THE RELIEF EFFORT: ROUND TWO

Today's guest poster is Doug of WAKING AMBROSE and DOUG DRONES ON. Doug is a tad classier than the usual dregs and mutants who enjoy this site (you reading this, Roger?), and I've become somewhat of an embarassing drunken uncle at the dinner table of his comment box. Truthfully, if you're one of the few hardcore hopefulls that come here every other day, you'd do just as well to check his site--you're almost more likely to catch me there than here on a given day.

Fans of Robert Anton Wilson's more bizarre pseudo-celebrity plays will likely find this a hoot. Admittedly, it was a lot of fun to watch Doug be naughty for a change; if you read his site on any sort of regular basis, you'll understand. It won't make the voices go away, but hey, that's what Xanax is for. Down a few, pour a musky glassful of whatever gives you the poutiest whiskey face, and read this. Neither Doug, nor myself, take any responsibility for any instances wherein the reader's liver attempts to escape, crawling out through their navel.

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Thanks to Gabriel, for giving me this opportunity to work blue.

Here is Act I, Scene I of my new screenplay: The Thin Man Out West

Cast:
Nick Charles, Sophisticated former detective
Nora Charles, San Francisco Heiress
Ambrose Bierce, Columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle
Asta, Fluffy dog
Sgt. O'Herlihy, of the San Francisco Police Department
Gabby Hayes,Toothless old cowpoke

Scene: Nick and Nora's penthouse apartment overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Nick Charles is standing by a prodigious bar mixing a Manhattan. Nora stands next to Nick not touching him. Asta's on the couch, in profile, staring at Nick and Nora.

Nora: You say a friend shall be dropping by for a visit? You must have forgotten the art gallery opening at seven.
Nick: So sorry, my dear, but you know I hate seven o'clock events. The hors d'ouvres soak up the cocktails. Besides, I believe you'll enjoy my friend, Ambrose. He's nearly aboriginal. Do we have Bourbon? [doorbell rings, Asta yaps] Ah that must be Ambrose now.

[Enter Sgt. O'Herlihy and Gabby Hayes. Hayes has his hat in his right hand and repeatedly spits in his left which he uses in a hopeless attempt to smooth his beard ]

Sgt O'Herlihy: Sorry to impose, Mr. Charles, Mrs. Charles, but we need your help.
Nora: I do hope if it's a murder, that it occured somewhere near the new gallery.
Nick: Now, Nora, it can't be helped. No-one ever kills an artist. Villainy and philanthropy are so rarely joined these days. Tell us, Sergeant.
Sgt. O'Herlihy: I'm afraid it can't be helped, Mrs. Charles. Nick's right. A cowboy was poisoned over in the Tenderloin.
Nick: Poisoned? Are you sure he isn't just drunk?
[sighs]
Gabby Hayes: Drunk? Why you fancy-boy cocksucker! They killed my pard!
Nora: Why, sir, I'm sure my dear husband meant no offense. He rather admires the drinking habits of the dustier classes.
Hayes: I don't give a good goddamn what he meant. [to sgt. O'herlihy] How in the fuck is that white-tie-wearing gravy-eyed sonofabitch gonna he'p me git the no-good stinkin' polecat that kilt Roy? [doorbell rings again- enter Ambrose Bierce]

Nick: Ambrose, dear friend, do come in. We were just receiving a commission to investigate the intentional misfortune of a visiting cowboy.
Bierce: The murder of a cowboy in San Francisco is euthanasia, if you ask me. I hope the bastards didn't get your bourbon.
Nick: We have it warm and ready for you.
Hayes: Why that's just swell, another silk-crotched cocksucker to the fuckin' rescue.
Nick: Tell us Sergeant, how do you know the gentleman was intentionally poisoned?
Sgt: Well, when we found the unfortunate...
Hayes (interrupting): Because he was stiffer'n a billy-goat's pecker in the morning and he ain't a fuckin' armadilla, you tit-twistin' sissy. He was a fuckin' cowboy. Probably ain't a decent ten-cent whiskey in that whole fancy bar of yours.
Bierce: Cowboy, the politician of bush and beast.
Nick: Sorry, friend. I believe I have whiskey of your refinement right here. Sergeant?
Sgt: I'm on duty. Please.
Nick: [to Gabby, handing the whiskey]There you are my friend, and when did you last see Roy?
Hayes: Last night, we come in on the train from Fresno. Around midnight he was chatting up a fuckin' dancing girl.
Bierce: Ah, the Dancing Girl. On the waterfront, the object of a man's illusion. In the tenderloin, the subject.
Asta: Yip!