 57 more cents and I can pony up for a po'boy. Blessed are the chowder makers, you know, for they shall inherit the girth (she pats her belly).

The four of them realize it's too late to pretend they don't see her. JENNY quickly slurps up the rest of the leftovers, eyeing JESUS as she does.

JENNY (mouth full): Get fucked, I'm Shinto.

JESUS peers around at the rest of them after making a half-hearted sign of the cross over JENNY.

JESUS: Nothing, my sons?

HAMILTON: Can you cure my Uncle Ethan?

JESUS: What ails him, my son?

HAMILTON: He's got the AIDS.

JESUS takes a couple steps back and wipes her hands on her robes.

JESUS: Well, I can ask my dad, but you know how he feels about the... you know... (she shakes her fist in front of her mouth with one hand while jabbing at the inside of her cheek with her tongue. The other hand is thumb out and stabbing at her ass).

REYNOLDS pipes up.

REYNOLDS: Hey, that's entirely dependent on how you interpret the ancient greek! In any case, that homophobic trash isn't welcome here, Jesus. Knock it off. I can't believe you haven't been locked up yet, you loon. (Fishes in his pocket and drops a few canadian dimes in her hand).

JESUS (counting the coins): Hey, cocksucker, these are drachma!

REYNOLDS ignores her and turns his attention back to the group.

REYNOLDS: Ok, gang. (He wipes his sweaty brow) I want ideas.

HAMILTON (eyeing JESUS who is still just lurking): Are we just supposed to act like she's not there?

JOE FRANK (fanning himself): Fucking Christ, it's hot in here. (Glances at JESUS) No offense, ma'am.

JESUS: Alright, alright. If you can't help me with any loose change, can you at least try and help me find my passport? You wonder why Jerusalem is such a mess? I've been stuck in this crap manger for twenty years.

JENNY (barking, spitting food): Get lost, would ya?

JESUS scurries off, cursing, putting the hex on them.

JENNY (leaning over the table): Ok, be honest. Would you fuck Jesus?

REYNOLDS: Fucking hell, Jenny! That's-

JOE FRANK: Old Testament style. Right in the Amos.

JENNY (laughs out a chunk of lettuce): Ha! What about you, Ham? Would you Hosea bitch down?

HAMILTON: You two are juveniles. Cut her some slack, don't you know she's a gay icon and a true patriot?

JOE FRANK: Wait til she sees my Second Peter.

JENNY does a spit-take on her chowder, blasting HAMILTON in the face. He drops his moustache cup. It shatters on the floor.

GLEWIS (returning with the Boggs): HEY! I pity the fool who don't clean his damn four loko off my floor!

Cut to JESUS walking out the doors into the bright sunshine; the light hurts her eyes and she can't really see where she's going. She staggers a bit toward the load/unload zone, where a beggar is sprawled on the ground; he's a gross looking dude, covered in boils and sores. JESUS shuffles right up to him, but he's disoriented or sleeping or something.

JESUS: So bright. The light of my Father's love shines like a million candles!

She squints, then gets an uncomfortable look on her face.

JESUS: Uh oh. (She shouts as she hikes up her robes and begins to squat) Get the ark!

She shoots a heavy stream of piss straight onto the beggar, who suddenly begins to flail and scream. JESUS leaps up and jogs off.

JESUS (calling back): I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Me, and the Holy Ghost!

The beggar struggles to his feet, cursing her out for a moment until he realizes he can walk and his boils and sores are healing. He leaps up, does a soft-shoe and praises the Name. He brushes off his dirty clothes and sniffs at his hands.

BEGGAR: Hey, strawberry. (He licks a finger.)

Scene 8 (Stinky Clothes, Dry cleaner)

A large, gold 1984 Cadillac Coupe de Ville pulls up to a storefront in downtown Anaheim. It's a sick-ass convertible, with cow horns on the hood and the top down. Behind the wheel is FUDGESON. He parks and gets out, hauling a black plastic lawn garbage bag from the backseat. He also picks up a couple of those airplane wheel chocks from the floor and wedges them behind the back tire as he rounds the trunk and moves toward a shop. Camera pans to follow, we see the place is "Madame Pu's Three-Hour Martinizing", a dry cleaner's.

Cut to interior. FUDGESON hikes his sunglasses up into his hair and blinks in the low light of the shop. The walls are covered in Chinese/Asian cowboy movie posters ("The Chongqing Kid", "Wild Mung Prairie", "Rio Amarillo", "General Tsao's Bladder", "Bring Me the Head of Xingpao Dongfeng"). There is a little old Chinese lady behind the counter, MADAME PU, using an abacus to balance her till. Behind her are racks of dry-cleaned clothes. Fountains of Wayne are playing on the radio, "Stacy's Mom". A large machine with a panel affixed reading "Cleveland Steamer Co." is belching out a bunch of steam.

FUDGESON: Arigato, ma'am. (Tipping his imaginary hat) Can I just drop these off here? (Hefting the bag a bit.)

She holds up one finger, indicating he needs to wait on her abacus work.

FUDGESON: Wait, are you literally working in a Chinese laundry and using an abacus? Did I walk into a Charlie Chan movie? That's racist as hell!

MADAME PU: Racist? Chinese people use abacuses! I'll tell you what's racist... white people telling me what I can and can't do. That's racist.

MADAME PU finishes her calculation, then sets aside the abacus.

FUDGESON: Actually, I'm half native american. My mother was-

MADAME PU (shouting over him): Well, good afternoon, kimosabe. Yes, just put your soiled garments here. (She pats the counter. FUDGESON considers talking issue with her language, then just gives up and whomps it down).

FUDGESON: Soiled? Uh, no. It's not quite like that. They just-

MADAME PU opens the bag and gets knocked back by a stench. Let's say her wig is askew.

MADAME PU (giving FUDGESON the evil eye): What have you been doing, gringo? Some kind of uh...American poop sex game? Brownjack? This (pointing at the bag) is not natural.

FUDGESON: Ma'am, please. I-

MADAME PU: You take me for a fool, do you? I hear things, you know. Stories about what you people do at night!

FUDGESON: Ma'am please, I was NOT partaking in an Altoona Schooner!

MADAME PU: Then what you been doing? Huh?

FUDGESON (through gritted teeth): I just spent all morning at the airport.

MADAME PU: Airport? John Wayne? (FUDGESON nods; she spits on the floor) A curse on that place! It's evil! (She begins to shove the bag back at him) I refuse! I want nothing to do with it! Evil! Demons!

FUDGESON pushes the bag back at her, they go back and forth, each of them getting a nice whiff with each shove until they are both retching.

FUDGESON (frantic): I can't go back to Washington in these clothes! They need to be cleaned!

MADAME PU: Unclean! Unclean! No hours of martinizing will get this stink of evil out!

FUDGESON (getting desperate): I'll pay double!

She immediately stops, pulls the bag toward herself and chucks it into a laundry basket.

MADAME PU: Ready by 4:30. Privyet!

She turns her back on him, straps on some kind of industrial gas mask, gives herself a generous hit of Chanel No. 5, and starts getting the laundry ready. FUDGESON stares for a moment and then turns on his heel and walks out.

Scene 9 (Mystic Stank, Reynolds' office)

Scene opens in REYNOLDS' office on the top floor, overlooking the runways. REYNOLDS enters looking frantic. He begins pacing back and forth, sweating profusely and fanning himself with a spare copy of "Airport General Managers Over 50" magazine. When this does not seem to work, he goes over to one of the windows and cracks it open, gasping in the fresh air. Only it is not so fresh. He immediately gags and slams the window shut, and starts coughing.

Before he is done with his coughing fit, a dirt-covered black hand grasps the window from the outside and forces it open. It is HOFFMAN, wearing cutoff shorts, a gold sheepskin vest, and his black cowboy hat (now with a sharktooth band). He is still wearing the eyepatch and is chewing on the end of a long, leather wrapped peace pipe which is still smoldering with some sort of suspicious substance.

REYNOLDS: Hoffman! Where the hell have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you. I've been calling you all morning! (Fishes a flip-phone out of his pocket.)

HOFFMAN: Ooh, what you talking about, boss? I been right here all day. You told me to come to your office. I guess someone forgot to unlock the window. (He stares at REYNOLDS accusingly.)

REYNOLDS: Umm... yeah? (He looks confused) Well, shut the damn thing before you let any more of that old yoghurt scirocco into my precious temple. (When HOFFMAN hesitates, REYNOLDS bursts into action and slams the window shut; he gets his tie stuck in the window and has to open and shut it again. The window frame rattles concerningly.)

REYNOLDS (adjusting his tie): Ok, well fuck, you are here now, tell me you have good news for me, buddy. (He grabs HOFFMAN by the sheepskin lapels and his voice rises). Save me Obi Wan, you are my only hope!

HOFFMAN (brushing him off): Sorry, man, I'm not a star treker.

AIRPORT (Only HOFFMAN can hear AIRPORT in this scene): Come on moron, that's not space trek. Everyone knows that's the one with the puppets. Nanoo nanoo!

REYNOLDS looks offended, but chooses to change the subject.

REYNOLDS: Alright, fine, whatever, who cares. Just tell me you found the source of this mysterious stench. Just tell me!

AIRPORT: Oh, that chili is too spicy for him, pardner.

HOFFMAN: Are you referring to the mystic stank?

REYNOLDS: What? Yes! The mystical stink! What is it?

HOFFMAN: What is it? I told you, it's a mystic stank.

REYNOLDS: Right, a "mystic stank", whatever you call it. Well, where is it coming from?

AIRPORT: It's coming from my back forty, you ninny! Tell him!

HOFFMAN: Well, that's complicated... (he trails off). It's coming from the past, man.

REYNOLDS: What? Ok. Doesn't everything? Are you drunk? (He leans in to sniff HOFFMAN and then quickly regrets it, pulling back). Jesus. Ok, whatever. Can we fix it?

AIRPORT: Can he fix my butthole? Yeah, maybe, with a healthy dollop o' ointment. (There is an unpleasant rumbling sound). Oh no, might be time to circle the wagons, buckaroo.

HOFFMAN: Fix? Well, sir, that's not really the right word. See, what you got here is not so much a physical problem as a metaphysical one.

REYNOLDS: A what? What's the difference?

HOFFMAN: Well, one has the word meta in front of it.

REYNOLDS: Oh come on, meta, schmetta! Do metaphysical problems smell like cleaning day at the bottom feeder aquarium? Ok, fuck it, let's just bleach the whole fucking thing. Can you do that? Can you bleach this entire goddamn airport?

AIRPORT: He can bleach my rusted ring. Tell him he can bleach my confounded- (an extremely nasty wet splorch resounds).

HOFFMAN (looking around, wrinkling his nose): No, you don't get it man, that ain't no good. Anyway, where the hell are we going to get that much bleach? That's like a swimming pool full. You know how much that costs? (He fans his face.) What kind of a bleach budget we got these days?

REYNOLDS: Good point. Didn't Sinbad have some kind of duck farm surplus cleaning product last month? (The splorch hits him.) Good Lord, was that you? Say excuse me, at least, you philistine.

HOFFMAN: Nuh uh, boss. This is what i'm talking about. It's the stank! And if you mean "The Jizzard®"? Wasn't that recalled due to bird flu?

REYNOLDS: Yeah, that sounds right. Recalled, hell... I bet we could get that for cheap. Go talk to the Bad man.

AIRPORT: What a numbskull. He's not getting it, Dude. Maybe we'd better knock some sense into the old mule. Where's my brick?

HOFFMAN: No. You're not getting it. Look, this airport ain't dirty, it's cursed. The stank is coming from the other side. Look around you; we are standing right now upon a massive native american burial ground. It's-

REYNOLDS: What? Poppycock! I read all the old plans and surveys. There were no indians here, and if there were, they wouldn't have buried anyone here. This was all rocks and salt flats. No, all the dead indians are over at LAX.

AIRPORT: Fuck! It's 'Indigenous American people', you moron! Hell, my butthole is less racist than you.

HOFFMAN: Oh, you misunderstand. These aren't real indians. This isn't a real burial ground.

REYNOLDS (he looks confused): Ok, so it's like a metaphor?

HOFFMAN: You can't say "Like a metaphor", man, that's a simile.

REYNOLDS: What? Stop changing the subject! So it IS a metaphor then.

HOFFMAN: No, it's not. The airport was actually built on a real fake indian burial ground. (He starts rooting through REYNOLDS' desk). You got any Strohs?

REYNOLDS walks over to the closet where he has a mini fridge, pulls out a couple of beer cans, tosses one to HOFFMAN, then sits back in his chair, cracks the beer, and begins to gulp from the can, mopping his brow.

HOFFMAN: Da fuck man? This is Grolsch! (He throws the beer into the trash).

REYNOLDS (wiping his mouth with the back of his hand): Fake indians, eh?

HOFFMAN: Real enough to gargle the shit out of your airport. But yeah, they are fake. I mean, they can't be real. They are like total stereotypes. Like all wrong, Blackfoot war paint with the Cherokee ceremonial headdress, pleather loincloths, cheap wristwatches, that kind of thing.

REYNOLDS: What, are you some sort of expert on native american costume now?

HOFFMAN: Well, my grandmother on my mom's side was half Sioux, she-

REYNOLDS: So you've met these indians?

HOFFMAN: A few, yeah, let's see, there's Spread Eagle, Big Black Hawk, Multiple Orcas Swim. Oh yeah, and once and a while I seen Diddly Squaw.

AIRPORT: I diddled a few squaws back in my day too.

REYNOLDS: What? Goddammit, what the fuck is wrong with you! Those aren't real fake indians, those are porn names. Have you been sniffing the airplane glue again? Fuck, I don't have time for this shit!

HOFFMAN: No, I swear, they are real! Well, real fakes. I traded some Amazon stuff with them for this bad ass pipe.

REYNOLDS: So where are these teepee squatting clowns?

AIRPORT: Fuck, and they call me racist.

HOFFMAN: They are right here, boss. In the airport.

REYNOLDS: Really? So you can take me to them.

HOFFMAN: Hmm?

REYNOLDS: You know where they are, right? So you can take me to them? And we can have their pleather loinclothed asses arrested?

HOFFMAN: Well, no. it doesn't work that way, man. I told you, this is a metaphysical curse. You can't just form a posse and bust 'em down.

REYNOLDS (sighs): Ok, so how do you get rid of metaphysical Indians?? Can I sneak some smallpox into the void?

HOFFMAN: I really don't recommend that.

REYNOLDS: Astral smoke signals?

HOFFMAN: The hell is that?

REYNOLDS: Well can you just tell them to go away?

AIRPORT: I already told 'em once.

HOFFMAN: No, I don't think they will do that.

REYNOLDS finishes his Grolsch, loosens his tie, belches, and then smashes the can flat against his forehead.

REYNOLDS: Alright old man, that's it. We are done. Thank you for your service. Here, I've been saving up for this. (He opens his desk, pulls out a gold Casio wristwatch, and hands it over to HOFFMAN.)

HOFFMAN: What's this?

REYNOLDS: It's your pension, old man. That's it, you're fired. You are drunk, you are crazy, you smell like pig night at a frat house, and you just about wasted. all. my. fucking. precious. time. for the last fucking time! Get the fuck out! (He pushes HOFFMAN out the door of his office) And don't let the door hit you in the- (he slams the door which thuds hard into HOFFMAN's backside, shoves it until it latches (there is a bit of a tug of war) and then locks it).

AIRPORT: You gonna let that gringo put you out to pasture?

There is banging at the door. REYNOLDS looks around his office hurriedly, notices the window, and then runs over and locks it. He presses a button on his desk, and a window shade starts to slide down to cover the windows. It gets about halfway down before it sticks, goes askew, and starts making grinding sounds. REYNOLDS breathes a sigh of relief and pulls out his iPhone, which he pokes at for a moment before he remembers it does not work.

REYNOLDS: Fuck!

He throws the iPhone at the window shade, which unsticks it, and it starts briefly to continue to roll down before it creaks and the whole thing falls off the wall. Finally, he grabs the phone on his desk and picks it up.

REYNOLDS: It's time to call in the professionals. Joe? It's Nick. Can you google the Orkin man for me? (Pause) It's not disgusting! Shut up.

Scene 10 (John Wayne Movies, Hotel)

Scene opens on a dingy hotel room. FUDGESON is sprawled on the floral-print bedspread in his tighty-whiteys, a Schlitz tallboy propped on his stomach, a remote control in one hand. We see several empty cans on the bed around him, and a picked-over take-out turkey in a plastic tub on the night table. We see the bedside clock reads 6:14pm. On the floor is a full black plastic garbage bag. He has a glazed look on his face. Cut to the TV screen, he fips through a few channels until he comes to the Forgotten Classics channel.

ANNOUNCER (on TV): Stay tuned for our celebration of a true American icon! Tonight, starting in just a few moments, our John Wayne marathon!

Cut back to FUDGESON on the bed.

FUDGESON (lets out a long belch, which sort of melts into the word): Duuuuuke!

Cut back to the screen. We see a technicolor title screen: "Wye-Pitt Productions presents", "a film by Graham Pizorney", "starring John Wayne".

Cut back to FUDGESON

FUDGESON: Wooooo! (scratches his balls and chugs beer)

Cut back to screen. A final title card "Fitzpatrick!" Dissolves into the film within this film.

The fake film opens with JOHN WAYNE (Billy Bob Thorton, voiced by Larry Storch?) riding across a prairie on a lovely sunny Western day. In the distance, we see some teepees.

Cut to FUDGESON on the bed.

FUDGESON: Damn that horse has a dumptruck!

Cut back to the fake movie. An Abe Lincoln looking dude rides up to JOHN WAYNE; he has a bunch of rolled up maps and charts under his arm.

LINCOLN DUDE: Fitzpatrick! It's about durned time! The Territorial Government hired you to clear this land of Injuns by summer, and it's almost planting time!

JOHN WAYNE laconically looks the guy over, then peers out at the teepees.

JOHN WAYNE: Hold yer horses, Nellie. Ya can't rush greatness.

LINCOLN DUDE (uppity): Nellie? Sir, I am an accredited representative of the Land Commision!

JOHN WAYNE (stares him down): Yer a pantywaist. (Punches him in the jaw and knocks him off his horse; he rides toward the teepees).

Cut to FUDGESON on the bed.

FUDGESON (slurred): Yeah, take that, ya fuckin' Land Commision bitch!

Cut back to the fake movie. JOHN WAYNE reins up in front of the Chief BUFFALO NICKEL, in full Comanche head-dress and Cherokee war paint, in the midst of the teepee village.

JOHN WAYNE (holding up his palm): How. (BUFFALO NICKEL just stares in that noble savage kind of way; JOHN WAYNE fishes a worn-out piece of parchment from his pocket and waves it in front of the Chief.) Here I have big medicine that say you must go to the lands of your fathers. (Whips the paper back and forth.) Vamoose!

BUFFALO NICKEL: These are the lands of our fathers, and their fathers even unto the time of the Great Spirit. What are you saying, paleface?

JOHN WAYNE (crumples the paper): Aw hell, I'm saying go or I'll plant ya, redskin.

BUFFALO NICKEL turns to confer with his braves. As he does JOHN WAYNE pulls his six-shooter and starts blasting. All the Indians are dead.

Cut to FUDGESON on the bed.

FUDGESON (eyes-bugged): Holy shit! I didn't see that coming!

Cut back to the fake movie. A quick montage of JOHN WAYNE shooting Indians, burning down teepees, hunting squaws with a bow and arrow, pissing into a well, using corn cobs as toilet paper, all kinds of insensitive garbage.

Cut to FUDGESON on the bed.

FUDGESON: Damn, what a badass! (He chugs another tallboy, belches, and rolls onto his side, groaning; he peers at the digital clock, which reads 6:45pm.) Shit, time to party. (He lifts the receiver on the phone) Hello? Front desk? This is Commander - er, Commissioner Fudgeson, up in 507. (Pause) Ah, yes, yes. Well, I'm wondering, what is there to do here in Anaheim at 7 on a Wednesday night? (Pause) No! Goddam it! I've been banned from Disneyland. (Pause) Ah...really? The Fertile Crescent, you say? (Pause) It's a what? (Pause, then shrugs) Why the fuck not? (Rips another belch and hangs up).

Scene 11 (The Crimson Cork, The Fertile Crescent)

Scene shifts to the lesbian bar The Fertile Crescent. It's kinda swanky and western-themed, with two levels, the upper storey looking down over the bar and dance floor. It's packed with fine-ass lezbos. Some dance version of Fountains of Wayne's "Sink to the Bottom" is playing. The bartender is a chubby bull-dyke, slinging beer down the bar and pouring shots. The dance floor is full, the place is loud. We see FUDGESON bust through the front doors; he is wearing a buckskin jacket, a Davy Crockett cap, unseemly tight leather pants, and cowboy boots. No one else is in Western gear, incidentally.

FUDGESON: They told me it was a cowgirl bar! (Takes off his hat and slaps his thigh with it.) Tarnation!

He gets the stink-eye from a bunch of ladies as he makes his way across the dance floor to the bar, but one rather handsome woman spanks him as he passes her. He turns, does a little bow, then continues on his way. He bellies up to the bar. The bartender (Charlotte "CHARLIE" O'Hare) looks him up and down like he just walked in dressed in a "God Hates Dykes" shirt.

CHARLIE: Help you, Captain Crockett?

FUDGESON drums his fingers on the bar, scanning the barback, peering at bottles.

FUDGESON: Uhhhhhh, lemme get a......uhhhhhhhhh.......gimme a sec. Uhhhhh.

This goes on for far too long.

FUDGESON: Whiskey! That's a cowboy drink right? On the rocks! Wait. NO. Neat. Neat? Is that what they say? No ice!

CHARLIE (cracking her neck): One whiskey. Neat. No ice.... So. You from out of town, I take it?

FUDGESON: Well, ma'am you could say I'm out on the lonesome trail, yes. (He is not seeming to get that this is a lesbian bar.)

CHARLIE (setting the drink in front of him): Go figure. Enjoy Cowgirl and Squaw Night, cowpoke.

CHARLIE turns and goes off, FUDGESON grabs a twisty straw and sips tepidly at his whiskey, looking around the room. He smiles and waves at various women, who all look back disgusted. He gets up to dance after a while; it's horrific. He sits back down at the bar next to a creepy looking person in an obvious wig and a five-o'clock shadow. It is Peter TUCKER, an airport inspector, dressed in drag, sucking on a big fruity drink with an umbrella.

FUDGESON: Evenin', buttercup. How's your Mai Tai?

TUCKER (eyes bulge as he takes in FUDGESON): Uh...spicy.

FUDGESON (sloppy drunk): You've got a look about you, young lady.

TUCKER: Listen, uh. I don't think-

FUDGESON puts his hand on TUCKER's thigh.

FUDGESON: Oh, but I do.

TUCKER takes FUDGESON's hand off him.

TUCKER: No. This. It's not what you think it is. I'm not-

FUDGESON sits back and looks TUCKER up and down.

FUDGESON: Wait a seconnnnnnd.

TUCKER takes out a compact and touches up his lipstick, then puts it away in his clutch purse.

TUCKER: I just needed a night out, yknow? My work is just...well, it's stressful at the moment.

FUDGESON: Tell me about it. I'm up to my nice tight ass in problems at work. (Pauses to drink) So, gorgeous, what line of work are you in?

FUDGESON sets his drink down on the bar. From above there is a drip of blood, it lands on the bar beside his drink; another splashes into the drink. He doesn't notice.

TUCKER (leaning in): I'm an airport inspector for the TSA.

FUDGESON practically falls off his stool.

FUDGESON: Fuck the fuck off! Are you kidding me?

TUCKER: No, I'm not. I just spent three days in Burbank and Ontario. I mean, talk about boring! There's nothing going on there, and I'm under all this pressure to find something so my bosses can justify budget cuts. (Takes a long drink.)

FUDGESON (almost to himself): This is amazing. This is...this is fate!

TUCKER: Huh? You ok, ma'am?

FUDGESON: Ok? I'm fantastic, and it's all your fault! (He grabs his drink and takes a swig, making a face; he sets it down again just in time for a long string of blood to splat into it. This time TUCKER sees it.)

TUCKER: Uh. (Points at the drink. He and FUDGESON watch another drip. He points up, and they both tip their heads back.)

Cut to shot of the ceiling. It's wooden planks, spaced wide enough apart that you can get some kind of idea that there's a woman standing just above them in a skirt. Another drip, and the camera follows it in slow motion down into FUDGESON's glass.)

Cut to FUDGESON's horrified face.

Cut to CHARLIE, noticing the bloody mess on her bar, and the look on FUDGESON's face. She reaches under the bar and pulls out a Nerf dart gun. From her back pocket she pulls a long plastic wrapped tube, and rips it open with her teeth; it is a tampon; She jams it into the Nerf gun, cocks it and aims straight up.

CHARLIE (screaming): Keep your Aunt Flo at home!

She pulls the trigger.

Cut to the upper level, where a pretty woman is standing talking to friends; she is wearing a short skirt, holding a drink. Suddenly we hear a *thwick* and she flinches like she got snapped by a rubber band on her vagina. She looks down and then just tilts her head, as though oddly pleased.

Cut back to FUDGESON, TUCKER and CHARLIE at the bar. CHARLIE nods, puts her Nerf gun away, wipes down the bar and mosies off.

FUDGESON (in awe): Did you see that?

TUCKER: Unbelievable. The Crimson Cork. I never thought I'd live to see it.

They sit for a moment basking in what feels like a historical moment. Then FUDGESON turns to TUCKER.

FUDGESON: Listen. I have a proposal.

TUCKER (holding up his hands): I only dress like this to get lesbians.

FUDGESON looks confused.

FUDGESON: Does it work?

TUCKER shakes his head, looking sad.

FUDGESON: Ok, listen. You're an airport inspector. I have an airport that needs inspecting.

TUCKER: You have an airport?

FUDGESON: In a manner of speaking.

TUCKER: Which one?

FUDGESON: JWA.

TUCKER whistles.

TUCKER: John Wayne? (FUDGESON nods) Man, the stories I heard about that place. Are they true? They can't be!

FUDGESON picks up his drink, almost thinks twice about it, then downs it.

FUDGESON: What have you heard?

TUCKER: It's a dump! It's falling apart. The guys who run it are chowderheads. Then of course there's all the weird shit.

FUDGESON: Weird shit?

TUCKER: Oh, come on. You know what I mean. (FUDGESON's face is a stone wall; TUCKER leans in and whispers.) The dead frogs, the bird strikes, the smell!

FUDGESON nods.

FUDGESON: Hoo boy, tell me about it! I thought I'd walked into wherever shit-stained underwear goes to die after killing itself from shame. Well see, here's the thing. Like you said, the guys running JWA are full-on chowderheads. Extra clams. So, here's my proposal; but it needs professional execution. You got the moves?

TUCKER: Oh, I have the moves alright. (He shakes his falsies.)

FUDGESON grimaces, then leans in and whispers in TUCKER's ear like in those old Scooby-Doo cartoons, where you can hear him saying "psss pssss psssssspssps" and TUCKER is nodding along. Finally they both sit up and clink glasses. TUCKER drinks, but FUDGESON's is empty. He signals to CHARLIE.

FUDGESON: I'll have what she's having!

TUESDAY

Scene 12 (Orkin Man, Airport)

SCENE opens on the drop-off area outside the airport. The Orkin exterminator van pulls up in the loading zone. It is riddled with suction cup tipped arrows, and a few inflatable tomahawks appear to be stuck in the grill and the wipers. Around the antenna there is a large, torn banner wrapped, that seems to read "JWA selfishly taking up land needed for my...." The driver parks and steps out of the van, obviously shaken; he is in his 30's and has a very lush, full head of hair. He is carrying one of those exterminator tank sprayer things. REYNOLDS steps off the curb and waves him over.

REYNOLDS: So glad you could make it. The protests aren't so bad today... mid week slump. Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's just rats this time. Maybe capybaras, who the hell knows? Well, hopefully you, huh? I'll show you the way.

There is a light breeze, and people's hair and jackets flap a bit. The ORKIN man's face goes slack. A locust lands on REYNOLDS' shoulder; he brushes it off.

ORKIN MAN: Holy christ.

REYNOLDS: Oh, never mind her, she's harmless.

He gestures towards the taxi station where a small crowd has gathered around JESUS and a small group of Hare Krisnas, who seem to be facing each other down in some kind of a verbal battle.

HARE #1: Yo mama's so ugly, when she asks for a room at the inn, they put her up in the stables.

CROWD: Ohhhhh!!!

JESUS: Oh yeah? Well, yo mama's so ugly, she has to cremate herself.

CROWD: Ewwww!!!

HARE #2 How dare you! Why, yo momma's so ugly, yo daddy never even fucked her!

CROWD: Ooohhh!!!

JESUS: Why you little-

REYNOLDS (shaking his head in admiration): Damn, that was savage! I need to remember that one. (He takes out a little notebook from his breast pocket, jots something in it while chuckling, then tucks it back in). C'mon (to ORKIN MAN), let's make like a baby and leaf.

REYNOLDS drags the ill-looking exterminator through the revolving doors and into the airport; they pass the departures board listing flights to Brownsville, Fort Dix, Humptulips, Butte, etc. They head toward security, where SHAW K. Herbert is just about to go through the metal detectors. REYNOLDS pauses, there is some kind of brown sludge-like substance oozing down the wall. He stares at it, nudges the ORKIN MAN.

REYNOLDS: Whaddaya think it is?

ORKIN MAN steps up to the wall, sniffs the sludge; his knees buckle and he pulls back.

ORKIN MAN: Is it possible for shit to vomit cat food?

REYNOLDS pulls his pocket square and covers his nose and mouth with it.

REYNOLDS: Spray it, don't say it!

ORKIN MAN uses his portable tank-gun thing to spritz the wall. It runs down the wall creating a gnarly looking puddle. They both just stare at it.

REYNOLDS: Well, shit.

He grabs the ORKIN MAN and leads him onward, out of frame. Camera tracks down to the puddle, as it trickles toward the security area.

Cut to FUDGESON walking through the concourse, talking on his cell. He ducks into the mens' room. In the background we can see the security area.

FUDGESON (on the phone): I don't care if it's eight inches thick and covered in rusty nailheads! I told you I wanted the footlong! (Swerves into the restroom.)

Cut to security. We see a line of people waiting to go through the metal detector, SHAW K included. When his turn comes, the TSA AGENT (who happens to be a rather attractive woman) waves him over.

TSA AGENT: Sir you have been randomly selected to have a pat down.

SHAW K grins and waggles his eyebrows.

SHAW K: Good thing I freeballed!

TSA AGENT pushes SHAW K back into line. In the background we see an old man slip on the floor and fall on his ass. SHAW K steps through the metal detector and it sets off a siren and a flashing light on top of the machine. The TSA AGENT puts her hand over her face as if weeping, and then waves SHAW K over. Behind him, we can see an enormously fat man walk towards the metal detector.

TSA AGENT: OK, spread 'em!

SHAW K grins widely as the agent passes a wand over his body, which eventually bleeps loudly when it comes to his crotch.

TSA AGENT: Sir, have you got something in your pocket?

SHAW: Oh yeah, sorry. That's just my lunch.

SHAW K reaches into his pants and pulls out an enormous cucumber wrapped in tinfoil. As he hands it to the agent, she gets cold feet, and fumbles it. It falls to the ground and rolls under the table. As the agent sighs and turns around and bends over to pick it up, we see that the fat man has gotten stuck in the metal detector. SHAW K sees his opportunity and smiles as his eyes widen. He raises his hand in front of his face. He bends down the ring finger and then pulls at an imaginary rubber band around his wrist, as if miming putting on and snapping a surgical glove. He makes a little "pt'ch" sound with his mouth.

Suddenly, there is an enormous cracking sound as the bolts holding down the metal detector behind SHAW snap in two. The entire device topples over and clobbers him amidships, knocking him down and pinning him to the floor, face down with his rear end high in the air. Before anyone can do anything, the wires that had previously powered the metal detector come loose and begin flopping around and sparking, making contact with the sludge that's been trickling over.

SHAW: AAAAAAAIIIiiiieEEEee!!!!!

The wires connect with his backside and his entire body lights up like a christmas tree. He convulses violently for a few seconds before being thrown clear of the wreckage, where he begins to smoulder and flame up until TSA comes over with a fire extinguisher and hoses him down.

Cut to REYNOLDS and ORKIN walking along the concourse; the lights overhead flicker and we can hear SHAW K screaming in the background.

REYNOLDS (glancing up, then pulls out his phone and dials): Hoffman! Change the lightbulbs in Concourse B! They're flickering! (snaps the phone shut; ORKIN looks concerned. They keep walking). Oh shit. I fired him, didn't I?

As they head towards the bathroom, SINBAD's samples stall comes into view. There is a glitzy sign hung at the top of the booth advertising "Mike Ahone's Custom Sackmagnets". Attached to this sign is a smaller, starburst sign that reads "Featuring the Peanuts Gang" SINBAD accosts them. He is wearing a yellow shirt with black, jagged horizontal stripes. Attached to the front of his pants, just at the bottom tip of his crotch, is a glossy, enameled Charlie Brown, about 3 inches high. It bobs up and down a bit as he walks. He waves down the Orkin man.

SINBAD: Feeling a bit low today sir? Let Snoopy give your boys a lift! (He holds out a little metallic two and a half inch Snoopy, which seems to have some kind of strong magnet attached to the back).

ORKIN MAN (Confused): Um... does this go on the fridge?

SINBAD: No sir, it's a support magnet, for those days when the elastic on your shorts loses its yank. Plus, the latest in fashion. I hear Shia LaBeouf has been wearing them lately on the streets of Milan.

REYNOLDS (trying to wave SINBAD away): Sorry, man, not interested in what Miss LaBeef is doing. We got an airport to save here.

ORKIN MAN (Handing him back the magnet): Thanks man, ya' got a Lucy?

SINBAD: But of course! (He reaches into a basket in his booth and fishes out a shiny Lucy). A man of distinction. You're in luck, she's my last one.

SINBAD nods as REYNOLDS and the ORKIN MAN walk off. An older gentleman passes by the booth behind them carrying a golf bag.

SINBAD: Ho there, sir, tired of playing the long ball?

OLD MAN: Get lost, creep!

SINBAD shakes off the hurt and puts on a smile for the next traveler. He grabs some fresh magnets from the booth.

SINBAD: Good day there, sir. Now you look to me like a Linus.

CUT to REYNOLDS and the ORKIN MAN in the bathroom. A good-looking young man poses over at the mirrors, then pats his hair, puts on a thick layer of lipstick, kisses the mirror, and then slinks into a stall. He winks at the ORKIN MAN.

ORKIN MAN: You sure this is the place? The is the best smelling room I've been in in two hours. It almost reminds me of actual human feces.

REYNOLDS: Well, this is where the problem starts, I'm sure of it.

ORKIN MAN: You aren't much of an engineer, are you. It's not where it starts that matters, it's where it goes. We gotta follow these pipes.

REYNOLDS (muttering): I'm a better engineer than your mom.

They exit the bathroom, the ORKIN MAN holding some kind of tricorder device in one hand, and some sort of metal wand in the other. They meander down to baggage claim and into the back room behind the baggage belts. It is hot as hell in here, and the machinery is dripping strange fluids on the two of them as it clanks along. Occasionally a small bag or box gets piledriven by a couple giant suitcases and pops over the rim landing with a crunch on the floor. The room is littered with such bags, some quite dusty and even covered in cobwebs.

The smell is apparently getting worse as they go, as the ORKIN MAN now holds a cloth over his face and is leaning against the wall for support.

ORKIN MAN (pointing to the far back): What's behind this door?

REYNOLDS: No idea. My groundskeeper would have a key, but I fired him.

ORKIN MAN: Must be some kind of central access station, all the pipes lead down into here. Can you get it open?

REYNOLDS: Just bust the lock, it's old. I'll pay for the damages.

ORKIN MAN shrugs, pulls a crowbar out of his toolbag, and pops the door open. Both he and REYNOLDS visibly stagger back. ORKIN MAN doubles over.

ORKIN MAN: Oh fuck, I think I just lanced one of Satan's hemmerhoids.

REYNOLDS: I'll get a fan.

ORKIN MAN wretches a bit, then fumbles around for a light switch. He finally pulls out a flashlight and shines it in the little room.

ORKIN MAN: Holy shit. These are some weird rats you got, man.

REYNOLDS and the ORKIN MAN peer into the gloom. In the cramped plumbing access room, there is a tall, buffalo skin teepee erected. Animal skins cover the floor. Atop them is a thick layer of taco bags, empty beer cans, dirty clothes, and wadded up kleenex. The remains of a campfire are smoldering at the center of the tepee. Scattered around the area can be seen various battered copies of "Boobs and Buns", "Hot Squaw", and "Ebony" magazine. Posters for various John Wayne movies line the walls.

The ORKIN MAN moves in slowly, kicking at the trash and poking at various objects with his flashlight. REYNOLDS follows him warily. After a while, the ORKIN MAN seems to have made up his mind.

ORKIN MAN: I think I see your problem, man. With all this junk in here, nobody has maintained these pipes in years. What I think you need is a good cleanout. I got a pump in my truck. I'll bring it down here. But this job won't be cheap.

REYNOLDS: I got you covered man, whatever it takes.

The ORKIN MAN smiles and nods. Suddenly there is a loud scurrying sound from above, as if something too fat to fit through the vents is pulling itself through them as fast as it can. They both look up.

ORKIN MAN: It's gonna take a lot.

Cut to FUDGESON being dragged from the men's room by a couple of airport cops.

FUDGESON (struggling): Get your hands off me! What's this all about?

COP #1: You're under arrest for solicitation, pal. That guy in the next stall was an undercover cop.

FUDGESON (getting irate): This is ridiculous! Do you have any idea who I am?

COP #2: I don't care if you're Mike Pence, buddy. You're going to the slammer, where you can get all the dirty pipe you want.

FUDGESON: Listen, fellas, this is all a misunderstanding. I've just got what you call a wide stance!

COP #1: Wide stance, huh? Tell it to the judge, Perv Griffin.

FUDGESON (starts tapping his toes): You're gonna regret this, Officer. (gestures widely, smiling like a true showman, snapping his fingers.) Hit it boys!

From all sides, baggage handlers and skycaps, gruff looking construction guys and drag queens converge and the song-and-dance number "The Wide Stance Song" commences.

THE WIDE STANCE SONG

When I'm plotting to do some squatting, I spread my cheeks, it saves from spotting.

[Refrain]: He's got a wide wide stance!

Don't be bitter like a quitter, you can titter on the Twitter that I drop my litter in the shitter like John Ritter.

He's got a wide wide stance!

My feet go hither, yon, and thither. You might say I do the scissors.

He's got a very wide stance!

So i dropped some paper, that's the caper, it got knocked down by my gaper.

Such an awful wide stance!

But my crack is clean, it's the cleanest, just as clean as the queen-es, far too clean for your penis.

He's got a wiiiide, wiiiide staaaannccee!

JENNY wanders through the dancers at one point, looking pretty shit-faced. A couple of paramedics on their way to security get caught up in the choreography. The number ends with FUDGESON doing jazz hands in the cops' faces.

FUDGESON (panting and sweaty): Ha! Put that in your dirty pipe and smoke it.

He flicks his business card at them; it hits COP #1 in the chest and falls to the ground. Camera cuts to show the card; it reads "Willy Fudgeson. Federal Aviation Administration, Commissioner" and then in his handwriting "call me 808-555-3923" or something.

Cut back to security. The paramedics are pulling a sheet over the fat guy. We see the ORKIN MAN wheel something large and heavy past.

PARAMEDIC (shaking his head): If only we hadn't gotten caught up in that dance number!

The other paramedic hums "The Wide Stance Song" as he goes to check on SHAW K.

CUT to the teepee room. RENOLDS watches ORKIN MAN hook his machinery up to some access port. ORKIN MAN holds out the end of an extension cord.

ORKIN MAN: OK man, I got her cranked up to eleven; you sure you're ready for this?

REYNOLDS: What do you mean?

ORKIN MAN: Hey, pipes this old and this backed up, anything can happen. Put the junk under pressure and it's gonna go somewhere; you never know where the weakest link is gonna be.

REYNOLDS: But it needs to be done, right?

ORKIN MAN: It needed to be done last century.

REYNOLDS: Well, sometimes in life, you just gotta rip the band-aid off.

ORKIN MAN hands REYNOLDS the plug.

ORKIN MAN: Alright, you're the boss; you want to do the honors?

REYNOLDS: Heck yeah, let's plug this baby in. (He finds an outlet and plugs in the pump, psyching himself up as he does). Airport GM of the year, here I come!

The pump shudders and emits a sound like a jet engine in a blender.

CUT to the B gates. There is a bon bon shop about halfway down the concourse with a sign proclaiming "Choco.net Factory Outlet". Out front there is a chocolate fountain going, where children are smiling and holding cups and apples and things under the silky, flowing brown waves. Peter Tucker is amongst them, dressed as a doctor. He is dipping the end of a pipette into the chocolate and making notes in a journal. Suddenly the ground rumbles, and people look around a bit, wondering if this is the big one, but then it calms down. A massive chocolate fart rises up out of the chocolate slurry. A little girl laughs and leans in to get a mouthful, and suddenly the ground rumbles again and the chocolate fountain explodes, flinging hot, molten chocolate over everyone within twenty feet. Tucker is drenched. People begin screaming and flailing. The front side of the little girl is completely covered in a thick shell of runny, sticky chocolate. She begins to cry.

A wave of first responders comes running over with towels and napkins, wiping faces, throwing cups of water on the victims, and desperately trying to prevent permanent burns. Just as they kick into action though, there is another rumble, and the remains of the fountain explode again, this time with some other kind of sticky brown liquid. This begins spewing out like someone has driven a truck over a shit fire hydrant. It goes on for a ridiculously long time, like ten seconds or so. There are screams of horror and wailing and the gnashing of teeth as the crowd is utterly drowned in liquid diarrhea.

Finally, the fountain spews no more, and there is a moment of hushed silence as everyone just stands there, dripping and stunned, this lasts maybe about 3 seconds. Finally, someone screams, a horrible moaning cry of lamentation. And then everyone slowly sinks down into the fetal position, weeping.

Scene 13 (Scalp Problems, Airport)

Scene opens in the teepee room. ORKIN MAN has night-vision goggles on, and a ghostbusters-looking apparatus hooked onto his back, but his uniform is a dark blue and it's vaguely reminiscent of a US Cavalry officer's. He kicks at the piles of trash on the floor. REYNOLDS, looking queasy, hovers near the doorway.

REYNOLDS: Uh, I think I'll just leave you to it. Too many cooks, y'know?

He claps the ORKIN MAN on the shoulder and scuttles out of the place. ORKIN MAN psyches himself up. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, something overhead pops.

ORKIN MAN: Ok, Kevin. You got this.

He crouches, leafs through a tattered copy of "Kickapoo Grannies" and stuffs it in his back pocket. He stands, clicks on his night-vision, and moves deeper into the room.

Cut to REYNOLDS hurrying back toward his office. He comes across the wreckage of the chocolate fountain disaster. He stops dead in his tracks and his jaw drops, but he quickly shuts it as the stench hits him. He turns and books it the other direction, slipping in some choco-fecal slurry. Each time he tries to get up he just slips down again; this goes on far too many times.

Cut to ORKIN MAN. He's crouching in a small enclosed area, behind him we can see a small opening through which is visible the teepee; he's found some kind of crawlspace or something. We see his POV, it looks like some kind of tunnel, ending in a t-branch a few feet ahead.

ORKIN MAN: Huh. Weird. Must be some kind of old maintenance tunnel.

Something behind him clatters and he whirls to look. As he is facing the other way, something scurries through the T-branch, causing him to whip back around again. We see him grinning in his faceplate.

ORKIN MAN: Gotcha. Come sit on Uncle Kevin's lap, you varmint.

He steps lightly into the tunnel.

Cut to REYNOLDS squelching along the concourse, literally dripping with shit. JENNY emerges from a janitor's closet, holding a joint and a lighter; she's about to fire it up when she sees REYNOLDS.

JENNY: (singing to herself) I got a wiiiide stance...(sees REYNOLDS) Oh, uh. Hi, boss. (REYNOLDS doesn't even stop; she looks at him, looks around at the shitty mess, then turns around and goes back into the closet).

Cut back to ORKIN MAN; he's on the trail of something. We see him trailing a shadowy figure through the tunnels. We hear something like the far-off sound of war drums, but it could also just be some kind of machinery. The shadowy figure makes a sharp right and the noise stops. ORKIN MAN flexes his hand on his sprayer thing, then lifts his goggles.

ORKIN MAN: I'm gonna be eatin' good tonight!

He edges around the corner; an old pipe creaks overhead and partially collapses, striking his hand; he accidentally sprays himself in the face with his Orkin spray. As he stumbles around wiping his eyes, we see the shadowy figure emerge from the, well, shadows. It is a ghostly looking Indian brave; on his bare chest is a tattoo that looks like a dog dragging its ass on the ground, it is SCOOTS ON RUG. When ORKIN MAN's vision finally clears he finds himself in a wide open salt flat, under the blazing sun, face to face with SCOOTS.

ORKIN MAN: What the-

SCOOTS: Even unto the Spirit World your people hunt us. Your greed and lust for that which is not yours befouls all things.

ORKIN MAN: W-wait a second, where am I? Spirit World? I'm just looking for the rat.

SCOOTS: And you have found him, for the rat is you.

SCOOTS, creepily quickly, grabs ORKIN MAN by the hair; ORKIN MAN screams and twists and turns trying to get free, but SCOOTS draws a crysknife and slashes quick across ORKIN MAN's dome, scalping him. ORKIN MAN's body falls to the ground and we see he is back in the teepee room, his head bloody.

Cut to REYNOLDS's office. He emerges from the airplane bathroom, cleaned up and wearing a jogging suit. He sits at his desk and pulls a bottle of Thunderbird from his drawer and swigs from it. He looks at his watch.

REYNOLDS: Oughta be done by now, right? (He digs out his flip-phone and dials.) Kevin? Kevin, you there? Orkin dude? Yo! Anyone home?

He snaps the phone shut and groans. He gets up and walks out of his office.

Cut to the B Gates kiosk area. There is a mess of yellow police tape, orange cones, etc, but it's been cleaned up somewhat. A sign bearing a smiling image of John Wayne proclaims "Pardon our mess, but perhaps you'll find what you are looking for at our world class food court, just 3 minutes away." A random businessman walks up to the mess, reads the sign, checks his watch, and curses, then hustles down the hall.

Cut to the food court, where people seem to have mostly recovered from the day's antics and are lining up at Cinnabon and Bob Dylan's "Soft Serve Somebody", where a sandwich board advertises "Where Everybody Must Get Coned!" We see the businessman come hustling into the food court; he sees the lines, checks his watch again, and then curses and hustles back the other direction.

Cut to the front counter of SSS. BOB DYLAN is working the register. He's wearing a red-and-white striped barbershop quartet shirt and a white apron and paper hat or maybe a hairnet. A young man steps up the counter, we see the menu board listing such flavors as "Fudging My Lime", "I Dreamed I Licked St Aubergine", "Lay lychee lay", etc.

YOUNG MAN: Yeah, can I get two scoops of "Quince the Eskimo"?

BOB DYLAN (to the tune of "Like a Rolling Stone"): Would you... like a waffle cone?

Cut to REYNOLDS, barging into the teepee room.

REYNOLDS (calling out, doesn't see the body at first): Hey, Orkin dude! Where the hell are you? I've been calling you for ten minutes. (muttering) Typical Kevin behavior. (He stumbles over the body after wading through the trash.) Oh. Oh no. Oh shit.

He quickly flattens himself against the wall, panic-breathing, looking down at the scalpless ORKIN MAN.

REYNOLDS (collecting himself): Shit, is he still on the clock? This is costing a fortune. (He kicks the lifeless exterminator with the toe of his wing tip).

ORKIN MAN: Ugggghhhh! (He lurches to his feet, holding the top of his head, from which blood is running out. There is a nasty gash at the top of his forehead).

REYNOLDS: Aaiiiieee!!!

ORKIN MAN: (feeling his scalp) Aaaiiigghhh!!!

REYNOLDS spots something in the pile of trash. He picks it up.

REYNOLDS: Oh my god, is this yours? (He hands Kevin a rather beat-up looking hairpiece, a bit bloodstained).

ORKIN MAN (snatching the toupee away from REYNOLDS and slapping it back down on his head): You people are crazy!!! That's it, I don't know what kind of sick fucking game you are playing here, but count me out of it! I'm calling my union on you! Good luck hiring another contractor in this town, Buffalo Bill! (He picks up his tool bag and staggers out).

Cut to REYNOLDS and HAMILTON in his office, REYNOLDS hanging up his phone.

REYNOLDS (sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose): Ok, that's all set. Tomorrow morning we have a team of contractors coming in to sweep the place from ass to tits. We'll find the source of all this. (Pours two shots of Thunderbird.) Just a shame about Kevin, though.

HAMILTON: Sir, these guys. They're...how do I put this? Expensive. Plus the out of town fee, that almost doubles it.

REYNOLDS (downing his shot): Gotta pay for quality, Ham. (Hoots) Fuck, that's good!

HAMILTON: Sir, our budget is strained as it is. This is exactly the kind of thing that Fudgeson is gonna use against us.

REYNOLDS (pouring another): I saved us, what, $57,000 by firing Hoffman, didn't I? Plus my secretary quit because of the smell. And I canceled my limo service. Fudgeson can put that in his stall and toe-tap it. (drinks)

HAMILTON sighs and goes to the window, which looks like it has been duct-taped shut.

REYNOLDS (standing): God damn it, I'm getting hangry. Let's eat. I brought my lunch from home today. I uber-eats'd a Greg's Dip last night and couldn't eat the whole thing. I've been looking forward to this all day.

REYNOLDS pulls a paper bag out of his desk. He tears it open, and pulls out half a sandwich on white bread in a zip-lock bag.

REYNOLDS: That's weird, does this look like a reuben to you? And where's the thai peanut sauce? (He tips the bag over and a bunch of strange chips fall out.) God dammit, TSA strikes again! Mother-fudging lunch racists--I guess every paper bag just looks the same to them.

HAMILTON: Sorry, boss. That's the law of the conveyor belt, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Like last week I traded up a day old tuna melt for a Raffaello's doggie bag full of osso buco and wild mushroom risotto.

REYNOLDS: Wow. You should have bought a lottery ticket.

HAMILTON: No kidding. Oh yeah, are you gonna eat that? I skipped breakfast. (He pats his belly).

REYNOLDS: Yeah, what the hell. How bad can it be, I mean it's just lunch. (He takes a few bites of the sandwich). Aw nuts... I think it's vegan, tastes like cactus or something. (He nibbles on a few chips). These are weird. You think these are taro?

HAMILTON shrugs and walks out.

Scene 14 (Sack Lunch, Food court)

SCENE opens on the food court. We see JENNY waiting in line at Dean Martin's "That's Zucchini!". The booth is slick and modern, with large glossy posters of Dean Martin smiling and eating zucchini. Music plays from loudspeakers outside the restaurant. The soundtrack is all Deano hits with the words changed to the subject of zucchinis. Currently it is alternating between:

That's Zucchini!

When the zuke hits your pie hole, your great pizza pie hole,

That's zucchini!

When that green thing's inside and you've had quite a ride,

That's zucchini!

and

Zucchini! (aka, Volare!)

Zucchini! Whoa hoaa!

Zucchini, whoa ho ho hoaa!

Once you, give into the zuke

In cheesecake in sauce or in soup,

You'll be pleased with your skin, your bowels'll work again

You'll never be 'fraid to go poop!

The line is being slow, and JENNY appears to be getting impatient, she keeps checking her fit bit for the time.

JENNY: Oh, come on!

Finally, her phone begins to bleep, she groans and pulls it out, flipping it open. There is a notification from the "Air Traffic Commander" app. She clicks on it, and there is an icon of a plane on the screen, below it reads "United JW-454". A little red blinking warning bar at the top reads "Low fuel". There are two buttons on the screen, "Land" and "Circle".

JENNY: Oh, fuck OFF!

She taps "Circle" angrily and snaps the phone off, shoving it back in her pocket. Just then, she notices Nick REYNOLDS wandering through the food court like he is in some kind of trance. He is moving really slow, as if he is swimming through jello. He occasionally twirls, and holds his hands out in front of his face as if they are really fascinating. She hurries over to him.

JENNY: You OK, boss?

REYNOLDS (drunkenly): I do my own shaving!

JENNY: What?

REYNOLDS: Look out!

He grabs her and drags her behind a table outside the Orange Julius, crouching and pulling her down. He appears to be hiding from something.

REYNOLDS: Tarnation, Injuns!

JENNY: Excuse me? What?

REYNOLDS (shushing her): Quiet! They're savages! And a young fertile white squaw such as yourself would be prime slave material!

At this JENNY's eyebrows go up and she peers around expectantly.

JENNY: Oooh, where?

He grabs her arm and pulls her back, duck-walking them into and knocking over a garbage can. He flattens himself to the floor.

REYNOLDS (hissing): Get down, Jenny!

JENNY: Nick, what the hell is wrong with you?

Cut to REYNOLDS POV. We see the food court has morphed into a hazy, prairie-like plain, dotted with driftwood tables, water barrels where the trash cans were, and ramshackle timber kiosks standing in for the food court booths. There is no sense of the walls or roof of the airport. Among the tall grasses we see an indian brave, this one with a spread-winged eagle painted on his face (SPREAD EAGLE). He is holding his stomach and searching through the grasses, as though looking for something. Suddenly, he looks very nervous and doubles over. REYNOLDS looks over at JENNY and claps his hand over her mouth.

JENNY: Mmphhpmmmphh!

She licks his palm and he whips it off her. The brave lifts his leather flaps and squats.

REYNOLDS: Oh no. Oh no no no no.

He cowers and covers his head. JENNY, whose POV is of course just the normal airport, struggles to her feet and stares down at REYNOLDS.

JENNY: All the times I could have been high as shit at work and I didn't. And look at you! That's it, I'm going up to the tower to do lines!

Her phone beeps again, she angrily takes it out. We don't see what it says as she stalks off, stabbing at the screen with her finger.

JENNY: Ugh, just fuckin' crash already.

Cut back to REYNOLDS' POV. The brave is squatting almost an arm's reach from REYNOLDS, who is mortified. The brave gets a sad look on his face, then grimaces. A huge jet of brown shit explodes from his ass and he groans.

Cut back to normal airport; REYNOLDS bug-eyed staring at where the brave is (in the spirit world), in reality an empty patch of linoleum. A fat guy carrying a tray of gooey Cinnabons walks right into the spot where the spirit shit is and slips, falling and spilling the whole tray down his frontbutt. He screams and rolls around on the floor. REYNOLDS sees him rolling in spirit shit and scuttles away. The man starts bellowing about how there's no "Danger Wet Spot" sign and he's gonna sue this damn airport for breaking his ass. REYNOLDS uses the counter of Soft Serve Somebody to haul himself up. He sees BOB DYLAN as a cowboy, licking a smoking gun barrel. All around the food court, people are starting to retch and cough and gag. We hear shouts of "What is that smell?" and "Oh god I'm gonna puke" and "Herman, did you have an accident again?"

REYNOLDS (to DYLAN): What's happening, Sheriff?

BOB DYLAN (licking the gun): Some kinda idiot wind....

The smell finally wafts over, knocking into REYNOLDS like a punch in the face. He staggers back, retching.

REYNOLDS: Oh god, what the hell is that? (He dry-heaves, choking.) Oh god, it's getting worse!

Pandemonium erupts in the food court; the crowd panics and starts rushing to get out to fresh air. They're knocking over tables and garbage cans, punching each other to get out of the miasma of stank. REYNOLDS looks on horrified. For the most part he's back in the real world, but every now and then we see an Indian brave or squaw milling calmly through the crowd; no one else seems to notice. He books it out of the food court, fumbling for his phone, cycling through numbers.

REYNOLDS (to himself): Joe Frank, no. Ham, no. Jenny? Jenny. No. Glewis? What, why the fuck do I have Glewis' number in here? Sharon Cox. Jesus. Fuck! (He snaps the phone shut and jogs toward his office.)

As he rounds a corner, he sees an old Indian squaw who looks remarkably like Bo Diddley clawing at the wall, ripping long ribbons of wallpaper off and screeching maniacally. She looks dead at REYNOLDS and points right at him and babbles incoherently, then goes back to trashing the wall and wailing. In the background we see a passing airport security guard.

REYNOLDS (calling out): Security! Hey! Over here!

The guard comes toward REYNOLDS, walking right past the squaw without seeming to notice her.

GUARD: Help you, Hoss?

REYNOLDS: Uh, yeah? (Points at the squaw) Can you do something about her?

GUARD turns to look.

GUARD (puzzled): Her?

REYNOLDS (sighing dramatically): No, not her. Fucking Judy Tenuda. Yes, her!

GUARD looks again.

GUARD: Hoss, you really gonna waste my time when there's a damn-assed riot going on in the food court?

GUARD goes off shaking his head. REYNOLDS looks about ready to spit nails. When he looks at the squaw, though, she is gone and there is no trace of damage to the walls. As REYNOLDS departs in a huff, Judy Tenuda walks out from a door marked "Mile High Club- Sea Level Division" dragging an accordion and looking torn up. As she passes, the wallpaper wilts and falls off.

Scene 15 (Burn it Down, Airport)

SCENE opens out on the airfield somewhere. It is dusk. One of the protestors (Krys T. HIMMELFART) is prowling around an old maintenance hangar building out on the outer rim. They are wearing a black medical mask and a ski cap to disguise their identity, but they are still quite recognizable by the shock of blue hair sticking out from under the hat. Below the neck, they are wearing some torn-up jeans and a Baltimore Skipjacks jersey (#17, Steve Carson). In one hand they are carrying a gas canister, and with the other, they are collecting trash and dry brush and adding it into a large pile of old junk that is stacked against the back wall.

They are just about finished, when frantic scrabbling can be heard from the other side of an old, rusty door that leads out to the back. They quickly stash the gas can in the trash pile, as the lock clanks and the door is roughly forced open.

From inside the hangar comes Jack HOFFMAN. He looks a little scruffy since he got fired. He is moving quickly and a bit erratically, as if he needs to find a bathroom. He is hatless, and wearing a flannel shirt with leather chaps over cutoff nuthuggers. In one hand he holds a battered copy of Atlas Shrugged with about half of the pages torn out. He startles when he sees someone standing by his trash. Not half as much as Krys T. though.

HIMMELFART (rattled): Jesus christ, what are you doing here?

HOFFMAN: Rooting for the Nuggets, lady, whadda ya want?

HIMMELFART is obviously upset by HOFFMAN's presumptive gendering, but does not have time to complain before HOFFMAN shoves them out of the way.

HOFFMAN: Come on, move it! Can't a man have some privacy?

He pushes past her and squats over the trash pile.

HOFFMAN: Uggghhh! Ahhhhhh! (takes a few deep breaths).

HOFFMAN takes out his book and starts to read the first page, which is actually page 132 or so, then realizes he has company, gets embarrassed, and puts the book down. He goes to rip out a page, then realizes he hasn't read it yet, and instead grabs a del taco napkin out of the trash pile and cleans himself up. HIMMELFART just stands and stares at the pile, realizing that if they are going to burn the place down, they will have to get their gas can back out of that pile. HOFFMAN does up his chaps.

HOFFMAN: This is the best spot, you know. That's probably what brought you here.

HIMMELFART: What?

HOFFMAN: To hear the voice. You know (he leans in and whispers) the Airport.

AIRPORT: I'm dead you old goat, not deaf! I can still hear you!

HOFFMAN (whirling around and wagging his finger at the airport): Shut up! I'm not talking to you, you cost me my job!

HIMMELFART: Uhh... who you talking to?

HOFFMAN: What, you mean you don't hear that?

HIMMELFART: Hear what?

AIRPORT (singing): Aww, aww! Dude looks like a lady! Or does the lady look like a dude?

HOFFMAN: You really don't? It's offensive as fuck.

HIMMELFART: Umm...no?

AIRPORT: Tell him she's got a thick ass!

HOFFMAN: Ok. Close your eyes and just listen. (He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He holds his arms out to his sides and looks as if he is meditating). What do you hear?

HIMMELFART (Gives it a shot): Hmm... the wind I guess?

HOFFMAN: The wind across the great plains?

AIRPORT: I'm about to make a wind.

HIMMELFART: Sure, yeah, maybe. It's peaceful.

HOFFMAN: Do you hear the buffalo?

HIMMELFART: Buffalo wings, maybe. The digested kind. What in the terf are you talking about? Who even are you? Do you work here? Do you live here?

HOFFMAN (scratching at his armpits and nuts): Maybe yes, maybe no. Let's just say I have some time on my hands.

AIRPORT: You oughta have some of him on yer hands, amigo. She's a fine hombre.

HOFFMAN: Airport says you're hot, by the way.

HIMMELFART (angry/confused): Excuse me? Who? What is all this?

AIRPORT: Ah, a feisty heifer! You gotta break him like a filly, son.

HOFFMAN (to AIRPORT): Shut up, old man! I know that! (turns his attention back to HIMMELFART) Ok, where was I? Oh, yeah. You hear the buffalo? You hear the warcry of the Sioux? The Kiowa? The proud Cherokee nation?

HIMMELFART (scrunching their nose): Um. Mostly I just smell something. I'm pretty sure it's you.

HOFFMAN: God damn it!

AIRPORT: Give 'er a snootful, pardner! A guy like her knows his way around a body's stench.

HOFFMAN (to AIRPORT): Stuff a cork in your wordhole! If I'm gonna give him the ol' Altoona Schooner, it's gonna be my own way!

HIMMELFART: The what?

HOFFMAN (waving their question away): Listen to the wind-

HIMMELFART (interrupting): Look, I was just trying to find somewhere to, uh, (thinking on their feet) crash for the night. The protest, we're planning a midnight vigil at the food court and I was hoping (eyeing the pile for their gas can) to catch a few winks before it got started. But, I'll mosey along, seeing as this place is occupied.

AIRPORT: Ocupado, senorita! He'll be out in a jiffy

HOFFMAN turns around to berate AIRPORT; while his back is turned HIMMELFART digs with their foot through the pile of garbage and shit, trying to get their can.

AIRPORT: Oh, lookit, he's got a sweet can.

HOFFMAN (turning around quick to see them grab for the can): Oh damn, she sure does have a nice can. Tell me, lil' lady, what can that can do?

HIMMELFART (feeling trapped): What can this can do? What do you think this can can do, the can can? Ok, maybe not, but it can sure blow you to smithereens, you normie pig!

AIRPORT: Hear that! She wants to blow ya!

HOFFMAN (roaring): Damn it, shut up, I heard him! (to HIMMELFART) Yeah, I know what it is. What you got planned with that gas can, muchacha?

HIMMELFART: What am I gonna do? I'm gonna do some justice! I'm gonna do what the Plains Indians did when they saw the white man coming, and burn the prairie before them. I'm gonna purify this sacred land of every trace of the white man's filth! I'm going to burn this fucking airport down! (They are basically screaming at the end.)

AIRPORT: Uh oh, that sounds spicy. I'm not sure my colon can handle this right now.

HOFFMAN: Oh yeah, I recognize you now. You remember I used to drive past you protestors and throw my empty Colt .45's at you guys. Bunch of entitled white folks thinking they can speak for the red man. (He belches.) Got their buckskins in a twist over some dumb old cowboy actor.

AIRPORT: Hey, keep a civil tongue in your head, you confounded ba-

HOFFMAN (interrupting): Hell, what difference does it make who the place is named after? John Wayne? A racist and a mediocre actor at best. Walt Disney? A racist and cultural imperialist! Obama? Drone bombed the shit out of half the colored world. Charo? Faked her birth certificate. That's the problem with renaming shit. The new people are just as shitty as the old ones. Everyone sucks the big chowder hose in the end.

HIMMELFART: Well, what about Acjachemen International? (Gets a blank look from HOFFMAN) Hello? The Acjachemen? The original inidignous people of Orange County?

HOFFMAN (scoffs): Yeah, well what about the Tongva? You gonna build a second airport and name it after them? They were here too.

HIMMELFART: Well fuck it all. (Sloshes their gas can) Might as well just burn it all down. (Looks at HOFFMAN with new respect.) You really know your shit, huh?

HOFFMAN (gestures to the pile of shitty paperback pages): I read a lot.

HIMMELFART: Wanna fight the power? (Hefts the gas can as if cheersing a drink.)

HOFFMAN: All that with one teeny little can? Mister, you need a shit ton more than that. (He pulls an old tarp off the junk pile, uncovering several old oil drums.)

HIMMELFART gapes at HOFFMAN, then rushes into his arms; they roll under the tarp.

AIRPORT hums the riff from "Ass or Pussy" by Piss Hitler as they do it.

WEDNESDAY

Scene 16 (Contractors, Airport)

Nick REYNOLDS wakes up in his office as the sun rises. He is face down on his desk in a pile of drool. He is still wearing his shirt and trousers, his tie is tied around his forehead like Rambo, and he has been using his suit jacket as a blanket. The bottle of Thunderbird is sideways and empty on his desk. For some reason, one of those airport shoe shine machines is also propped up on his desk, and there is a dirty pair of ladies panties tangled up in it.

He steps into his bathroom and we can hear him splashing water on his face. Then he suddenly hustles out of the bathroom and attempts to push the shoe shine machine off his desk. It refuses to budge. He grabs the panties and heads back into the bathroom, and we hear more water splashing. When he comes out, he has fixed his shirt and collar. He picks up the bottle, and tips it back, trying to suck the last little drop out of it before finally giving up and tossing it in the trash.

REYNOLDS: Ok, Nick. You can do this. You're in charge. Everyone looks up to you.

He slaps himself and then shakes his face back and forth a bit before grimacing in pain and grabbing at his head. He looks out the window, where we can see fire trucks driving by. He sighs and picks up the phone. As he dials, he pulls the panties out of his pocket and wipes the moisture off his face.

REYNOLDS: Joe! Morning! It's Nick! (Pause) Yeah, 6 AM! Another beautiful day here in sunny Southern California. (Pause). Yeah, yeah. Say, I don't suppose you could get down here a bit early today? We got all these contractors flying in, and I could really use an extra hand today? (Pause). What do you mean you have the day off? What happened to circling the wagons? (Pause) Oh, come on, fuck your kid's birthday, Joe. This is crunch time. (Pause) Seriously? You wanna make a wish? Wish that my Stacy Adams don't fit up your saggy ass next time you see me.

He hangs up the phone.

REYNOLDS: Fuuck.

There is a knock at the door.

REYNOLDS: Come in.

The door opens, and there is a guy dressed as a plumber there (LUIGI). He is wearing a green shirt and hat, with blue overalls with gold buttons. He has a bushy moustache that is obviously fake. He is holding some kind of satchel.

LUIGI: Nick Reynolds, I presume?

REYNOLDS: Yeah, don't rub it in.

LUIGI: You ready for a shocker?

REYNOLDS: Oh fuck, is this another strip-o-gram? It's six AM asshole!

LUIGI: Nope, you've been served. (He pulls an envelope out of his stachel and hands it over. He slips out.)

REYNOLDS: Fuuck.

CUT to the arrivals hall. REYNOLDS is greeting his team of contractors that have just arrived from Wausau. They are all wearing high-tech looking jumpsuits and are carrying some impressive looking gear. They have military haircuts and are all wearing sunglasses and have fancy earpieces like secret service men. They are all about the size of Schwarzenegger, and have the facial expression of the terminator. On a few we can see navy seal tattoos. One gets the impression they all served together. One of them (CONTRACTOR 2) is played by Wayne Gretzky.

REYNOLDS: Morning guys, WAUSAUUUU!!!

The contractors all look at him like he is made out of dildos.

CONTRACTOR 1: We understand you have a problem, sir?

REYNOLDS: Oh yeah, buddy. A yuuuuge problem.

CONTRACTOR 1 nods curtly to REYNOLDS and then does a bunch of military-type hand signals to his boys. They fan out, surrounding REYNOLDS; several of them whip out tricorders and Geiger counters and start sweeping the place. One of the contractors lets out a low whistle.

CONTRACTOR 2: Chief, get a load of these readings. (He turns his tricorder thingy toward CONTRACTOR 1 who does a double-take.)

CONTRACTOR 1: You shitting me? (turns to REYNOLDS) You seeing this? (REYNOLDS shakes his head.) This is the worst reading I've ever seen. 47.3 Jones units per nostril? Mister, you have yourself a serious shitpile here. You should never have let it go so long. (Shakes his head.) I just hope it's not too late.

REYNOLDS: Too late? Hell, no, it can't be too late! You guys have to do something! (almost sobbing) I didn't know...I didn't know it was that bad! Jones units? I...listen, there's gotta be some way to save this place. Don't you have a...uh...I dunno, a bug bomb or something?

CONTRACTOR 1: Sir, we're going to conduct a thorough inspection of the premises and from there we'll decide the best course of action. If, as I fear, you've put things off too long and things are too far gone, the airport will be condemned and evacuated until such time as it can be decontaminated.

REYNOLDS squeaks and starts trembling. CONTRACTOR 1 looks at him like a disappointed parent looks at their fuck-up kid, then does a few more hand gestures. The crew disperses, leaving REYNOLDS alone in the corridor.

REYNOLDS (angrily exasperated): Fucking breadish! Fucking Hoffman and his mystical stench! If he'd done his fucking job in the first place, I'd- (he stops, as though he just realized something). Wait just a minute. (Pauses, thinking) No. It can't be. Can it? An indian burial ground? Fuck! Is this Amityville International now? (He screams, then starts walking toward the exits, muttering to himself.) It can't be. Can it? Fuck. Stupid Hoffman! Stupid real fake indians!

REYNOLDS bursts out into the daylight of the loading zone. JESUS is standing there, smoking. A taxi pulls up, REYNOLDS get in.

REYNOLDS (to the taxi driver): Orange County Historical Society. Step on it!

The taxi peels off. JESUS tosses her cigarette butt into the street. An airport cop comes up to her.

COP: Did I just see you littering, ma'am?

JESUS: Your mother sucks cocks in hell. (Lights another.) Talk to me when you're kosher. (She blesses him and walks off.)

[Montage here of various contractors falling victim to the airport's nastiness. Fountains of Wayne's Radiation Vibe plays in the background.]

CONTRACTOR #2: The montage starts with the contractor played by Gretzky in the men's room, running one of those colonoscopy scope things down a sink drain. He has an industrial-grade face mask on but he's still wrinkling his nose. Something comes bubbling up out of the drain, brown and mucky. Gretzky tries to yank his scope out but it's stuck. The harder he pulls the more stuck it gets, and he's splashing the muck everywhere. Finally, he gives a powerful pull; the sink comes off the wall and a huge jet of brown muck blasts him, covering his whole head. We hear a sizzling sound, and he starts screaming, dragging the sink and trying to run. He dunks his head in a urinal to clean it off. When he pulls it out, his hair has fallen out.

CONTRACTOR #3: Another contractor in front of an electrical panel, holding a zip drive-looking thing. We see the panel, lots of plugs with labels like "secondary systems", "runway lights", "parking garage bollards". He sticks his zip drive into an outlet labelled "environmental integrity systems"; there is a power surge and he is blown back; sparks are jizzing from the panel; the contractor slides down the wall, face blackened, hair burned off.

CONTRACTOR #4: We see a third contractor down in the basement below the baggage claim. The door to the tepee room has been welded shut and plastered over with caution tape. He follows his tricorder to a wall where there is some sort of greenish brown sludge seeping down. The sludge has partially corroded an old sign reading "Danger, Falling Bag Zone". Someone has snapped a three-inch Schroeder onto the bottom of the sign. He pokes at the sludge with a screwdriver or something, and then pulls out an aerosol can and sprays the sludge down. Just as he finishes, there is a heavy thud from above, and a huge Samsonite comes flying off the belt above him. It strikes him in the upper back and he is sent sprawling into the sludge/aerosol mixture, head first. He moves to stand up, but it seems his head is glued fast to the wall. He struggles for a while and tries to get at his phone, but he fumbles it and it falls just out of his reach. Finally he lets out a tremendous battle cry and shoves against the wall with all his roided-up muscly strength. There is a ripping sound, and he comes away from the wall without his hair. His scalp looks raw and there are bloody welts starting to form.

CONTRACTOR #5: Contractor #5 is inspecting some old service tunnels under the airport. He enters a manhole and climbs down the shaft, ending up in a crawl space filled with pipes and wires and stuff. He sees on his tricorder a message saying, "Gas Leak Detected", and he clicks on the button marked "Trace". He puts on a gas mask and follows the maze of tunnels, until he gets to a large pipe with a crack in it. He pulls out some sort of green putty from his toolbelt and starts kneading it.

CUT to Jesus out on the sidewalk above, finishing another cigarette. She flicks the ash off and then tosses it out into the street, where it falls through some kind of grate. Camera follows the cigarette as it bounces through the access tunnels until it drops right on the head of the contractor dude. There is a small explosion and he is thrown back. When he gets up he is missing his hair and eyebrows.

CONTRACTOR #6: Contractor #6 heads into the main atrium area where the John Wayne statue is located. The place is full of protestors, who are shouting and carrying banners such as, "No JW, YOU stand aside!" and "I'm sorry, are we selfishly hogging your airport?". He takes some readings with various devices, and takes a couple solid samples from various potted plants. Finally, he seems to be getting a very strong reading from the statue, and pushes his way into the crowd. Unable to quite get at it, he announces in his soldier voice that "This area is being scanned for biohazards; please clear the area!" As expected, the crowd becomes hostile and starts booing and throwing food and rubber tomahawks at him. He turns to get security, and someone screams "Enjoy your smallpox, honky cat!" and a blanket is thrown over his head. Security comes and the protestors scatter. The contractor goes back to scanning the statue, but starts scratching at his head. He is getting really important readings, but is distracted as something seems to be biting the crap out of him. He keeps scratching, and then finds a louse crawling across his hand.

CUT TO bathroom, where we see the contractor leaning over the sink with a razor, removing his hair and finding his scalp totally covered in bites.

CONTRACTOR #1: Number one is out in the hangar area where they park all the old abandoned and derelict planes. Over on one side there is a steaming mess where it looks like several large oil drums full of barbeque sauce must have been recently lit on fire. However, he pays it no mind; he's on the track of some serious stank. His tricorder is bleeping like a radar, getting faster and faster as he gets nearer to an old busted-down Branniff L-1011. He pops the hatch, climbing the gangway up into the plane as though leading a SEAL raid; his tricorder starts bleating and we see it reads 57.9 Jones units. He shuts it off and goes down the central aisle, peering under seats and in the seat-back pockets. He finds a packet of peanuts which he starts snacking on. Something rumbles overhead. He draws his Febreeze gun and pops open the overhead compartment. Initially it looks like a shadowy mass, roiling in dim light, until he shines his penlight in there and we see it is full of rats and old, abandoned bottles of Nair from a leftover carryon from 1977. The rats startle, and the whole mess tumbles over. The rusty cans explode, spilling out onto his head. The rats screech and squirm over him and get into his suit, distracting him while the Nair drizzles down from the overhead bin. Number one flails and smacks at his head but the rats are chewing him up and the Nair is sizzling his dome clean. He races down the aisle, knocking open more compartments, from which more rats burst. Finally he is out, tripping and falling down the gangway stairs, crushing a bunch of rats and coming to a stop groaning and crumpled in a pile. A seagull dive-bombs him, pecking at his head, coming away with the last tuft of his hair. The rats run off in all directions. Wearily, he calls for back-up but there is no reply.

Scene 17 (Research, Pubelick library)

Scene opens with the cab pulling to a stop in front of an old Victorian house, from which hangs a shingle reading "Orange County Historical Society". Cut to the interior of the cab, REYNOLDS is patting his jacket pocket, looking for his wallet.

REYNOLDS (groaning): Aw shit. I left my wallet in the office. (He pulls a bunch of crumpled paper from a pocket and unfolds them, smiling.) Hey! Would you take a bunch of coupons for the Chowder Hose?

CAB DRIVER: What? (Thinks about it for a minute) Well, it is my anniversary tomorrow. I guess I could take the old lady out and get her to suck off the ol' chowder pipe. (Reaches back) Sure, pal, you got yourself a deal.

REYNOLDS (elated): Hey! Alright! If you stick around to take me back, I'll comp your second bowl!

CAB DRIVER nods and grunts, then tips his chair back and closes his eyes. REYNOLDS gets out and bounds up the steps and into the Society.

Cut to Society interior. It looks like an old-timey bordello: red velvet and brass, overstuffed chairs and settees, an oil painting of Anaheim in 1870 or something, a faux-Ming vase full of peacock feathers. Behind an ornate wooden counter there is a woman, late middle age, dozing with her mouth open, the Sunday Times crossword open before her on the counter top. It is ADA Wayne (Kathleen Turner), the docent. REYNOLDS steps up to the counter and waits a few moments. ADA gives out a loud snort and continues to sleep. REYNOLDS knocks on the countertop. She gives a louder snort and wakes up, frantic.

ADA (disoriented; her voice is very smoky and sultry): Oh! Goodness. I didn't hear you come in, sir. Please forgive me. (She wipes drool from her lips) The crossword always knocks me for a loop. It was my late husband's idea of foreplay.

REYNOLDS: Ah. Well, no trouble, sorry to interrupt. I was hoping you- (he pauses, looking closely at ADA) I'm sorry, but you look terribly familiar. Have we met?

ADA (tucking her hair behind her ears coquettishly): Well, I daresay you may recognize me from my film career? I used to act in Spaghetti Westerns in Italy in the seventies. Under the name Ricerca di Fagioli?

REYNOLDS (recognizing her): Holy beans! That's right! Wow. I saw you in "The Rusty Wagonwheel" when I was in college!

ADA: Ah yes. One of my favorites. That scene with the water pump and the blind dwarf? Totally improvised! (She sighs happily.) Anyway, how can I assist you today?

REYNOLDS: Well, I'm on a bit of a quest you might say. I'm wondering if you have any sort of information about the area of land where the airport was built? What it was like before.

ADA (deep in thought): The airport? John Wayne?

REYNOLDS: Yes, that's it.

She nods and motions for him to follow her. She leads him down a hallway and into a wood-panelled reading room. There are stacks and stacks of banker's boxes with labels like "Brothel Receipts 1900-1907", "Turd Wrangling Rodeo, photographs/ephemera", "37th Annual Mustache Cup". As they walk, she is talking.

ADA: As I recall, Howard Hughes bought some unused land from the County back in the twenties. But as for what was there before that, I'm not certain.

She goes to one of the stacks and pulls a box labeled "Orange County Land Records 1900-1930"; it is packed full. She hefts it and sets it heavily down on the desk where REYNOLDS has sat. A bunch of dust poofs up.

REYNOLDS (coughing): Oh wow. Uh. Thanks. (pausing, a thought has just occurred to him) Would it be too much trouble to ask for anything you might have about Mr. Wayne himself? I know he lived here for a long time.

ADA: Ah, he did indeed. (She saunters off to find the Wayne material.) He definitely left his mark on the area. (She comes back carrying another box marked "Marion Morrison".) You know, I don't like to brag but, Mr Wayne was a relative of mine. Ada Wayne is my name.

REYNOLDS: No shit? I'm related to Burt Reynolds!

ADA: Wonderful. Well, I'll let you get to work. Can I offer you some refreshments?

REYNOLDS: Oh, please! That would be lovely!

ADA takes her leave and REYNOLDS opens the box of Wayne stuff. We see a bunch of b/w headshots, old papers, press clippings, a small porcelain cup with a weird half-moon shaped bar across the rim, two shrivelled-up fig looking things, and a thumb drive, with a white label attached reading "Copy: JOHN WAYNE COLONOSCOPY/25 JUNE 1978". REYNOLDS quickly snatches it up and holds it up to the light. He peers around, as though making sure he is alone. He quickly grabs his phone and jams the thumb drive into the port, uploading the colonoscopy film. We see the progress bar get stuck at like 97% for an agonizingly long time, as we hear in the background ADA returning. Just as the door opens, the film uploads; REYNOLDS whips the drive out, tosses it back into the box and pockets his phone. He is ostentatiously looking innocent as ADA sets a tray of gingersnaps and Orangina before him.

ADA: There we go. (Eyeing him) Tell me, Mister...what was your name again?

REYNOLDS: Reynolds. Y'know, like Burt. (He tries to edge the Wayne box away with his elbow; he is starting to sweat.)

ADA: Reynolds. Is there something specific you're looking for? Perhaps I can be of assistance? After all, I'm not a docent for my health.

REYNOLDS: Well, to be honest, it's a little...nutty? (Dabs his forehead.)

ADA: I love nuts.

REYNOLDS (filing that away): Um. Yeah. See, my...uh, former employee seems to think that there's some kind of "Indian burial ground" on the site of JWA. He says it's the cause of all the uh....(waves his own comment off.)

ADA: Yes, I've seen the papers. It seems like a real mess. Personally, I fly out of Van Nuys.

REYNOLDS: Van Nuys! That place'll put hair on your back! Anyway, I'm hoping to find out if there's any truth to the idea.

ADA: I don't understand. What does that have to do with John Wayne?

REYNOLDS: NO fucking idea, ma'am! That's why I'm here. (He cracks open the Orangina and takes a huge gulp, burps and tucks into the gingersnaps; then looks at his watch.) In fact, I'd better get to it. I got a meeting with the Fudge man later.

ADA: I also like fudge.

REYNOLDS (nodding): Oh yeah?

ADA smirks and leans in close.

ADA: Ok Mr Burt Reynolds, I'd like to make one thing clear. As a docent, I can't prevent you from accessing any of the public records. But as a member of the Wayne family, I can assure you that we don't look kindly on the besmirchment of our most famous member. So whatever you think it is you're going to find in here (patting the boxes), I strongly advise you to make sure that nothing reflecting poorly on Mr Wayne ever sees the light of day.

REYNOLDS: Uh. Got it. I read you! Loud and clear. Ten-forty!

ADA pats his cheek, then turns and walks out. REYNOLDS takes a deep breath and starts digging into the OC Land records. Time passes; we see him pouring over sheets of deeds and transfers, old photographs. There is one press clipping about a movie being filmed on the old site of the airport back in the silent film days. But nothing anywhere about indians.

REYNOLDS (sighing as he pushes the box away): Nothing. (He stands and stretches) Well, it was a long shot (He quickly devours the rest of the cookies and Orangina; after he's done he takes out his phone and looks at the colonoscopy video.) Well, maybe not a total loss.

Cut to REYNOLDS walking back down the hall to the front desk, where ADA is sitting. She has changed into a silk robe and done up her hair. REYNOLDS likes what he sees.

ADA: Oh, Burt, you startled me. (Laughs throatily) Did you find what you were looking for?

REYNOLDS: Not at all! In fact, I'd go so far as to say it was a waste of both our time! (ADA looks hurt.) To make it up to you, let's say you and I find some nuts and fudge? (He looks at her all awkwardly flirty.)

ADA: Oh, Burt! (She extends her hand and REYNOLDS slides over the countertop; they embrace and make out, sinking to the floor out of sight.)

Cut to REYNOLDS leaving the Society and jogging to the cab, all springy-stepped. He gets in, the CAB DRIVER jolts.

REYNOLDS: JWA, my good man!

CAB DRIVER (yawning): How'd it go in there?

REYNOLDS (fishing out his phone): Pretty messy, all in all.

We see his phone screen. He navigates to the JWA internal site, clicks on the "About Us" link. We see a bunch of shit about who was JW, his career, how he suffered from ass cancer.

REYNOLDS (to himself): Poor guy. Everyone loves an ass-cancer fighter.

He clicks on a link that says "Upload Media" and a pop-up tells him only an administrator can upload to this section. He types in his authorization and uploads the Duke's colonoscopy to the airport site.

REYNOLDS (triumphant): There! That should shut up those protestors! Who's gonna bitch about a man fighting the Big C? Especially the Big C in his Big A?

CAB DRIVER: Beg pardon?

REYNOLDS (thumping the roof with joy): Just drive, man, drive!

Scene ends with the cab merging onto the freeway. The Big A can be seen in the background.

THURSDAY

Scene 18 (Golden Snitch, Airport)

SCENE opens with REYNOLDS meeting with FUDGESON over breakfast at Greg's. They are having breakfast burritos. REYNOLDS has a cup of marinara, while FUDGESON has opted to go for the vegetarian chili.

FUDGESON (dunking his burrito in the chili): Hey, gotta eat healthy, right? (He flips open his briefcase and pulls out a legal pad). OK, down to business. I have to say, I regret giving you a week to turn this place around.

REYNOLDS: Well, yes sir, I know a week isn't really enough time to produce results, but some good has come out of it. Your ultimatum has really kicked us into high gear, and we are finally starting to get to the bottom of things. I know things look pretty bad right now, but when you go to remove a hornet's nest, you are going to kick up a lot of trouble. Yet in the long run-

FUDGESON: No, you misunderstand me. I regret not just firing your ass on Monday. (He pulls a stack of papers out of his briefcase and slaps them down on the table.) Who the hell is Shaw K Herbert?

REYNOLDS: Oh, yes, a freak accident. Actually it was another patron who knocked over the body scanner. I don't think he has a case.

FUDGESON: Well he sure thinks he has a case. 2.1 BILLION dollars? That's a shockingly high number.

REYNOLDS: Well, I've spoken to his lawyer, and I think we can reach an amicable settlement.

FUDGESON reaches into his briefcase and pulls out an even larger stack of papers.

FUDGESON: We're just getting started. Seal team sanitation. Please, god, tell me you have hair insurance.

REYNOLDS: What? What the fuck is hair insurance?

FUDGESON buries his head in his hands for a moment, trying to stifle a sob. He pulls an even larger stack of paper out of his case. Actually it's a stack of stacks of papers.

FUDGESON: The chocolate fountain-

REYNOLDS: Actually sir, I'm already on top of that. Hamilton discovered that the "Take a pilgrimage to JWA" jingle was playing over the loudspeaker at the time, so we have flagged all the YouTube uploads of the event as intellectual property of JWA. We already have taken in 2.3 million dollars in advertising revenue. I was able to afford a top-notch lawyer that wants to pin everything on Orkin. And they are insured up to the eyeballs.

FUDGESON: Wow. (He puts down his burrito). That's...umm...ok, you have until Monday. But don't make me regret this! (He gestures with the breakfast burrito dripping in chili).

HAMILTON enters, dragging along a strange little man (the EXORCIST) by the collar.

HAMILTON: Hey boss, security caught this guy in baggage claim rifling through people's dirty underwear. He says he's working for you.

EXORCIST: Hey, is it my fault if literally everyone owns a black Travelpro?

REYNOLDS turns and sees the EXORCIST. He is a short, but extravagantly dressed man in his mid 50's. He is wearing a white silk suit with paisley tie and pocket napkin. He has a greasy pompadour hairdo and looks something like if David Copperfield's little brother had a bad spray tan and a coke addiction. He is wearing elevator shoes and Ghostbuster cufflinks.

REYNOLDS: Oh yeah, he's the new guy, the medium. Azul N. Spector, right?

EXORCIST: Azúl N. Spector! (pronounces it correctly).

FUDGESON: If he's a medium, what's a small look like?

HMILTON lets go of the EXORCIST and the little dude shakes off as if horrified by the filth of being touched.

HAMILTON: Hey, yeah! I've seen you on T.V. Aren't you the guy with the-

REYNOLDS (Hurriedly interrupting): Ok, come with me, I'll give you the tour. (He turns to FUDGESON). I don't need until Monday, sir, we got this puzzle solved. Just two more hours and John Wayne Airport will be stank free. You'll swear you are smelling Dallas Love Field.

They head out of the food court, where they encounter SINBAD hawking a new free product, "PeePal". There is a fresh banner over his booth reading "Make your own delicious soft drinks." A smaller sign reads, "Environmental product of the year".

SINBAD (holding out a little baggy full of red powder): Good day there sir, now you look like a fellow who likes to recycle.

REYNOLDS: Hey, not today pal, we-

EXORCIST: Thank you very much. (He takes the little baggy and stuffs it in the breast pocket of his jacket. He pats the pocket, then winks at SINBAD and taps the side of his nose.)

SINBAD: Umm, actually-

JESUS arrives.

JESUS: Hey there bad boy, hit me with another packet of your strawberry. I just had a king size Orange Julius.

SINBAD: Strawberry, eh? Sorry, we are fresh out. But we got tons of other flavors here, grape, asparagus, shrimp.

JESUS: What's this one? (She pulls another red packet out of the bin).

SINBAD: Ooh, cinnamon. Damn, I didn't realize we had any of those babies still in there.

JESUS: Well, you don't anymore. Looks like it's my lucky day. I hope Satan likes it spicy!

Camera pans back to REYNOLDS and the EXORCIST, who are suddenly overrun by a swarm of paparazzi and tv news teams.

REPORTER 1: Oh my god, it's him! It's actually him! He's arrived!

REPORTER 2: I can't believe it, folks! The golden snitch!

We follow the swarm past REYNOLDS and to one of the arrivals gates where a few of the teams have just arrived for the World Smear the Queer Championship. We see the Chalk Outlines (who mostly seem to be a bunch of middle age software developers with beer guts), the Rumble Ponies (a variety of dude-bros with backwards baseball hats), and Mommy Smearest (an all-lesbian team). In the middle of the Mommy Smearest group can be seen a single, skinny, somewhat-effeminate male in his mid thirties. This is the Golden SNITCH (Clay Aiken). He is easily recognizable by his tall blonde faux-hawk, which is spray painted gold. Upon his arrival, the reporters seem to be going wild. They are shoving through the other players to get at him.

REPORTER 2: Mr. Snitch, can you confirm the rumors are true that you are playing for the other team now?

REPORTER 3: Yes, what did it take to get the best player in the history of the game to switch sides?

SNITCH: Well, gentlemen, let's just say I was offered a generous package.

Some of the other teams seem to be annoyed by the reporters, and start trying to shove their way out of the crowd and making noise.

CHALK OUTLINE 1: Hey Snitch, how does it feel to be the most overrated player in the history of the game!

RUMBLE PONY 1: Yeah, I bet I could run fast too if I did as much coke as he does.

REPORTER 1 (turning to the other team): Are you accusing the Snitch of doping?

RUMBLE PONY 1: Absolutely. With testosterone. Mommy Smearest's team charter says only lesbians can join. That's a disqualification according to the WSMTQA rules.

SNITCH: Seriously!? What the fuck, Ralph! I'm as much a lesbian as your mom.

One of the Mommy Smearest players (LARGE MARGE) comes to his defense.

LARGE MARGE: Yeah, what the fuck! Who are you to say what's in his pants?

CHALK OUTLINE 2: His?! Hell, even you admit he's not a lesbian!

SNITCH: Whoa, whoa, I'm as lesbian as they come. Hell, I've eaten more pusy than Alf!

RUMBLE PONY 1: I'll eat your pussy, asshole! (he shoves SNITCH hard, and moves to start kicking his ass).

LARGE MARGE: Not if my pussy eats you first!

The rather heavyset Mommy Smearest player grabs Ralph by the neck, throws him down on the ground, and straddles him with her crotch. She begins to give him a proper rumble pony. This seems to incite the crowd to action, and an all-out brawl ensues, with all three teams and the reporters caught up in the free for all.

Scene 19 (Exorcist, Airport)

SCENE opens with REYNOLDS following the EXORCIST around the airport. Azúl is walking up the powered sidewalk with the Amtrak display the wrong way, and moving very slowly. He is chanting in a mystic language, and carrying something that looks like a steampunk geiger counter. Over his left arm he has a little satchel, which he periodically reches into and pulls out some sort of smouldering incense wand, which he waves around, spewing colored smoke here and there. Occasionally passing travelers get a face full of smoke and start coughing. Finally, REYNOLDS has had enough, and taps the little man on the shoulder.

REYNOLDS: Ok, I'm paying you by the hour, so what do you think?

EXORCIST: DO NOT touch the great Azúl when he is gaping wide open to the spirit realm! (REYNOLDS makes a sour face.)

EXORCIST puts his finger up to silence REYNOLDS and stop him in his tracks. As they are paused, they walkway begins to move them all the way back to the far end again. EXORCIST does not put his finger down until they are all the way back at the start. Finally, he speaks.

EXORCIST: This very bad place. Something very wrong happened here.

Then he begins slowly walking back down the walkway the wrong way again. REYNOLDS throws up his hands. Noticing he is starting to sweat, he reaches into his pocket for a cloth, and comes out with the panties from the previous morning. He stares at them for a moment, and then gets out his phone.

CUT to the air traffic control tower. JENNY is sitting at the control panel, headset on, talking to one of the planes. Her feet are propped up on the panel, and she is sipping out of a large Starbucks venti cup.

JENNY: Ok, John, I can get you a gate, but what are you gonna do for me?

PILOT: Uh... land?

JENNY: Where are you gonna land that big plane of yours, John?

PILOT: Um... on your airfield.

JENNY: Ohhh (she moans as if turned on). What are you wearing, John?

A random air traffic employee (CHAD) pokes his head in the door, interrupting her. He is dressed like a pirate or a three musketeer or something. She quickly puts her feet down when she hears the door.

CHAD: Huzzah, mistress Jenny, 'twas but the work of a moment to complete my end of day forms; I shall see you on the morrow, milady. (He winks and bows).

JENNY waits until he closes the door, and then mutters.

JENNY: God, what a fucking creep.

She listens carefully until she hears the elevator whoosh, and then she pulls out a key, pops open a locked filing cabinet, and pulls out an oversized bottle of Tanqueray. She tops off her venti Tom Collins and goes back to the radio.

JENNY: I like a man in a uniform, John. Which runway are you going to land that big ol' Boeing of yours on, John?

PILOT: Umm, where do you want me?

JENNY: Ooh, let's say the back runway today, John. Can you do that for me? (Her phone rings.) Oh, shit, it's Reynolds. Gotta go, John!

She pulls off the headset and picks up her phone.

JENNY: What the hell do you want, Nick? I have a job to do! You know I am up to my welty asscheeks in pilots that want to go down on me here! This better be important!

REYNOLDS (over the phone): Umm, well...uh...just seeing how you are doing. (there is something awkwardly suggestive in his tone).

JENNY: What the FUCK, Nick?

REYNOLDS: See, I knew you'd be mad at me. I'm so sorry, let's just forget it all happened.

JENNY: Wait, who the fuck did you mean to call?

REYNOLDS: God, I knew this would be awkward, that's why I didn't call you until today.

JENNY: Because?

REYNOLDS: Well, um...you know.

JENNY: No, I don't know! Out with it, Nick!

REYNOLDS: I, uh...I found your underwear, Jenny.

JENNY: I'm sorry?

REYNOLDS: I found your underwear. On my desk. Yesterday.

JENNY: Nick, I don't wear underwear.

REYNOLDS: What?

JENNY: Duh.

REYNOLDS: You mean I didn't give you a shiny hiney?

JENNY: A what?

REYNOLDS: Fuck! Really? Shit, who the hell do these belong to then? Ok, gotta go.

He hangs up. JENNY stares at the phone for a minute confused, then puts on her headset, and twirls around on her chair.

JENNY: Ok, John, you still...SHIT!!!!

As she spins around, the cord for her headset catches on her Starbucks cup, and her entire Tom Collins spills out on the console. It starts to spark.

JENNY: FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

Flames start coming up out of the control panel. She grabs a ren faire cloak off the office coat rack and begins to beat at the panel with it. Some weird dice roll out of a hidden pocket and scatter around the room. The cloak gets soaked and starts to smoulder. Outside, we see two airplanes try to land on the same runway at the same time, missing each other by inches. We can hear the sound of airplane horns blaring at each other like a New York traffic jam.

CUT to REYNOLDS. He hangs up his phone. The EXORCIST is impatiently waiting to talk to him.

REYNOLDS: Well, that was awkward. What did you find?

EXORCIST: There are definitely active manifestations here. Some of the strongest I have ever felt. There is some unspeakable power at the core of all this.

REYNOLDS: But you can fix it, right?

EXORCIST stares at REYNOLDS as if he is as thick as a pile of double-stuff two-by-fours.

EXORCIST: Such phenomena are rare, but usually, they have a center, some sort of collective intelligence. I think it is time I took a look at the source. You must have some idea of where it is. It is probably small, claustrophobic, full of strange objects or occurrences, and uncomfortable to dwell in, or even to think about.

REYNOLDS: Yeah, I think I know the place. Down here. (He pops open a side door, revealing a maintenance stairway down.)

CUT TO REYNOLDS unlocking the multiple padlocks and chains that have been screwed into the door to the teepee room.

REYNOLDS: Don't say I didn't warn you.

The door creaks open eerily, and a slight purple cloud puffs out. It sweeps over the EXORCIST's face, and he turns immediately green.

EXORCIST: By the milk of the silver nipples of Iapos!

He staggers a bit, then pinches his nose and covers his mouth. He tries to shake it off, but is suddenly overwhelmed, and proceeds to vomit on the floor, all over his white, elevator chuck taylors. Finally, he gathers himself together, and shuffles into the teepee room.

EXORCIST (looking around): Holy fuck!

REYNOLDS: Yeah, pretty weird, eh?

Azúl reaches into his shirt and pulls out some kind of finger bone on a chain. He starts waving it around. With the other hand, he pulls out the geiger counter device, and begins to take readings. The minute he switches it on, the geiger counter begins to squeak like a mouse at a crack and cheese party.

EXORCIST: The body of God's disciple protects me from you, demon!

REYNOLDS: Oh wow, is that a St. Jerome finger bone? The mother superior at my old grade school used to have three of those. You wouldn't believe what she could do with them. But hey, I thought you didn't believe in that God stuff.

EXORCIST: Shhh! It's not what I believe, it's what the spirit believes. (He pulls out a gold, Swarovski-encrusted spray bottle, and begins to spray holy water everywhere.)

Suddenly the geiger counter slows to a trickle.

REYNOLDS: Whoa. That's all it took? I figured you'd bill me at least a grand.

EXORCIST: No, you fool, the presence is not vanquished; it has merely fled. This is no longer the center of the manifestation. Something has already forced it to move somewhere else. It was merely residual energy that I was able to calm down here.

Azúl begins to poke around the room, and starts lifting some of the old posters on the walls.

EXORCIST: These pipes, where do they go?

CUT to FUDGESON, who is wandering the food court, patting his belly and cleaning his teeth with one of those little dental floss stick things. He is thinking about dessert, and comes across Soft Serve Somebody. He gets in line, and just as he gets there, some random fat guy slides right in in front of him. When he gets up to the register, the guy suddenly realizes he needs to order something, and starts reading the menu board.

BOB DYLAN: Welcome to Bob Dylan's Soft Serve Somebody, where everybody must get coned! What would you like?

FAT GUY: Umm, just a minute... whadda you got? let's see, umm... Just Like a Lemon... Ballad of a Thin Mint... Positively Fudge Street... All Along the Watermelon... I Threw it All Açai... what's açai?

BOB DYLAN: It's like a brazillian blueberry. I can get you a taster spoon.

FAT GUY: Oh, uh, no thanks. Hmmm... John Wesley Cardamom... Visions of Banana... Mr. Tangerine Man.... What's the difference between The Meaty Quince and Quince the Eskimo?

BOB DYLAN: Well, both start with our delicious homemade quince jam folded into our organic slow, churned premium ice cream, which you can try on it's own as our Quince Jam Approximately. But then Quince the Eskimo is deep fried like a baked Alaska, while The Meaty Quince has bacon.

FAT GUY: Right. Noggin on Heaven's Torte?

BOB DYLAN: Ah, one of my biggest hits... well we start with my granddaddy's own secret eggnog recipe, age that for two months, and then slow churn it into ice cream, and then add bits of my grandma's famous flourless chocolate torte.

FAT GUY: Wow... what about One more Bowl of Coffee? Oh, or Clove Slick, I love cloves.

BOB DYLAN: Oh, I'm particularly proud of that one. It's a marriage of the finest hand picked cloves from the Indes, ground in a stone mortar and mixed into our sweet cream and studded with candied garlic cloves.

FAT GUY: Oh, hmm... not sure about the garlic.

FUDGESON is slowly going tornado standing behind the slow guy. Finally, he pushes him to the side and begins ranting.

FUDGESON: For fucks sake!!! Just fucking order already! Some of us have airports to shut down!

BOB DYLAN and the FAT GUY look at him as if he is being incredibly rude. Then the FAT GUY goes back to the counter.

FAT GUY: Green tea, Rosemary, and the Jackfruit Tarts... ooh, that sounds good. I'll take a waffle cone of that.

BOB DYLAN: I also like a waffle cone. One scoop or two?

FAT GUY: Two please, oh, and I forgot, I'm on a diet.

BOB DYLAN: No problemo! (He gestures to a sign by the register that reads "Make Mine a Zero/No Sugar".

FAT GUY: Wow, you can do that?

BOB DYLAN: We can do that. (He moves to start scooping).

FUDGESON decides to give up, but he can't squeeze by the fat guy, and when he turns around, another large family is piled up behind him. He starts trying to undo the cordon from the nearest pylon.

FUDGESON: There must be some kind of way outta here.

FAT GUY: Oh yeah, I'm also a vegan.

BOB DYLAN: No problemo, monsignor! (He gestures to a different sign by the register that reads "It Ain't Meat Babe (vegan alternatives available)".

FAT GUY: Wow! (DYLAN hands him his cone, he takes a few bites). Oh my god, this is amazing.

Finally, FUDGESON gets his chance. He steps up to the counter, cracks his knuckles, pulls out his wallet, and announces in his big boy voice.

FUDGESON: One scoop of your finest vanilla, my good sir.

BOB DYLAN: My what?

FUDGESON: Vanilla! Surely with all these ridiculous flavors you must have some vanilla ice cream back there somewhere.

BOB DYLAN: Well, maybe I could recommend the Salted Leche of the Lowlands, it's basic, but more of a caramel. Oh, there is If You See Her, Say Oreo, that's our bespoke hand picked vanilla with fresh oreo chunks.

FUDGESON: Jesus, Oreo? Are you kidding me?

BOB DYLAN: Well, who's being picky now, sir?

The guy in line behind him is starting to get testy.

RANDOM DAD: Come on you old fart, pick something! I promised my kid a Bob Dylan waffle cone for his birthday, but I'll be damned if I have to spend five more minutes in this stench hole of an airport to get it.

FUDGESON: (to the dad) Ok, ok, just a minute. (to Dylan) What have you got that doesn't have oreos?

BOB DYLAN: Well, if you like cookie dough, Doughin' in the Mint is our top seller. But if you want to be daring, there's also Hibiscus and Wine Revisited. Are you a sorbet guy? What about The Ballad of Fresh Key Lime and Juicy Peach, or Everything is Loganberry? Or I know, Tanqueray, Lime, and Chilis!

FUDGESON: Hey, what happened to vanilla?

RANDOM DAD: Funny, people are gonna be asking "what happened to your face" soon, bub.

He shoves FUDGESON to the side. FUDGESON tries to push back into line, and the much larger man simply body checks him away. FUDGESON slips and falls on his ass. A couple kids in line start laughing at him.

RANDOM DAD: OK Bob, make it quick, a double scoop of Swirl From the Nougat Country and Maggie's Corn.

BOB DYLAN: You got it.

FUDGESON picks himself up, grumbles, brushes off his suit, and then turns and walks away. As he goes he looks over his shoulder and fires off an attempt at a face saving last word.

FUDGESON: God dammit, Bob, why cant a man just fucking get vanilla anymore!?

CUT to REYNOLDS and his EXORCIST. They are just approaching the little B Gates satellite food court area where the chocolate fountain incident occurred. There is still a cordon around the area, and a single orange cone covers the drain pipe where the chocolate fountain used to be. As the approach, the EXORCIST's equipment starts to go haywire.

EXORCIST: There is definitely powerful energy here. I've never seen anything like this. Can you move the cone, please?

REYNOLDS: Umm, yeah, sure. It's not heavy (he moves it, revealing the stub of twisted metal that is left of the standpipe).

EXORCIST: Oh, no, you did not cap it off?

REYNOLDS: Well, our team of crack plumbers had some incidents.

EXORCIST: This is tremendously bad. (He shuts his geiger counter off, and it keeps ticking. He whacks it, and even takes out the battery, and it still is going.) We must evacuate this facility.

REYNOLDS: What's going on?

EXORCIST: The spirit that inhabits this place, it is ancient and powerful. And very malicious. You must have had some kind of mystic here, self trained, but full of raw talent, for someone had it contained in the room below with strong medicine. Tragically, now it has been pushed out, and it has been unleashed fully into your plane. I can feel it here with us. It is trying to speak to me, I dare not let it, for I might lose myself forever. It is so strong...and its name...its name is...

EXORCIST (in a demon voice): JWADOA!

REYNOLDS: Jowadowa? What? Never heard of it.

EXORCIST (back to his own voice, but distracted and no longer reacting to the outside world): No! Go away! I must resist you!

EXORCIST (demon voice): YOU MUST DESTROY THE DOO-!

EXORCIST (own voice): No! Go back, foul demon! Go back to the realms of night!

He pulls a road flare out of his satchel and scrapes it across a bit of sandpaper glued to the bag. It flares up. He starts waving it around and chanting. People around start freaking out and running away, screaming. A few people pull out their phones and start filming.

Cut to REYNOLDS point of view. Suddenly we see strange colors start to blur into the scene. He lifts up his hands and starts starting at them, his fingers grow and shrink in length.

REYNOLDS: Oh fuck, flashback!

As he stares at his hands, in the background of his view we can see an native american brave step into view. He is shirtless, wearing buckskins and beads. He has three different orcas painted on him as if they are swimming through him, one on his face, and two on his chest. This is MULTIPLE ORCAS SWIM. He picks up a chair from the table outside the chocolate shop and carries it over to the EXORCIST. REYNOLDS thinks this is all just a part of his flashback, until he hears people in the crowd yelling.

CROWD: Oh my god, did that chair just move by itself!?

Before REYNOLDS can decide what to do, MULTIPLE ORCAS SWIM climbs up onto the chair, faces away from the EXORCIST, bends over, takes down his buckskins, and lets out a tremendous cheek flapping fart. The road flare ignites the gas from the fart, and it turns into a flamethrower, aimed right at the face of the EXORCIST.

EXORCIST: Aiieeeee!!!!!!

His hair goes up like a roman candle, and his silk suit starts spouting flames. He flails around a bit, catching a rack of newspapers on fire at the nearby Airways shop. This sets off the sprinklers in the shop, drenching the store and soaking the goods and patrons inside. Finally the EXORCIST falls down on the floor and starts rolling around until security comes running over with a fire extinguisher and hoses him down. He looks unpleasantly still.

REYNOLDS: Well that saved me a lot of money.

Scene 20 (Firing the Staff, Reynold's offip)

Scene opens on REYNOLDS, at his desk on the phone. We hear only his side of the conversation; while he is talking, he rolls up one sleeve and starts doodling on the underside of his forearm.

REYNOLDS: Yeah. Just be quick. It's important.

He hangs up with a sigh and groans.

REYNOLDS: Fuuuuuuck. This is gonna suck big balls.

He opens his desk drawer and takes out his bottle of Thunderbird and remembers it is empty. The panties are currently hung around the neck of the bottle. He stuffs them in his pocket awkwardly; they are clearly visible.

REYNOLDS: Shit! (He picks up the phone again and dials) Hoffman! I'm out of Thunderbird again! Next time you're out, go to Ralph's and- (pause) Aw, shit. I did fire you, didn't I? (Pause) Well, since you've got free time, mind running down to Ralph's for some- (he is interrupted by a knock on his door) Fuckballs! I gotta go.

He hangs up. He presses a buzzer on his desk, but nothing happens. Whoever is at the door knocks again. REYNOLDS presses the buzzer again (each time he presses the buzzer we see the light go on and off in the bathroom, which he doesn't notice). The door rattles as the person on the other side tries to jimmy it.

REYNOLDS (exasperated): Jesus Christ! I'm coming.

He gets up to answer the door; just as he reaches it and has his hand on the knob, it flies open. We see JENNY in a karate pose, holding a soda can. The door whacks REYNOLDS in the face.

REYNOLDS: Fucking...damn it, Jenny. I said I was coming.

JENNY: Yeah I always get nervous when a guy says that. Instinct kicked in.

They enter the office; REYNOLDS moving behind his desk massaging his nose, absently grabbing at the panties like a handkerchief to dab at his bruise. JENNY stands before the desk, slurping. She looks closely at the panties, then shakes her head. She holds out the can.

JENNY: LaCroix? It's Pamplemousse.

REYNOLDS (grossed out): Ew. No.

JENNY: Good. Because it's actually Four Loko and Courvoisier. (She chugs.)

REYNOLDS: Jenny! You're drinking on the job?

JENNY rolls her eyes and makes a "duh" face.

JENNY: And you're not?

REYNOLDS quickly knocks the empty bottle of Thunderbird onto the floor where we hear it shatter. He winces.

REYNOLDS: I know we're all under a lot of stress. But-

JENNY (scoffing): Yeah. Stress. (another chug) Working in a haunted ass airport'll give you stress, alright.

REYNOLDS sits up straight.

REYNOLDS: Haunted? I don't know what you-

JENNY: Oh, gimme a break, Nick. This place is cosmically fucked. It's falling apart all around us. Things disappear. People are hearing things. And the fucking smell? You cannot tell me that's a naturally occurring phenomenon. The only way I can even do this job anymore is halfway up the ass of drunk.

REYNOLDS (blinks a couple times): Ok, Jenny. I think the booze is getting to you. Which, incidentally, makes what I have to tell you muuuuuch easier. First off, the airport is not haunted. (At this, a book falls from his shelf; they both look at it, then at each other.) It's an IKEA shelf. I lost a few brackets.

JENNY: Tell me? What are you talking about?

REYNOLDS (sighing): Jenny. Listen. The situation. It's...getting complicated. I have to give Fudgeson somebody, to buy us time to get this shit under control.

JENNY looks stupefied. Just then REYNOLDS' computer bleeps, a notification.

REYNOLDS: Oh, poop. Hang on. (He switches on the computer. On the screen we see a mugshot of a young, tattooed skinhead. At the top of the page we see "Orange County Sex Offender Registry".)

JENNY (peering over his shoulder): Oooh damn, yes. Swipe right!

REYNOLDS: Sweet fucking Fitzpatrick! He's a sex offender, Jenny!

JENNY (shrugging): Ok, Nick. I knew you were single again, but fuck. At least ask out Sharon Cox or something.

REYNOLDS (infuriated): I was doing a background check! (He slams his computer shut; something else falls off the shelf behind them, but they both ignore it. He sighs.) Jenny. Do you understand what I'm saying?

JENNY (rolling her eyes): Blah blah, I'm fired. Right? I'm your sacrifice to the Fudgepacker? Is that it?

REYNOLDS (nodding sadly): That's the long and short of it, Jenny. (She snorts.)

JENNY takes a deep breath and then shrugs.

JENNY (digging into her back pocket): Fuck it. Wanna do some lines?

She produces a baggie of white powder and proceeds to chop up two lines on REYNOLDS' desk. He looks on, mortified and eager. She rolls up a Chowder Hose coupon and snorts her line, then hands it to REYNOLDS.

JENNY: Why the fuck not, Nick? We're getting shut down. This place is cursed. Might as well enjoy some part of it while you can.

REYNOLDS: Jesus, Jenny, how the fuck could you afford coke working in this dump?

JENNY: Are you kidding me? No way I could. This is a bag of powdered ranch I got from Greg's.

REYNOLDS sighs, takes the rolled up coupon and does the line. JENNY comes around the desk and starts kissing him. They make out. Camera pulls back to show two ghost indians standing in front of his bookshelf, a bunch of shit knocked onto the floor. They start jerking off, watching JENNY and REYNOLDS get hot and heavy.

Scene 21 (Peyote, Airport)

Scene opens on REYNOLDS parking his brown Yugo at the edge of the airport middens, next to HOFFMAN's El Camino. We see HOFFMAN sit up in the back, holding a bow and arrow. REYNOLDS gets out of the car, twirling his keys like a six-shooter; he hasn't noticed HOFFMAN.

REYNOLDS (calling): Hoffman? Come on out, now.

CUT to a close up shot of HOFFMAN watching REYNOLDS, aiming down the shaft of the arrow. CUT to his POV showing the arrow which is pointed at REYNOLDS' chest.

HOFFMAN (under his breath): My father married a pure Cherokee, My mother's people were ashamed of me... (he seems to forget the rest of the lyrics and just hums the tune)

REYNOLDS sees him in the back of the El Camino, aiming an arrow at him. He quickly puts his hands up and stammers.

REYNOLDS: Hey, hey now. C'mon, Hoffman. Firing you was nothing personal. Just business.

HOFFMAN (putting the bow and arrow down): You think i"m twisted about that damn job, Reynolds? (spits on the ground) You don't know shit.

REYNOLDS (sighing): I know. That's the problem. I have no idea what the fuck is going on around here. (He kicks at the dirt, then looks up at HOFFMAN.) But I'm starting to think you do.

AIRPORT: Hoooo-weeee, hear that, Starshine? Boss man coming back on his knees.

HOFFMAN (to AIRPORT): Should I tell him to put his hair up?

REYNOLDS: Say what?

HOFFMAN (shakes his head to clear his thoughts): Why'd you come out here, huh? What did you have to tell me? (He reaches into the bed of the El Camino and tosses REYNOLDS a bottle of Thunderbird.) Oh yeah, there wasn't any change.

REYNOLDS fumbles the catch and the bottle shatters against the door of the Yugo. They both just stare at it like it called them bitches. With a sigh, REYNOLDS turns back to HOFFMAN.

REYNOLDS: All that shit you said, about the airport. The burial ground. Is it true?

HOFFMAN (to AIRPORT): Is it true, he asks?

AIRPORT: Well, pilgrim, sometimes it takes a man a few shakes to get all the drops off.

HOFFMAN (patting the front of his cutoffs): Ain't that the truth. (to REYNOLDS) Lemme guess. They're calling you out, getting ready to shut shit down, and you need answers and a way out. (REYNOLDS nods.) Well, ain't that fine?

REYNOLDS: What do you know about... (he fishes in his pocket and pulls out a dry cleaning receipt from Madame Pu's; on it is written) Jawodoa?

AIRPORT chokes.

HOFFMAN (rushing up to REYNOLDS, ripping the paper from his hands and stomping on it, looking around): The hell you doing saying that name out loud?

REYNOLDS (shaken): So you do know it.

AIRPORT: Hoff, I think it's time you levelled with the man.

HOFFMAN (nodding): Reckon so. (He points to the El Camino.) Come on. Get in.

REYNOLDS: Where are we going?

HOFFMAN (opening the door): To the spirit world, motherfucker.

CUT to El Camino interior, HOFFMAN at the wheel, REYNOLDS in the passenger seat. They just sit there.

REYNOLDS: Uh, do you know how to get there?

HOFFMAN: Oh yeah, brother. I know. (He reaches over and punches the glove compartment.) You better buckle up, though. It's quite a trip.

REYNOLDS fastens his seatbelt, while HOFFMAN leans over him, reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a small package wrapped in tinfoil.

REYNOLDS: What's that?

HOFFMAN peers at him, as though trying to gauge whether he's ready.

AIRPORT: Don't pussyfoot around, tiger. Bring him over.

HOFFMAN (nodding): Ok, hombre. (to REYNOLDS) This is the real shit, my man. You'd better watch yourself with this stuff. It's gonna take you places you never imagined.

HOFFMAN unwraps the packet; we see inside what looks like a brownie. He breaks it in half, hands one to REYNOLDS and starts eating the other. He reaches under the seat and pulls out a bottle of YooHoo to wash it down. REYNOLDS just sorta looks at his.

HOFFMAN: C'mon, eat it. It's organic.

REYNOLDS eats the brownie. For a few seconds, they're just sitting there in the car, staring out the windshield.

REYNOLDS: Is something supposed to-

He is interrupted by a blinding light which fills the screen. When it clears, we see HOFFMAN and REYNOLDS standing in a Monument Valley looking landscape, although there are a bunch of dead animals laying around, and some toppled teepees, lots of tree stumps. Both of them are dressed as movie stock characters - REYNOLDS is Roy Rogers-style with a huge fifteen-gallon hat, tight jeans, checked shirt, and a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate; HOFFMAN is wearing assless chaps with no pants underneath and a shag vest over his bare chest, a necklace made of buffalo teeth. He has a lasso slung over one shoulder. His eyepatch has also shifted to the other eye.

REYNOLDS: -happen? (awed) Whoa. (He sniffs the air.) God Christ, it smells awful here!

HOFFMAN (starts walking): Yep.

They walk for a bit, into the shimmering desert.

REYNOLDS: This is the spirit world?

HOFFMAN: No, it's Pacoima, dummy.

Suddenly a figure emerges from the haze, it is our good friend MULTIPLE ORCAS SWIM again. He walks up to HOFFMAN; they bump fists and do some kind of secret handshake thing. HOFFMAN presents REYNOLDS.

HOFFMAN (to ORCAS): Brother, this white man is the chief of the land of the metal birds and their nest. We have come to ask you for help. (He elbows REYNOLDS.)

REYNOLDS (flinching, then bowing): Uh, yeah. Um. (He puts up his hand, palm out.) How. (HOFFMAN punches his shoulder.)

HOFFMAN (hissing): Don't do that.

REYNOLDS: Um. Hello, brave warrior. My compadre here (gestures to HOFFMAN) says that, uh, the land of the uh, metal birds? Was sacred to your people. And, um.

ORCAS (interrupting): My people suffer, moonface. We cannot rest in the land of the long, shiny birds. Our spirits are caught short.

REYNOLDS: Um. Why's that? (He wrinkles his nose; there seems to be a considerable stank coming off ORCAS.)

ORCAS: We can never find peace, while the great muddy waters flow!

In the distance, we hear something that sounds like a building collapsing; kind of a low rumble and glass breaking. The ground shakes a little.

REYNOLDS (looking around): What was that?

HOFFMAN: Things are heating up in the real world!

ORCAS: My people wander and squat, moonface. Nowhere can we bury our mess. We roil inside, and our buds bloom only fire. The land of the shiny birds is our final ditch in which to lay our mortal coils. It must be cleansed, wiped clean. As it is now, my people can do nothing but paint the land with their sickness and woe.

REYNOLDS: Ok that sounds bad. What do I do?

A huge gust of wind blows over them, carrying a wave of trash and dead cats and raccoons and assorted woodland creatures. The smell knocks them back a few paces.

HOFFMAN: God damn it, it's a typoon!

REYNOLDS (shouting over the wind): What do we do? How do I fix it?

ORCAS (he seems to be crying brown tears; the wind is whipping his loincloth around): Destroy the one who did this to us! You must find the real killer, the Doo-

He is interrupted when the carcass of a goat blown by the wind hits the back of his head and knocks him out. REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN book it. All around them, big chunks of teepees and totem poles fly by; a herd of buffalo skeletons runs past; cactus get ripped up out of the ground. They are screaming as the foul wind churns around them.

CUT to REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN screaming, seated in the El Camino, dressed normally. They scream for a stupid amount of time, then stop to look at each other, then start screaming again.

REYNOLDS: That was awful!

AIRPORT: You're telling me, pardner. I gotta live with those guys.

HOFFMAN (muttering): The real killer? The real killer? (pause) Oh shit. Oh goddamn shit! (He chugs more YooHoo.)

REYNOLDS: What? What is it?

HOFFMAN: I gotta go!

HOFFMAN scrambles out of the El Camino, undoing his pants. We see him race across the front of the car through the windshield and stop right in front of REYNOLDS car and squat down. Through the open passenger window, we hear him grunting and some unpleasant squirts.

HOFFMAN (grunting): YooHooooooooo!

REYNOLDS puts his face in his hands and sighs.

REYNOLDS: The Doo? What the hell is the Doo?

Scene 22 (Inspector, Airport)

SCENE starts out at the gate in front of the airport. The protestors are in full swing. Sharon COX is holding a megaphone and whipping up the crowd.

COX: So a few racists are going to miss their plane! Do you know how many indigenous americans can't even afford a plane flight?

The crowd cheers and cars start honking, trying to get the protestors to move. Krys T. HIMMELFART is bouncing around in the crowd, holding up a life sized sex doll customized to look like John Wayne, dressed in a western vest, hat, boots, and frilly panties, bra, stockings, feather boa, and garter belt. Nearby, someone carries a banner that says "Put John Wayne back in the closet of history."

COX: How many airports are named after women!?

RANDOM PROTESTOR: LaGuardia?

COX: Transvestites don't count!

The crowd emits a loud barrage of both boos and cheers. As the chaos continues, the camera zooms in on one scrawny little protestor who has managed to circle about to the inside edge of the crowd. He is wearing a blood soaked Cleveland Indians cap, sunglasses, jeans, and a light jacket, navy blue. He has a backpack and carries a homemade sign reading "I see red, but I won't see Red River!" He is looking around suspiciously as if he wants to make sure nobody is noticing him.

COX: Tell you what! Keep the name! Keep this place named after John Wayne!

Crowd boos and starts to throw their inflatable tomahawks.

COX: But turn this into a school. An anti-racism school! The John Wayne school for combatting racism!

This gets the crowd excited again, and the little man makes his move, he breaks away from the crowd and heads towards the airport main entrance. He tosses away his hat and stashes his sign behind a bush. We see now it is Peter TUCKER, the professional airport inspector and master of disguise. He slips into the airport and makes his way into a bathroom stall. He takes off his backpack and zips it open. He pulls out a device that looks like a stack of dynamite with an alarm clock and a cell phone wired to it. From underneath it, he pulls out a toga. He stashes the bomb back in the bag. Then he removes his clothes and puts on the toga, stashing the clothes into the bag to hide the bomb. Next, he remembers his phone, and reaches into his bag, pulls out his pants, gets his phone, and then puts the pants back in the bag.

He pops open the phone and sends a cryptic message to "W. Fudgeson", reading "The pearl is at midstream." After a moment, a text comes back: "I'm getting a facial now." From a nearby stall can be heard some loud moaning and slurping sounds. After another few seconds, another text comes: "Fuck, now I'm hungry. Meet me at the Chowder Hose. Remember the plan."

CUT to TUCKER standing in the TSA line with his backpack. He is wearing the toga with some roman sandals and a laurel wreath in his hair. As he is waiting in line, the agents start to notice him, and give him some weird looks. The line is moving slowly as one of the agents has left her post. She comes back and whispers in the ears of the other ones. We see TUCKER has some sort of special high-powered hearing aid that can zero in on their whispers. From his POV we hear the TSA agent speak.

TSA Agent: (whispering) Word from out front is that Pizorney and VanNuffel just checked in for a flight to Chippewa Falls. Let's show those ass clowns some special attention.

The other agents nod and smile. When TUCKER gets to the front of the line he hands his bag to the agent who sets it on the belt.

TSA Agent: Are there any electronics in your bag, sir?

TUCKER: Oh no, no. Oh, I get that look all the time. It's the toga. Yeah, I figure at my age, why not just wear a toga everywhere? Then everywhere you go is basically a toga party. Plus, no constriction! Watch this! Opa!

He does a little kick and a stomp. All the agents are staring at him as his bag slides unnoticed through the scanner. Before he can step through the body scanner though, two impeccably dressed italian looking guys in suits come running up and push in front of him. These are PZORNI and FNUFFLE.

PZORNI: Sorry, sorry, guys, we are about to miss our flight.

FNUFFLE: Coming through! (He throws his leather Tumi on the belt and runs through the scanner, it beeps loudly. The agents pull them aside.) Don't worry, we are probably more important than you.

TSA Agent: Sorry sirs, we are going to need you to come with us. Get up against the wall. (They press a button, and a "please wait" sign begins flashing on the scanner. TUCKER is trapped on the other side.)

All the agents come over and start forcing PZORNI and FNUFFLE to strip in front of everyone.

PZORNI: What is going on, This is an outrage! You're going to hear from my lawyer, Fnuffle!

FNUFFLE: As his lawyer, I demand an immediate cease to this deliberate violation of my client's constitutional rights!

TSA Agent: Ok, nutbreath, bend over.

As FNUFFLE and PZORNI struggle with TSA, Jeff PIZORNEY and Greg VAN NUFFLE come walking back from the direction of the food court.

VAN NUFFLE: Dammit, I must have left my bag on the belt. Sorry about that.

PIZORNEY: Did you pay for the chowder? I can't believe how powerful that hose was!

VAN NUFFLE: I thought you did?

PIZORNEY: Oh shit. Are we gonna have to clean out the hose?

VAN NUFFLE: Don't worry, I'll email him a voucher for some free sandwiches. Oh, thank god, there it is!

We see there are now two nearly identical black backpacks sitting on the belt. As VAN NUFFLE approaches to grab his, FNUFFLE drops his passport, and one of the female TSA agents bends over to pick it up. She is not wearing underwear, and we can see her ass is very smooth and shiny. The glint from it hits VAN NUFFLE right in the eyes, and he squints and covers his face as he grabs for his bag. He of course grabs the bomb. As he does this, PIZORNEY recognises their old nemeses and waves...with his middle finger (on which is perched a stuffed seagull).

PIZORNEY: Hi guys! Good to see you again! Greetings from Hawaii, you squonks!

VAN NUFFLE puts on the backpack with the bomb in it and the two turn and head back towards the food court.

VAN NUFFLE: Leinie lodge, here we come!

PIZORNEY: Oh man, I can't wait for that hoagie bar! (He sniffs the air a minute). God dammit, did you eat clams and poutine again?

VAN NUFFLE: That wasn't me.

PIZORNEY: Shit, I don't know why you bother selling your sauces here. People can just dip their sandwiches in the airport.

They walk off.

CUT to the chowder hose. Peter TUCKER is sitting alone. He is dressed in Greg VAN NUFFLE's clothes (filthy black jeans, flannel shirt, and a worn out "The Church" tee shirt) and looking very unsettled. He is nervously looking over the menu. GLEWIS approaches.

GLEWIS: Back for mo', foo? Or you here to pay the piper?

TUCKER: Hmm, what? Oh, no, I have never been here before. What do you recommend?

GLEWIS (eyeing him suspiciously): Well, I say when you don't know what you want it's time for a hit from the chowder hose.

TUCKER: Oh?

GLEWIS: You want to drink from the chowder hose, pal? (He makes the chowder hose arm gesture).

TUCKER: Hmm, weel, the famous chowder hose. Ok, what the hell. Let's do it. (He smiles broadly.)

GLEWIS chuckles and walks off. TUCKER goes to grab his review tablet, forgetting he has the wrong bag. He ends up pulling out a plastic bag filled with a large amount of a suspicious white powder. He startles and stuffs it back in the bag.

We see GLEWIS over by the chowder hose; he pops open a panel and we see there is a switch there, currently set to "paying customers"; he switches it to "non-paying customers". He reels out the hose and drags it over to TUCKER's table.

GLEWIS: Open up, sucka! It's time to meet the man.

Tucker looks up and sees the hose. He is a bit surprised, but figures this is all part of the act. He laughs nervously, and tips his head back, opening his mouth wide.

GLEWIS puts the hose in front of TUCKER's open mouth and pulls the handle. As if from a fire hydrant, a massive gout of steaming hot white chowder explodes from the hose. The recoil knocks GLEWIS back a bit as the chowder instantly fills TUCKER's mouth and drowns his face. But the chowder does not stop; it keeps coming, and the force of it blasts TUCKER backwards, tipping over his chair, sending him flying, and slamming him to the floor. GLEWIS stands there with the hose for a moment, totally battering TUCKER with chowder before the pressure starts to drop a bit and he shuts it off.

GLEWIS: On the house.

Scene 23 (The Real John Wayne, Sharon Cox's pp)

SCENE opens on REYNOLDS standing outside a rather expensive looking house in Newport Beach. Behind it, we can see masts rising up from a marina, and the sounds of gulls and waves fill the air. REYNOLDS double checks his phone and then cranes his torso around to look for an address, then he checks his phone again. Finally satisfied, he moves to knock on the door, then thinks better of it, and walks back to his car. Then he thinks better of thinking better of it, and walks back to the door again. He moves to knock on it and the freezes up, just standing there. Finally, the door opens, and Sharon COX is standing there. She is barefoot, holding a mojito, and wearing a jogging skirt and an organic Inspi(RED) tee shirt.

COX: Can I help you? Look, I already belong to CalPIRG, if you-

REYNOLDS: I know you hate me, but don't hate me!

COX: What?

REYNOLDS: I need your help.

COX: (She puts on her glasses which are clipped to her shirt.) Oh my god, what the FUCK! (She slams the door.)

REYNOLDS actually knocks this time.

REYNOLDS (yelling): Sharon, open the door, I'm serious!

COX opens the door again. She is holding a tennis racket as if it is some kind of a weapon.

COX: What did you call me?

RENOLDS: Sharon?

COX: I don't think I have ever heard that word pass your lips before. You must really be in trouble. (She pokes her head outside and looks around as if to see if anyone is watching, then she waves him inside.)

REYNOLDS nervously slips in and COX quickly shuts the door behind him.

COX: Jesus, Nick, you look terrible. Here, have a mojito. (She hands him her mojito and then saunters off to the kitchen to make herself another.)

REYNOLDS looks at the lipstick-stained mojito as if it is poison, then cautiously takes a sip. When it occurs to him it's probably the best thing he's had all week, he seems to relax a bit and start drinking it. He looks around the house. It is impeccably decorated, and by someone with obvious taste and money. There is lots of Hollywood memorabilia and framed movie posters in museum glass, lots of women directors and such: A League of Their Own, Boys Don't Cry, Thelma and Louise, The Babadook, etc. What stands out is an original 1947 framed poster for Angel and the Badman over the mantelpiece in the living room. REYNOLDS walks over to it and pokes at it as if he isn't sure it's real. COX comes out from the kitchen with her new mojito and watches him.

COX: They're all real. (She puts one leg up on an ottoman and stretches it out.)

REYNOLDS (pointing to the picture of John Wayne): This guy again...why is he here?

COX: That's what I've been asking you for the last five years.

REYNOLDS: Hey, why blame me? You know the airport was already named before I got there.

COX (sighing): Who am I supposed to blame? Racism has been around for thousands of years, and I'm not sitting around waiting for my grandpa to fix it.

REYNOLDS (staring at her blankly): Huh?

COX: See, this is exactly your problem. You deal with this mess every day and you don't even know who he is.

REYNOLDS: Who? Your grandpa?

COX: No! JOHN WAYNE! Who the fuck is John Wayne?

REYNOLDS: Why ask me? I thought you knew.

COX: Maybe. Humor me, Nick. Who do you think he is?

REYNOLDS: He's some kind of old timey actor. He did a lot of those cowboy movies back in the day. I think he used to live around he-

COX: So you don't know.

REYNOLDS: Did I get it wrong?

COX: John Wayne, my friend, (she claps him on the shoulder) is the spirit of America. Or at least the spirit of the old America, where men were men, and women helpless, and people with skin tones were slaves or savages. The America that never was. The America the patriarchy wants it to be again. The America that needs to die. Think of John Wayne as like the superman of old, balding dudes with beer bellies and viagra addictions.

REYNOLDS: The patriarchy, eh? Isn't that one of those conspiracy theories we aren't supposed to believe in?

COX: You aren't not supposed to believe in it if it's true. But think of it less as a conspiracy and more as shorthand for the small minority of people who hold the majority of the money and power in this world.

REYNOLDS: Money and power, eh? You know, I think I did see one of those old John Wayne movies back when I was a kid, and he didn't have any money or power; he was just an old drunk with a shitty cabin. And I really only remember him shooting white people.

COX: Ah yeah, well that's the brilliance of it. Our man JW is not a symbol of the patriarchy, he's their myth. The myth that the average fat guy with a combover can be a hero if he just takes charge of his life and takes action. And that action usually involves shooting somebody. Like you know, prevent that wetback from crossing the border and taking your job, prevent that black kid in the hoodie from getting his skittles home, protect your local polling center from commies. That's the thing about a minority rule, they can't do the work themselves, so they need some way to get others to do it for them. People like you.

REYNOLDS: Hmm. Well, I'm not so sure they can count on me anymore.

COX: Really? (She takes his empty glass and hands a fresh mojito.) Tell me more.

REYNOLDS: Well, I don't know where to start. I think the airport is haunted.

COX: Haunted? Has anyone ever died there? For all your faults, you guys have one of the best safety records in the lower 48.

REYNOLDS: No, not the usual vanilla kind of dead people haunting. This is something far weirder. I can't explain it. Well, you must have noticed the smell.

COX: The JWA stank? I heard it was tar pits. Do you have giant sabre tooth tiger ghosts? Fuck, it is like Night at the Museum there at night? I actually managed the gaffing for that you know.

REYNOLDS: Umm, no...or yes. There's no tar pits. It's a mystic stank.

COX: Is it? (She turns on the couch and puts one of her legs over his lap. Her skirt hikes up a bit. The look on his face shows he smells something.)

REYNOLDS: Yeah.... (he loosens his collar) It's coming from some kind of spirit world place, and there are lots of dead buffalo there, and crazy fake indians with intestinal problems, and some kind of ancient demon god who calls himself Jowadoa.

As he says the name, the entire house shakes and groans. REYNOLDS shrieks and looks as if he is about to shit his pants.

COX: Don't mind that, it's just the wake hitting us from one of those god damn cruise ships. Your capitalist masters hard at work.

REYNOLDS (collecting himself): I don't know, maybe I'm just going crazy. It's just the stress you know, with the divorce and all, and Fudgeson, and all these crazy problems, and the protests, and...and...maybe I shouldn't be drinking this. (He puts his drink down). I snorted ranch powder this morning.

COX: Hey, (she shrugs) it's legal.

REYNOLDS: Well, so is capitalism, right?

COX (putting her hand on his leg): God dammit Nick, I think you just gave me a boner.

REYNOLDS: What? (He panics and gets up and pushes her away). No this is wrong.

COX: Is it? Wrong is two plus two equals five, or white pants after labor day. No, most things in life aren't right or wrong, they just are.

REYNOLDS seems torn. He looks at the door, then the mohito, then the couch.

COX: I have an idea, Nick. I think you need to wind down a bit. How 'bout we kick back, relax, watch an old movie? I got a stack of old John Wayne DVDs back there in the den (she gestures). Call it research. You want to solve your problem, maybe you need a little perspective on your problem?

REYNOLDS (reluctantly): Well, ok. Sure. What the heck.

COX: Oh, but no way are you wearing those JWA stanky clothes in my loveseat.

CUT to the den. There is an ocean view looking out to the back of the house where a large sailboat is moored. COX is putting in a DVD. REYNOLDS is sitting on a very stylish and comfy looking couch in a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top. He now holds a large glass of red wine. He's got his feet resting on some kind of sharper image foot massager bath device or something. He seems to be loosening up a bit. The movie starts and COX slips back onto the couch. They snuggle awkwardly a bit under an alpaca blanket.

We watch REYNOLDS face as he watches the movie.

MOVIE: Good evening Ethan, this is colonel Dixon. How do you do, Major? Well, I just marched up from Mud Gulch, and it's mighty dry down there. (Chuckling.) Now Ethan, you wouldn't know anything about a stagecoach being robbed now, would you? Aw, dammit, Major, you know that wasn't me. (Sound of a man flipping a coin habitually.) Well, they say a man made off with a shiny gold dollar coin. (Sound of a man stuffing a coin in his pocket.) Well, Major, a man's gotta make a wage somehow out here. (Sound of a boy rushing in.) Major sir, urgent news from Colonel Suckling, sir. Dammit boy, haven't you forgotten to take off your hat?

REYNOLDS: This is a movie? Where are all the special effects? It's all just a bunch of grimy old white dudes talking.

COX: Are you not entertained? (She slides her hand down under the blanket.)

REYNOLDS (moans): Now there are some special effects. (He puts down the wine and kisses her neck.)

As the movie drones on in the background, the two of them start getting hot and heavy. The film is soon ignored.

CUT to the bedroom doorway. We see REYNOLDS stumbling out, wearing a silk kimono a few sizes too small. He is covered in lipstick kisses. He heads to the bathroom, where he proceeds to drain the lizard. As he pees, he hears the movie still going. He realizes they must have left the DVD on.

MOVIE: Ethan, take cover, the Comanches are comin'! I ain't afraid of no injuns, old man.

He stumbles into the den to shut off the movie. As he reaches for the remote, his hand holds up a bit as it appears there is finally an action scene about to take place.

Camera CUTS to the TV screen, where we see the movie now. We see JOHN WAYNE at the bank of a river with about four other old white dudes. They are all holding rifles and pistols and shotguns and stuff. They are crouched behind a flimsy, dry log, all except for JOHN WAYNE, who stands proudly behind the log. The movie pans to the other side of the river, where we can see about a hundred well-armed, mounted indian braves in full battle regalia on horseback. They are charging across the river. War whoops and battle cries are raised. The indians have rifles, and start shooting at JOHN WAYNE and his buddies as they charge them. Switch back to the white guys, who seem to be completely protected from bullets and arrows by the flimsy log. One guy's hat flies off. Then the white dudes all raise their guns and start shooting. Long scene of them all just standing there and shooting, then another long scene of all the indian warriors dying and falling off their horses and landing in the river, which is turning red with blood. In the end, about twenty warriors end up turning around and fleeing back across the river. JOHN WAYNE shoots about three of them in the back before one of his friends stops him, bemoaning "Give 'em a chance to bury their dead".

REYNOLDS: Holy shit.

REYNOLDS picks up the remote and rewinds the DVD a bit. He plays the scene of the indians dying again, but pauses here and there. In the first frame, we see a brave with a large eagle painted on his face, wings spread wide. The next we see a brave with a large, black hawk painted on. Then we see one with battle paint that looks like a squatting dog, and then finally....

REYNOLDS: Got you!

The movie is frozen on a frame showing an indian with three orcas painted on his skin, one on his face and two on his body.

REYNOLDS: Holy shit.

He runs out to the living room and starts gathering up his clothes.

COX (stumbling in, looking pretty torn-up): What are you doing? Are you leaving? I was just going to try this trick I read about in Cosmo.

REYNOLDS (hurriedly): I'd love to, but I can't. I gotta go. The spirit world told me what I needed to do, and I did it. And now I gotta...actually I don't have a fuck what I gotta do, but I gotta do something. I gotta step up and take action, take charge of my life and my fate. This airport needs a hero, but I need to think first. You wanna drive to Big Bear with me?

COX: At this hour? Are you fucking kidding?

REYNOLDS: Didn't think so. (He kisses her.) Gotta go! Call me! (He runs out and slams the door.)

COX: (Holding up a little baggie of white powder.) Hey! You left your salad dressing!

FRIDAY

Scene 24 (Kill the Statue, Airport)

Scene open on HOFFMAN and REYNOLDS standing beside HOFFMAN's El Camino out in the middens. They are passing a joint back and forth as planes fly low overhead.

REYNOLDS: You heard the Orca guy. We have to find the real killer. (Takes a long drag) And I think I know who it is.

HOFFMAN: I swear to god, if you say Robert Blake I'm gonna-

REYNOLDS (no indication he heard HOFFMAN): It's Wayne.

HOFFMAN: The contractor?

REYNOLDS: What? No, the guy. The actor. John Wayne?

HOFFMAN (nodding): Makes sense. I guess?

REYNOLDS: Of course it does. He's this stupid American icon, or whatever Pocahontas called him. He spent a career blowing away indians and embodied the whole American ethos of Fuck You, I Got Mine. Stole all this land (gesturing around), killed all the animals, cut down all the trees, poisoned the water, the soil; killed or deported anyone who was in the way. He's the patron saint of everyone who wants you to get off their lawn, is how she made it sound.

HOFFMAN: Sounds like a real dick. No wonder we have protestors.

REYNOLDS: Anyway. I'm pretty sure he's behind all this...shit around here. (He tokes.) We gotta take him down, Hoff.

HOFFMAN: Way ahead of you, man (pocketing his phone). Humdinger says he died in 1979. We did it!

REYNOLDS (stares): Hey! Pay attention! Did we not travel to a spirit realm? This thing transcends the kingdoms of life and death! It's a vast, extraplanar, extratemporal anomaly!

HOFFMAN (exasperated): Motherfucker, that's what I been tryin' to tell you! (He shakes his head in disappointment.) Fool. (Takes the joint and bogarts it.) Well, so you got a plan, huh?

REYNOLDS (looking back at the El Camino): Yeah but it's probably gonna scratch the paint on this bad boy.

HOFFMAN: What? Bernice? Hell no! In that case, let's use my work car.

CUT to HOFFMAN opening the door to a shed. Inside is a white Ford Bronco. REYNOLDS stares at it, then at him.

CUT to REYNOLDS standing in an orange vest and yellow hard hat and a pair of old cutoffs looking like the Village People construction worker. We pull back to see him in the airport atrium, standing with arms on his hips, beside the statue of John Wayne, which has been roped off by yellow tape. There are construction guys all over, a scaffolding, lots of bustle. REYNOLDS pulls out a walkie-talkie and starts talkie-ing.

REYNOLDS: Ok, it's just like I said. All these construction guys are the perfect cover. The main doors are opened for heavy traffic. Did you get the rebar?

HOFFMAN (through the walkie-talkie): fdfkjaskldjgf kljkgfjd gjgjjgjgfg ddddldfgjdlsdjoij

REYNOLDS: You're breaking up but I'm gonna assume you've got it under control. Mama Bear out.

REYNOLDS pockets the walkie-talkie and starts walking around the site, whistling "Get Along Home, Cindy". One of the workers calls down.

WORKER: Hey, Flashdance, watch where you're prancing!

REYNOLDS (angry): Don't make me talk to your shop steward!

In the background we hear, from a distance but getting closer fast, the sound of a motor. REYNOLDS is the only one who seems to notice.

REYNOLDS (to himself): Sweet fudging Zuul, here he comes!

REYNOLDS moves to the side and the camera pans past the statue toward the open doors, where we see the white Ford Bronco tear into view, a load of rebar sticking out the back. It barrels into the atrium, stops, pops into reverse and floors it. The back of the Bronco makes contact with the base of the statue, which comes off the floor; the rebar shoots out and several rods of it are embedded in the statue; a jug labelled "Holy Water" tumbles out.

AIRPORT: God damn it, you buffalo-jerking Kickapoo!

The statue groans and starts to tip. REYNOLDS, feigning outrage, hauls HOFFMAN out of the Bronco.

REYNOLDS: You lunatic! You destroyed the statue of our beloved leader!

The statue teeters.

AIRPORT: Don't make me come down there, you lily-livered tentflapper!

HOFFMAN: I- I dunno what happened, sir, honest! The clutch must have stuck or, or...I just don't know!

AIRPORT: Ow! These goddamned rods are like getting the clap in your shins!

REYNOLDS: Watch it! He's coming down!

The statue topples over, the Duke's head landing just at their feet.

AIRPORT: You squaw-licking fuck pony! You pox-filled spunk nugget! You rat-bastard, coyote-felching milk burglar! (screams incoherently) I'll tear you limb from cunt! (It babbles on for awhile.)

HOFFMAN (wincing): Oh, he's mad.

REYNOLDS: Quick, get the chain.

HOFFMAN grabs a length of chain from the back of the Bronco, while REYNOLDS starts talking to the crowd in that weird, over-loud, nothing-to-see-here voice of the obvious conspirator.

REYNOLDS: Ok, well, I think we've got this under control. We'll just get Mr Wayne up and off to get patched up and he'll be back in no time!

The workers all stand around as REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN chain up the statue to the back of the Bronco, REYNOLDS commandeering a forklift. Finally, HOFFMAN drives off, half the statue sticking out the back.

AIRPORT: You yellow-bellied corn churner, I'm gonna cut off your nuts and feed em to your asshole! (It keeps on ranting, but it fades away as the Bronco disappears.)

CUT to REYNOLDS standing by the gaping crack in the ground where the statue was. A breeze blows through the atrium. He inhales, gasps, chokes, but then smiles and nods.

REYNOLDS: Heeeeey! Not bad! (to WORKER) Hey, smell this!

WORKER shakes his head and wanders off. REYNOLDS looks around and sees all the construction guys are just sort of staring at him. He pulls himself together and claps his hands once.

REYNOLDS: Back to work!

The crew disperses. REYNOLDS leans over the hole in the ground and inhales deeply.

REYNOLDS: Ahhhh, best hole I've smelled all week!

Scene 25 (Breath of Fresh Hair, Airport)

It is a beautiful, sunny day at John Wayne Airport. The skies have cleared overhead, and planes are landing and taking off smoothly on the runways. The mysterious smell that has haunted the place for so long seems to have lifted. We see Nick REYNOLDS out strolling around outside by the drop-off zone. He is smiling, taking deep breaths, and saying "Ahhh" a lot. He is back in his managerial suit, and he looks good. Even his posture has improved. As he strolls, he greets a few arriving passengers with a nod, a wave, and a "how do you do today".

A bus pulls up covered in streamers and banners, and the Mommy Smearest STQ team piles out of it in jubilation. Atop their shoulder they carry the Golden Snitch, who holds the fabled Flat Stanley Cup held high. REYNOLDS greets them, and they toss him a bottle of champagne, which he shakes up and pops open all over them. As they pass inside, he pats a few of the big dykes on the rumps. He considers for a moment polishing off the champagne, but instead decides to give it away. Jesus approaches.

JESUS: You looking for someone to turn that wine into water for you?

REYNOLDS: I was more thinking it should go to the poor and needy.

JESUS: Well nuts, I don't even own underwear. Not that I need them. I guess that makes me poor and not needy. Not good enough in your book, eh?

REYNOLDS thinks of a better solution and drops the bottle in a trash barrel and walks away. In the background we see JESUS fighting off a couple of panhandlers to get into the barrel.

Finally, a cabulance pulls up, and REYNOLDS opens the door. We see SHAW K Herbert in a little wheelchair scooter. Most of his body is in bandages, his hair is sticking out in all directions, and he has a neck brace and a little drool cup. But he is happy to see REYNOLDS and waves a little awkward shocker in his direction. REYNOLDS gives him the spock in return. SHAW K's eyes widen at the one upmanship. A little motor whirrs and the wheelchair begins to slide out from the cabulance on a little extending ramp. A middle-aged man in an impeccable white business suit and CEO hair comes around from the other side of the cab and takes control of the wheelchair, getting it out onto the street. He pays the cabbie and the van drives off. Then he turns to REYNOLDS.

LAWYER: Nick Reynolds, I presume? I'm Lance Handler, from the law firm of Underwood Handler.

REYNOLDS: Glad you could make it today, Lenny, it's a beautiful day.

LAWYER: It sure is. Well, let's go inside and sign these documents and make it even more beautifuller. (waves a stack of papers).

REYNOLDS: I don't think you can say "More beautifuller", Lancey boy.

LAWYER: Well, I just did! So sue me! (He slaps his knee and laughs at his brilliant lawyer joke).

They stroll inside, with SHAW K following along on his scooter. They are joined by JOE FRANK and HAMILTON, who are carrying a camera and a cake, respectively. On the cake there is a picture of a plane flying in a lightning storm. They stop up at the security line just as the smear the queer players are clearing the scanners. The camera, instead of waiting, follows the players down the hall to the food court.

SNITCH: Nothing says celebration like a hose full of chowder!

The team cheers and carries him onwards. As they get to the maître d' desk for the Hose, they arrive at almost exactly the same time as Peter TUCKER, who appears to be back for more. His face is blotchy, and his lips are covered with burn sores.

SNITCH: You first, my good sir. You have the look of a true chowder hound about you.

TUCKER: I'm literally burning for more, my friend. It took me almost a lifetime to find my true calling, but I can wait another moment longer. It appears that today is your day. (He gestures to the Flat Stanley cup).

SNITCH: Tell you what, friend. How about a friendly challenge between like minded enthusiasts. Nobody can guzzle clams at high velocity like yours truly, but I have a feeling I'd like to see you try.

TUCKER: It's a deal, pal, loser pays the cleaning bill.

SNITCH: Oh, damn, it's on! I hope you are up for a challenge; I've been taking facefuls of chowder since I was knee-high to a muskrat, mister.

GLEWIS approaches, and squints at TUCKER.

GLEWIS: Back for more, eh? Told you I shot the best creamed clam sauce this side of the Grand Tetons. Sorry about last time; that sandwich guy settled things up. But who can blame me, you honkeys all look alike to me. (He glances at the SNITCH.) Except for this guy, he looks like he knows his way around a hose. I pity the fool who don't want me to fill up his victory cup for his friends.

SNITCH turns the cup sideways and GLEWIS sees that it is indeed totally flat.

LARGE MARGE: Screw protection, man, we're here to drink from the hose. (She makes the chowder hose arm gesture. We see GLEWIS' eyes widen with a sudden surge of amorousness.)

The team pushes their way into the restaurant and GLEWIS shuts the door and flips on a "Closed, private party" sign. Through the door, we hear the splattering of chowder on soft body parts and loud cheers and jubilation.

CUT to a random conference room somewhere in the bowels of the airport. SHAW K, LAWYER, REYNOLDS, and HAMILTON are seated around a table. They are signing a stack of papers, and JOE FRANK is taking pictures. The cake is in the center of the table. Two old metal ceiling fans churn away overhead.

JOE FRANK (holding his hand up to an air vent): I gotta hand it to you boss, how the hell did you manage to get the air conditioner working again? This thing hasn't been on in years. (He sniffs the vent). Weirdest thing, you think it would be pumping out stale air, but this smells like Disneyland on a payday.

REYNOLDS: Turns out it wasn't a mechanical problem after all, but a metaphysical one. (He smiles, and hands a signed paper over to SHAW K.) Well, kid, it's all done. I'm so glad we could be a part of your journey. You know sometimes things happen for a reason, and sometimes that reason isn't always clear to us at the time, but I do believe that the good lord puts us where we need to go in the long run.

LAWYER: I believe my client has a few words to say before we cut the cake.

SHAW K: Thank you, Lance. As you said, Nick, things happen for a reason, and a few weeks ago, even with my lottery winnings, I didn't see how I would be able to afford to complete my life's mission to bring back the Shocker to every nook and cranny of the world, but now... with FREE FIRST CLASS AIR TRAVEL FOR LIFE, that dream has become a reality. And I'm so glad you all could be a part of it.

THEY all gather around SHAW K's wheelchair for a photo op, with SHAW K holding the legal deal up with the ring finger of a shocker, and HAMILTON holding the cake slicer. Just as JOE FRANK is about to click the photo, there is a rumbling, and the room begins to shake.

REYNOLDS: Oh god, earthquake!

He moves to get under the table, and everyone just looks at him like he is insane.

JOE FRANK: What are you doing, Nick?

REYNOLDS (getting up from under the table): What, doesn't anyone else feel that?

HAMILTON: Feel what?

REYNOLDS (putting his ear to the ground): I can hear at least eight horses, no shoes, probably native. They are coming this way.

JOE FRANK: Oh oh, i think he's having a stroke from sudden lack of stress. Anybody know CPR?

HAMILTON: Boss, boss, can you lift your arms up?

CUT to REYNOLDS POV. The room is still shaking as if a group of mounted warriors is approaching fast. Suddenly, an indian brave on a horse comes charging through the wall. He has a tattoo over his face of an eagle with wings spread out wide. He gallops over the table, and as he passes, he reaches out with a decorated, feathered stick, and taps the axle of one of the old ceiling fans. It makes a horrible sound and comes tearing off from the ceiling, still spinning, and striking the LAWYER in the top of the head. Blood spatters across the camera and we switch back to the normal 4th wall view.

REYNOLDS is kneeling on the floor, peeking out at the scene through his fingers which are held up to protect his face. The LAWYER is holding his head and screaming. His expensive white suit is red with blood. JOE FRANK and HAMILTON are frozen with shock, both spattered with a large amount of blood. SHAW K is also shocked, sitting frozen with his mouth open and the now-red, signed contract still held up in his shocker finger. Without thinking, he twitches, and the contract falls, the white pages fluttering out and landing all over the room, where they slowly soak up the blood. Suddenly there is a horrible sound as if someone threw a wrench into a garbage compactor, and a large cloud of brown smoke starts to spew out of the air conditioner vent.

HAMILTON: Oh my god!

JOE FRANK: Oh my god!

REYNOLDS: (Picking up what looks to be some kind of roadkill kitten off the table, and realizing it is Peter Handler's hair): OH MY GOD!

CUT back out to the drop off zone. REYNOLDS is leaning against a pole, smoking a cigarette, and watching some paramedics load a stretcher into an ambulance. He is sweating profusely in the LA heat, and his suit is ruined: soggy, rumped, and covered in blood. He says nothing. He is just watching the world unfold. A steady stream of travelers is pulling up and getting out of cars. They all look horrified as they step out, covering their noses and moaning about the smell. REYNOLDS waves at a middle aged couple and greets them.

REYNOLDS: Howdy, welcome to JWA, folks.

TOURIST: Fuck off creep!

The paramedics wrap up and the ambulance pulls away. REYNOLDS finishes off his smoke and tosses the butt out into the street. He sighs and walks back inside.

We see REYNOLDS sloshing his way through the airport, leaving bloody footprints behind. Everyone he passes is complaining about the smell, or the heat, or the smell and the heat. Just past check in, he sees SINBAD has moved his business out front. SINBAD has set up a large white tent, with some kind of machinery attached to it and power cords running here and there. A sign above the tent reads "Cool off with Hot Carl's".

As REYNOLDS approaches the tent, he hears the sounds of people moaning in ecstasy from inside. SINBAD is on the prowl, talking up passing travelers.

SINBAD: Hey there sir, your wife looks like she would like some Hot Carl's.

MAN: What the fuck!? Definitely not!

WOMAN: Actually, I'd love some.

SINBAD: Hey, you never know until you ask.

SINBAD gets a glimpse of REYNOLDS. His eyebrows shoot up.

SINBAD: Damn, boss, you look like shit.

REYNOLDS: Yeah thanks. How 'bout hitting me up with a hot five minutes in your cool tent.

SINBAD: No way, I've got customers! Hot Carl's got standards you know.

REYNOLDS grumbles and walks off. Suddenly, his phone starts ringing. He pulls it out of his suit, and then tries to find a dry spot on his pants to wipe it off before he flips it open. Finally, he takes the call.

REYNOLDS: Hello?

CUT to the craft services table at a film shoot. We see Sharon COX loading up a plate from a giant hoagie. She is holding a phone and talking into it. All sorts of strange film people are rushing back and forth hurriedly. James Caan is busy stuffing several feet of hoagie into his jacket pockets. He has a couple ice cream stains on his shirt.

COX (into the phone): Nick? Hi! It's Sharon. Yeah. Sorry about last night. Oh no, I didn't mean to scare you off, but I understand the first time jitters. I just wanted you to know I had a great time, and you are welcome back any time. You did? Oh that's great, (laughs), that's great, and here I've been worrying myself all day. Why didn't you call? Oh yeah? Wow. Well, anyway, we can talk later, but I wanted to tell you something. You were saying you thought the airport was haunted? Well, there's this guy. Calls himself a paranormal bounty hunter. He's got a bit of a reputation you know, but he doesn't advertise, doesn't need to; he's kind of exclusive. People 'round here call him the "ghostbuster to the stars". No, he's good. He did Gwynnyth's wine cellar. Anyway he owes me a favor, you know. So I pulled a few strings. He was in town today on a job for Charlie Sheen, and Sheen got arrested. Yeah, I know! Anyway, the job got canceled, and he's free the rest of the afternoon. He can get down to JWA by 5pm. Oh, you are very welcome, Nick, just-

Offscreen we hear someone yell, and something large falling over, resulting in a lot of crashing and banging sounds. There are people screaming, and the distinct sound of someone angrily kicking at a large pile of junk.

MARTIN SCORSESE: (offscreen): WHO THE FUCK GAFFED THIS PIECE OF SHIT!

COX looks distressed, and turns to run offscreen.

COX: Sorry, Nick, gotta go! I'll text you his number. Call me!

She hangs up the phone and exits rapidly.

Scene 26 (Bounty Hunter, Airport)

Scene opens on REYNOLDS greeting a strange looking dude with a mullet, a very nice suit, sunglasses, and one of those metallic briefcases; it is paranormal bounty hunter DICK Grabowksi. They are standing in the parking garage of the airport. There are a few cars and vans parked around.

REYNOLDS: Dick, thanks for coming.

DICK just grunts and looks around.

REYNOLDS: Hard getting here, Dick?

DICK (still peering around): I've had tighter jams.

REYNOLDS: Oh, those are the best. The tighter the better, right, Dick? (clears his throat) Well, you're probably wondering what this is all about. See, this is a very sensitive area, Dick, and we all want to make sure no one loses their heads. (deep breath) You came highly recommended to me by...well, a mutual friend.

DICK: Who? Who's been talking about Dick?

REYNOLDS: Well, I'm sure she'd like to remain anonymous. But uh, she said your services were in high demand and you were the best in your field.

DICK: She did, did she?

REYNOLDS: "Ghostbuster to the stars" is how she referred to you, if I recall. Said you can't get a better bang for your buck than you get from Dick. Dick really delivers the goods, she said.

DICK: Oh yeah, Dick is all about busting, alright. So. Let's talk turkey, Mr. Reynolds. You said something about needing Ol' Dick to fire off a few rounds, eh?

REYNOLDS: Yeah. Exactly. But not quite.

DICK: Unload on me, pal.

REYNOLDS: So, I need you to come with me to the spirit plane and uh. Well, fuck up some ghost indians. Cleanse it. Y'know, unclog the pipes, I guess.

DICK (unfazed): I see. You've got beef with some canoe-jockeys, huh?

REYNOLDS: Uh. I think they're Apaches, actually. But yeah, huge beef.

DICK (nodding): That's my expertise.

REYNOLDS: You heard the part about the spirit world, right?

DICK (lights a cigarette and takes a long drag): Listen, head cheese. I'm gonna tell ya something about the spirit world. When it comes to the dead, you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. (Takes another drag, then flicks the cigarette; we see it land next to an LNG tank, but neither seems to notice.) Lemme tell you a story, turtleneck. Once upon a time in Nazi occupied Poland, a peasant and his wife were walking along a dusty path when a German officer rode up in a Jeep. The officer stopped in front of them and told the man he was going to-

REYNOLDS: Oh yeah, I know this one. My mother was half Czech. His balls get really dusty, right? (He slaps his knee and gives a little yuk.)

DICK: Right. (He pauses and looks disturbedly at REYNOLDS.) So you see where I'm going with this, then?

REYNOLDS (absolutely does not): Absolutely. (He takes a foil packet from his jacket.) With that, I think we're ready to start blowing our load! (pause) Of bullets!

He unwraps the foil and hands DICK a piece of brownie, and takes one for himself. Suddenly the side door of a rapey-looking van slides open and HOFFMAN pops out. REYNOLDS squeals and jumps back. DICK quickly pulls a 50's sci-fi looking raygun.

HOFFMAN: Gimme some brown.

REYNOLDS fans himself.

REYNOLDS: Fuck, Hoffman. We agreed I was gonna handle this!

HOFFMAN (louder): Brown! Me!

REYNOLDS sighs and hands him a piece of brownie.

REYNOLDS: Ok. On three. One. Two.

Both HOFFMAN and DICK eat theirs on "two".

REYNOLDS: God damn it, I said-

He eats his piece. Suddenly the entire screen is filled with an orange explosion as the cigarette ignites the LNG tank, but luckily the boys escape to the spirit world just in time.

CUT to the spirit world; orange light dissolves into a glaring sun and we see the boys standing at the base of a box canyon, shin-deep in garbage and busted washing machines and shit. DICK is dressed like Davy Crockett, HOFFMAN is dressed like Woody from Toy Story and REYNOLDS is dressed like Colonel Sanders.

REYNOLDS (looking at his outfit): What the shit?

DICK puts his hand up for silence. Camera pans around the canyon; we see a few indian braves squatting amongst the sagebrush, peering at the guys, all with tomahawks; maybe a couple rip wet farts. CUT back to DICK, who has his blaster out; he fires a quick volley of shots ("pew pew") in a series of cool trick shots and the indians vaporize in little puffs of purple smoke.

REYNOLDS: Whoa, nice, Dick!

HOFFMAN: The fuck you just say?

REYNOLDS: That's quite a piece you got there!

HOFFMAN: Bitch, what?

DICK (twirling the raygun): Yep, it's for messing things up on the other side. (Blows the tip.) Custom-made by the best paranormalist in Century City, my mentor, Mike Ropene.

CUT to another squad of indians sneaking through the bush toward them. DICK spots them and blasts off another volley. The indians go poof. Within moments, a breeze blows through, clearing away some of the filth.

REYNOLDS: Hey! It's working! Yeehaw!!

CUT to a quick montage scene of DICK blowing the hell out of little groups of ones and twos; each time an indian vaporizes, a bunny hops into frame, or a flower blooms. CUT to REYNOLDS picking up a bunny and petting it; it bites his hand and he throws it into an old washing machine and kicks the door shut.

CUT again to a wide shot. War drums slowly begin to play as the camera pans up the canyon wall, pausing when it reaches the top. The war drums get louder and faster, and soon, indians begin to gather all along the rim of the canyon. More and more keep arriving, until we see a huge army of indians massed at the top. The three guys are surrounded and it is clear they won't be able to hold out.

HOFFMAN: Oh shit me sideways, that's a rimful of injuns!

REYNOLDS (nervous): Um, Dick? I don't think you have the juice for this.

DICK (sneering): You have no fucking idea how much god damned juice this baby can hold!

DICK screams and charges up the slope toward the army. The indian warriors give a shout and they all begin to swarm down the slope of the canyon like a tidal wave. REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN just stare, then look at each other and scream. Overhead a huge clap of thunder cracks, and a storm of shit-brown water starts cascading down. REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN turn tail and start to run; a bunch of indians start after them. CUT to DICK in the midst of a battle; he's shooting and offing a bunch of indians, but there's two to replace each one he hits. Soon he is so surrounded he can't even hold out his raygun; he disappears in a scrum of braves. We see one raise a tomahawk over his head and bring it down, and hear DICK scream. CUT back to REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN, high-stepping.

HOFFMAN: You (pant) hear (pant) that?

REYNOLDS: (pant) Probably (pant) just (pant) gas.

Suddenly they run into a wall of indians, whooping and holding spears. They come to a halt, the shit-rain still pouring down. Suddenly, the side of the canyon collapses in a mudslide, knocking the wall of indians away, but also sweeping REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN along too. The screen fills with brown sludge, which resolves into a tub of chocolate ice cream at Dylan's; a metal scoop moves across the screen. Camera pulls back to show HOFFMAN and REYNOLDS standing stupefied before the counter.

DYLAN: Two scoops of The Tights they Need a Changin', wasn't it?

REYNOLDS (coming to): Huh? What? Where's Dick?

HOFFMAN (shaking his head to clear it): What the? (He picks up his ice cream and stares at it confoundedly.) Hey, where's my sprinkles, Jack Fate?

SATURDAY

Scene 27 (Public Meeting, Airport conference centp)

Scene opens on a handwritten note taped on the glass door of the JWA Conference Center, reading "Emergency Meeting Tonight! Be there or Be Square!" Camera pulls back to show REYNOLDS standing off to one side on his phone, a sharpie and a roll of Scotch tape in the other hand.

REYNOLDS (into phone): This is a big fucking deal! (pause) Just get your people down here. (pause) Yeah, seven o'clock. See ya!

He snaps the phone shut, admires his handiwork and moves to make a quick correction with the sharpie; then realizes he's writing on the glass, tries to rub it off to no avail, swears and quickly strides off.

CUT to REYNOLDS in the airport kitchens, handing a fistful of Chowder Hose coupons to a sketchy looking busboy, who hands REYNOLDS a baggie of white powder, which he pockets. REYNOLDS holds his hand up for a high-five but the busboy leaves him hangin'.

CUT to REYNOLDS in an apron and hairnet behind the counter of Orange Julius, where he has put out the "Closed" sign; we see him opening can after can of Hawaiian Punch and pouring them into a huge cooler; at some point he tips the contents of the baggie into the mix.

CUT to REYNOLDS, now in a nice suit and smiling, wheeling the giant cooler on a wheeled tray into the Conference Center. He parks it at the back, next to a table full of dipwiches, then checks his watch and starts laughing. He walks to the doors; there is a large crowd of protestors outside, holding their signs and chanting. He unlocks the doors and throws them wide open.

REYNOLDS: Welcome, friends! Glad you could make it! Please, come in, we've got some refreshments here and we'll be all set to begin once everyone is here!

The crowd of protestors moves in past him, most of them giving him dirty looks and grumbling. Everyone starts drinking the punch. REYNOLDS goes up and gets himself a cup, bumping into a hottish, hairy-pitted, female protestor in a tank top (Wendy PITT).

REYNOLDS: Oh, pardon me, miss.

PITT: Aren't you Nick Reynolds?

REYNOLDS: Why, yes I am. Thanks for coming, I think you're going to really like what we've got planned for tonight!

PITT: I hope the crabs in your pubes get scabies and lay their eggs in your pisshole. (She absently scratches herself as she stares him down before walking away.)

REYNOLDS (to himself): Ok, gross. (Turns and sees COX; he starts and looks for somewhere to hide.) Shit!

COX (calling to him): Nick! Nick, I can see you.

REYNOLDS (peering from around a potted plant:) Sharon! Great, you made it!

COX: What's this all about? I did what you told me, I got my people here. What's going on?

REYNOLDS (patting her on the shoulder): Trust me, Sharon. You're gonna love it. I gotta go, but make sure you get a good seat. (He makes his way off as he speaks).

In the background we see that JENNY has infiltrated the crowd. She is disguised as a hipster-looking protestor with horn-rimmed glasses. She slyly tips something out of a vial into the punch as she pours herself a drink.

CUT to REYNOLDS ducking into a corridor outside the hall. We see JOE FRANK and HAMILTON emerge from the men's room; JOE FRANK has white powder on his nose.

REYNOLDS: Fellas! This is make or break time!

HAMILTON: I vote 'break'.

JOE FRANK (looking down): Hooo lordy! Is it me or does this carpet look like Chef Boyardee threw a bukkake party at Liberace's yard sale? (REYNOLDS and HAMILTON also look down. HAMILTON retches a bit.)

REYNOLDS: Gross. Listen, boys. No matter what happens tonight, I want you to know I've always mostly enjoyed working with you two. For the most part. LIke, 6/10. Would definitely give you two a, y'know, decent Yelp. (Claps his hands, grins wide.) Ok, showtime!

REYNOLDS turns and walks back into the Conference Center; the guys follow. CUT to conference center interior; there's a crowd of maybe 50 people, all of them with red Solo cups in their hands. Mostly they are just milling about waiting. REYNOLDS walks to the little podium and begins to talk.

REYNOLDS: Wow, what a turnout! Thanks for coming, everyone! I'm Nick Reynolds, general manager of JWA (a chorus of boos) Haha, yeah, I thought you might say that! (louder boos) Ok! I got it. You're probably wondering why I've asked you here this evening. (He pauses to drink from his cup, then smacks his lips.) Mm, that's actually really good. Well, folks, what can I say? Your months and months of bitching and pissing and moaning have finally opened my eyes. Tonight, I'm happy to announce that John Wayne Airport will officially be renamed. (The crowd is silent for a moment, then erupts into cheers.)

PROTESTOR: To what?

REYNOLDS: Well, that's an excellent question and part of the reason I asked you all here. Now, renaming things has become, well, the hot new thing lately. And you wanna do it right, right? But on the other hand, renaming causes huge disruptions, costs a ton of geld. Money that could be used for other things, like, uh...noise abatement or some shit. I mean, who likes airplane noise? No one, amirite? (feeble applause) So, anyhoo (he pulls a small scrap of paper from his pocket) I took the liberty of jotting down a couple suggestions. Now I know there's some interest in renaming the airport after a different actor with local roots but one who wasn't such a racist fuck, so how about that dude from Twilight? But I couldn't remember his name, which brings me to my next point. So a while back, King County, up in Seattle, wanted to jettison their old name, some racist slave owner jerk, and they didn't want the extra hassle of ordering new stationery and shit, so they just said 'Hey, that King we're named after? Well, actually that's MLK!' Boom, problem solved!

The crowd stares on in suspicious silence.

REYNOLDS: Anyway, so I'm thinking, we already have a good name, John Wayne (more boos). Everyone knows it, for good or ill. So, why not "rename" the airport after a different John Wayne? You with me? John Wayne Dangle? I went to JC with him, helluva guy.

RANDOM PROTESTOR: John Wayne Gacy!

REYNOLDS: Now you're talkin'!

RANDOM PROTESTOR 2: John Wayne Bobbitt!

REYNOLDS: Now yer usin' yer head! Keep 'em comin'!

RANDOM PROTESTOR 3: Marion Morrison?

REYNOLDS: Who's she? Anyway-

REDNOM PROTESTOR 4: Bruce Wayne!

REYNOLDS: Heck yeah, that almost works!

RANDOM PROTESTOR 5: Aunt Jemima!

REYNOLDS: Well, no, now you are missing the point.

RANDOM PROTESTOR 6: Graham Pizorney!

RANDOM PROTESTOR 7: Jan-Michael Vincent!

RANDOM PROTESTOR 8: RuPaul! Robin Yount!

Sensing a sinking ship, REYNOLDS waves his hands to try to get everyone's attention.

REYNOLDS: Ok, I thought that idea might not work, so I came up with a bit of a more constructive way to do this.

He walks over to a projector screen and lifts it, revealing an old chalkboard. On the chalkboard are three category headers written down: "Cheap", "Expensive", and "Controversial". There are suggested starter names under each one to provide examples. "John Wayne Dangle", "Mr. Rogers", and "Ceasar Chavez".

REYNOLDS: Ok, so this should help put a little structure on this. We will write each suggestion down, categorize it, and then we can vote at the end. So let's see, what was it? Oh yeah (He writes John Wayne Gacy down in the first column). OK, let's start again.

HIMMELFART: Malcolm X!

REYNOLDS: Definitely a third column name there. (He writes it down.)

COX: Penny Marshall!

JENNY: Orel Hersheiser!

REYNOLDS: (writing) Awesome folks, I think we are getting somewhere.

RANDOM PROTESTOR 4: Kanye!

RANDOM PROTESTOR 5: Frank Zappa!

The crowd basically just starts throwing out names, chugging the punch, getting loopy and handsy. Someone starts playing the bongos and a few of them break off into a little circle and start hippie dancing. After a few minutes, Reynolds starts feeling shaky, and hands the chalk over to HIMMELFART. The board looks like some sort of Jr. High School notebook cover.

REYNOLDS (stepping back from the podium and watching the crowd): Wow, this is great. (He chugs his punch.) Lamb Chop!

The crowd cheers. Several people start taking their clothes off. We see JOE FRANK and HAMILTON trading shoes. COX starts grinding on the potted plant.

RANDOM PROTESTOR 2: Nina Totenberg!

REYNOLDS: Fuck yeah, now that's what's up!

RANDOM PROTESTOR 1: Rachel Dolezal!

The crowd whoops and all semblance of normality slips away. People are moving as though in a dreamlike state, weaving through each other like atoms; some are singing different songs at different tempos, some are dancing, some are getting busy. REYNOLDS loosens his tie and kicks his shoes off; HAMILTON scurries over and grabs them and puts them on his hands and starts walking around on all fours; JOE FRANK saddles him and rides him around. REYNOLDS starts to boogie, dirty dancing with a support pillar; his phone chirps.

REYNOLDS: Yello! (pause) Fudgepack! (pause) What's crackin'? Oh? That? Just a, uh, little get-together with some smelly Oberlin dropouts. What? No! Uh, that is, uh, I don't think it's really your kind of crowd. Lots of um (peering around) melting faces and furry kumquats in here. (pause) Well, it's not exactly a Joel Schumacher joint, y'know? You don't? (looking down) Um. I think my ankles are on the other line, I gotta go. (He hangs up.)

The crowd is whipping itself into a blissed-out frenzy/orgy. COX saunters over to REYNOLDS.

COX: Niiiiiick, you sly goat, you! (She drapes herself on him; he bleats awkwardly.) I knew once you saw it from our perspective, you'd come around.

REYNOLDS: Uh yeah, well, y'know. A lot of things went into this, but yeah. Thanks for the uh, soft opening.

COX: Oh, anytime. (She starts pawing at him, pulling him down to the floor.)

REYNOLDS: Hang on! I just had a brilliant idea!

He untangles himself and runs off, pulling his phone out; he is weaving and bumping into shit as he goes. He passes JENNY, whom he doesn't recognize, carrying a tray of drinks; he grabs one and chugs it down.

REYNOLDS (into the phone): Hello? Do you read me? Come in! (pause) Ah, yes my good man. (clears throat) This is Nicholas Philbert Reynolds, aka Nick Reynolds, aka general manager of JWA. Is this the FAA? Yes? Perfect! I have some great news for you. Are you sitting down! (He plops onto his ass.) Same here, bro! Ok listen up. I'm about to solve a big fat hairy uncircumcised problem that's been plaguing us for a long time. (pause) Well, talk to your rabbi. Anyway, we're changing the name of JWA. (pause) I know right? (pause) Well, after long and careful consideration, we've decided to go with...drum roll please... Cincinnati Central Bus Depot! (pause) Well, that's the genius of it! Who could possibly be offended by that? Ha! Suck it, Cesar Chavez!

He hangs up and throws his phone into the garbage can. On the pull down movie screen on the conference center wall, someone has pulled up the Duke's colonoscopy video. He pauses to watch it, striking a thoughtful pose.

REYNOLDS: Holy sands of Iwo Jima! Look at the size of those polyps!

HAMILTON walks by carrying a huge plum, biting into it juicily. REYNOLDS' eyes bug out and he punches it out of his mouth.

REYNOLDS: You don't know where that's been, Ham! You haven't seen what i've seen!

HAMILTON: I grew that with my own fertilizer, you celery-fucker!

They lunge at each other, but sort of just fall over and lay on the ground.

REYNOLDS: Ah hell. Let's go suck from the Hose.

They help each other up and try to make their way out of the conference center, only they are unable to find the door. REYNOLDS finds some chalk in his pocket and draws a door. HAMILTON opens it and walks through. REYNOLDS steps into it and smashes his face into the wall. As he rubs his face, the camera starts to wander, lingering on the scene like a Civil War battlefield, bodies strewn all over, writhing and contorting in pleasure/hallucination, the air filled with screaming and laughing and weeping.

Scene 28 (Ambushed, Airport spirit plane)

A hot, dusty wind blows across a bleak landscape. In the background we see rugged hills and canyons, spotted with scrubby, dead bushes. Occasionally a ruined wagon or a half buried ox skull breaks the monotony. The camera pans back, and we see a massive pile of people lying on the ground and moaning. They are all dressed like townsfolk out of an old western movie. They are in all sorts of compromising positions. REYNOLDS and COX are doing it. JOE FRANK is sitting atop a dappled stallion. JENNY and HIMMELFART are 69ing. Others are sprawled around in other similar states of partial undress and group sex poses. Groggily, they all start to realize their surroundings have changed and begin to stand up and fix their clothing. Everyone seems to be suddenly sober, and some of the positions are leading to a lot of awkwardness.

JENNY: What the hell?

JOE FRANK: Where are we?

Camera swivels around, and we see there is a flimsy wooden building right in front of them. It looks to be made out of driftwood, and a sign at the top reads SALOON. There is a low porch out front with a railing for tying up horses and some water troughs. HOFFMAN is sitting on the porch in a wooden chair, kicked back with his boots propped up on the horse rail. He is dressed as the Man With No Name (black hat, poncho, dungarees, gun belt, mean-ass boots, and an 11 o'clock shadow). He is smoking the peace pipe we saw earlier in the film. He lifts his feet, and the chair clunks down to the porch with a bang. He stands up.

HOFFMAN: Welcome to the spirit world, motherfuckers. Consider me your guide.

Camera pans back to look over his shoulder at the crowd of stunned and confused faces.

HAMILTON: Hey, why am I a horse?

HOFFMAN spits into a brass spittoon, ringing it and grabbing everyone's attention back.

HOFFMAN: Ok, first lesson. The spirit world seems to have determined you are all white folk, even those who are normally a little challenged in that department. (He stares at SINBAD).

REYNOLDS: Hey, what's he doing here?

SINBAD (shrugs): Free sandwiches, man.

HOFFMAN: Don't take this personally, it's more a lifestyle thing.

War drums begin sounding in the distance.

HOFFMAN: Second lesson. In the spirit world, you are fucked.

JENNY: Um, should we like go inside? It's pretty dusty out here.

Everyone rushes into the saloon through a pair of flapping half doors. When the dust clears, we see HAMILTON has been left tied to the railing outside and can't get in.

HAMILTON: Dudes!

CUT to the inside of the saloon. The inside of the little wooden shack is dirty and gritty, but fully stocked. There is a long, polished, wooden bar off to one side, and a little piano on the other. There are a bunch of flimsy old tables and chairs in the middle. The walls are decorated with wagon wheels, pickaxes, gold pans, and the like. A bartender with a colorful vest, rolled up sleeves, and a big handlebar moustache stands at the bar, polishing up some glasses, and a little guy with a waxed hipster stache tinkles away at the piano, filling the place with some nice, old timey music. Most of the crowd sits down at the tables. A few head over to the bar. JENNY pulls out some cards and starts up a strip poker game with JOE FRANK and a few of the protesters. HOFFMAN and REYNOLDS stand at the doors peering out into the gloom. SINBAD makes it to the bar first.

SPIRIT BARTENDER: What's your poison, cowpoke?

SINBAD: Uhh, well, whadda ya got, mister?

SPIRIT BARTENDER: Oh, we got all kinds of spirits here. (He yuks and slaps his knee at his joke.)

SINBAD: How bout a glass of whiskey?

SPIRIT BARTENDER: Comin' right up.

Sinbad steps aside to let someone else get to the bar, and bumps into a shadowy character drinking at the end of the bar.

SPIRIT OUTLAW: Hey, you got a problem there, manure bags?

SINBAD: Oh, sorry sir, no, no problem.

SPIRIT OUTLAW (tipping back his hat and stepping right up into SINBAD's face): Oh, I think you do.

QUICK PAN over to HOFFMAN and REYNOLDS staring out the front of the saloon.

REYNOLDS: How many of them do you reckon there are?

HOFFMAN: I don't think these sorts of things use human numbers to count. It's more of an energy level thing. And this energy is off the chart. This place is snowballing. Something big is coming.

REYNOLDS: Well, I figured taking away the statue would make them happy.

HOFFMAN: Yeah, I don't think the statue was the problem, maybe actually more of a ward of sorts. Once we unplugged that sucker, all hell broke loose.

REYNOLDS: Yeah, huh. Well, what's the old man got to say? Is he enlightening?

HOFFMAN: Never. But no, I haven't heard a word out of him since we locked him in the de-icer shed.

REYNOLDS: The what? Where'd you put the de-icer?

HOFFMAN: I sold that Craigslist years ago, man, we don't need no fucking de-icer in LA.

Behind them as they are talking, we see SINBAD throw his whiskey into the outlaw's face. The outlaw takes a swing at him and SINBAD ducks it, coming up with a punch to the gut. HIMMELFART comes running over with a chair and swings it at the outlaw, but he ducks and it connects with JOE FRANK, and his cards go spilling everywhere. JOE FRANK stands up and swings his chair at HIMMELFART, making direct contact, splintering the chair and knocking them back into PITT, who spills her drink. She runs over and punches JOE FRANK, and the whole thing turns into a brawl.

REYNOLDS: Oh shit, is that a torch?!

HOFFMAN: Oh, that's not good.

CAMERA flips around, and we see that off in the distance a ring of natives has gathered, encircling the saloon at about 100 yards out, shoulder to shoulder. Most are on foot, but some are atop pintos. At the center of the view is a mounted brave who appears to be the war party leader. He has a large feathered headdress and a large black hawk painted over his face. He holds aloft a lit torch, and then tips it to his right and to his left, where it lights the torches of the men next to him. Then slowly, man after man, the flame is passed along until the entire circle of men is blazing with fire. The warriors begin banging the ends of the long torches on the ground and chanting.

WARRIORS: JWADOA! JWADOA! JWADOA!! (etc)

CUT back to the saloon doors.

REYNOLDS: Well at least they can't burn us down from way over there.

A flaming arrow comes flying into view and thunks into the saloon door about three inches from REYNOLDS' face. He yelps, then grabs his hat and begins to swat out the flame.

HOFFMAN: Well, whatta we gonna do boss?

REYNOLDS: I don't know. We're going to need everyone to chip in here. How much water do we have? We could wet down the roof and... (A man goes flying out through the saloon doors.) Hey! What the fuck? (He turns around and suddenly realizes a full on brawl is taking place right behind him.) God dammit, people! I just needed you to be adults for five fucking minutes here!

Suddenly a gunshot rings out in the bar, and everyone freezes. Slowly, everyone turns towards REYNOLDS, who has grabbed HOFFMAN's six-shooter out of his belt and has fired it into the air.

REYNOLDS: Ok, children, everyone shut the fuck up. I need you to listen up for a moment. We are all in grave danger here, and we will only survive if we can work together, and then only maybe.

JENNY: What? (She struggles to hear him over the music).

REYNOLDS: GODDAMMIT! (He lifts the revolver and shoots the piano player in the back, who slumps forward into the keyboard in a jangle of dissonant chords.) I said everyone shut the fuck up!

From outside, suddenly everyone can hear the chanting.

COX: What's going on, Nick?

REYNOLDS: Ok, quick summary. This airport is haunted by the real fake ghosts of all the fake indians that John Wayne killed in all of his movies, and somehow all the protests and all the attention have created some sort of psychic scar that has allowed some kind of demonic energy to seep in from the other side. That's why it stinks, and why the airport has been falling apart and why all the accidents have been happening.

Everyone stares in silence for a moment.

JENNY: Fuck, really? That makes so much sense.

REYNOLDS: What? It does?

People start nodding their heads and making 'mmm hmm' sounds. The chanting is getting louder.

REYNOLDS: Ok, that was just the backstory. Anyway, we are now trapped on the spirit plane, and there is an army of fake indians out there about to murder us all. They have torches, and they are going to burn us alive and shoot anyone who tries to run.

A flaming arrow comes sliding in under the door, and HOFFMAN quickly stomps it out.

COX: Wait, why are they trying to kill us?

REYNOLDS: Um, well, like Jack here explained, the spirit world has chosen to bestow us with the roles of "white folk". And things out here seem to play out largely by roles.

COX: Yeah, but we aren't just "white people" (she makes little air quotes), we are white people who care. We are white people who are trying to put things right and reverse the stain on history made by people like John Wayne and Andrew Jackson, and all the centuries of injustice. We aren't their enemy, we are their saviors.

REYNOLDS: Ok, sure, you may have a point there. I wouldn't use the word "saviors", but in any case, I don't think they know that.

COX: Well, then why don't we just tell them.

She storms past REYNOLDS and out the door of the saloon. CUT to the outside. We see her in her little blue prairie dress with a bustle and a hair bun striding quickly towards the brave with the big black hawk at the front of the war party. The indians do not react, they all just stare at her, though they do stop shooting.

COX arrives at the war party. She stares up at BIG BLACK HAWK on his horse. She suddenly notices a familiar mullet dangling from his belt, and is shaken, unsure of what exactly to say to him.

COX: Hello. We need to talk.

The indians do not react. A few of them cock their heads as if in a "what did she say" pose.

COX: Umm... (she raises her right hand up, palm forward). How??

BIG BLACK HAWK slowly gets off his horse and steps out towards her. With a single fluid gesture, he grabs her by the hair and throws her to the ground. A few other braves join in, and quickly bind her hands and feet and throw her over BBH's horse. BBH slaps the horse on the rump, and a brave leads the horse away from the circle.

CUT back to the saloon doors, where we see REYNOLDS jaw drop.

REYNOLDS: Sharon! NO!

HOFFMAN: Don't do it, Nick!

But it is too late. REYNOLDS is out the door and untying HAMILTON. He mounts the chief of airport operations and kicks into his sides with his spurs. He holds the reins with one hand and the revolver with the other.

REYNOLDS: Give her back, you bastards!

He hunkers forward on the horse to make a smaller target, and gallops forwards right towards the war leader, firing off a volley of shots. A couple indians go down. We see a few arrows whiz by, and then suddenly he crashes into the enemy ranks, scattering them, before being swallowed by the gloom. The audio goes silent.

CUT back to the front of the saloon. We see HOFFMAN and JENNY peering out the doors now, wide eyed. Nearby hooves can be heard, and suddenly out of the dark, HAMILTON trots slowly towards them. He is riderless.

JENNY: Did he...

HAMILTON (shaking his head): Nay.

CUT to the inside of the saloon. HOFFMAN now seems to have taken charge, and he is leading a vote.

HOFFMAN: As in life, the spirit world always presents you with a choice; whether you like the alternatives or not, you must choose. And we have a choice to make now. As I see it, we have two options: Die, or Surrender. So let's see a show of hands. Die?

A few hands shoot up in the crowd.

HOFFMAN: Ok, ok, that's like... six? Ok now, Surrender?

Everyone else raises their hands.

HOFFMAN: Alrighty then, looks like the surrenders have it. Let's go show those savages what we are made of.

CUT back to the outside of the saloon. The crowd is filtering out slowly, looking dejected. We see the roof is on fire in a few places. HOFFMAN is untying HAMILTON from the rail. He pulls HIMMELFART aside.

HOFFMAN: Hey, make a decent show of this, will you, kid? I need a good distraction.

HIMMELFART: Aren't you coming with us, old man?

HOFFMAN: Not yet. But old Jack won't hang you out to dry. I'm going to get the sheriff.

They kiss.

HIMMELFART: This doesn't mean I'm not still mad about the barbecue sauce.

They kiss again.

CUT back to the conference room in the airport. JESUS pops her head into the room.

JESUS: Hey, I heard they were giving away a pile of Greg's dipwiches here. Hello?

She looks around the room. It is completely trashed, with clothes and food and paper everywhere. The furniture is all overturned. It looks like a sex tornado just hit. However, there is not a soul there. JESUS surveys the scene, and then saunters over to the punch bowl, where a good two scoops of the magical fluid are left. She helps herself to some punch, and then uncovers half a sandwich under the mess.

JESUS: Sweet.

Scene 29 (John Wayne Saves Everyone, Airport spirit plane)

Scene opens on everyone tied up in a huge circle in the center of the indian camp; in the absence of COX, REYNOLDS and HOFFMAN, it seems that HIMMELFART is now the leader of the spirit whites. They are tied to a large lodgepole and everyone else is arranged around them. The indians are moving about the group, laying out bundles of dried sticks and old blankets and dry hay and piling it around the feet of the protestors and stuffing it in between the gaps. They are deathly silent, but once the preparations are done, they all stand in a circle around the soon-to-be pyre and start chanting "JWADOA! JWADOA!" over and over again.

CUT to close up of HIMMELFART, struggling to break free. Bound around them are PITT, SINBAD and JENNY. Everyone is kinda writhing around, recalling the orgy scene, but now trying to get away from each other.

HIMMELFART: What are they saying?

SINBAD: I don't know, but this is bullshit, man, I voted for surrender!

JENNY: I think they're saying "Jaw a donut"? Damn, do they have donuts?

PITT: Who the fuck is poking my ass?

The Indians are reaching their crescendo, screaming "JWADOA!" louder and louder, until we can't hear anything else. The camera pulls back to show the entire scene: the pyre, the circle of Indians, the surrounding plain. Not far in the distance there is a sinister-looking marshy lake. Something glimmers faintly in the depths.

CUT to an indian brave, kneeling down and about to touch his torch to the tinder. Suddenly there is a huge clap of thunder and a familiar voice from off-screen rings out.

JOHN WAYNE (off-screen): Hold it right there, Shitting Bull.

CUT to close shot of JOHN WAYNE standing at the edge of the circle, in all his Rio Bravo glory; he is backlit by a setting sun, looking resplendent in his hat, vest, six-shooters in his belt, boots shiny, belt buckle ginormous. He is holding a long firehose looking thing, which we all recognize as the Chowder Hose. Behind him in the dust fog, we can see two horses. One is a stunning white mare with a shining silver saddle. The other is HAMILTON, and atop him sits HOFFMAN, who is sweaty and panting, but grinning widely.

HOFFMAN: We made it, old man.

JOHN WAYNE: Ya done good, you bald bastard.

HOFFMAN smiles proudly. His horse bucks slightly.

HAMILTON (to HOFFMAN): Psst, hey man, ask him if his horse is single.

One of the indians whoops, and all the warriors turn to face JOHN WAYNE.

CUT back to the real airport. We see JESUS staggering around outside, red Solo cup in one hand, a mushy-looking hoagie in the other. She's muttering to herself.

JESUS (slurred): The last shall be first alright; first up my ass!

She stops and sees a JWA shuttle bus parked in the load/unload zone, the driver outside having a smoke. She hops in, shuts the door, and floors it.

CUT back to the spirit plane. The indians and JOHN WAYNE are facing off. HIMMELFART, PITT, JENNY, and SINBAD all look on in wonder.

PITT: Who the hell is that old coot?

JENNY: That's Jack Hoffman. Used to be the maintenance guy.

HIMMELFART: She means him... (they can barely get the name out) J-J-

SINBAD: That's Jojo Siwa?

HIMMELFART (spitting it out): John unclefucking Wayne!

JOHN WAYNE stares down the indians. BBH steps forward.

JOHN WAYNE: Ok, kimosabe, let 'em go.

BBH: You are not welcome here, Great White Hunter.

JOHN WAYNE: Eat grits and die, Siouxsie Sue. I said, let 'em go.

BBH gestures, and two braves come forward, pushing forward a bound and gagged REYNOLDS, who is bloody and bruised, and an oddly-unfazed COX. They are both shoved to the ground, torches crammed in their faces. CUT to the lodgepole, where JENNY starts to scream.

JENNY: Nick!! NICK!!!

SINBAD (wincing): Ahh, shit! Where's my genuine, all-natural, organic, grass-fed, non-GMO cane toad earplugs!?

PITT: Where's my popcorn?

HIMMELFART: Can we die in the spirit realm?

CUT back to JOHN WAYNE, glaring disgustedly at REYNOLDS and COX, then back up at BBH. HOFFMAN comes up to JOHN WAYNE and says something in his ear. JOHN WAYNE nods.

JOHN WAYNE: I'm gonna give ya to the count of three, varmint, and then you're gonna let 'em go, or else.

BBH makes some kind of signal to the braves. They step back.

JOHN WAYNE: One.

CUT to REYNOLDS and COX, wide-eyed and panicking. CUT back to JW.

JOHN WAYNE: Two.

As soon as he says two, he cranks the Hose and starts blasting. A steaming gout of white chowder gushes out, knocking back dozens of indians. BBH takes a faceful.

BBH (gargling): You said, on three! Ggguuugghghghh!

JOHN WAYNE: Hasta la vista, pilgrim. (He increases the flow and BBH topples over.)

JW continues laying down a suppressing fire of chowder, which extinguishes the torches and the bonfire, and HOFFMAN rushes forward to free HIMMELFART et al from the lodgepole. As he frees them, HIMMELFART kisses him passionately.

HIMMELFART: Welcome back, old man.

HOFFMAN: Miss me?

HIMMELFART: Like a barbecue sauce fire.

HOFFMAN: That's my kinda spice. But I got one more thing to do. Wait for me?

HIMMELFART: Always.

They kiss again. JENNY looks like she's gonna puke. HOFFMAN runs off.

JENNY: Damn, look! (She points.)

CUT to JW, picking up spears and tomahawks, hucking 'em and never missing. The field is littered with dead indians and everyone is shin-deep in chowder. The indians are fleeing, on horseback and on foot; once they are out of range, we can see them regroup to attack again.

CUT to the outskirts of the carnage. HOFFMAN has gotten to the horses, and discovers that HAMILTON has mounted the white mare.

HOFFMAN: Goddammit, man! Really? Now??

He grabs a bucket and starts flinging chowder at the horses. As he is finally getting them separated, we see a stagecoach come barrelling past, JESUS at the reins.

JESUS: Yeehaw, make ye way for Christ Almighty!

She reins up in the chowder muck and looks around, then gets down. She is still in her robes but she has a sick pair of snakeskin boots on and her hair is up in a tight bun.

JESUS: Whoa, Dad, what happened here? (She bends down and dips her finger in the chowder, sniffs and tastes it.) Hm. Wisconsin cream, crushed pepper, salt from the Bonneville Flats, fingerlings...and...(dips again and tastes it) clams from the Hood Canal. Mesus Christ, this is Chowder Hose chowder!

She kneels and starts pulling fistfuls of chowder into her mouth; she comes upon a pile of blankets and picks up one, wringing it out into her mouth. Something falls out. She glances down at it.

CUT back to JW, he is now surrounded by HIMMELFART, PITT, SINBAD; JENNY is off untying REYNOLDS and COX.

REYNOLDS (standing up): Golly, Mister Wayne, we owe you a debt of gratitude.

Several of the protestors voice their agreement. JW stands there basking in their adoration.

HIMMELFART (not having it): A debt of gratitude?! What a fucking joke! What the hell is this? This is like every goddamned movie he was ever in, riding in at the last minute to blow all the Native Americans to smithereens and save the colonizers! (Screeching, pointing their bony finger at JW) This man is the literal avatar of everything wrong with America! Don't you see what he represents? What happened here just perpetuates the myth that he stands for! I refuse! I refuse to be rescued by this (sputtering mad) walking national psychic trauma!

SINBAD: Hey, hey, hey, young man. He did just save all our asses, y'know.

A sizable portion of the crowd murmurs their assent with SINBAD.

PROTESTOR 2: Yeah, I mean, he kicked ass. Did you see that shit? With the chowder? (Makes the chowder hose arm gesture.)

The crowd cheers a little.

HIMMELFART: Are you fucking serious right now? We've spent months protesting this jerk and the second he comes in, guns ablazing, to make everything ok for the white people again, you start creaming your bloomers!

PROTESTOR 1: Well, he got the job done, didn't he? Those indians were about to light us all on fire!

PROTESTOR 3: Yeah, at least he jumped into action, instead of just shouting slogans all day long!

HIMMELFART: I can't believe what I'm hearing! I refuse to be rescued by the lesser of two evils yet once more. (Looks to COX.) Sharon, do something!

COX: I dunno. They have a point. I mean, sitting around bitching about how shitty America is all the time didn't really get us anywhere, did it? And let's be serious, that was fucking sick! (She mimes hosing everyone down with the Hose.) Fuck yeah!

While they are arguing, we see JW looking out toward the indians.

JOHN WAYNE: Hate to break up your little powwow, but I think your friends are gonna make another run.

Everyone looks and sees the indians are chanting and looking ready to charge.

CUT back to JESUS, staring down at the pile of blankets. There is an Israeli passport sitting on the top; she picks it up, wide-eyed.

JESUS: Oh, baby! (She rifles through it; we see her picture and info.) Oh hell yes!

She jumps up, kissing the passport, and runs back to the stagecoach.

CUT back to the indians. They are really getting into the "JWADOA" chant. Suddenly, we see the marshy lake start to steam and bubble.

CUT back to the protestors et al. JW tips his hat back and pulls a tobacco plug from his shirt pocket, bites off a big piece, chews it and shrugs.

JOHN WAYNE: Whoever's leavin', now's the time.

JW starts to mosey off. Most of the protestors follow, led by COX. There are two distinct camps now, HIMMELFART having convinced a smaller contingent to stay behind. As the group splits, the indians charge, racing toward the protestors. HIMMELFART's group stands their ground, drawing the indians' wrath and allowing the large group to escape.

CUT to a close up of HIMMELFART, PITT, and a few of the other more hardcore protestors. They are lined up like Braveheart, facing death grim-faced and unarmed.

PITT: I choose the greater of two evils.

HIMMELFART: It's better to burn out than fade away.

Suddenly, just as the mob of murderous natives is about to overrun HIMMELFART's group, a white Ford Bronco dragging a bronze statue of John Wayne barrels into the scene. It plows through the tightly packed horde of indians, creaming several of them and scattering the mob. "Indian Reservation" by the Raiders blares at top volume from the car stereo.

CUT to HOFFMAN at the wheel, cackling.

HOFFMAN: Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers!

CUT to overhead shot of the Bronco doing donuts, slamming indians all over the place. The protestors scatter for cover.

CUT to JESUS thundering over the plain in the stagecoach toward the fight. She races past the lake, glancing at it bubbling and we see something start to rise up from the waters.

JESUS: That can't be good!!

She whips the horses into a lather, and the stagecoach races onward.

CUT back to the battleground; JW is blazing a trail out, whipping tomahawks and shooting an unlimited amount of bullets at the indians. One of the braves stops and points at the lake. We see a huge, Cthulhu-looking creature towering over everything, made of dead frogs and birds and logs and shit.

BRAVE: JWADOA!!!

JWADOA: RRAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHGHHHGGGGGRRRRRRRRR!

Everyone stops fighting and stares. CUT to HOFFMAN skidding to a stop at the lakeshore, gaping upward. CUT to JESUS rolling into the midst in the stagecoach, staring at Jwadoa with an "oh shit" look on her face. She hesitates for a split second and then bellows.

JESUS (hollering): Next stop, rapture! Let's go, pansies!

The HIMMELFART contingent snaps out of it and piles into the stagecoach. A couple of the indians who seem to have had the fight knocked out of them and pile in too. JESUS whips the team again and heads toward the Bronco, pulling up beside HOFFMAN.

HOFFMAN: Peace be with you, ma'am. (He tips his hat.)

JESUS: And also with you, my son. You thinking what I'm thinking?

HOFFMAN (grinning): I sure hope not. It's unchristian.

CUT back to JW leading the main group of protestors into the sunset, absolutely giving no shits about Jwadoa or anyone else.

JOHN WAYNE: Now, which one of you little squaws is gonna polish my pistol?

CUT back to HOFFMAN and JESUS. HOFFMAN revving his engine, JESUS wrapping the reins around her wrist a few times.

JESUS (hollering back to her passengers): Hold on to your New Testaments, folks!

She and HOFFMAN exchange a wink, and off they go; HOFFMAN floors it, the Bronco tears off; JESUS "yah!!''s her horses and they shoot forward. They are barrelling for Jwadoa at full speed, whooping like Indian braves.

CUT to an overhead shot of the battlefield. We see the lake filling one corner of the screen, and the full, massive size of Jwadoa is revealed. The bulk of the screen is filled with a chowdery plain covered with garbage and scattered indians. Two little vehicles are barreling towards Jwadoa like toy cars towards a fat kid.

CUT back to show a view from behind the cars. They are racing full speed towards the lake, and dodging junk and bodies. Jwadoa looms large, filling the screen. HOFMAN's bronco is out in front, and suddenly, it hits the edge of the marsh. With a sad sploosh, it dips forwards and sinks straight down to the bottom. The force of the change of momentum whips the statue up, and it hangs weightless in the air for just a moment as the stagecoach driven by JESUS connects with it. The feet of the statue jam into the front of the stagecoach, and the cables holding it snap, and the stagecoach continues along, skimming across the surface of the lake, the statue protruding from the front like a battering ram.

CUT to the inside of the stagecoach. HIMMELFART is pinned between the statue's legs, their face looking right at its lumpy metal package.

JESUS: Hold on tight!

CUT back to the view from behind the stagecoach. We see Jwadoa looming large, and it opens its giant marshy maw to swallow the vehicle.

Jwadoa: RRRAAAARRRRRGGGGHH!!!!!!

Finally, the head of the statue makes contact with the maw of Jwadoa, and there is a tremendous blorching sound. The screen goes green with exploding goo. Dead frogs and birds are thrown everywhere. Then, a moment later, the goop clears and the stage barrels forward. The camera slowly pulls back, and we see that Jwadoa's head has exploded. It tries to stand, haphazardly, and begins to come apart, dead bodies dropping splorchingly into the marsh. We can see the stagecoach now through a giant hole in the middle of the creature. It circles around, and slowly begins to rise up into the air. However, Jwadoa is now grabbing handfuls of dead things and goop, and is stuffing them into its head. It looks like maybe it is starting to reform. Finally, an eye opens in the great beast and it starts to grab out towards the flying stagecoach.

JESUS: We're too heavy! I need a little help back there!

CUT to HIMMELFART and PITT and a few other protestors and indians pushing the legs of the statue, finally, it slides forward and falls. HIMMELFART and one of the indians high five.

CUT back to the aerial view. The stagecoach is high in the sky above Jwadoa, and we see the statue plummet from it, landing right in the center of the writhing mass. The creature explodes, basting the battlefield in a coating of brown goo. The stagecoach rises higher and higher into the air, and then finally streaks off, shooting into the heavens on a beam of light which finally dwindles away to a single bright star burning in the night sky. A lens flare from the camera gives it a little bit of a cross like appearance.

CUT to the edge of the lake. All looks dead and goopy and calm. Finally, the surface is disturbed by some ripples. A hat floats to the surface. Next, a dark hand sticks up out of the water, and Jack HOFFMAN comes sputtering to the surface. He swims over to the edge of the lake and pulls himself out of the water. He sits there, panting for a few seconds, and then looks down and sees a battered Amazon package stuck in the mud. He pulls it out, whips out his bowie knife, and stares down into the box. Finally he pulls out a pair of leather gloves.

HOFFMAN: Hey, not bad.

He tries to pull the gloves on and they are too small. They barely make it past his fingers.

HOFFMAN: Fuck you, Jeff Bezos!

SUNDAY

Scene 30 (Walk of Shame, Airport)

SCENE opens early Sunday morning at the drop off done, where FUDGESON is pulling up in his UberX. He slides out of the back seat and takes a look around.

FUDGESON: What the....

Camera pans around the airport. It is totally trashed. It looks like someone has driven a shuttle bus over each and every garbage can, knocking the trash everywhere. The fountain is smashed, and the bronze statue of John Wayne is protruding from it, upside down, its head buried in at least a foot or two of rubble. The buskers are back, doing a rousing version of "Sink to the Bottom". There is dried chowder everywhere. He grimaces as he walks into the entrance, his shoes sticking and making disgusting noises as he lifts them up.

He enters the main hall, where a small stream of chowder is still trickling out the doors. It looks as if someone has driven the bus through security, and the scanners are smashed and swept to the side. TSA is checking people with hand scanners.

He reaches the food court, which looks like it has just survived a prison riot. He turns left, and heads down to B gates. Suddenly, he hears people shouting from the A gates corridor.

COX: There he is!

REYNOLDS: After him!

FUDGESON's eyes widen, and he makes a run for it. A crowd of ragged, half naked, and chowdery people are hot on his tail, led by COX and REYNOLDS. FUDGESON looks back, and sees them gaining on him. He makes a little whining scream and breaks into a sprint. He gasps as he hits the Amtrak motorized walkway and picks up a little speed, but then the mob hits the track behind him and speeds up as well. Camera shows a side view, where we see FUDGESON running from the mob with the Amtrak ad behind him, making it look like he is running from zombies on a train in the old west while indians and bandits attack the train (as seen through the windows).

Finally, he gets to the gates, bangs open an emergency door, and goes running out onto the tarmac; he heads for the set of rolling stairs where his plane was parked. He breathes a deep sigh of relief as he gets to the stairs and starts running up. He books it up the stairs and then lets out a satisfied victory yell as he gets to the top, and then screams when he realizes that there is no plane there and he is about to topple over off the top of the stairway. His bag goes flying out of his hands and smashes open below, spilling model train equipment, manga, and lederhosen everywhere.

The mob surrounds the stairs, and FUDGESON is trapped. REYNOLDS steps forward.

REYNOLDS: Commissioner Fudgeson, we have something to say to you.

FUDGESON looks terrified, but has no way out, so he resigns himself to his fate.

FUDGESON (sighing): Well, out with it, man.

REYNOLDS: We have resolved our differences with the protestors sir. We have agreed to rename the airport.

FUDGESON (his eyebrows raising): You have, eh? To what?

REYNOLDS: Well, I think it's best I let Ms. Cox explain that sir.

COX steps forward. She is filthy, and her hair is matted with chowder, congealed and sticking out to one side. Half of her blouse seems to have been torn away, and her skirt is torn off about six inches from the waist. Someone has drawn a zucchini on a stick on her thigh with lipstick. She is wearing cowboy boots.

COX: That's right, sir. We have agreed to rename the airport, after John Wayne.

FUDGESON: What?

COX: Look sir, John Wayne may not be the perfect person, but then again nobody is. It is so easy in these difficult times to point fingers and call everyone out for their failures that we sometimes easily miss the good in people. And what's good about John Wayne was he did his best. While other people ran from their problems or gave in to bullies, he stood up to them, he took action, risked his own neck, and took a stand for what he thought was right. For my sake, I am proud to have my airport named after John Wanye instead of some sleazy politician, another too-big-to-fail tech company, a gropey producer, or one more filthy rich donor. This is our airport, and it reflects our history, and I am proud to call it that.

FUDGESON: (Looking stunned) Okay... I couldn't agree more. But isn't this place already named John Wayne Airport?

COX: Oh, well yes, that's the important part. Sometimes healing doesn't come from just time, but from ceremony as well. We can't just sweep history under the rug, we need to bring it out into the open in all its ugliness. And I can't think of a better example of that than John Wayne Airport. The controversy will never go away if we ignore it; we need to embrace our past and atone for it at the same time. So yes, we will announce we are renaming the airport, and why, and at the same time, explain that we are doing this as a way to raise awareness of our troubled past. And when the new name is christened, we will also open a new entrance hall for the airport, one dedicated to educating people on the history and plight of the native americans and the shameful way we have treated them. But not a depressing, downer of a museum, but one that also incorporates the spirit of the west, the dream that one can be the master of their own fate, that one can carve a life out of the wilderness and build something new and better, yet that better world being one of diversity and cooperation.

The crowd cheers and begins applauding. Camera pans around, and we see JENNY, SINBAD, JOE FRANK, and various familiar protestor faces smiling and clapping. A few people high five or hug.

COX: And yeah, we could call it Sacajawea Airport or something more PC, but, the challenge is not to win the hearts and minds of oppressed minorities, but to actually convince real, privileged, white people to start thinking differently. No racist is going to walk into Sacajawea Airport with an open mind and learn something, but if we call it John Wayne Airport, make them feel like they are in a safe space, maybe we can surprise them and start to make a difference.

FUDGESON: Wow. Ok. Hm... well alright then. Yeah. I can live with that. Bravo.

The crowd cheers more.

FUDGESON: Now, has anyone seen my plane?

The crowd shrugs and shakes its head. Soon there is a clip clopping sound, and HOFFMAN, completely covered in mud, comes riding up on a dappled horse and parks it at the end of the stairs. He tips his hat.

HOFFMAN: Does someone need a ride?

ONE MONTH LATER

Scene 31 (Victory, Airport)

Scene opens on a black screen, with "One Month Later" in white.

We see a bright sunny day, as we open on the airport atrium. There's a party going on, the JW statue has been repaired and it is standing in its old place with a huge white sheet over it. Camera pans through the crowd and we see some familiar faces. Bob DYLAN arrives with an attractive woman decked out in LL Bean (REYNOLDS' ex wife), who gives REYNOLDS the finger as Bob nibbles her earlobe. REYNOLDS is getting his revenge by making out with COX. A few of the protestors have paired off into couples. SHAW K and ADA bump into each other in the mix.

SHAW K: Oh, excuse me, miss.

ADA (looking him up and down): You're certainly excused, young man. (She obviously likes what she sees, even though he still has mummy bandages on part of his body and his hair is patchy; she extends her hand.) I'm Ada. I'm with the family.

SHAW K (seeing his opportunity): Oh, no shit, a Duchess? A pleasure. (He flashes a shocker down low.)

ADA: Oh my, is that the Pride of Wichita I see before me?

SHAW K: Whoa, you are familiar with the Volkswagen dung beetle?

ADA: Quite well, although it's been far too long.

SHAW K (slipping his mummy arm across her shoulder): Well, let's rectify that, shall we?

They move off and we return to BOB DYLAN and the former Mrs Reynolds canoodling. BOB DYLAN reaches behind her and taps a little bell with an ice cream scoop; the bell starts a Rube Goldberg machine that pulls a little rope and down comes a banner reading "Bob Dylan's Soft Serve Somebody! Now serving...Stuck Inside of JWA With the Mystic Stank Again! Two scoops for the price of two!" JENNY is first in line.

JENNY: What have you got for us, Bob?

BOB DYLAN: Glad you asked. This one is for all my loyal customers who have stuck with me over the years, even if that meant braving the stank for a scoop. You all mean a lot to me.

JENNY: Well, you mean a lot to us too, Bob.

BOB DYLAN: Aw, shucks. Anyway (he starts scooping ice cream). It starts with a base of my bestselling Runny Date Raisin #12 & 35, and then I blend in a thick ribbon of durian and limburger cheese.

JENNY (tasting it): What the FUCK, Bob!

BOB DYLAN: I really nailed it, didn't I?

JENNY (mouth full of iced stank) nods violently, jumps up and down, and high fives him, kissing him on the cheek and leaving a brown, runny mess. She walks off with her face in her waffle cone. The camera follows her as she goes, stopping as she walks past REYNOLDS and COX. They're making out when his watch beeps.

REYNOLDS (pulling back from her): Oh, crap. There's my cue.

COX (patting his lapels): You're gonna do great, Nick. I'm proud of you.

He grins sheepishly and kisses her on the cheek before jogging off toward the base of the statue where a small rostrum has been set up. He pulls a tiny souvenir tomahawk from his pocket and taps on the metal mic stand. Everyone turns their attention from DYLAN toward him, but everyone is disappointed he doesn't have a cool Rube Goldberg machine too.

REYNOLDS: Hi, everyone!

CROWD: HI, Nick!

REYNOLDS: Well, today's the big day. We're all here... well those of us who made it... we're here to commemorate where we've been, what we've done to get here, and where we're going. Y'know, sometimes the future can look an awful lot like the past. So much so that it may not look like there's any difference at all. But if you look, if you really look at what we've done, you can see that our future, the future of John Wayne Airport, is solidly rooted in its past, but not trapped by it. The leaves and branches of our future spring from those roots, but they always grow into new, unexplored places. (pauses) Wow, that was fuckin' good. Anyway, here to do the honors and unveil our new daddy (gestures toward the statue), please welcome (stops and grimaces). Uh, oops. I forgot, Commissioner Fudgeson is still missing, so, uh, guess I'll do it.

There is a smattering of applause as REYNOLDS goes to grab the rope that will pull the sheet off the statue. Just as he takes hold, JOE FRANK rushes up with a cellphone.

JOE FRANK: Boss! It's urgent! (He hands the phone to REYNOLDS.)

REYNOLDS: What, now!?

JOE FRANK: It's the Secretary of Transportation!

REYNOLDS (to the crowd): Sorry, folks, I gotta take this. (Into the phone) Yello!? (pause) Speaking. (pause) Say what? (Long pause) Really? (short pause) Noo, come on! (pause) Well, shit. Effective when? (pause) Oh, that's- (pause) Seriously? (pause) Umm...well, alright then, thanks for calling. (He hangs up.)

The crowd is looking at him expectantly, REYNOLDS looks pale. He looks out at the crowd and then forces a smile.

REYNOLDS: Well, folks, that was the FAA with some great... um, well, with some... unexpected news.

The crowd grows hush. REYNOLDS looks down at his speech and sighs and tears it in half and tosses it back over his shoulder. He pulls out a silver pocket flask out of his jacket and takes a hit.

REYNOLDS: Ok, well, I might as well out with it. Despite all our tremendous efforts, John Wayne Airport is being decommissioned. (He chokes a bit on the last word.)

The crowd gasps and there are some scattered boos; REYNOLDS holds up his hands.

REYNOLDS (wiping his eyes): Now, now. I know this isn't the result we were looking for, but, there is a silver lining. By order of the president, the airport is being repurposed. As, wait for it... a refugee center!

The crowd is silent for a moment, and then scattered applause begins to grow. Soon, the crowd seems to have decided this is all for the best and breaks into cheers and applause.

REYNOLDS: That's right folks, in three months the ground we are now standing on will be known around the world as the John Wayne Foreign Refugee Internment Camp!

The applause immediately stops. Bob Dylan drops his ice cream scoop and it clatters on the pavement, breaking the awkwardness.

REYNOLDS: Uh. Hm. Well, time to bust out the protest gear again I guess. Not sure a name change will do us much good this time though. Actually, I don't think I could think of a better name.

Everyone pauses in thought for a moment. People nod in agreement, but nobody can really think of anything more to say.

REYNOLDS: Ok, Fuck it.

REYNOLDS shrugs, grabs the rope and yanks; the sheet comes off the statue; sunlight coming in through the atrium windows hits the bronze Duke and glints as everyone gasps in awe. A few people start to cheer and whistle. "I'm Alright" by Kenny Loggins comes on, and gradually everyone starts dancing.

CAMERA zooms in on the crowd and flits through the dance floor, occasionally lingering on familiar faces: REYNOLDS is Dancing with COX. His wife is grinding on Bob Dylan. JENNY is doing the Jitterbug with SINBAD. SHAW K and ADA are dancing butt to butt. JOE FRANK and HOFFMAN are doing the hand jive. HAMILTON trots by pulling a hay cart which holds GLEWIS who is carrying a large papier-mâché hose which is blasting glitter out over the crowd. Only one person seems to be missing.

One of the protestors looks up and points.

PROTESTOR: Hey! That cloud looks like-

CUT to the sky through the atrium windows. The cloud looks suspiciously like HIMMELFART. The crowd oohs and ahhs and the camera soars up into the sky and we look down on JWA for the last time.

AIRPORT: Jesús, Maria, and José, just what I need. A bunch of filthy wetbacks all crammed up inside me. Though I guess that injun curse did clear out plenty of room for them. Hey Pancho, these dingleberries ain't gonna pick themselves.

AIRPORT mutters more racist shit as we fade up into the clouds. As we get farther and farther from the ground, the voice gets fainter and fainter.

AIRPORT: Oh, wait, think about all the young senoritas I'll be taking care of. I always did like a little caramel on my apples. Heh, I married three of em... and plenty more I didn't have to marry. Take a letter, Maria, indeed! How about a big P?

CAMERA fades up until finally we can't hear him.

As AIRPORT (thankfully) fades out, we faintly hear an approaching propeller plane and soon it passes the camera's view. It is FUDGESON's plane. CUT to cockpit; FUDGESON is knocked out and propped up at the controls, a la Weekend at Bernies; we can see a light blinking on the panel reading "Autopilot Engaged". The cockpit door is open and through it we see James Caan dragging a drugged teenage boy down the central aisle.

"I Ran" by Nine Inch Nails crashes onto the soundtrack as the screen cuts to black.

Roll credits.

CREDITS

Post Credits Scene 1

NEWMAN is surfing the interwebs and comes across a new mod for Doom, the John Wayne's Colon edition. It consists of the player moving down a colon shaped cave and being attacked by creepy shit monsters and exploding polyps. "Damn, this is badass!" Newman exclaims as he sips from a two gallon 7-11 cup.

Post Credits Scene 2

GLEWIS Johnson is making his way into work on Monday morning. He is bopping along happily, whistling the A-Team theme song. He is carrying a Magnum PI lunchbox. He passes through the food court, nods at a few of the janitorial staff cleaning up the community meeting mess. He gets to the roller wall that shutters the chowder hose, unlocks the little manual side door, and steps inside. He freezes up at the entrance and the lunchbox clatters to the floor. Fade to black as we hear him exclaim, "Mother Butler!"