CAST & VOICE TALENT

• Paul Eiding – Narrator, Durien Groves
• Wes Johnson - Old Man Parker, Alastair Olivier
• Pete Hines - Santa Claus, William Lamont
• Jan Johns - Mother Parker, Miss Cordelia
• Benjamin Plessala - Ralphie Parker, Matt Ryans.
• Rhys Becker - Randy Parker, Skip Wilkins
• Jon St. John – Flick, Cousin Eddie, Will Fairbanks, Billy
• Danny Shorago – Schwartz, Rudolph, Kurt Wilson, Mr. Shirley, Crankfist the Raider, Super Mutant #3
• Ellen McLain – Lucy Fields, Miss Shields, Mrs. Claus (Ad), Aunt Clara
• John Patrick Lowrie – Joe LaChance, Scut Farkus, Yukon Cornelius
• Peter Jessop - Captain Cosmos, Carl Fisk
• Bill Lobley - Radio Announcer, Store Announcer, John Hewitt, Editor
• Chip Joslin – Grahm, Grover Dill, Swede the Neighbor
• Dr. Mark Hauswirth - Dr. Zorbo, Brian, Super Mutant #1, Real Santa
• Dave Volkmar - Christmas Tree Man, Black Bart
• Kayce Baker - Female Head Elf
• Matt Bartlett – Male Elf, Tech #1
• Alexander Luthor - Tarquin Blowhard
• Clint Winberry – Freightman, Super Mutant #2
• Kevin Chenard – Mama Murmurgh

Written and adapted by Dave Volkmar and Kenneth Vigue. Broadcast directed by Kayce Baker.

 

SFX: SIGN RISES AND CURTAINS OPEN

MEDIA: BOOK INTRO

KEN:                      In a time yet to come, in a parallel place where we harnessed the ATOM and said, “more of this in literally everything please”, the width and breadth of Appalachia sits beneath gray leaded skies, snow bearing clouds still haunted by the memory of what they used to herald. The holiday season has returned once more to the world where time ran out one October and while calendars become fluttering relics and clock hands lay lifeless, the world kept turning. And yet, as we’ve seen before and will again, hope is found as a plague was conquered, a flying queen was laid low, and last year one travelling band of post-apocalyptic performers found themselves confronted with the true meaning of the season. For their stalwart leader, Lord Alastair Olivier, their tour through Appalachia last year performing Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol would be a life changing event. Following their performance for the Rat King of Columbus and the Iron Tribes of Atlanta, their caravan turned northward once more to return to what remains of Broadway. As they passed through Charleston, West Virginia once more and the holiday approached, one night before crackling fire surrounded by friends a casual discussion of the great sparkling Christmases of the Old World, ignited the seed of a long dormant memory. From it, inspiration blossomed, and a rare collaboration was struck between the Aristocrats at the Whitespring, the Vault Dwellers and even the new Enclave in the bunker. Television, that tube glowing bastion of information and entertainment that delivered soul warming holiday stories of love and hope every year, would and must return to Appalachia. On the grassy banks above Charleston River, concrete was poured, and brick was laid by Enclave controlled bot and human hand alike. At last, as Christmas approached 4 letters were hoisted to position: WSAZ, a faithful recreation of West Virginia’s first television station, long since lost in the Christmas Flood disaster. We join them now on the day before Christmas Eve as Lord Alastair desperately tries to recapture a story he barely remembers from boyhood. As we’ll discover, the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia are rather unreliable narrators.

CURTAIN CLOSES AND REOPENES.

MEDIA: TV PROGRAMMING BARS AND STATIC FADE TO SCENE

TITLE: 24 Hours to Air…

SCENE 1: EXT. WSAZ TELEVISION. DAY

TARQUIN:           We’re really thrilled you could join us for this Mr. Hewitt. Been loving your radio broadcasts we’ve been picking up out of Cleveland.

HEWITT:               Thank you, thank you. The first new radio and TV station in the last quarter century since the bombs dropped. How could I say no.

TARQUIN:           You get in alright? You came in with Mr. Groves, Fairbanks, LaChance and his wife Lucy, yeah?

HEWITT:               For the most part yeah. We ran into some trouble out in Point Pleasant with these cultists and an anthropomorphic giant moth…typical day in the wasteland am I right? (chuckles)

TARQUIN:           All things considered this is a better place than most to put down some roots. Let me introduce you to everyone. Up here in the booth is Baker and Bartlett.

BAKER:                 Hey hey! The man with the golden radio voice! Love your “Lake Whoops It’s Gone” pre-war nostalgia show!

HEWITT:               Thank you!

BAKER:                 That story about the exploding two-headed cow…I have to know was that…

TARQUIN:           Not now Baker…this is Bartlett, one of our techs.

BARTLETT:           Pleased to see me. I…I mean…nice to meet me. Oh God…stupid…stupid…you said you’d be cool…just a person like me. Puts on pants the same way…

HEWITT:               Uhhhhhh what?

TARQUIN:           He gets nervous around celebrities. Let’s leave him be, we lace his coffee with Calmex…he’ll be fine.

BRIAN:                  Well, hey there!

TARQUIN:           Oh god…quick this way.

HEWITT:               Why are we in a broom cupboard?

TARQUIN:           That’s Brian. He’s a conversation trap.

HEWITT:               And that is…?

TARQUIN:           Someone you make the mistake of talking to at a party and end up not being able to escape for the rest of your life. Coast is clear. Let’s go.

HEWITT:               Hey when are we getting scripts.

CORDELIA:          An excellent question.

TARQUIN:           Ah, our own Miss Cordelia. Been with us since the early days.

CORDELIA:          Drop the miss and just call me Cordelia. And you’re…?

HEWITT:               Ah! My apologies. John Hewitt.

CORDELIA:          Oh! I’ve heard of you. The radio guy.

HEWITT:               Guilty as charged.

CORDELIA:          Welcome aboard! Look Tarquin, unless you want me hiding a script in a cookbook…I need it…like yesterday.

TARQUIN:           He’s polishing it…

CORDELIA:          Again? We’re on what? The 128^th script revision?

TARQUIN:           130^th actually.

HEWITT:               Isn’t that a little…

CORDELIA:          Obsessive? Yeah. As I said. Welcome aboard. Toodles!

CRANKFIST:        Hey hey! There’s my favorite Brit. Top o’ the mornin’ GUVNAH.

TARQUIN:           Don’t…don’t do that.

CRANKFIST:        This the radio guy for the show? Name’s Crankfist.

HEWITT:               You HIRED A RAIDER?!

CRANKFIST:        Whoa! Lower your detected level there, microphone mike! I’m only a Raider on my mother’s side.

HEWITT:               Oh? What was your dad’s side? Appalachian?

CARNKFIST:        Nah. Chameleon. Cuz he vanished on us. (laughs) See yah around.

CARL:                    Hey Tarquin…when are we getting the final…

TARQUIN:           Script! I know, I know. Soon.

CARL:                    Hewitt, right?

HEWITT:               Yeah! Hang on didn’t we…

CARL:                    Yeah! 6 years ago, Easter. That vaudeville show down in Atlanta for the Red Skulls.

HEWITT:               Oh yeah! That’s right! Fisk, right? Carl Fisk! What a wild night that was. You still touring with that talking Deathclaw?

CARL:                    Nah, he headed out west after the Robobrain swarm with Mr. Bill’s Atomic Freak Show. Last I heard he was shacked up with the Yak Woman.

HEWITT:               What?

CARL:                    Here comes trouble…

LUCY:                    Well, I know I packed it. You must’ve moved it.

JOE:                       I didn’t dearest, you probably left it back in Jersey.

DURIEN:               Just hide the script in something Lucy. It’s not like we have to impress anyone here…if we get 2 Supermutants and a Raider tuning in that’ll be something.

LUCY:                    When’s the last time you’ve seen a living ophthalmologist Joe? They aren’t exactly god mode commando builds. More like a Supermutant buffet in the early days. I’m not going to be able to read the script without my glasses.

JOE:                       It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll hold up cue cards. Big letters. And I absolutely, positively won’t take artistic liberty with them.

HEWITT:               Lost your glasses Lucy?

LUCY:                    Joe didn’t pack them…

JOE:                       It’s true. I did it on purpose. Our marriage is one based on small conquests. Game set and match. Your move dear.

WILL:                     HEY! Tarquin! What’s the deal with the script man? I have revision 21 and Cordy’s got revision 120 something. We doing this or what? It’s 24 hours to airtime.

TARQUIN:           I know! I know! Look Alastair tried that Robobrain hypnotism thing to try and dredge up the details of a movie he barely remembers from when he was a kid, but that didn’t work. So, we went a little…experimental.

WILL:                     What do you mean experimental?

TARQUIN:           We hired a former RobCo Industries scientist, Dr. Emerson Hale who modded up a tranquility lounger to reformat his memories and output them in script form. We’ve been merging in the changes by hand.

LUCY:                    Who cares about the finer details? This is the first television broadcast in a quarter century. I could dance in a hoopskirt, and they’d eat it up.

TARQUIN:           This is…incredibly important to him. I know it’s frustrating. Truly, but I promise you, this will be something we’ll all be proud of when we’re done.

ALASTAIR:           I’ve got it! I’ve got it! Hot jiminy I’ve finally got it!

TARQUIN:           Speak of the devil.

ALASTAIR:           Happy Christmas Eve all! Sorry for the delays, but this time I think I’ve finally got it. Completely forgot about the meeting Santa Claus bit.

HEWITT:               John Hewitt.

ALASTAIR:           HEWITT! Oh, I’m absolutely thrilled you could join our merry little band here. Absolute thrilled. I saw some of your work with the Living Theatre and it was great stuff.

HEWITT:               Thanks!

ALASTAIR:           Tarquin introduced everyone?

HEWITT:               Yeah, the whole crowd…even…

BRIAN:                  Oh, THERE everybody is! Your silly gooses.

TARQUIN:           Oh God…

BRIAN:                  Pardon me Mr. Olivier but I was referencing the original architectural blueprints of the WSAZ building that was destroyed in the Christmas Flood and it appears that the foundation base block in the lobby is off center by 10 degrees, a shift that is less than aesthetically pleasing. Did you know that art of aesthetics elaborated after 1750 derived from…

ALASTAIR:           NOT NOW BRIAN!

BRIAN:                  Okie dokie.

ALASTAIR:           Ah before I forget! The head waiter in the restaurant scene on Christmas day! Did you find someone for that yet?

TARQUIN:           Ah…right…no volunteers. No one wanted the role.

ALASTAIR:           Well cast for it dear boy! Cast for it! It needs to feel authentic! It’s a pre-war restaurant, a sumptuous repast! There must be SOMEONE around here knows a thing or two about meal preparation.

SFX: WALL SMASHES IN.

SFX: COW MOOS.

ALASTAIR:           Jesus Christ on a jet pack! Quickly! Arm yourself!

GRAHM:              Grahm's delivery service! Same day! Maybe. Or not. You never know. Me neither. You want meats? But not Chally moo moo. She no for sale.

BRIAN:                  Well, hey there Grahm!

GRAHM:              Ah. Hello Brian. How is MaryAnne?

BRIAN:                  Just ducky.

ALASTAIR:           Pardon my bluntness my tall green friend, but just who the hell are you?

BRIAN:                  This is Grahm, one of Appalachia’s few homicidal atomic horrors.

ALASTAIR:           I see. Did you say meats?

GRAHM:              Grahm sell meats. Meats all kinds. Meat week soon…you come. We make lots of food. You make good kills, bring me prime meats. Choice cuts. Grahm make meal for all humans. Even take meat to go. Best walkin' foods... dried meat, roast meat, charred meat, skewered meat, squishy meat, crispy meat, fishy meat, stinky meat….

ALASTAIR:           He’s perfect.

TARQUIN:           I don’t think we have anything in his size…

ALASTAIR:           Scratch that! Toss it right out. I’ll change the scene.

GRAHM:              ... rotten meat, icky meat, browned meat, seasoned meat, salty meat, slimy meat, sticky meat, sugary meat, meaty meat, chewy meat, gamey meat…

ALASTAIR:           Yes! YES! We get the picture my fine fellow. Here, why don’t you follow your friend Brian over to Studio B and we’ll get you paid and prepped.

BRIAN:                  Right this way Grahm and Chally! Ooops! Cow patty! (laughs)

SFX: CAR CRASH.

ALASTAIR:           What on earth was that?

CORDELIA:          Uhhhh…there’s a fender bender in front of the building. Two anti-personnel looking limos just pulled up and rear ended each other.

ALASTAIR:           AH! Excellent! That would be our little stars!

MATT:                   Your driver is a cretin Wilkins. You always hire the kind of people who bafflingly have a -2 to Intelligence.

SKIP:                      Always nice to work together again Ryans. How’s your mother and the family? Is she still shacked up with that raider up in the Commonwealth?

MATT:                   How dare you!

SKIP:                      Can someone direct me to my trailer? I’ve had a taxing day on the road.

LUCY:                    These are supposed to be kids?

ALASTAIR:           Yes! Matt Ryans! You remember his work in the off-Broadway pantomime of “Communism Be Gone!”

MATT:                   This is our little ensemble, is it?

CORDELIA:          Awww…aren’t you adorable! I’m Cordelia, I’ll be playing your mom.

MATT:                   You’d do well with less time in the sun kitten. You’d be better cast as my grandmother.

CORDELIA:          Adorable. I just can’t wait to shove a bar of soap in your mouth tomorrow.

SKIP:                      Why not rehearse now? Which one of you is my personal assistant during this production?

ALASTAIR:           Tarquin here can see to anything you need.

SKIP:                      Magnificent. I’ve made a list in alphabetical order.

TARQUIN:           Okay…this is…I’m sorry Mirelurk cakes hand cut into the shape of dinosaurs?

ALASTAIR:           Never mind that now! Everyone! Attention! Please! This show will be the crown jewel in my career and in the history of our troupe. Tarquin, I want you to oversee every aspect of production!

TARQUIN:           Yes sir.

ALASTAIR:           We will OWN Christmas! This production, “A Fallout Christmas Story”, so jokingly named from the radioactive Fallout that blanketed the land and unleashed radioactive horrors upon us all…is very personal to me. A long way from here and so many years gone now, the very last Christmas I would spend with my family before the Great War we visited a movie theater. That night burns bright in my memory of a film now long since lost to ruin and time and despite my best efforts to find a surviving copy…alas, none seems to exist. After our little Appalachia tour last year, I decided that we, as torch bearers of all that came before…because we lived there…have the capacity to resurrect this timeless holiday classic as we remembered it to share a message of hope, of love and the undying nostalgia of youth with what remains of the world.

SKIP:                      Oh God he’s one of these big speech production people.

ALASTAIR:           I’ve agonized over the details…trying desperately to remember every minute scene, word spoken and finally believe we have yanked it from the recesses of my mind and laid it to paper for the first time in over two decades. Tomorrow! Our big night. Give it your all! We’re about to make history….

EVERYONE APPLAUDS EXCEPT THE TWO KIDS WHO LOOK BORED.

ALASTAIR:           Right! Let’s get to work everyone! 24 hours to showtime. I…may just tweak a few more things.

WILL:                     Oh, come on man! I’m going to the Wayward for a drink. If anyone needs me, don’t.

HEWITT:               Hey I’m going to get settled. Pitch with set building.

TARQUIN:           Sounds great mate. Cheers.

SFX: RADIO STATIC.

TARQUIN:           Lamont? Lamont come in! How are you making out with the satellite hookup?

WILLIAM:            Can anyone hear me? Hello! Look when you sent me on this suicide mission to rig up a relay at the National Isolated Radio array it would’ve been just SWELL if someone told me this place is crawling with super mutants.

SFX: GUNSHOTS

WILLIAM:            YEAH! YOU WANT SOME MORE? How do you like them tarberries!?

TARQUIN:           Is it done? Did you finish the connection?

WILLIAM:            Yeah, yeah. I put the whatever in the dingle bob whatsit and threw the switch. We’ve got satellite linkup with Telstar 8. That thing hasn’t talked to anyone in a while. Asked for someone to please shoot it out of the sky and end its existential silent drift through the Starfield. I uploaded a copy of Nuka Tapper to shut it up for a bit. Gave it something to do.

TARQUIN:           (Awkward) Right. What is the broadcast range?

WILLIAM:            It’s been knocked around up there by space junk. Best we can do is all of Eastern Seaboard for anyone who just happens to have a TV on staring at static for whatever reason…which should be about 5 people. Really worth the effort.

TARQUIN:           Look just wrap it up and get back here. Olivier wants to do a final rehearsal before live.

WILLIAM:            Okay but he’d better not cast me as anything ridiculous like last year. Oh…damn…Super Mutant Behemoth. LOCK AND LOOADDDDDD! HIPPEE KAI YAI YAHHHHH MOTHER…

SFX: EXPLOSIONS. STATIC. CUTS OUT.

TARQUIN:           Lamont? Lamont? Right well…good.

SFX: FADE IN

TITLES: CHRISTMAS EVE, 5 SECONDS TO LIVE

TARQUIN:           Five second till we go live!

CORDELIA:          Yeah, we did A Christmas Carol last year. Let’s hear your Tiny Tim!

SKIP:                      God bless us everyone!

CORDELIA:          Adorable.

MATT:                   Your Tiny Tim was mundane and derivative.

SKIP:                      Your handlers still sewing your name in your clothes?

MATT:                   Drink toilet water and mutate trash.

BRIAN:                  Golly jee! A live broadcast! Isn’t this so festive? You can practically feel the Yuletide spirit in the air!

SFX: EQUIPMENT ACTIVIATING. SWITCHES THROWN.

TARQUIN:           Annddd go Mr. Hewitt.

HEWITT:               Tonight, live on WSAZ, a Christmas classic – Sir Alastair Olivier’s immortal “A Fallout Christmas Story"…

TECH #1:              Ready to roll titles.

TARQUIN:           Roll titles and then give me a slow pull-out and lights up on Camera 2.

MEDIA: A Fallout Christmas Story title.

SCENE 2: EXT. CLEVELAND STREET. DAY

FADE IN TO SCENE

MEDIA: GRAPHIC SAYS APPALACHIA, SOMETIME IN THE 2047.

MEDIA: PAN ACROSS CLARKSBURG AREA. CLEVELAND STREET.

TARQUIN:           Coming up on three. Three, two, one. That’s it…nice slow pullout. Down on Mr. Groves and lights up. Cue Mr. Groves.

NARRATOR:        Clarksburg, West Virginia 2047. A small podunk town, sticking like a barnacle to the hull of the Eastern Seaboard, locked in a death grip for dear life like so many in a time of advanced robotics, unimaginable atomic power and a penchant still for vinyl records for some odd reason. Surrounded by steel mills churning out Mr. Handy’s, Storage depots for nuclear waste and intercut with railroad tracks, an unsafe and hazardous playground if there ever was for a kid to call home.

MEDIA: ALLEY WITH OLD FENCES

NARRATOR:        We still had snow in those days, cold merciless winters intercut with an occasional acid rain to spice things up, or at least melt the driveway part way. It was early December, the first blizzard of the year, roaring down out of the Canadian wilds and slamming into the worn hills of Appalachia like a missile from God knows what country. In these strange times, you had your work cut out for you. Not to survive, no, that was still pretty easy, but to survive and be happy? To have the American Dream? Well, in God we trust, all others pay caps.

NARRATOR:        Everyone had their car, their house, a new robotic servant with an oddly British demeanor that some found unpatriotic, but things were starting to get weird. Radiation was everywhere, strange talk of war and un-American activities proliferated the air waves, people sometimes looked at each other funny. But none of that mattered to a ten-year-old boy because Christmas was only days away.

MEDIA: DOWNTOWN CHARLESTON.

NARRATOR:        Lovely, beautiful, glorious Christmas, around which the entire kid year revolved. Downtown Charleston was prepared for its yearly Bacchanalia of peace on earth and good will to men.

MEDIA: EXT HIGBEE’S DEPT. STORE – NIGHT. HIGBEE’S DEPARTMENT STORE WINDOW.

NARRATOR:        Higbee's Department Stores’ corner window was traditionally a major high-water mark of the pre-Christmas season. It set the tone, the motif of their giant Yuletide Jubilee. Kids were brought in from miles around just to see the window. Old codgers would recall vintage years when the window had flowered more fulsomely than in ordinary times. This was one of those years. The magnificent display had been officially unveiled on a crowded Saturday night. It was an instant smash hit.

NARRATOR:        First nighters packed earmuff to earmuff, their steamy breath clouding up the sparkling plate glass, jostled in rapt admiration before a golden, tinkling, panoply of mechanized electronic joy. Ah there it is! Amongst Tickle Me Ella talking dolls, and chugging toy trains going nowhere fast, in all its glory the Captain Cosmos M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult, the holy grail of Christmas gifts. It was a good year. Maybe even a great one. Like a swelling Christmas balloon, the excitement mounted until the whole town-tossed restlessly in bed and made plans for the big day. Already my own scheme was well under way, a scheme whose Machiavellian brilliance and Olympian perseverance made that Christmas stand out among Christmases past.

MEDIA: RALPH PARKER' S HOUSE – DAY. RADIO CRACKLES IN BACKGROUND. CLOSE UP ON SCOUT’S LIFE IN RALPHIE AND RANDY’S ROOM ON MAGAZINE RACK.

SFX: PARKER LIVING ROOM AMBIANCE #1

NARRATOR:        I remember clearly, itchingly, nervously, maddeningly the first time I laid eyes on it, pictured in a three-color smeared illustration in a full-page back cover ad in 'Scout's Life.' Captain Cosmos, his jaw squared, at least I thought so beneath that helmet, staring out at me manfully, and speaking directly to me eye to eye. In his hand was the knurled stock of as beautiful, as coolly deadly looking a piece of weaponry as I’d ever laid eyes on.

CAP COSMOS:   BOYS! ARE YOU TIRED OF BULLIES PUSHING YOU AROUND HERE ON EARTH? WHAT IF YOU COULD GET RID OF THEM FOREVER JUST LIKE THE BRAVE SOLDIERS OF YOUR GREAT NATION?! THIS CHRISTMAS TELL YOUR PARENTS YOU WANT MY WHIZ BANG NEW CAPTAIN COSMOS M-42 FAT MAN TACTICAL NUCLEAR CATAPULT!

NARRATOR:        Yes lads, this is it. Your chance to own an official replica Captain Cosmos M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult. This fine weaponry would make Captain Cosmos proud. It’ll make you proud, Your dad proud. Your mom will hate it beyond comprehension. But it’ll make a mighty swell Christmas gift.

RALPH:                 (continuing) Make a swell Christmas gift, make a swell Christmas gift, Make a swell Christmas gift.

NARRATOR:        A swell Christmas gift! Here was Captain Cosmos himself nailing me, his pal Ralphie with his calculatingly demonic underplay -- knowing full well that it was not merely a swell Christmas gift but the Christmas gift -- the quintessential Christmas gift, the Holy Grail of Christmas gifts. For the first time in my life the initial symptoms of genuine lunacy, of mania, set in.

MEDIA: DISSOLVE TO THE FOLLOWING, WHICH IS RALPHIE'S DAYDREAM FANTASY. RALPH'S KITCHEN - EXTREME CLOSEUP

SFX: MAGIC CHIMES DREAM SOUND

OLD MAN:           Save us, Ralphie! (pause) For your mother's sake.

RALPH:                 Don't worry, Dad. As long as I got Ol' Blue, my trusty Fat Man.

ZORBO:                Parker family! You were warned of my wrath should you fail to yield to my superior, villainous intellect! Now you shall face the consequences! I -

MEDIA: ZORBO IS CUT OFF BY THE ARRIVAL OF BLACK BART, A CLASSIC COWBOY VILLAIN IN BANDIT SHIRT AND MASK.

BLACK BART:      Alright Parkers! I done told you you would face my wrath if you didn’t -

ZORBO:                Bart! What the hell are you doing?

BLACK BART:      Uh - Harassing the Parker family.

ZORBO:                No, you’re not, do you see me, standing here, doing just that? I’m the villain of this delirium. Not you.

BLACK BART:      Shucks did I get the wrong day again? It's Thursday, right?

ZORBO:                Tuesday, Bart, It’s Tuesday, now get lost, come back later. I’ve got a speech teed up here.

MEDIA: BLACK BART LEAVES, MUTTERING.

BLACK BART:      Oh, you’ve got a big speech planned? Land’s sake, bet it didn’t sound no different than my speech you brainy cuss.

ZORBO:                Sorry about that, back to one people. Now, where was I - oh yes, PARKER’S YOU WILL RUE THE DAY WHEN Oh crap is that Ol’ Blue? Run for your lives boys!

RALPH:                 See you later fellas! Say hello to Ol’ Blue!

SFX: FAT MAN FIRES. BLODY GORE EXPLODES.

ZORBO:                All right, Ralphie, you win this time, but mark my words, I shall return! Next Tuesday. Bart’s on for Thursdays and Saturdays.

OLD MAN:           You saved us, Ralphie, you saved us! We were all goners, Ralphie, and you saved us!

RALPH:                 (manfully) Me and ‘ol Blue with the MIRV attachment and this thing that goes ding. Of course, there was some that didn't want me to have 'ol Blue.

NARRATOR:        They look down in abject humiliation under my stern., but kindly reprimand. The truth had smote them!

MEDIA: BEDROOM DAYDREAM FADES.

MOTHER:             Ralphie! Randy! Downstairs in two minutes. And I mean two minutes!

NARRATOR:        Mothers know nothing about creeping marauders burrowing through the snow toward the kitchen where only you and you alone stand between your tiny, huddled family and insensate Evil. There was no question about it. Not only should I have such a weapon -- it was an absolute necessity! Race memories of Kid plots through the ages began to surge through my cortex into conscious strategy. My mother, grabbing for her copy of ‘Live and Love' would find herself cleverly euchred into reading a Captain Cosmos sales pitch.

MOTHER:             Ralphie! Randy! On the double!

MEDIA: THE KITCHEN.

SFX: KITCHEN AMBIANCE #1

THE OLD MAN IS READING THE MORNING PAPER.

OLD MAN:           Son of a bitch. They want to trade Murtagh. I don't believe it.

MOTHER:             What was that?

OLD MAN:           For Christ’s sake. The Sox want to trade Murtagh for some Texan nut, they haven’t won a series in almost 200 hundred years and they think now’s the time to get rid of their best pitcher in 50 years!

NARRATOR:        My fevered brain seethed with the effort of trying to come up with the infinitely subtle devices necessary to implant the Captain Cosmos M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult indelibly into my parents’ consciousness without their being aware that I had planted it there.

RALPH:                 (abruptly) Flick says he saw some irradiated Yao guai near Pulaski's candy store the other day.

NARRATOR:        My parents looked at me as if I had mirelurks crawling out of my ears. I could tell I was in imminent danger of overplaying my hand. Casually, I switched tactics.

RALPH:                 Hey Dad!  I'll bet you'll never guess what I got you for Christmas.

OLD MAN:           Hmmm let’s see. Is it a new furnace?

NARRATOR:        My old man was one of the most feared Furnace Fighters in Appalachia. People in Northern West Virginia fought winter tooth and claw, bodily, and there was never a let-up. Not in coal country. Everyone else had long since switched to fusion, but our house was still heated by a coal fired furnace old enough to be depicted on tablets unearthed up in Moundsville by Vault-Tec U.

MOTHER:             Hurry up, time for school.

OLD MAN:           Yeah, I'm running late already.

NARRATOR:        The Old Man headed out into the biting cold. Round One was over. Parents 1, Kids zip. I could feel the Christmas noose beginning to tighten. Maybe what happened next was inevitable. My mother, innocuously scouring a used oatmeal pot, suddenly asked out of the blue while my defenses were down.

MOTHER:             Ralphie, what would you like for Christmas?

NARRATOR:        Horrified, I heard myself blurt it out.

RALPH:                 I want an official Captain Cosmos official model M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult! Ooooo….

NARRATOR:        I was dead. Even before she opened her mouth, I knew what was coming.

MOTHER:             Oh no. You'll blow up the neighborhood.

NARRATOR:        It was the classic Mother ‘blow up the neighborhood’ Block. That deadly phrase, many times before by hundreds of mothers, was not surmountable by any means known to Kid-dom. I had really booted it. But such was my mania, my desire for a Cosmos Fat Man that I immediately began to rebuild the dike.

RALPH:                 Heh heh -- I was just kidding. Even though Flick is getting one. I guess -- I guess, uh, I’d like a Blast Radius board game.

NARRATOR:        I couldn’t believe my own ears. Blast Radius? She'd never buy it.

MOTHER:             Fat Man…Fat Men? Whichever…it’s dangerous. I don't want anybody atomizing a neighbor's house, or our own!

NARRATOR:        The last vestiges of the fight left me, I needed a better plan, a tactical retreat to evaluate the damage my mania had already wrought. Outside was the usual morning symphony of screams and fisticuffs.

THE OLD MAN BEING CHASED BY A PACK OF MOLERATS. THE OLD MAN CURSES AS HE FIGHTS THEM OFF BARE HANDED.

SFX: CAR STALL MOLE RAT FIST FIGHT

OLD MAN:           Get Out of here, you dumb buggers! MUMBLESESS! GET YOUR DAMNED MOLERATS OUT OF MY YARD! MAMA MURMURGH! GET YOUR KEISTER OUT HERE!

MAMA:                (Incoherent mumbling)

OLD MAN:           Don’t you talk to me like that you hunchbacked sloth toed farfleknucker!

MAMA:                (Angry mumbling)

SFX: DOOR OPENS AND SLAMS.

OLD MAN:           Goddamn Fusion Flea is froze up again!

NARRATOR:        Some men are Baptists; some are Methodists, others Catholics. My father was a Fusion Flea man.

OLD MAN:           That sonofabitch would freeze up, in the middle of summer, on the equator!

MOTHER:             (reproach in her voice) Little Pitchers.

OLD MAN:           Harumph!

MEDIA: CUT TO FURNACE AS IT STARTS TO SMOKE AND SPARK.

SFX: FURNACE CHUGGING AND EXPLODES

OLD MAN:           Hold it! (He cocks his head to one side like a manic roadrunner.)

OLD MAN:           (continuing; at the top of his voice drawn out like a bugle charge) Sonofabitch clinker!!

NARRATOR:        And with that Coal Country War Cry my old man was off down the basement steps, knocking over Ball jars and kicking roller skates out of the way, bellowing.

OLD MAN:           That blasted furnace has gone out again! The daggum clanky son of a bitch!

SFX: CRASHING FALLING DOWN STEPS.

MOTHER:             All right, you two, out the door in three minutes.

NARRATOR:        My mother planned these tactical retreats whenever my father was about to go into combat with the iron dragon in the basement. In the heat of battle, my father wove a tapestry of obscenity that, as far as we know, is still hanging in space over Spruce Knob Lake.

SFX: THE SOUNDS THAT COME HURTLING OUT OF THAT BASEMENT ARE CATASTROPHIC WAR SOUNDS. METAL CLANKING, BOMBS GOING OFF. ALL THE WHILE THE OLD MAN YELLS WAR CRIES.

OLD MAN:           For Chrissake, open up the damper, will you? How the hell did it get turned all the way down again? Goddammit!

SFX: MORE FURNACE BATTLE SOUNDS ERUPT FROM THE BASEMENT.

OLD MAN:           Call the goddamn office. Tell 'em I'm gonna be late. God damnit!

NARRATOR:        Preparing to go to school was like getting ready for extended deep-sea diving; long johns corduroy knickers, checkered flannel lumberjack shirt, four sweaters, fleece-lined leatherette sheepskin, helmet, goggles, mittens with leatherette gauntlets. You could practically survive a nuclear blast in so many layers. Though it wasn’t recommended, one did wonder.

RANDY:                (muffled) Um! Um! Um! Uhbum!

MOTHER:             What?

RANDY:                Ump! Um Um Ump! (Desperate)

RALPH:                 Aw, Ma, we’ll be late.

MOTHER:             Just wait, Ralph.

RANDY:                Ummmph. Ump um um!

MOTHER:             What is it?

RANDY:                (continuing; tearfully) I can't put my arms down.

MOTHER:             Just put your arms down when you get to school.

NARRATOR:        In Appalachia, sometimes solutions are very practical. Sadistic, painful, but practical.

RANDY:                NO! NO! UMMMPHHH (muffled)

NARRATOR:        There was no question of staying home. Cold was something that was accepted back then, like air, clouds and parents, a fact of nature, and as such could not be used in any fraudulent scheme to stay out of school. My mother would simply throw her shoulder against the front door, pushing back the advancing drifts and stone age ice. The wind raking the living room rug with angry fury for an instant and we would be launched -- one after the other, my brother and I like astronauts into unfriendly space.

SCENE 3: EXT. PARKER HOUSE

SFX: WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1

NARRATOR:        The door clanged shut behind us and that was it -- it was make school or die a frozen death.

MEDIA: THEY JOIN KIDS WALKING DOWN STREET PAST HOUSES.

NARRATOR:        Scattered out over the icy waste around us could be seen other tiny, befurred jots of wind-driven humanity, all painfully toiling toward the Warren G. Harding school miles away over the tundra. All of us were bound for Geography lessons involving the exports of Peru; reading lessons dealing with fat cats and dogs named 'Spot.'

RALPH:                 Hey, Flick, wait up! Wait up!

RALPH:                 (continuing) Whatcha doing?

FLICK:                    What does it look like I’m doing, pickin' goobers?

MEDIA: EXT. SCHWARTZ'S HOUSE

SCHWARTZ:        (to Flick) Hey listen, smart ass, I asked my ol' Man about sticking your tongue to radioactive crap in winter, and he says it’s still radioactive. Just like I told you. Cold doesn’t make a difference.

FLICK:                    Ah, baloney! What would your ol' man know about anything?

SCHWARTZ:        He knows because he once saw a guy stick his tongue to a radiation barrel, in January. On a bet. And the Fire Department had to come get the guy after his tongue burned off and he grew a 3^rd arm.

RALPH:                 I think he's right, Flick.

FLICK:                    Aw, jeez, you guys are real suckers for anything. My brother says that's an old wife's tale, and so does my mother.

SCHWARTZ:        Yeah, well, she's an ol' wife all right. She oughta know! (laughs)

RALPH:                 (laughs)

EXT. GRADE SCHOOL - LONG SHOT - WARREN G. HARDING. GRADE SCHOOL – DAY.

INT. SCHOOL – CLASSROOM.

SFX: SCHOOLROOM AMBIANCE #1

MISS SHIELDS:   Good morning, class.

EVERYONE:         Good morning Ms. Shields!

MISS SHIELDS:   All right, class, open your readers to page thirty-two. As you remember, we left off on the Passion Fruit Famine of 2044… modern history though it was, how was this –

NARRATOR:        Oh, listening to the Ms. Shields talk about economics was a surefire way to get an overactive child’s mind such as my own into the fertile territory of imagination. Normally this would involve various escapades of daring-do with pirates, brigands, or any other wild characters but today my mind was only on one thing. The manic bubbling of avarice would not subside.

MEDIA: RALPHIE DREAMING. MS. SHIELD IS REPLACED BY CAPTAIN COSMOS.

SFX: LINE 330 MAGIC HARP TRANSITION

CAP COSMOS:   As I was saying, class, the Passion Fruit Famine led to an all-out galactic war between myself and the villainous Doctor Zorbo. And how did I defeat him? Class, in unison please!

EVERYONE:         With the M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult, atomizing his villainous particles to the 4 vectors!

CAP COSMOS:   Exactly, with my official replica, Captain Cosmos M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult. The swellest gift a kid could have isn’t that right Ralphie?

RALPH:                 (Stupefied) Huh?

CAP COSMOS:   Ralphie? Ralphie?

MEDIA: DREAMLAND FADES. MS. SHIELD IS BACK.

SFX: LINE 359 DREAM ENDS HARP

MISS SHIELDS:   RALPH!

RALPH:                 (snapping out of it) Sorry, Mrs. Shields, can you repeat the question?

MISS SHIELDS:   Yes, Ralphie, the question was -

SFX: RECESS BELL RINGS AND EVERYONE SCATTERS LAUGHING AND TALKING.

MEDIA: EXT. SCHOOL GROUNDS - LONG SHOT.

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 – WINTER OUTDOORDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

FLICK:                    Yeah, well, your Old Man is pulling your leg and you're too dumb to know it.

SCHWARTZ:        All right, I dare you to lick it! Lick the petrified Scorched! You’ll freeze up solid.

FLICK:                    Yeah?

SCHWARTZ:        Yeah!

RALPH:                 Anyone else wondering what this is or where it came from?

NARRATOR:        Such questions came up from time to time in a world plagued by radioactive waste but in true American fashion were often forgotten quickly. In the jungles of kid-dom, gears shifted fast.

FLICK:                    Says who?

SCHWARTZ:        Says me.

FLICK:                    Oh yeah?

SCHWARTZ:        I double dare ya.

FLICK:                    Oh --

NARRATOR:        The exact exchange and nuance of phrase in this ritual is very important. One misplaced 'Oh yeah' or 'Says who' could immediately destroy one's credibility, demolish one's argument, and subject the luckless offender to immediate and prolonged ostracism.

SCHWARTZ:        Alright, I dare ya again.

FLICK:                    Oh yeah?

SCHWARTZ:        I double Dogmeat dare ya.

MEDIA: ITS REVEALED THE KIDS ARE STANDING AROUND A PETRIFIED CORPSE OF A HUMAN BEING, ODD CRYSTALS STICKING OUT OF IT AND A SICKLY GREEN GLOW EMANATING FROM WITHIN. NONE OF THE CHILDREN BAT AN EYE AT THIS HIDEOUS MONSTROSITY OF A FORMER HUMANITY. LIFE IN THESE STRANGE TIMES.

NARRATOR:        Now it was serious. A double Dogmeat dare. What else was left but a triple dare-you and finally the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple Dogmeat-dare?

SCHWARTZ:        I triple Dogmeat dare ya!

NARRATOR:        Schwartz created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat.

NARRATOR:        Flick's spine stiffened. His lips curled in a defiant sneer. There was no going back now.

FLICK:                    Ah, this is dumb! I’m not doing it!

SCHWARTZ:        Chicken! CLUCK CLUCK CLUCK

RALPH:                 No offense Schwartz but the thing is radioactive.

SCHWARTZ:        So? It ain’t gonna hurt us, watch!

MEDIA: SCHWARTZ REACHES OUT AND LICKS THE SCORCHED, THE OTHER KIDS WATCH IN HORROR. SUDDENLY AN ODD SOUND IS HEARD AND SCHWARTZ STIFFENS. FROZEN SOLID AS A POPSICLE, LIKE THE CORPSE ITSELF. SCHWARTZ MUMBLES IN PANIC AND TRIES TO PULL FREE. HE DOESN'T TRY THIS FOR LONG. FLICK HIS SMIRK TURNS TO ASTONISHMENT. THE PETRIFIED SCORCH ATOMIZES TO ASH, BUT SCHWARTZ IS STUCK.

FLICK:                    Jeez! It really works!

SCHWARTZ:        (panic tongue out)

SFX: RADS GOING OFF.

SFX: PLAY LINE 527 THE SCHOOL BELL AGAIN

SCHWARTZ:        (mumbles with tongue out) DON’T LEAVE ME!

FLICK:                    There’s the bell! See yah jackass!

SCHWARTZ:        (mumbles with tongue out) WAIT! RALPHIE! COME BACK! DON’T LEAVE COME BACK!

RALPH:                 But the bell rang!

MEDIA: EVERYONE RUNS OFF.

NARRATOR:        In those days, when the school bell rang, you went. Neither sleet nor snow nor radioactive tongues stayed your headlong flight to your desk. Flick's predicament was no exception.

MEDIA: INT. CLASSROOM - CLOSEUP - RALPHIE AND SCHWARTZ

SFX: PLAY LINE 501 – SCHOOLROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

MISS SHIELDS:   Where is Schwartz? (Pause)

NARRATOR:        Schwartz? Schwartz who?

MISS SHIELDS:   Did anyone see Schwartz at recess? (Pause) Well?

SCHWARTZ BACK IN CLASSROOM ACTING STRANGE LIKE A SCORCHED.

MISS SHIELDS:   Schwartz? Why were you late from recess?

SCHWARTZ:        Sorry Miss not us. I think I touched something nuclear.

MISS SHIELDS:   Nuclear? You mean radioactive?

SCHWARTZ:        Yeah, I don’t feel so good.

MISS SHIELDS:   Well, you don’t feel well, you mean?

SCHWARTZ:        Yes, Miss not us.

MISS SHIELDS:   Stop saying that. Hmm, it appears you’ve suffered a catastrophic dose of radiation. Mutation has set in.

SCHWARTZ:        Feel, itchy and hot.

MISS SHIELDS:   A typical symptom. Take your seat SCHWARTZ.

MISS SHIELDS:   Now, what exactly happened? Who put Schwartz up to this?

SCHWARTZ:        (moaning) It hurts…. inside…us…

MISS SHIELDS:   Well, as a lesson to all of you, we will now have to watch Schwartz mutate into a horrible abomination of radiation. For science. Observe.

SCHWARTZ:        We. Are. One….PURGE.

MISS SHIELDS:   Now, Schwartz, sit quietly. I will continue. I know this was some prank gone horribly wrong, and now poor Schwartz is forever changed.

NARRATOR:        Adults love to say things like that. But kids know better. We knew darn well it was always better not to get caught. Even if your friend ended up a radioactive hive mind plague riddled monstrosity.

MISS SHIELDS:  Not only did you suggest this awful thing, but even worse, you left him there all alone in the cold. Now don’t you feel terrible? Don’t you feel remorse for what you have done? (Long pauses everyone looks guilty)

MISS SHIELDS:   Now, that is all I am going to say about poor little SCHWARTZ. Open your notebooks, boys and girls. I am going to give you an assignment.

EVERYONE:         (Low moans and grumbles)

MISS SHIELDS:   I want all of you to write a theme --

NARRATOR:        A theme! A rotten theme before Christmas! There must be kids somewhere who love writing themes, but to a normal, air-breathing human kid, writing themes is a torture that ranks only with the dreaded medieval chin-breaker of Inquisitional fame. A theme!

MISS SHIELDS:   -- entitled 'What I Want for Christmas.'

NARRATOR:        The clouds lifted. I saw a faint gleam of light at the other end of the black cave of gloom. Here was a theme on a subject that needed talking about! Already, a masterpiece was unfolding in my mind.

MISS SHIELDS:   I want you to be particularly careful about margins. You will hand in your themes tomorrow, and I don't want to hear excuses. Now open your spelling books to page twenty-one.

MEDIA: EXT. ANOTHER ALLEY – DAY. IN THE HOWLING GALE, THE TELEPHONE WIRES WHISTLE LIKE BANSHEES.

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 – WINTER OUTDOORDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

FLICK:                    Boy, did you see how quickly he changed?

RALPH:                 Did it hurt, Schwartz?

SCHWARTZ:        (SCREAMS) PURGEEEEE

FLICK:                    Boy, you sure were bawling.

SCHWARTZ:        (bristling) ONE OF US

FLICK:                    Aw, baloney!

RALPH:                 (ever alert) Wait!

MEDIA: ALLEY WAY.

SKUT:                    (Evil laughing)

RALPH:                 SKUT FARKUS!

NARRATOR:        Skut Farkus!! What a rotten name. We were trapped. There he stood between us and the alley, him staring out at us with his yellow eyes. He had yellow eyes. So, help me God, yellow eyes! He was wearing a possum hat. An actual mutated possum for a hat, slunk low over his non-existent brow, resting on his ears, which flared out like toadstools. His lips curled over his green teeth in a semblance of speech.

DILL:                      (Evil guffawing)

NARRATOR:        I turned in a blind primal panic and started for the fence at the end of the alley. No hope. There, curling up like a venomous Cheshire cat, was Skut's fierce little toady Grover Dill. We had had it. The lines were clearly drawn. You were either a bully, a toady, or one of the nameless rabble of victims who hid behind hedges, continually ran up alleys and ducked under porches. Randy lay there like a slug. It was his only defense.

SCUT:                    Hey where you think you’re going?

DILL:                      Hey you, come here.

FLICK:                    -- me?

DILL:                      Nah, your Aunt Tilly! Ya, you. Get over here.

SKUT:                    Say ’Uncle’.

SFX: PUNCHES.

FLICK:                    Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!

SKUT:                    (sing-song) Cry baby, cry!

NARRATOR:        Skut was a running-nose type of bully. His nose was always running, even when it wasn’t. I did not know one kid who was not afraid of Skut, because Skut was truly aggressive. This kind of aggression later in life is often called Talent or Drive, but to the great formless herd of kids, it just meant a lot of running, getting belted, and continually being ashamed.

SCUT:                    Alright, who’s next? (Evil laugh)

DILL:                      (roaring ferociously) Ahhhhhaggghhhhhh!

SCUT:                    You better run, you jerks!

NARRATOR:        I was an accomplished Alley Runner who did not wear sneakers to school from choice, but to get off the mark quicker. I was well-qualified to endorse Keds Champion sneakers with; I have outrun some of the biggest bullies of my time wearing Keds. And I'm still here to tell the tale. It would make a great ad in Scout’s Life. Many of us have grown up wearing mental Keds and still ducking behind filing cabinets, water coolers, and into convenient men's rooms when that cold sweat trickles down between the shoulder blades. But for now, I breathed easier.

SCENE 4: INT. PARKER HOUSE

SFX: PLAY LINE 306 – PARKER LIVING ROOM AMBIANCE AGAIN

SFX: PLAY LINE 424 – DOOR OPEN AND CLOSE AGAIN

MOTHER:             That you Ralphie? Randy? Would you like a glass of milk?

RALPH:                 No. I gotta do my homework!

MOTHER:             (instantly) Ralph! Stop right there. Are you running a temperature?

RALPH:                 No?

MOTHER:             But you are drenched in sweat! Stick out your tongue!

RALPH:                 (sticks out tongue) AHHHHHHHHH

NARRATOR:        Mothers have an innate sense of when something is wrong. But it can often be fooled with the right dosage of half-truths. She could sense Fat Man mania still, but I had disguised it with a dutiful sense to education.

RALPH:                 (tongue still out) Ma. I gotta do my homework.

MOTHER:             You sure you’re feeling alright?

RALPH:                 YES MA! I gotta go!

MOTHER:             Go on then. Change out of those wet clothes or you’ll catch your death.

RALPH:                 Yeah yeah!

SFX: PLAY LINE 424 – DOOR OPEN AND CLOSE AGAIN

MOTHER:             No good will come of this.

MEDIA: INT. RALPH'S ROOM – DAY.

SFX: RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1

SFX: WRITING.

NARRATOR:        Rarely had the words poured from my 5-dollar pencil with such feverish fluidity. I remember to this day its glorious-winged phrases and concise imagery.

RALPH:                 What I want for Christmas is a Captain Cosmos official M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult with an MIRV attachment and this thing this bell that goes ding. I think everybody should have a Fat Man. They are very good for Christmas. I don't think a football is a very good Christmas present.

NARRATOR:        I was very careful about margins. I knew that when Miss Shields read my magnificent, eloquent theme that she would sympathize with my plight and make an appeal on my behalf to the Powers That Be, and everything would work out. Somehow. I reread my Magnum Opus and recall the melodic orchestration of Mozart’s Andante suddenly being played by dust motes drifting in the late afternoon sun shining through my window. Captain Ahab and his crazy thing about that white whale had nothing on me. I wanted that Fat Man so bad it was making my stomach hurt. As I stared at my comic bookshelf, I fixed on Captain Cosmos winking at me from the rack. his golden helmet gleaming, facing off once again with his evil arch-enemy DR. ZORBO. Spent from writing, I drifted into a dream of spaceships and mad men once more…

SFX: LINE 330 MAGIC HARP TRANSITION

MEDIA: EXT. PLANET MONGO. THE SCENE DISSOLVES AND WE ARE IN WHAT APPEARS TO BE THE FUTURISTIC, DANK ATMOSPHERE OF AN ALIEN PLANET. MING THE MERCILESS FILLS THE SCREEN. HE APPEARS TO BE-EIGHTEEN FEET TALL, DRESSED IN JADE-GREEN ROBES WITH SINISTER GOLD CABALISTIC SYMBOLS FLASHING IN THE UNNATURAL LIGHT.

ZORBO:                At last, Captain Cosmos, I have you at my mercy.

CAP COSMOS:   I think not Dr. Zorbo! As we speak Jangles the Moon Monkey is sabotaging your vile machine!

ZORBO:                There is no hope for you, Captain. I will now proceed to destroy the planet Earth with my Turbo-Xenon: Space Balloon, with its deadly Z-Gamma Rays.

CAP COSMOS:   Zorbo, we earthlings will survive forever. You –

ZORBO:                In mere moments, the Nuclear Rays will rain down on these carnivorous plants, awakening their deadly spores that will fall upon and slowly devour you!

CAP COSMOS:   If only my faithful companion Ralph were –

ZORBO:                (laughing) Ralph! Foolish Captain I am immune to the meager damage by his Christmas football.

CAP COSMOS:   Who hurt you?

ZORBO:                Enough, stupid Earthling! It is time now to destroy your foolish planet. Farewell Captain Cosmos! (Long increasingly cliché villain laughter)

RALPH:                 Never fear! Ralph is here!

CAP COSMOS:   (registering astonished relief) Ralph! You're alive! You escaped the Space Crocodiles!

RALPH:                 (grim and determined) Yes, Captain. They were no match for my M-42 Fat Man! Now it's time to act!

ZORBO:                Death to Earth! Death to Earth for unspecified plot purposes!

SFX: PLAY LINE 351 FAT MAN FIRES AGAIN

RALPH:                 (hissing through his teeth) Take that, Dr. Zorbo!

ZORBO:                Oh no, NO!

CAP COSMOS:   (his voice quivering with reverent emotion) It's the end of Zorbo for sure. You have done it, Ralph. You have saved all Earthlings. You have saved our planet.

RALPH:                 (smiling modestly) It was nothing, CAPTAIN COSMOS. After all, I had my trusty Ol’ Blue and all the fury of atom’s light. Nothing can stand up to this baby.

CAP COSMOS:   (tearing up) Ralphie, all Earthlings will be forever in your debt.

RALPH:                 (modestly) I know. Here, I'll untie you.

CAP COSMOS:   You know, Ralph, it’s good you came along, things were getting weird, some other villain named Bart and Zorbo were having scheduling issues.

SFX: PLAY LINE 359 – DREAM ENDS HARP AGAIN

MEDIA: FADE BACK TO BEDROOM

MEDIA: EXT. HOUSE - DUSK

OLD MAN:           MUMBLESES! GET YOUR GOD DAMNED PETS OUT OF MY YARD!

MAMA:                (Angry mumbling)

OLD MAN:           NO! YOUR MOTHER! YOU HUMPBACKED HUSSTICKLEFEIFFER!

MAMA:                (More angry mumbling)

NARRATOR:        The Taylors, a quiet family who had lived next door to us for years, had moved out and without warning the Mumbleses had tunneled up. In an instant, the entire neighborhood changed. There were hundreds of Mumbleses, odd looking mole miners all, and they all moved in when we least expected it. Overnight what had been a nondescript bungalow, became a battered hinge-sprung sagging hillbilly shack.

MEDIA: RALPHIE'S POV - LONG SHOT - THE BUMPUS HOUSE. SCROLL PAST PILES OF JUNK AND TRASH.

NARRATOR:        And then there were the molerats, anglers and all manner of mutated monstrosities, at least seven hundred and forty-five of them! Now our neighborhood had always had dogs walking around, ordinary dogs with names like Zero or Prince, The Mumbleses, on the other hand, walked a churning mass of tails and tongues and flea-bitten bodies. You could almost see the smell -- and they ignored every other human being on earth but my Old Man. Every time he set foot outside the whole tidal wave of heaving flanks and bloodshot eyes would descend on him. The trouble was that half of them were trying to lick his face and the other half were trying to take off his leg. He’d fight them off by hand, by hand I tell you. Legends are still told as far south as Beckley about the Parker Uppercut.

SFX: PLAY LINE 424 DOOR OPEN AND CLOSE AGAIN

OLD MAN:           I won! I won!

INT. HOUSE – NIGHT. FAMILY MEETS MAN AT THE DOOR AS HE DRAMATICALLY PUNCHS A MONSTROSITY INTO BLOOD BITS AND SLAMS THE DOOR.

SFX: PUNCH. GOREY EXPLOSION.

MAMA:                (Anguished mumbling something like NOOOOO MY BABIES!)

NARRATOR:        Those days were the golden age of the newspaper contest, and The Old Man was a giant jackpot puzzle contest junkie. There was an endless parade of 'Name the Presidents’, ‘Mystery Movie Stars,' 'Famous Figures in History,' and 'How many mistakes are in this Picture,' all offering fifty-thousand-dollar giant jackpots. For the cost of a two-bit newspaper, countless millions struggled nightly to hit the jackpot. Every evening the Charleston Herald was spread out on the dining room table. Paste pot handy, scissors and ruler, pen, and ink at the ready, The Old Man clipped and glued, struggled and guessed -- and now the payoff had come!

OLD MAN:           I won! I won! I won!

MOTHER:             What! What! What is it?

OLD MAN:           A major prize. A major prize. I won! I won! Look!

THE OLD MAN DOES THE ROBOT DANCE.

OLD MAN:           Tonight, it’s coming tonight. Tonight! Tonight! Tonight! Hot dam, tonight!

MOTHER:             What do you mean?

OLD MAN:           Tonight! It’s coming tonight. I called Ernie McClosky down at the freight office. It’s there! He’s gonna send it out tonight. The telegram was late, the prize is already there.

OLD MAN:           It'll probably be one of them fancy condos over at the Whitesprings Resort. That's one of their big items. Or it could be a bowling alley. Guy down in Terre Haute won a bowling alley.

MOTHER:             But how could they deliver a bowling alley tonight?

OLD MAN:           (pause) Well, they could deliver the deed, for Chrissake. I mean, I didn't think they were gonna deliver the whole damned bowling alley. (Awkward laughing)

OLD MAN:           (continuing) Well, it'll be a while! Let's eat! I’m starving. Gettin' rich is hard work.

MEDIA: KITCHEN

SFX: PLAY KITCHEN AMBIANCE #2

MOTHER:             (automatically) Randy, eat your food, don't play with it.

RANDY:                (whining) Aww -- gee -- awwwww.

NARRATOR:        Every family has a Kid Who Won't Eat. In our case, it was my brother.

MOTHER:             Starving people would be glad to have that. Now, you eat.

RANDY:                Awww --geeeeeee

OLD MAN:           (absently, through a mouthful of meatloaf) Do what your mother tells you. Pass the red cabbage, huh?

RANDY:                (annoyed mumbling) Awwww -- geeeee

OLD MAN:           I'm gonna give you something to cry about in one minute if you don't quit playing with your food. Now you stop fooling around and eat that, or you're gonna be sorry!

RALPH:                 (just as Mother sits) Where's the red cabbage? I didn't get any.

NARRATOR:        You could see that my mother had not had a hot meal in about fifteen years.

RANDY:                (in a whining sing-song) Meatloaf, meatloaf, double beetloaf. I HATE meatloaf.

OLD MAN:           Alright, I’ll make the damn kid eat! Where’s my screwdriver? Where's the plumber’s helper?' I’ll just pry his mouth open and stuff it in.

NARRATOR:        (continuing) My mother, though, was more subtle.

MOTHER:             Randy? How do the little piggies go?

RANDY:                (tentatively) Oink?

NARRATOR:        My brother was deep in his Three Little Pigs bag. He had a little Golden Book, and it was his favorite heavy reading material.

MOTHER:             That's right. Oink oink. How do the piggies eat? There's your trough. Show me how the piggies eat. Be a good boy. Show us how the piggies eat.

RANDY:                (Makes oinking noises for a while)

RALPH:                 That’s gross.

OLD MAN:           (behind newspaper) Jesus.

MOTHER:             (beaming and laughing) Mommy’s lil piggy!

SFX: KNOCK ON THE DOOR.

EVERYONE          (pauses and freezes)

SFX: ANOTHER KNOCK ON THE DOOR.

OLD MAN:           It’s here.

NARRATOR:        What was here? Fifty thousand dollars? Fame? A trip to the moon? The end of the rainbow? We didn’t know! We all dashed to the door like rabid wolves.

SFX: PARKER LIVING ROOM AMBIANCE #2

SFX: DOOR OPEN

MEDIA: ENTRYWAY OF HOUSE.

FREIGHT MAN:  Frank Parker?

OLD MAN:           Yeah.

FREIGHT MAN:  Sign here.

OLD MAN:           Well what is it?

FREIGHT MAN:  How the hell do I know? I just deliver ‘em. Okay, haul it in!

NARRATOR:        The Old Man, his face flushed with excitement, fumbled in supercharged haste to lay bare his hard-won symbol of victory.

SFX: DOOR CLOSE

OLD MAN:           By God there could be anything in here!

MOTHER:             Aren’t you going to open it!

NARRATOR:        Before us, in the heavy, fragrant, cabbage-scented hall stood a life-size monstrosity of taxidermy – An unholy combination of multiple heads, noses, dull-glassed eyes and razor-sharp antlers with red glowing noses that I’m fairly certain had the radioactive output of a fusion reactor. For an instant we thought that we had received in the mail the work of an artist of the type who would later be found out as a serial murderer. We stood silent and in awe at the sheer shimmering unexpected horror of the ‘Major Award.’

MOTHER:             What is it?

OLD MAN:           (incisively) By God it’s beautiful.

MOTHER:             But -- what is it?

OLD MAN:           (an edge to his voice) Well it’s a deer -- like a statue.

MOTHER:             A statue?

NARRATOR:        Our family had never owned a statue. A statue was always considered to be a lady wearing a wreath and concrete robes, holding a torch in one hand and a book in the other.

OLD MAN:           Yeah, a statue!

RALPH/RANDY: Whoopee a statue! We won a statue!

MOTHER:             Isn’t it time for bed?

NARRATOR:        My mother was trying to insinuate herself between us and 'the statue'.

MOTHER:             It smells like roadkill.

OLD MAN:           (awkwardly laughing) Well I mean it’s the real deal! That’s 100% Appalachian rad stag right there. Probably done by one of those big time New York City artists! You know abstract object dart!

MOTHER:             It’s profundes d’art sweetie. Maybe we can put it in the shed. It’s staring at me funny.

OLD MAN:           (suddenly shocked with realization) Do you know what that is?

NARRATOR:        We didn’t, this was established by my mother’s horror-stricken face.

OLD MAN:           (continuing) Holy smokes would you look at that!  I don't believe it.

MOTHER:             What?

OLD MAN:           It's a lamp!

NARRATOR:        It was indeed a lamp. A master stroke of the perverse. It was, without question, the most terribly magnificent lamp that we had ever seen.

OLD MAN:           Aha, here's a boot and the bulb!

MEDIA: THE BOOT APPEARS ON TOP OF THE DEER AND IT LIGHTS UP.

OLD MAN:           My God ain't that great.

NARRATOR:        The Old Man's eyes boggled. He was almost overcome by art!

OLD MAN:           What a great lamp.

MOTHER:             Oh, I don't know. Maybe we can put it in the shed for now…I don’t like how it’s looking at me.

MEDIA: CREEPY CLOSE UP OF DEER.

OLD MAN:           What a great lamp! Wow this is exactly what we need for the front window.

MOTHER:             Oh…uhhmmmm (mother struggles to regain control of the situation)

OLD MAN:           (continuing) Get the extension cord from the toaster. Let’s plug this thing in.

MEDIA: DEER APPEARS IN WINDOW

NARRATOR:        The snap of a few sparks, a quick whiff of ozone and the lamp blazed forth in unparalleled glory. From hooves to antler the grotesque bulbs radiated a vibrant, sensual, luminous, red nimbus of pagan fire.

OLD MAN:           (overcome by emotion) LOOK AT THAT! JUST LOOK AT THAT! Hey wait! I want to see it from the outside.

MOTHER:             Outside?!

NARRATOR:        The Old Man dashed out of the office as if it was on fire.

MEDIA: EXTERIOR OF HOUSE.

SFX: PLAY WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

OLD MAN:           Move it a little to the left.

OLD MAN:           (continuing) Okay!

SWEDE:                Hey Parker…what is that?

OLD MAN:           Not now Swede…I’m busy.

SWEDE:                You’re not pitching in early on the neighborhood lights and display contest are yah Parker?

OLD MAN:           Lights and display contest! Good grief man! No, no…it’s a major award! I won it!

SWEDE:                You won that?

OLD MAN:           Yes…mind powers!

SWEDE:                It’s hideous. Looks like roadkill a patient down in the Trans Alleghany Asylum did up with lights in arts and crafts (laughs)

OLD MAN:           Get lost Swede…and another thing. I wasn’t thinking of doing the kind of cheap, tasteless, over commercialized holiday lights that you subject us to every year…but you’ve gone and convinced me.

SWEDE:                We’ll just see about that.

MOTHER:             Are you done yet?!

OLD MAN:           Yes! Yes! That's got it. You oughta see it, from out here!

NARRATOR:        The entire neighborhood was struck with obscene fascination. It could be seen up and down Cleveland Street, the symbol of The Old Man’s victory! My mother was truly on the horns of a dilemma.

MOTHER:             Well, uh look at the time. Isn’t it nearly time for somebody’s favorite program?

NARRATOR:        Holy smokes, she was right! The only thing in the world that could have dragged us away from the soft glow of perversity gleaming in the window would be the soft, smokey voice of any boy's true love other than his mother.

MEDIA: CLOSE ON RADIO.

NARRATOR:        Every day at 6:45, when I was a kid, I’d drop anything I was doing, no matter what it was, and tear like a blue streak through the alleys, over fences, under porches, to get home to our Radiation King model radio.

RADIO (V.O.):    (sing song) Who could that shadowy figure fighting the forces of evil be? It’s the Mistress of Mystery!

NARRATOR:        Ah, they don’t write tunes like that anymore. Who can forget it? Immediately after the nightly adventure, which usually took place near the headwaters of the dreaded Orinoco, on would come a guy named Pierre Andre, the definitive radio announcer.

RADIO (V.O):      Fellas and gals. Get set for a meeting of the Mistress of Mystery Secret Circle! Okay, kids. Time to get out your secret decoder pin. Time for another secret message direct from the Mistress herself to members of the Mistress of Mystery Secret Circle.

RADIO (V.O.):    All right. Set your pins to B-7.  Seven -- twenty-two -- nineteen – eight -- forty-nine -- Thirteen – three! -- twenty-two -- one -- four -- nineteen.

NARRATOR:        Pierre Andre could get more out of just numbers than Orson Welles was able to squeeze out of King Lear.

MOTHER:             Do you see how its eyes follow you? It’s unnerving.

NARRATOR:        The stage was set. This slowly evolving ballet of the lamp was to continue for days gathering momentum night after night. But for the moment, I was oblivious to all but my Mistress of the radio.

RADIO (V.O.):    Okay, fellas and gals, over and out.

NARRATOR:        Then -- silence. The show was over, and you had a sinister feeling that out there in the darkness all over the country there were millions of kids --decoding. Somewhere kids were getting the real truth from the Mistress of Mystery. The message. And I had no pin. Yet three weeks ago I had corralled the necessary Nuka Cola caps and mailed away for my decoder pin. Day after day, eon after eon, I waited. Waiting for three weeks for something to come in the mail to a kid is like being asked to build the pyramids singlehanded, using the #3 Erector set, the one without the motor. Anyway, I was skunked for another day.

SCENE 5: INT. CLASSROOM

SFX: PLAY LINE 501 SCHOOLROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

MISS SHIELDS:   Good morning class. Please turn in your themes.

NARRATOR:        One by one like mountain goats we scaled her desk, crouched and laid a paper bag with a neatly folded paper inside, an Appalachia education tradition that I’m fairly certain when shared with outsiders would result in excommunication at best, sacrifice at Lucky Hole Mine at worst.

NARRATOR:        I had done it. There could be no doubt that this theme would absolutely overwhelm Miss Shields. Not only was the Captain Cosmos Fat Man irrevocably mine, but I began to envisage that Miss Shields, in her ecstasy, would excuse me from theme writing for the rest of my natural life. I once again drifted into a lucid dream of sheer holiday excess…

MEDIA: INT. SCHOOL - MISS SHIELDS IN RALPH'S FANTASY – DAY

SFX: PLAY LINE 330 MAGIC HAIR TRANSITION AGAIN

MISS SHIELDS:  AH! DRIVEL! F! And what’s this? Ugh! Uninspired! F! And another! WOE unto me for reading such mundane thematic prose! F! F! F! Humph! Ralphie eh? (Reading) Oh…oh my… What I want for Christmas is a Captain Cosmos official M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult with an MIRV attachment and this bell that goes ding. Such prose! Such poetry! RALPHIE!

MISS SHIELDS:   A PLUS! PLUS! PLUS! PLUS! (continues speaking throughout this dream)

EVERYONE:         (Clapping and cheering)

FLICK:                    Yay RALPH! That’s my friend! That hero is my friend! (Cries)

SCHWARTZ:        (grunting) THAT. US! RALPH US! YAYAYYYYYYYYYYY!

CAP COSMOS:   (randomly appearing) You did it kid! How about a 3-picture deal? Captain Cosmos and Ralphie the Moon Nuke Kid! No? No, no you’re right! The Adventures of Ralph and also Captain Cosmos!

RALPH:                 Oh, it was nothing! Thank you! Thank you! Just talented, I guess! No! Thank you! We’ll talk Captain Cosmos…I have some script notes…

MISS SHIELDS:   (Back in reality) Ralphie? Ralph? RALPH!

SFX: PLAY LINE 359 DREAM ENDS HARP

MEDIA: INT. CLASSROOM - DAY AND REALITY

RALPH:                 Huh? What?

MISS SHIELDS:   Did you want something, Ralph?

RALPHIE:              (coming to) What? Oh, no, not now. Uh -- just turning in my theme.

MISS SHIELDS:   Yes. Thank you, Ralph.

RALPH:                 Yeah.

MISS SHIELDS:   You can sit down now Ralph.

RALPH:                 Yeah.

SCENE 6: EXT. RALPH'S HOUSE

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:       A day passed filled with times tables and yet another chapter of Charles Dickens and we bundled up into the cold preparing to mount the dangerous death-defying solution my spendthrift Old Man had to the excess of a family station wagon. A rite of passage for every boy on Cleveland Street was seeing if we could tip the trailer that qualified as a Fusion Flea backseat unto two wheels without ending up in traction. I was 2 and 0.

OLD MAN:           If we don't hurry, all the good trees will be gone!

MOTHER:             Well, let’s go then! Ralphie, Randy in you go and hold on.

OLD MAN:           Why’s the lamp off?

MOTHER:             Don’t want to waste electricity.

OLD MAN:           (mocking her in falsetto voice) Don’t want to waste electricity.

NARRATOR:        It was one of those rare nights when the air was crisp and clean and so cold that the Mumbleses’ horrors wouldn’t even come out from under the garage to chase my old man. And we were off on one of the great adventures of the year – selecting the Christmas tree -- and then a ride around town to see the Yuletide splendor.

MEDIA: EXT. CHRISTMAS TREE LOT

NARRATOR:        Buying the Christmas tree was always only after long and soul-searching discussion. These days finding one that was once sucking soil and water and not made of space age industrial byproducts was my old man’s greatest Achilles Heel.

RANDY:                Look at this one! A great big shiny one!

OLD MAN:           No, no it’s all wrong. Christ it’s like I’m standing in some kind of blasted art exhibit. The people that make these things forgot how to have a fun, old-fashioned family Christmas and are satisfied with shiny, lifeless, over-priced metal trees that have no special meaning.

RALPH:                 Flick’s Dad says these aluminum ones are the only way to go.

OLD MAN:           Rick also thinks Christmas is some kind of big commercial racket run by a big eastern syndicate like Vault-Tec…was going on about listening devices in them. Foil hat weirdo…

RANDY:                (moaning) Can we go home yet? My toes are numb.

MOTHER:             Not yet honey.

TREE MAN:         Good evening! Good evening, folks! In the market for one of the RobCo Yule 5000’s?

OLD MAN:           (Mumbles) Yule 5000…unbelievable.

MOTHER:             Good evening. Do you still make wooden Christmas trees?

TREE MAN:         Make? Make? Heck no lady you don’t want one of those with bare spots, needles everywhere. You want one of these babies! Hot pink! Metallic green! 50-year guarantee, 100% fire retardant. No fuss, no mess.

OLD MAN:           Haven’t you got any good old fashioned, living, breathing trees? A big tree! Big one…not one of these pipe cleaner metal horrors.

TREE MAN:         Sure, sure mac I got yah. Old fashioned, traditional. Now this one right here is our Evergreen deluxe.

MOTHER:             This one already has decorations on it

TREE MAN:         You can just take them off. Take them right off! Hang your own.

MOTHER:             I don’t know --

TREE MAN:         Hell, you’re right, this ain’t no tree, now here is a TREE!

OLD MAN:           Hoo-Dag, look at them antlers!

RANDY:                I can't feel my legs.

MOTHER:             Is this the kind the needles fall out?

TREE MAN:         Nah, that's them balsams.

OLD MAN:           Well, I don’t know…

MOTHER:             Isn’t it a little big?

RANDY:                Mom? I can’t feel my hips.

MOTHER:             Honey?

OLD MAN:           (under his breath) Not while I’m haggling.

MOTHER:             Randy’s frozen from the waist down.

OLD MAN:           It’s all part of the experience! (To Randy) Shut up Randy! (To Tree Man) What else you got?

RALPH:                 This little green one here, seems to need a home. I think it needs us.

OLD MAN:           Would you look at that…

MOTHER:             What kind of tree is that? I don’t think it fits the modern spirit…

TREE MAN:         This thing? Just a gaffe really.

OLD MAN:           How much?

TREE MAN:         You serious?

OLD MAN:           Well, is it for sale or isn’t it?

TREE MAN:         I can see you’re a man who knows his trees, so I’ll throw off a hundred bucks for you! Four hundred even! This is a great tree!

NARRATOR:        My old man loved bargaining more than a roaming trader, and he was twice as shrewd.

OLD MAN:           (pondering) You know I heard the Jones’ just bought one of those new Palm Tree plastic lamp trees.

MOTHER:             Oh?

TREE MAN:         Oh, dear god, no!

OLD MAN:           Damn thing looks like a Hawaiian holiday nightmare.

MOTHER:             Can’t be scarier than your big prize dear…

TREE MAN:         I’ll knock off another fifty bucks and toss in an inflatable snowman!

OLD MAN:           You got a deal! What do you think Ralph?

RALPH:                 I think it’s swell.

OLD MAN:           Randy?

MOTHER:             He’ll see it later dear. His eyes are frozen shut.

OLD MAN:           Bah! Stimpaks in the car. Come on! Let’s go!

MEDIA: MONTAGE OF PLAYER HOMES FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

NARRATOR:        As we drove through the chilled December streets, the Old Man careened around curves while Mother acrobatically tried to balance the dangerously fishtailing trailer. We passed the gingerbread like houses of the wealthy, the up and coming and well past came. Christmas lights festooned porches and garages, Santa’s in the finest American made plastic stood rosey cheeked and forever waving. We nearly tipped on Elm Street passing a choir of Christmas carolers that looked like they broke into a costume shop and robbed blind the Victorian section. Religion had gone full blown commercial, and I loved every glittering bulb of it. In the midst of our Jingle Belling 3-wheel open trailer sleigh jaunt, disaster struck.

SFX: TIRE POPS.

MEDIA: CAR BROKE DOWN ON ROADSIDE.

OLD MAN:           Dammit! Blow out!

MOTHER:             Oh, not again!

OLD MAN:           Four minutes, Time me!

NARRATOR:        Actually, my father loved it. He always saw himself in the pits at the Indianapolis Speedway.

MOTHER:             Ralph, why don't you go help your father?

RALPH:                 Can I?

NARRATOR:        It was-the first time it had been suggested I go help my father with anything.

OLD MAN:           Ah ha! Ah…come you little hosticklefeiffer!

NARRATOR:        My Old Man's spare tires were actually only tires in the academic sense. They were round; yes and they had once been made of rubber, but by the time they were in the dark bullpen of the car's trunk to be used as spares, there was so little tread on them that The Old Man used to say you could read the Want-Ads of the Herald right through them.

OLD MAN:           What the hell are you doing?

RALPH:                 Mom said I should help.

OLD MAN:           Oh, yeah.

RALPH:                 Yeah!

OLD MAN:           All right, hold this hubcap. (Pause) No, no not like that!

RALPH:                 (Confused) How?

OLD MAN:           Like this, I'm gonna put the bolts in it. Fer Chrissake, don't move it! (continuing) And there we got it! Dog gone, son of bit- hey!

NARRATOR:        The Old Man’s arm shot out hitting the hubcap in my hands. For one brief moment, I saw all the bolts silhouetted against the lights of the traffic. And then they were gone, into the snowbank, under the car, down the ravine into the abyss.

RALPH:                 Ohhhhhh Fuuuuuuddddgggggeeee.

NARRATOR:        Only I didn’t say fudge, I said THE word, the big one, the queen mother of dirty words, the F dash dash dash word.

OLD MAN:           (ominously) What did you say?

RALPH:                 Ah -- er -- uh --

OLD MAN:           (grimly) That's what I thought you said. Go on, get back in the trailer. Go on!

NARRATOR:        It was all over, I was dead. What would it be? The guillotine? Hanging? The Chair? The Rack? Mere child’s play compared to what surely awaited me.

MEDIA: EXT. TRAILER - NIGHT

MOTHER:             Everything go alright?

RALPH:                 (Sniffling)

MOTHER:             (Looking concerned)

MOTHER:             (teasingly) Eight minutes

OLD MAN:           Do you know what уоur son just said?

MOTHER:             No, what?

OLD MAN:           (leaning close) I’ll tell you what he said. Your son said --

RANDY:                (Giggles)

OLD MAN:           Randy! Get over there. He said… (whispers)

MOTHER:             NOOO! RALPHIE!

SFX: PLAY RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

MEDIA: INT. HOUSE - BATHROOM - NIGHT

NARRATOR:        After a while, I got to be quite a connoisseur of soap. My personal preference is for Lux, but I found Palmolive had a nice, piquant after- dinner flavor, heady, but with just a touch of mellow smoothness. Abraxo, on the other hand --

RALPH:                 BLEGH!

MOTHER:             Are you ready to tell me?

RALPH:                 Mmm hmmm!

MOTHER:             The truth, now. Where did you hear that word?

NARRATOR:        Now I had heard that word at least ten times a day from my Old Man. My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils, or clay. It was his true medium, and he was a master at it. But I chickened out and blurted the first name that came to mind.

RALPH:                 (blurts) Schwartz!

NARRATOR:        Schwartz. Sure. Why the hell not?

MOTHER:             Oh. I see.

NARRATOR:        My mother picked up the phone and quicky dialed the Schwartz residence.

SFX: DIALS PHONE. PHONE RINGS.

SCHWARTZ:        *Screams in scorched* Not us!

MOTHER:             (continuing) Who’s this?

SCHWARTZ:        *Screams again*

MOTHER:             Young Mr. Schwartz is that how you were raised to talk to your elders?

SCHWARTZ:        *Confused tone* PURGE?

MOTHER:             I need to talk to your mother please.

-=SCHWARTZ:    One of us?

MOTHER:             Yes, your MOTHER, Schwartz, right now! You’re in trouble mister!

MEDIA: SCHWARTZ HEAD REPLACED BY SCORCHBEAST QUEEN

SFX: SCORCHED BEAST QUEEN SOUND

MOTHER:             Hello, Mrs. Schwartz?

SFX: QUEEN SCREAMS

MOTHER:             Yes, fine…all things considered. Mrs. Schwartz, do you know what Ralph just said?

SFX: QUEEN SCREAMS

MOTHER:             Well, no. He said – (whispers)

SFX: QUEEN SCREAMS LOUDER

MOTHER:             Yes. That. And do you know where he heard it?

SFX: SHORT QUEEN SCREAM.

MOTHER:             No! From your son!

SFX: LOUD QUEEN SCREAM. SCORCHED YELLS. SONIC EXPLOSIONS.

SCHWARTZ:        IT BURNS! IT BURNS US!

MEDIA: QUEEN DISAPPEARS

MEDIA: MOTHER RETURN TO BATHROOM

NARRATOR:        Another shot of mysterious, inexorable, official justice.

MOTHER:             All right. Rinse up and go to bed. I’m glad you finished your homework this afternoon, because I want you to put the light off and get right into bed.

RALPH:                 FINE!

MOTHER:             No reading comic books, you're being punished. I'm going to come up, and I don't want to see that light on. Now, don’t you give me that look you’re gonna get it!

MEDIA: INT. BEDROOM

NARRATOR:        There is not a kid who didn’t believe, vaguely but insistently, that he’d be stricken blind before he reached twenty-one. And then they'd be sorry.

MEDIA: INT. SCHOOL - DAY.

SFX: PLAY LINE 501 - SCHOOLROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

MISS SHIELDS:   Thank you. Thank you Flick. Thank you, Schwartz.

SCHWARTZ:        AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

MISS SHIELDS:   Thank…. (trails off)

RALPH:                 I thought you might be getting tired of them same old stuff. So, I got you this topiary cat.

MISS SHIELDS:   Why -- thank you, Ralph!

RALPH:                 Yeah…

MISS SHIELDS:   Merry Christmas.

RALPH:                 Yeah…

MISS SHIELDS:   Happy New Year…

RALPH:                 Yeah…

MISS SHIELDS:   You can sit down now.

RALPH:                 Yeah…

SCENE 7: EXT. RALPH'S HOUSE - LONG SHOT MAILBOX

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 - WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1

NARRATOR:        Grover Dill and Scut Farkus were just another of the hostile elements of nature like the wind and the snow and the Boogie Man and as such could be tolerated. But the agony of waiting for the days to pass so I could receive my theme in triumph was unbearable. I was nearing madness. But we are given that which we need to survive. Everything comes to he who waits. (Pause) There are few things more thrilling in life than lumpy letters that rattle. Even to this day I feel a wild surge of exultation when I run my hands over an envelope that is thick, fat and pregnant with mystery. I ripped it open and there it was -- my simulated-gold plastic Mistress of Mystery decoder pin. With a knob. And my membership card.

RALPH:                 Be it known to all and sundry that Mr. Ralph Wesley Parker is hereby appointed a member of the Mistress of Mystery secret circle and is entitled to all the honors and benefits accruing thereto. You may now call yourself Novice Mistress.

NARRATOR:        Signed: Shannon Rivers, The Mistress of Mystery! Countersigned: Pierre Andre. In ink! Honors and benefits. Already, at the age of nine.

MEDIA: INT. HOUSE – CLOSE ON RADIO

SFX: PLAY LINE 833 - PARKER LIVING ROOM AMBIANCE #2 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        My excitement mounted. Running waves of goose pimples rippled up and down my spine as I hunched next to the radio. A pause, a station break --

RADIO (V.O.):    (sing song) Who could that shadowy figure fighting the forces of evil be? It’s the Mistress of Mystery!

RALPH:                 Yeah, yeah!

NARRATOR:        Let’s get on with it! I don’t need all this jazz about smugglers and pirates. I sat through the Mistress’ perils hardly hearing a word. On comes, at long last, old Pierre. He’s one of my friends now. I am in my first secret meeting!

RANDY:                What’s that?

RALPH:                 Nothing! Be quiet.

RANDY:                Mooooooommmmmmmm!

MOTHER:             (Calling from kitchen) What is it, Randy?

RANDY:                Ralphie’s keeping secrets.

RALPH:                 I’m trying to anyway…

MOTHER:             Ralphie share with your brother! Remember Santa’s always listening!

RADIO (V.O.):    Tonight, the Mistress of Mystery hour is brought to you by Pops Bubblegum, 10 out of 10 dentists recommend sugary sweet Pops Bubble Gum for stronger teeth and gums. And that’s not all! They make swell stocking stuffers, but don’t take it from me. Here all the way from the North Pole is Mrs. Claus to tell us all about it.

MRS CLAUS:       Good evening, Pierre and good evening boys and girls.

RANDY:                MRS. CLAUS!

NARRATOR:        If she was Mrs. Claus, I was Captain Cosmos. Just last week that same voice was pitching radium 35 skincare to my mother during Gertrude Smith’s Homemaker Hoe Down hour.

MRS CLAUS:       Have you been good boys and girls this year?

RANDY:                Mayyyyybe?

RALPH:                 Get ON with it already…

MRS CLAUS:       I’ll bet you have! Kids, Santa sent me down from the North Pole with a very special message this holiday season. He’s worried about your teeth! Now don’t you worry, Santa has all the goodies set aside for you for your stocking, but make sure to tell YOUR Mommy to ask Santa for his special Big Pops Bubblegum Holiday Pack, available exclusively at Higbee’s. Big Pops is a toothsome dainty, with a refreshing blast of flavor that lasts and lasts! And best of all you can blow blockbuster bubbles in 5 delicious flavors: Cola, Grape, Strawberry, Watermelon and original Perfect. So, remember! Tell your mom right now to visit Santa at Higbee’s while you still have time. (Darker) Because if you don’t hurry, if you don’t tell your mom right now to get down to Higbee’s…ohhhhh your time will run out. Santa will have something more than coal for you on Christmas Day, you hear me? We SEE you when you’re sleeping…we SEE you when you’re awake.

RANDY:                (Terrified) MOMMMMMMM!!!!!

NARRATOR:        Madison Avenue had gotten savvier during war time, Randy fled from the room screaming to heckle my mom. I was made of sterner stuff…

RADIO (V.O.):    Thank you Mrs. Claus. Okay, fellas and gals. Get out your decoder pins. Time for the secret message for all the regular pals of the Mistress of Mystery, members of the mystery secret circle. All set? Here we go. Set your pins at b-12.

NARRATOR:        My eyes narrowed to mere slits, my steely claws working with precision, I set my simulated-gold plastic decoder pin to B-12.

RADIO (V.O.):    All ready? Pencils set?

NARRATOR:        Old Pierre was in great voice tonight. I could tell that tonight’s message was really important.

RADIO (V.O.):    SEVEN -- TWENTY-TWO -- THIRTEEN – NINETEEN -- EIGHT!

NARRATOR:        I struggled furiously to keep up with his booming voice dripping with tension and excitement. Finally --

RADIO (V.O.):    Okay, kids. That’s tonight's secret message. Don’t forget to tune into tomorrow for another thrilling episode of THE MISTRESS OF MYSTERY!

MEDIA: INT. BATHROOM

SFX: PLAY LINE 692 - RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        Ninety seconds later I am in the only room in the house where a boy of nine could sit in privacy and decode. My pin is on one knee, my Indian Chief tablet on the other. I’m starting to decode. I spun the dial, poring over the plastic scale of letters. Aha! В. I carefully wrote down my first decoded number. I went to the next. 22. Again I spun the dial. E. The first word is B-E. 13. S. It was coming easier now. 19. U.

SFX: PLAY LINE 827 & 829 - KNOCK ON DOOR AGAOM

RALPH:                 I’m in here! Scram!

RANDY:                Ah c’mon Ralphie I gotta go!

RALPH:                 Go outside!

RANDY:                MOMMMMM! Ralphie is hogging the bathroom!

MOTHER:             RALPHIE! Hurry up! Randy's gotta go!

RALPH:                 I'll be right out, Ma! Gee whiz!

NARRATOR:        S. U. 15. R. E. Be sure! A message was coming through! Excitement gripped my gut. I was getting The Word. Be sure. 14. 8. 0. Be sure to what? What was The Mistress of Mystery trying to say?

MOTHER:             (with annoyance) Ralphie! Come ON!

RALPH:                 (Frantic) All RIGHT, Ma! I'll be right out!

NARRATOR:        Almost there! My fingers flew, my mind was a steel trap! Every pore vibrated; it was almost clear! Yes! Yes!

RALPH:                 Be, sure to drink - your - Nuka Cola. Nuka Cola? A crummy commercial? Son of a bitch!

NARRATOR:        (continuing) I went out to face the world, slightly wiser than before. Every kid has a moment in their lives when the magic bubble of the world pops and we’re left with tasteless chewing gum. Put that in your stocking Mrs. Claus. Downtrodden I let me nose carry me to the kitchen…the haven for all things good and bountiful during the holiday season. I hoped dinner would bring relief. Maybe there was a surprise?

SFX: KITCHEN AMBIANCE #3

RALPH:                 What’s for dinner?

MOTHER:             Your favorite.

NARRATOR:        It wasn’t.

RALPH:                 Red cabbage? Again?

NARRATOR         Red cabbage my old nemesis. I didn't even bother to look in the oven where the perpetual meatloaf sizzled. My mother was hanging over her sink, swabbing eternally with her Scrubbo pad. If mothers had a coat of arms in those days, it would consist of crossed plumber's helpers rampant on a field of Scrubbo pads over a shield in the shape of an Abraxo box.

MOTHER:             Did you wash up?

RALPH:                 Yeah!

NARRATOR:        Downstairs my Old Man parried and jousted like a medieval knight battling our black smoke belching dragon of a furnace. The noble act tarnished a bit by a litany of obscenity so colorful my mind substituted the cursed words with utter nonsense.

OLD MAN:           You filthy sicken hook-aid! Oh, smelly wok buster! Grout shell fratton house stickle fifer! You bladder puss nut grafter! Dorton hopper!

MOTHER:             (Sighs) Okay…yes…okay…

NARRATOR:        What happened next was rather a family controversy for years to come. With an emotionless 500-yard stare I hadn’t seen since that albino Radstag in the road we came upon last Christmas, my mother…watering can in one hand and a 10 gauge shotgun in the other drifted into the shadowed living room.

OLD MAN:           (Continuing) You wart mundane noodle! You shotton shifter paskah! You snort tongue! Lame monger snaffle shell cocker!

SFX: SHOTGUN BLAST. CRASHING NOISE. FOOTSTEPS ON STAIRS.

OLD MAN:           What was that? What happened?

RALPH:                 Wasn’t me!

RANDY:                I didn’t do it!

MOTHER:             Oh no…

OLD MAN:           What happened? I heard a gunshot! What broke?

NARRATOR:        There it was. The shattered spine under the coffee table, the cracked, well-turned ankle under the radio – that voluptuous poem of maddening pulchritude -- split open like a rotten watermelon, its entrails of insulated wire hanging out limply over the rug. The blue haze of gunpowder haloed my mother’s head like a crown, she the picture of innocence.

MOTHER:             I -- don't know what happened. I was watering the plants and was cleaning your gun and it went off. I broke your lamp.

OLD MAN:           (Pause and fuming, barely contained anger) Don’t you touch that! You were always jealous of that lamp.

MOTHER:             Jealous? Of a plastic - whatever?

OLD MAN:           You were jealous because I won!

MOTHER:             That's ridiculous! Jealous! Jealous of what? That was the ugliest most unsettling stuffed mutated lamp I have ever seen in my entire life!

NARRATOR:        Now it was out, irrevocably.

OLD MAN:           (in a commanding voice) Get the glue.

MOTHER:             We're out of glue.

OLD MAN:           (Bubble insane anger) YOUUUUU used all the glue on purpose!

NARRATOR:        The Old Man stood quivering with fury, stammering as he tried to come up with a real crusher– managing only –

OLD MAN:           NADDAFINGA!

NARRATOR:        Hat in hand and fending off mutated horrors, with a roar and a puff of black smoke my Old Man tore off down the street, drifting unto the sidewalk in a homicidal quest for glue or deliverance.

MOTHER:             Come on boys. Knees and elbows…time for dinner.

RALPH:                 We’re not waiting for Dad?

MOTHER:             Why yes Ralph, you can help me with dishes. Come on Randy…

NARRATOR:        A red cabbage last meal later, I heard the trash can crashing, tire squealing return of the Fusion Flea. Like a force of nature, the Old Man tore back into the house, rushing to his ruined lamp like a field medic. To this day, I can still see my father, wearing his hat, swearing under his breath, gently cradling the shattered remains of a women’s boot mounted to the shattered hide of that animal, a Freudian image to make Edward Albee's best effort pale into insignificance. Time and again, it looked almost successful. Then he would remove his hand slowly and the legs would spring up and sail across the room and the whole thing would collapse!

NARRATOR:        Soap suds dripping from my hand from the sink I stared, Randy made cow noises while wearing soggy red cabbage like a hat, while my mother, seated in his chair chewed thoughtfully but triumphantly. With as much dignity as he could muster, the old man gathered up the sad remains of his major award. Later that night, alone in the backyard, he buried it next to the garage.

SFX: FUNNY BUGLE

NARRATOR:        Now I could never be sure, but I thought I heard the sound of Taps being played, gently.

SCENE 8: EXT. SCHOOL GROUNDS - THE BOYS - DILL - DAY

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 - WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        The next day dawned with yet another marathon run through the alleys with Grover Dill and Scut Farkus mysteriously missing. We entered the school yard almost giddy with good fortune. A holiday miracle!

SKUT:                    Hey! Come over here. I wanna talk to you. Found something that belongs to you.

FLICK:                    He’s got Randy!

NARRATOR:        Randy? Randy who?

SCHWARTZ:        (Screaming) PURGE!

RANDY:                (yelling) Let me go! Let me go! Ralphie! I’m gonna tell my mom on you!

RALPHIE:              Leave him alone Grover…come on man.

NARRATOR:        Ordinarily, if Dill so much as said 'Hi' to you, you felt great and warm inside. But mostly he just hit you in the mouth.

SKUT:                    Sure, sure. You can have him back…. IF you can kick the football through that open window over there.

FLICK:                    What?! That Principal Shepard’s office! Ralphie can’t kick that far. Right Schwartz?

SCHWARTZ:        (Screaming) KILLLLLL.

RALPH:                 I can't, Grover. I gotta go see Miss Shields!

NARRATOR:        The audacity of this ploy stunned everyone, myself most of all. There was no retreat, however. I knew I would pay later.

DILL:                      (continuing) You! Get over here! I’ll hold the ball and you kick it.

FLICK:                    Bologna! You must think he’s the stupidest person alive!

RALPH:                 Hold it? Ha! You pull it away, and I'll land flat on my back and kill myself.

DILL:                      But it’s almost Christmas.

RALPH:                 What's that got to do with anything?

SKUT:                    Well, one of the greatest traditions of all is the street Christmas Day football game. And the biggest most important tradition of all is to be kicking off with a football. You think I’m gonna mess with tradition with Santa watching?

DILL:                      (evil unbelieving laugh) Yeah man…Santa’s always watching.

NARRATOR:        Randy whimpered, and Grover Dill smiled, the picture of perfect innocence. Before me, the pigskin glistened in the morning frost, Scut Farkus’ eye squinted. I tensed.

RALPH:                 This time, I’m gonna kick that football clear through the window and to the moon! AHHHHHHHH!

NARRATOR:        At the last moment the ball vanished, Farkus fluidly moving it behind his back, a move so slick you’d think he was Houdini, my foot soaring through the air continued arcing and down I went. A sack of potatoes on the hard earth, my pockets spilling.

RALPH:                 (Charlie Brown yell) AAAUUUGH!!!

SKUT:                    Some traditions just slowly fade away kid. (laughing) He’s your present.

RANDY:                OW! I’m telling!

NARRATOR:        Seething with a murderous rage, I gathered my pride and spilled pockets and marched into the school, a broken man.

INT. CLASSROOM – DAY

SFX: PLAY LINE 501 - SCHOOLROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

MISS SHIELDS:   All right, class, I have your Christmas themes for you. I'm pleased. They were generally very good.

NARRATOR:        I held my breath as the papers came down the row. I imagined Miss Shields was restraining her praise in deference to the ordinary intelligence of my classmates.

MISS SHIELDS:   Very good. Good. Very good. Not so good. Watch those margins Flick…

FLICK:                    A D? Ah man!

MISS SHIELDS:   Uhh…Schwartz?

SCHWARTZ:        (Incoherent screaming as he chews on a pencil)

MISS SHIELDS:   I’d love to setup a parent teacher meeting with your mom dear. I have some concerns with this theme. You wrote the word meat and mushroom clouds in blood. I’m not entirely sure that’s in keeping with the holiday season. You didn’t even say what you’d like for Christmas…

SCHWARTZ:        PURGE!

MISS SHIELDS:   Right. Ralphie…here’s yours.

NARRATOR:        Expectantly, I slowly unfolded the blue lined paper upon which my Magnum Opus had been written, the hopes and dreams of a lifetime laid to paper for my mother and Father and all the world to see. At last! At LAST!

RALPH:                 C+??? No…no it can’t be. It can’t be…

NARRATOR:        My first impulse was that obviously a mistake had been made. But then I saw it -- it leaped off the page and around the room and fastened itself Leechlike on the back of my neck.

RALPH:                 P.S. You’ll blow up your neighborhood!

NARRATOR:        (continuing) My mother had gotten to Miss Shields!

MOTHER:             C+! (Evil laugh) C+!!!!

MISS SHIELDS:   C+! RALPHIE!

NARRATOR:        There could be no other explanation. Was there no end to this conspiracy of irrational prejudice against Captain Cosmos and his patriotic weapon of mass destruction? I gloomily watched other happier kids who were all going to get what they wanted for Christmas. Despair settled over me like a three-hundred-pound lady sitting on my head. My gaze drifted to the window, the clouds broke, and a ray of heavenly light shined upon the paper smiling face of…

RALPH:                 SANTA! I’ll ask Santa…

NARRATOR:        Furiously and while still holding on to inspiration by the throat I penciled my plea to that spirit of Christmas, The Big Man himself, Number One. The Head Honcho. The Connection -- Santa Claus!  Kris Kringle.

SCENE 9: EXT. ALLEYWAY - LONG SHOT

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 - WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        Night falls fast in Northern Appalachia. Snow was drifting softly through the feeble yellow glow of the distant streetlamps while around me unbridled merriment raged. I had all but abandoned hope and Santa was my very last chance. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

SFX: SNOWBALL SPLAT. BODY FALL.

SKUT:                    Hey, loser. How’d ya like your snowball sandwich??

DILL:                      Oh man. Perfect hit.

RALPH:                 (Slush in his eyes, emotionally ravaged and upset)

NARRATOR:        For the second time that day, my belongings lay strewn out on the ground, including a swiftly sogging message of hope.

SKUT:                    Hey what’s this? (Pause) Dear Santa? You kiddin’ me?

DILL:                      Oh man…kid still believes in the fat red guy.

RALPH:                 (furious) GIVE THAT BACK!

SKUT:                    Listen to this! (Reading in a taunting manner) You’re my last hope Santa. All I want for Christmas is an official Captain Cosmos M-42 Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult with a MIRV attachment and this neat bell that goes ding. (laughing)

DILL:                      (laughing)

SKUT:                    You wanna know a secret little man? There ain’t no Santa Claus. Never was.

NARRATOR:        Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain a tiny red-hot little flame began to grow.

RALPH:                 (on the verge of tears) There….is…. tooo! Give me that!

SKUT:                    This?

SFX: TEARS UP LETTER

DILL:                      Guess you’re getting NUTTIN’ for Christmas.

SKUT:                    What are you gonna cry now? C’mon crybaby and cry for me! C’mon! CRY! (LAUGHS)

NARRATOR:        By this time my red demon had grown to man size and came exploding out of my eyes and ears and mouth.

SFX: BRUTAL FIGHTING (CONTINUOUS TO 1479)

RALPH:                 AHHHHHHH!!!!

NARRATOR:        (continuing) Bravery does not exist, just a kind of latent nuttiness. If I had thought about attacking Skut for ten seconds before I had done it, I’d have been four blocks away in a minute flat. But something had happened. A fuse blew and I had gone out of my skull.

DILL:                      Hey, hey kid, stop! (Pummeled) OW! I’m…I’m telling my dad!

NARRATOR:        (continuing) I have since heard of people under extreme duress speaking in strange tongues. I became conscious that a steady torrent of obscenities and swearing was pouring out of me as I screamed.

RALPH:                 YOU NO GOOD DORKING DAGGUM FIDDLE WORTHLESS TWO-BIT TOMCAT!

FLIK:                      Hey it’s Ralphie!

SCHWARTZ:        KILLLLL! YEAH KILLLL! AHHHHHHH!

RALPH:                 YOU DIRTY RUM TUM DOODLE! NO GOOD FILTHY SICKEN HOOK-AID! OH, SMELLY WOK BUSTER! GROUT SHELL FRATTON HOUSE STICKLE FIFER! YOU BLADDER PUSS NUT GRAFTER! DORTON HOPPER!

FLIK:                      Did you hear what he said?

RANDY:                Here! Here!

FLIK:                      Ralphie! Icksnay fight-a! You Mom…ohhh…busted…

SKUT:                    (crying)

MOTHER:             Ralphie! Ralph! Ralphie?

NARRATOR:        That’s all. There was a funny look on her face. At that instant all thought of Skut Farkus disappeared from what was left of my mind and all I could think of was the incredible shame of that unbelievable tornado of obscenity I had sprayed over the neighborhood.

MOTHER:             Come on, we’re going home.

INT. HOUSE - RALPHIE – DUSK

SFX: PLAY LINE 692 - RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        I got into the house in a daze. My mother put water on me in the bathroom, pouring it over my head and dabbing at my eyes which were puffed and red from the hysteric bedlam of battle.

MOTHER:             You’d better go in and lie down on the daybed. Take it easy. Just go in and lie down.

RALPH:                 He…he said Santa wasn’t real.

MOTHER:             Who did?

RALPH:                 Skut Farkus…

MOTHER:             Oh, he did, did he? You go in there and calm down. Write a letter to the Charleston Herald and leave it on my nightstand. We’ll just see about that.

INT - KITCHEN - MOTHER COOKING – DUSK

SFX: PLAY LINE 1284 - KITCHEN AMBIANCE #3 AGAIN

RANDY:                (Crying)

MOTHER:             Randy? Randy where are you?

RANDY:                (Crying) In here.

MOTHER:             Randy? What’s wrong honey?

RANDY:                Daddy’s gonna kill Ralphie!

MOTHER:             No, he’s not.

RANDY:                Is too! Daddy’s gonna kill Ralphie!

MOTHER:             No, I promise you, daddy is not going to kill Ralphie. Now, do you want to come out?

MOTHER:             You want some Nuka Cola?

RANDY:                (Crying slowing) Yeah…. yes please.

SFX: BOTTLE POP CAP AND FIZZ.

MOTHER:             Here you go.

NARRATOR:        The light was getting purple and soft outside, almost time for my father to come home from work. I was just lying there. I heard the car roar up the driveway and a wave of terror broke over me. He’ll know what I said! All the awful things that I’d said!

MOTHER:             Ralphie! Supper's ready. Come on.

OLD MAN:           Well, what happened today? Anything exciting?

MOTHER:             Oh, not much. Ralph had a little fight.

OLD MAN:           Fight? What kind of fight?

MOTHER:             Oh, you know how kids are. I gave him a talking to. By the way, I see the Bears are playing Green Bay on Sunday.

OLD MAN:           Yeah, Zudock has tickets. Boy, I wish I did. Oh well, you’d freeze your keister off out there.

NARRATOR:        I slowly began to realize that I was not about to be destroyed. From then on, things were different between me and my mother.

INT. BEDROOM - RALPH - NIGHT

SFX: PLAY LINE 692 - RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        I had lain awake in my bed that night with the glowing realization that all was not yet lost. There was one last hope, one appeal as yet untitled, one glorious, maddening ray of Cosmic sunshine that had not as yet shone forth.

RALPH:                 Santa! I’ll ask Santa in person!

NARRATOR:        Now it is well-known that foolish men stuff themselves with pillows and other such devices and run around ringing bells in the street in order to siphon off some of the Christmas largess, but it is equally well-known that the real Santa Claus can be found at Higbee’s Department Store in Charleston, and this is the official Court Of Last Appeal.

SCENE 10: INT. HIGBEE'S - FAMILY - CROWD – NIGHT

SFX: HIGBEE AMBIANCE

NARRATOR:        The next evening we found ourselves amongst the throngs of people jostling together in the last euphoric blitz of holiday spending.

MOTHER:             Okay, now you two stay together, and go see Santa, we’ll be back to get you soon.

OLD MAN:           Stick together, watch out for weirdos!

MOTHER:             Frank!

OLD MAN:           What? All kinds of whack jobs out there now-a-days. Hold your brother’s hand, stay together, got that Ralph?

NARRATOR:        My father always called me Ralph when he wanted to pass the buck onto me. And I always fell for it like the nine-year-old rube that I was.

RALPH:                 Yessir! C’mon Randy.

NARRATOR:        The line waiting to see Santa Claus stretched back at least to Watoga, and I was at the end of it and closing time of nine o’clock was racing nearer. It was not easy to disbelieve fully in Santa Claus, because there wasn’t much else to believe in, and there were many theological arguments over the nature of, the existence of, the affirmation and denial of his existence. This belief was naturally buffered by the various oddities in West Virginia. I knew a kid who swore up and down that he was personal friends with the Flatwoods Monster. We weren’t close but the belief still helped.

NARRATOR:        Most of us were scoffers, but moments before Zero Hour, with the air pulsing to the strains of We Three Kings of Orient Are, and the store windows garlanded with red and green wreaths and the Toy Department bristling with shiny Flexible Flyers, there were few who dared to disbelieve.

NARRATOR:        (continuing) The atheists among us grew moodier and less and less sure of themselves, until finally in each scoffing heart was the floating, drifting, nagging suspicion: Well, you never can tell. It did not pay to take chances, and so we waited in line for our turn.

BRIAN:                  Hi there! I’m Brian! I like Santa Claus!

NARRATOR:        This was definitely a weirdo. I delivered a curt but dismissive response.

RALPH:                 Yeah, sure.

NARRATOR:        Of course, some of us were easier marks than others. Those types tended to fall for used car sale pitches, electoral promises and military recruiters.

SANTA:                 If Higbee thinks I’m working one minute past nine he can kiss my (Sees approaching child) Oh ho ho ho! Come on up on Santa’s lap! Oh, there’s a wet one, hah hah hah.

SANTA:                 And what’s your name, little boy?

BILLY:                    Billy.

SANTA:                 And what do you want for Christmas?

BILLY:                    A talking Ella Doll from RobCo!

SANTA:                 Well, that’s weird but ‘kay get this brat off my lap. HO HO HOOOOOOOO! HOOOOO HOOO HOOOOO! BYE BYE BILLY!

BILLY:                    AHHHHHHH!

SANTA:                 Ah, I hate the smell of tapioca.  HO HO HOOOOO! Come up! Santa’s waiting!

STORE PA:           Attention Higbee Shoppers, it is now nine o’clock, the store is closing.

NARRATOR:        Nine o’clock? Great Scot! The Store is gonna close!

RALPH:                 Come on! Come on!

RANDY:                I don’t think we’re supposed to cut the line…we’ll get in trouble!

RALPH:                 Let them TRY and stop me.

RANDY:                Owww! You’re hurting my hand.

RALPH:                 Tough.

SANTA:                 (Not so passive aggressively) Come on up, Santa can’t wait all night, up on Santa’s lap. HO HO HO! Uhhh…aren’t you a little old for Santa kid?

BRIAN:                  Well, hey there Santa Claus! I’m Brian! Or do you prefer Saint Nicholas? Or maybe and I certainly wouldn’t want to assume familiarities with you, Mr. Kris Kringle.

SANTA:                 Uhhh….and what do you want for….

BRIAN:                  Well Santa I was hoping for some odorless orthopedic foot inserts for my hiking boats and if you were feeling extra generous some used bandages for my collection.

SANTA:                 What the…

BRIAN:                  While I’m here Santa I’ve always wanted to ask you. Following the Protestant moratorium on St. Nicholas, in Germany you became known by multiple different names and personas such as Ru-Klaus, Aschenklas and Pelznickel. In these forms you not only brought presents to the good boys and girls, but also conducted ritualistic whippings and kidnappings.

SANTA:                 We have a code red…

MALE ELF:           Let’s go kid. Time to go.

BRIAN:                  No! Unhand me! Father Christmas! What about the legends of Odin…

SANTA:                 Shut up Brian! HOOOO HOOO HOOO! MERRY CHRISTMAS! Kick him down the slide! Let’s get out of here. Hey! Shirley! Just one more. Santa’s hitting the bar.

FEMALE ELF:       (a harsh bark) Get moving, kid. Quit dragging your feet.

RANDY:                Ralphie! I want Ralphie!

FEMALE ELF:       Come on kid!

RALPH:                 It’s okay! She’ll take me next.

SANTA:                 HOOOOO HOOO HOOOOO! HOOOOO HOOO HOOOO! And what do YOUUUU want for Christmas?

RANDY:                (pause) (Terrified screaming)

SANTA:                 We’ve got a screamer…okay….Merry Christmas! Get him out of here.

MALE ELF:           See yah later! Happy holidays.

NARRATOR:        And with that, Randy was hurled down Santa’s waterslide, his fading screams vanishing into the chasm below.

FEMALE ELF:       What about this one?

SANTA:                 Fine…just him. The rest can beat it. If one more kid pees on me I’m gonna lose it.

FEMALE:              Come kid! Let’s go!

RALPH:                 Go….?

NARRATOR:        I have always felt that later generations of tots, products of less romantic upbringings, cynical non-believers in Santa Claus from birth, can never know the nature of the true dream. I was well into my twenties before I finally gave up on the Mothman and I am not convinced that I am the richer for it. I had long before decided to level with Santa, to really lay it on the line. No kid stuff. If I was going to ride the skies with Captain Cosmos, then Santa Claus was going to have to get the straight shot from the barrel.

SANTA:                 COME ON UP! HO HO HO! HO HO HO! And what's your name, little boy?

NARRATOR:        Time slowed…what day was this? Who was I? What is happening now?

RALPH:                 Ah -- uh -- uhhhhhh.

MALE ELF:           Hey kid, hurry up the store’s closing!

FEMALE ELF:       Listen kid, we got a lot of people waiting here. So get going!

RALPH:                 I…uhh..

SANTA:                 What….do…you WANT for Christmas kid?

RALPH:                 Ehhhhrrrrr --

NARRATOR:        My mind had gone blank! Frantically I tried to remember what it was I wanted. I was blowing it! Blowing it!

RALPH:                 Uhhhh --

SANTA:                 How about a nice - football?

NARRATOR:        My mind groped. Football, football. Sure what the hell…what’s a few more bruises and a concussion? Maybe Scut will hold the ball this time. Without conscious will my voice squeaked out football.

RALPH:                 Yeah!

SANTA:                 Okay, get him out of here. Down the slide…MERRRRYYYYY CHRISTMASS!!! HO HO HOOOO!

NARRATOR:        A football! Oh no! What was I doing? Wake up stupid! WAKE UP! Warm water surged in my face from Santa’s waterslide as my hands turned into determined talons, gripping the edges, fighting the raging rapids. This was my last chance.

RALPH:                 (all in a rush semi-hysterically) No! No! I want an official Captain Cosmos MIRV action Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult with this bell that goes ding!

SANTA:                 What are you nuts? You'll blow up yer neighborhood kid! Merry Christmas! HO HO ho. Kick him.

MALE ELF:           Feliz Navidad kid.

RALPH:                 NOOOOOOOOOO!

NARRATOR:        Down the chute I went, brought low by the fickle gods. I have never been struck by a bolt of lightning, but I know how it must feel. The back of my head was numb. My feet clanked leadenly beneath me as I returned to earth.

RANDY:                Ralphie?

RALPH:                 Yeah.

RANDY:                Are you okay?

RALPH:                 No.

RANDY:                Ralphie?

RALPH:                 Yeah?

RANDY:                I’m all wet.

RALPH:                 Yup.

NARRATOR:        I vaguely remembered ice finishing with the old man one December weekend, the promise of a manly thrill that started with me plummeting through the ice up to my waist. A frigid, borderline hypothermic afternoon of misery. Why Higbees had a water slide going in December was an idea born from the mind of a homicidal madman.

OLD MAN:           Did you tell Santa what you wanted?

RALPH:                 -- yeah.

OLD MAN:           Did he ask you if you had been a good boy?

RALPH:                 No?

OLD MAN:           Ha! Don’t worry. He knows anyway. He always knows.

NARRATOR:        Maybe that was it! My mind reeled with the realization that maybe Santa did know how rotten I had been and that the football was not only a threat but a punishment. I could see that either my father, or Santa, or perhaps both were not content to let bygones be bygones.

SCENE 11: EXT. PARKER HOUSE – NIGHT

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 - WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        After dinner we stood outside in the cold as my Old Man pulled his Hail Mary pass to win the Neighborhood Lights and Display Contest. When he ran out of Christmas lights and had blown the budget on buying more, he turned to more abstract things like floor lamps and strobe lights.

OLD MAN:           Are you ready? Two hundred and fifty strands of lights, one hundred individual bulbs per strand for a grand total of twenty-five thousand individual miniature imported Italian twinkle lights. Twenty-five thousand!

MOTHER:             Can we hurry up honey? I hope no one we know drives by to see us standing in the yard in my nightgown.

RANDY:                Mom I can’t feel my legs again…

RALPH:                 Fire it up Dad!

OLD MAN:           All right. Plug 'em in Ralphie! I dedicate this display to the Parker family Christmas…and we’ll just see if Swede wins again this year. (chuckles)

RANDY:                Mom?

OLD MAN:           Shut up Randy! Drumroll.

MOTHER:             What?

OLD MAN:           Drumroll please.

MOTHER:             Oh…uhhh…. (imitation of a drumroll)

RALPH:                 (drumroll with tongue poorly)

RANDY:                (chattering teeth and drumroll)

OLD MAN:           (drumroll with tongue followed by singing) JOY TO THE WORLD! (final drumroll with tongue) Let there be light!

MEDIA: HOUSE STAYS DARK.

OLD MAN:           Son of a bitch!

MOTHER:             LANGUAGE! What happened.

OLD MAN:           Randy did you check those bulbs?

RALPHIE:              Yeah we both did.

OLD MAN:           RANDY! You didn’t mess around with those plugs did you?

MOTHER:             He’s frozen solid again. Well did you plug them in?

OLD MAN:           CHRISSAKE! You think we’d do all this and not make sure the extension cord was plugged in?

MOTHER:             (Eyeroll) Ralphie. Go plug them in.

RALPH:                 Okay got em!

OLD MAN:           Now!

NARRATOR:        A pop of smoke and a brief whiff of ozone and the holiday glowed to life. Occasionally in some houses a critical point was reached, this was years before the power rationing and riots that soon followed. I have often wondered if rationing would have been necessary if America hadn’t adopted the idea of Christmas lights at all. But, it was the season and…

YUKON:                GOLD! Gold and silver. Silver and gold. Wahoo!

ALASTAIR:           What? (whispers) Get the hell out of here. This isn’t your scene.

YUKON:                Who am I? The name's Yukon Cornelius, the greatest prospector in the North! This is MY land, and you know, it's rich with gold. GOLD! Gold and silver. Silver and gold. Wahoo! Now where is that Bumble!?

CORDELIA:          (out of character) What is happening right now?

JOE:                       (out of character) This isn’t the scene with the magic snowman? Who is playing Rudolph?

RUDOLPH:           Sorry that’s me…. ♪"Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a nitwit. I'm a dear of a reindeer. Why don't I fit in?"♪

ALASTAIR:           We’re live…get the hell out of the scene!

JOE:                       This is YOUR script printed out of that stupid machine. What draft we are on? I have 86 here.

CORDELIA:          We’re on 132.

MATT:                   Unbelievable. This is the most amateur production I’ve ever been in. Cameras are on people…get it together or I’m heading back to my trailer.

ALASTAIR:           We’re on 133! Get out of here all of you!

KURT:                    So we’re not doing the Island of Rubbish Toys either?

ALASTAIR:           No! I…don’t think so! I can’t remember how this goes…

TARQUIN:           Sir…we ARE LIVE!

ALASTAIR:           Come on everyone out! Center….centerrrr….and back in character.

OLD MAN:           Perfect!

MOTHER:             Oh goodness look at the time. I hope Santa Claus hasn't had to pass up this house because some boys weren't in bed when he came by.

OLD MAN:           Yeah, I heard some sleigh bells a while back headin' up the other side of the street.

REAL SANTA:      What I'm trying to say is... Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?

SFX: PUNCH AS ALASTAIR KNOCKS OUT “SANTA” ON SET. (A punch is thrown on Zoom and the other actor falls out of view on their screen)

OLD MAN:           (awkward chuckle trying to star in character) Up to bed kids!

MOTHER:             Alright you two that's it. Up the stairs!

OLD MAN:           On the double. Hup hup hup!

RALPH:                 Good night Mom! Night Dad!

RANDY:                (chattering from cold) Goooddd…….niiii

RALPH:                 Come on Randy.

MOTHER:             Ralphie! Before you go to bed I left the paper on your desk.

OLD MAN:           Paper? My paper?

MOTHER:             Hush you only read the Sports and Funnies.

RANDY:                Okay Mom!

MEDIA: BEDROOM.

SFX: LINE 692 - RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        I tore up the stairs. Maybe, just maybe, despite my letter never getting to him, the rejection at Higbee’s…just maybe Santa was more than letters or words. Maybe Santa would know, instinctively my heart’s desire. Picking up the paper the Editor spoke to me from the page itself.

RALPH:                 Master Ralph Parker, we received your letter in regards to questioning the existence of Father Christmas and here is our response…

EDITOR:                In these troublesome times, quite frankly such a question is nearly Un-American to even contemplate. Look around you, we have Senators involved in seditious conspiracies, promoting separatist ideas and then disappearing like thieves in the night. And then there are communist backed unions trying to tear apart our great nation and the companies that built her. Make no mistake, we here at the Charleston Herald have been monitoring these dire times and believe that our elected officials have only the best of intentions in keeping this great nation just that… great. So, to answer your question, Mr. Parker, we open the floor to you all… Yes, West Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He is real, he sees you when you’re sleeping, when you’re awake, and he knows whether or not you’re a true American. And boys and girls of Appalachia, the real, AMERICAN Santa can be found, at the Higbee’s Downtown Charleston location, a convenient spot for all your shopping needs. Santa Claus, this year, is brought to you by Blamco Mac and Cheese. Blamco, it’s what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sincerely, The Charleston Herald Staff.

RALPH:                 ANOTHER CRUMMY COMMERCIAL!?

NARRATOR:        A broken man, I tore the paper to pieces and readied myself for bed. Outside I could still hear my Mom and the Old Man talking.

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 - WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

MOTHER:             You need any help out here putting stuff away?

OLD MAN:           I’ve got all the help I need from a bottle of Old Possum. (chuckles) I’ll be up soon.

MOTHER:             Don’t stay out too late.

OLD MAN:           (pause) I did it.

SCENE 12: INT. RALPH'S BEDROOM - CHRISTMAS MORNING

SFX: PLAY LINE 692 - RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        Alas, my dreams were not filled with sugarplums. And yet slowly, light filling the room brought me swimming back from a nightmare water slide and laughing Miss Shields. The morning sun filled the room, amplified and reflected from the gnarled silver icicles that covered everything outside; trees, wires, eaves, fences. Opening the window, I stared in rapt wonder at the winter wonderland kingdom that Santa had brought in the night.

RALPH:                 Randy! Come on! Wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas?

RANDY:                (Moaning awake) Ch…Christmas?! It’s Christmas! YEAHHHHH!

INT. HOUSE - DAY

SFX: PLAY LINE 833 - PARKER LIVING ROOM AMBIANCE #2 AGAIN

RANDY:                MOM! DAD! WAKE UP!

OLD MAN:           (Moaning awake) Shut up Randy! So help me…I’m comin’ out!

NARRATOR:        Some religious zealots wear hair shirts, fathers get jolted awake at 5am by screaming kids. We tore downstairs as my Mother calmed the waking bear that was our Old Man. Santa Claus had come! My brother circled around the tree, moaning softly, while I -- cooler and more controlled -- quickly eyed the mountain of revealingly wrapped largess. And knew the worst.

MOTHER:             Merry Christmas!

RALPH:                 Merry Christmas!

SFX: PLAY LINE 827 & 829 - KNOCK ON DOOR AGAIN

ALASTAIR:           (out of character annoyed and whispering low) Whoever is doing that behind the set…STOP.

RANDY:                Oh wow! Look at this! Oh wow! This is mine too! And this one!

OLD MAN:           Lord, my head.

MOTHER:             All right, now, Randy, wait for Christmas to start.

SFX: PLAY LINE 827 & 829 - KNOCK ON DOOR AGAIN

RANDY:                I wanna play Santa!

OLD MAN:           Randy, you were Santa last year, Ralph you do it.

SFX: DOOR KICKED OPEN.

AUNT CLARA:     Hello everybody!

ALASTAIR:           (Out of character hand on face) For Christ’s sake Lucy that was script 92.

CORDELIA:          (Talking low) Alastair just roll with it…it’s fine.

AUNT CLARA:     Oh dear did I break wind?

OLD MAN:           Why….it’s your uhhh…Aunt Clara boys! Say hello.

RALPH:                 Hi? I guess…

RANDY:                What?

AUNT CLARA:     Oh that was fun I love riding in cars.

MOTHER:             Why don’t sit down here Aunt Clara.

AUNT CLARA:     I should sit down?

MOTHER:             Yes.

AUNT CLARA:     Over here?

OLD MAN:           YES!

AUNT CLARA:     (mumbling) Is Ralphie still in the Brotherhood of Steel? This Christmas tree is smaller than your old one.

MOTHER:             Uhhh…why don’t we open presents. Ralphie…go ahead.

RALPH:                 Where should I start?

MOTHER:             Well, give Randy a present, he’s about to burst!

RANDY:                Wow! A zeppelin! Whee! Whoopee! Wow!

NARRATOR:        (continuing) Christmas had officially begun. We plunged into the cornucopia, quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice.

AUNT CLARA:     This one is for little Ralphie.

MOTHER:             Oh Aunt Clara you shouldn’t have done that.

AUNT CLARA:     Grace died 30 years ago.

ALASTAIR:           (Out of character exasperated) Oh my God…

NARRATOR:        Aunt Clara had for years labored under the delusion that I was not only perpetually four years old, but also a girl. Layers of paper torn aside I was presented with a fluffy

SFX: CAT MEOWS ANGRY. HISSING.

DURIEN:               (actor hold up page of script) …cat? I think this is supposed to be a bunny outfit Alastair in my script. What page are we even on?

ALASTAIR:           (out of character) JUST GO WITH IT DURIEN GOD DAMN IT!

MOTHER:             (adding oil to the flames) Oh, that’s so sweet!

SFX: ANGRY CAT.

RANDY:                She wrapped up her damned cat.

OLD MAN:           Shut up Randy!

MOTHER:             (continuing) Aunt Clara always gives you the nicest presents. Try it on; see if it fits.

RALPH:                 (scared) Ah Ma, I don’t want to!

MOTHER:             You try it on this minute!

AUNT CLARA:     I pledge allegiance to the flag… (incoherent mumbling)

SFX: CAT ATTACKS.

RALPH:                 (actor flails with invisible cat on head) Ah gee Ma!

MOTHER:             Ralphie! Let's see!

MOTHER:             Isn’t that sweet?

OLD MAN:           He looks like a deranged easter bunny.

MOTHER:             He does not!

OLD MAN:           He does too! Looks like a goddam pink nightmare! Are you happy wearing that? You want to take it off?

MOTHER:             All right, you’ll only wear it when Clara visits. Take it off.

AUNT CLARA:     (Betty Boop catch phrase) BOOP BOOP BEE DOOP…BOOP! PLAY BALL!

OLD MAN:           TAKE IT OFF DAMMIT!

NARRATOR:        The Christmas bacchanal continued, a tissue paper throwing, glitter paper showering display of capitalistic excess. Finally,  it was all over, no more mysterious packages under the tree, only a great pile of crumpled tissue paper, string, and empty boxes. Randy lay dozing amid the rubble, the zeppelin clasped in one hand and his new fire truck in the other. I sat dejected on the couch with Mom, the Old Man and Aunt Clara.

OLD MAN:           God, would you look at that mess? Who’s gonna clean that up?

RALPH:                 Randy.

OLD MAN:           Yeah? Well okay. This wine ain’t half bad, it’s not good either, want a sip?

RALPH:                 Yeah!

MOTHER:             No you don’t!

OLD MAN:           Ah, another Christmas, did you get everything you wanted?

RALPH:                 (Forlorn) Almost.

OLD MAN:           Almost, eh? Well that’s life. That’s life.  (Pause) Say! (he pauses dramatically) Don’t I see something over there stuck behind the drapes? Why don’t you go check it out?

NARRATOR:        I looked up, too afraid to believe. I ran to the drapes, tearing them asunder and hidden there, all along was a long, heavy, red-wrapped package. It was marked To Ralphie, From Santa. Frantically, I tore the wrappings off.

RALPH:                 It’s….it’s…

NARRATOR:        A Captain Cosmos Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult!

OLD MAN:           (Chuckles) Take it out of the paper son…that’s right.

NARRATOR:        (continuing) Blue steel barrel graceful and taut, its metal, polished stock gleaming like all the treasures of the Western World. More beautiful and malevolent than the pictures in the advertisements showed.

OLD MAN:           You know how to load it!?

RALPH:                 Yeah!

OLD MAN:           That’s right…load up that mininuke…careful now…

MOTHER:             I still think that thing is dangerous.

OLD MAN:           (Old Man waves her away) That’s right…pull the catapult back.

SFX: FAT MAN LOADING NOISES.

NARRATOR:        (continuing): I could hardly wait to try it out, but the instruction book said, in Captain Cosmos’ own words: Kids, never fire a Fat Man in the house. I never shoot anybody but bad guys, and I don't want any of my friends ATOMIZED.

MOTHER:             All right, you try it out, but outside and you be careful Ralphie I still say those things are dangerous. Make sure you shoot that into an open field! I don’t want the windows blown out.

RALPH:                 I won’t! I won’t!

MOTHER:             And don't shoot at bird's or any animals.

OLD MAN:           Except the Mumbleses and their blasted molerats! (chuckles)

MOTHER:             Now hush! Ralphie, be careful. I’ve got to check on the turkey.

AUNT CLARA:     …of the United States of America. And to the republic for which it stands…

OLD MAN:           Wait for me! Hey! What’s Ralphie doing out there?!

MOTHER:             What?

OLD MAN:           (Ripping off a piece of turkey and popping it into his mouth)

MOTHER:             For heaven's sake it’s not even done yet, now go read the funnies and let me work.

NARRATOR:        Now it is well known throughout Appalachia that the old man is a turkey junkie. A bonafide galli turkecanus freak. A few days before Christmas his eyes would begin to gleam with a wild and ravenous light. Every few hours he would check his carving set to make sure the knife was honed and the fork tines sharp.

EXT. BACKYARD – DAY

SFX: PLAY LINE 474 - WINTER OUTDOORS AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        Outside I stood in the clean air, ready to defend my homestead from the various marauders, space pirates and evil doers of my fiendishly overwrought imagination.  I alone would save the day.

CAP. COSMOS:  That’s right Ralphie, it’s you and me now son, we’ll clean up this galaxy together!

NARRATOR:        I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. For one instant I thought wildly, It doesn't work. We'll have to send it back.

CAP COSMOS:   No, not like that, you need to depress the safety switch first.

BRIAN:                  Pardon me, Lord Alastair, are you out here? I would like to review a few script points with you for the finale, noting several inaccuracies and retcons of the established story throughout this production and JESUS WEPT CARL! Why does that kid have a real Fat Man?!?

CAP COSMOS:   (Trying to stay in character) (talking low) We’re live with this scene Brian! Get the hell out of the way). (Back in character) Never fear you strange Terrestrial Virgin Street Urchin, Cadet Ralphie has been fully versed in the safety of…

SFX: PLAY LINE 351 - FAT MAN FIRES AGAIN

MEDIA: MURMURGHESES HOUSE DESTROYED.

BRIAN:                  You were saying?

CAP COSMOS:   Ah hell, we gotta go, you’re on your own Ralph.

BRIAN AND CAPTAIN COSMO VANISH FROM SCREEN LEAVING JUST RALPHIE.

NARRATOR:        I knew then I was in bigger trouble than ever before in my life. I had indeed blown up the neighborhood. Oh lord, I’d be grounded until I turned thirty. If I was good, maybe my parents would let me out of my room to get married and then, straight back to the clink.

SFX: RADS TICKING. MAGIC SOUND. BONES CRUNCH.

NARRATOR:        I think I mutated! My God I mutated from rad exposure and had sprouted talons! As God is my witness talons sprang right from my hands!

MOTHER:             (calling) Be careful. Don’t blow up the neighborhood!

NARRATOR:        She, hadn’t seen. She didn't know. Rapidly, my mind evolved a spectacular plot. It would work. It had to work! Quickly I worked up some fake tears to seal the deal.

RALPH:                 (crying)

MOTHER:             Ralphie! Ralphie! Oh my gosh what happened!

RALPH:                 (brokenly) There was some molerats and they attacked me! And then the gun went off and the Murmughses are yelling, and I think they lit their house on fire! And then there were these rads and now I’ve got claws!

MOTHER:             What? Oh my lord, Ralphie, you could’ve been hurt! Those molerats are known to kill people! Come on up to the bathroom and I’ll clean you up. We’ll get you some RadAway.

INT. BATHROOM - RALPH - MOTHER – DAY

PLAY LINE 692 - RALPHIE ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

RALPH:                 (crying still)

MOTHER:             (soothingly) There now, see. Just settle down. You’re really lucky. Here, hold this rag on it. There see? No more talons.

NARRATOR:        I HAD PULLED IT OFF!

INT. KITCHEN.

OLD MAN:           What's goin' on up there?

MOTHER:             Nothing, we'll be right down and stay away from that turkey. It has to cook for another hour. You'll get radworms!

OLD MAN:           (curses) (Gobbles piece of turkey anyway then open his newspaper and begins reading)

NARRATOR:        Life is like that. Sometimes at the height of our reveries when our joy is at its zenith. When all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.

EXT. HORDES APPROACH THE HOUSE FROM ALL SIDES. FIRING.

SFX: EXPLOSIONS.

OLD MAN:           Holy Christ, the turkey! The turkey. Those goddamned monsters. The turkey!

SFX: GUNSHOTS.

OLD MAN:           My turkey! You hopfunkle dunglesniffers!

MOTHER:             What’s happening?!

OLD MAN:           We’re under attack! Quick Ralphie! Get your Fat Man!

AUNT CLARA:     Happy Birthday!

MOTHER:             Aunt Clara get down!

RALPH:                 This is my house. I have to defend it. This is it. Don't get scared now.

MUTANT #1:      Merry Christmas, little fella. We know that you're in there, and that you're all alone.

MUTANT #2:      Yeah, come on, kid. Open up. It's Santy Claus and his elf.

ALASTAIR:           What is…? This wasn’t in the final script!

RANDY:                Someday I'd like to be a...a dentist.

ALASTAIR:           WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?

RANDY:                I've been studying. It's fascinating. You've no idea. Molars and bicuspids and incisors. ♪"Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a nitwit. You can't fire me, I quit! Seems I don't fit in."♪

MUTANT #1:      I thought you said he was home alone Harry?

MUTANT #2:      Me thought they supposed to go to Paris this morning.

MUTANT #1:      We're not gonna hurt you.

ALASTAIR:           NONE OF THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPENING!

SFX: DOOR KICKED IN.

(Cousin Eddie and Mr. Shirley)

COUSIN EDDIE:  HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS CLARK! You about ready to do some kissing? You owe my brother-in-law here his Christmas bonus.

1. SHIRLEY: Bonus? I cut out bonuses this year!

ALASTAIR:           No. Nooo! That’s it. I’m done. I’m through. I can’t do this! (Emotional) This isn’t what it was like! None of this is what it I saw on film! End the broadcast. I’m done.

TARQUIN:           Sir…

ALASTAIR:           I mean it Tarquin! None of this is right! This isn’t what Christmas is about! What message are delivering here? It’s chaos! All of this! What sort of idiot would schedule a live show on Christmas Eve?

CARL:                    Only you Alastair.

JOE:                       But you’re our idiot. So here we are.

SKIP:                      This is the most amateur production I’ve ever been in.

MATT:                   (Sarcastic) This was not your best work SKIP.

SKIP:                      Try breathing through your nose every once in a while.

MATT:                   You’re as charming as a Mirelurk.

ALASTAIR:           See! Arguing!

WILL:                     It wouldn’t be the holidays without one family argument.

ALASTAIR:           Look around us! We’re at the threshold of HELL!

TARQUIN:           Yes…but that’s the point isn’t it sir?

ALASTAIR:           What do you mean?

TARQUIN:           The holidays are chaos. That’s what makes them relatable. It’s madness, it’s stories told by fireplaces, and dangerously depraved relatives that are there every year anyway because they’re as part of the decoration as the table centerpiece.

CORDELIA:          (gently) It’s what we’ve been trying to tell you since you came up with the idea of doing all this, but didn’t have the heart to fight you on. The holidays are about…shopping until our caps stash is empty and crying about it for 6 months and doing it all again. And why? Because we love the feeling of seeing the face of someone, we love light up. Trying to the best of our ability to give them their heart’s desire…something we rarely give ourselves license to do or even have the possibility of doing for ourselves.

LUCY:                    And because in this cynical mad, mad world, it’s the one time of year when we stop for just a moment of being involved with ourselves and look upon each other, loved one, friend or relative alike and put them first. We didn’t need to do all of this to deliver a message that simple.

TARQUIN:           Sir, tell us again, what you remember about the day you saw this movie when you were a kid.

ALASTAIR:           I remember the boy and the gift…

TARQUIN:           No. Not on the screen. Where were you? Who brought you there?

ALASTAIR:           I was…yes…it was Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad…the old Corvega…the snow was coming down. I remember the snowflakes…I was mesmerized by the way they flew towards us and danced skipping away into the night. The radio playing songs quietly. Mom. She had an arm around me…she said…what was she saying…it was…. (emotional) It was her favorite movie.

TARQUIN:           How did you feel?

ALASTAIR:           I felt…warm.

CORDELIA:          And safe.

LUCY:                    And loved.

ALASTAIR:           (Broken) Yes. I remember…the lights twinkling downtown, the storefronts with their displays…the Santa ringing the bell of charity at the door. I remember the crinkle of the seats in the theater, and the buttery popcorn and laughing…we were laughing…and they were laughing with me. Mom resting her hand on mine and smiling.

CORDELIA:          And then you lost her.

ALASTAIR:           (emotional ruin) Yes. She was taken from me.

CORDELIA:          We’ve all lost people. But trying to recreate this, it was never about the movie was it?

ALASTAIR:           No.

CORDELIA:          We can’t bring them back.

ALASTAIR:           No.

LUCY:                    But we can remember them. Our traditions…the ornaments on the trees, the recipes passed down, right down to the “not to be broken or trifled with” very specific ritual of cooking the turkey or roast for that day. We got that from those lost or far from us now.

TARQUIN:           Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa…any of them, while we all celebrate whatever belief we hold, the truest celebration on that day or those days is honoring in small ways everyone left behind. Our traditions and rituals are a monument to their memory, a candle we light every year, so we remember NOT just that perfect holiday from back when, but the people with us who brought that moment to life.

ALASTAIR:           Yes. I…see it now. It’s our way of holding the memory of how we felt once upon a time when around the tables were the faces of those no longer with us, or those now far away in time and place. (Quietly) I love you, Mom. Dad. I never forgot you.

TARQUIN:           (Quiet pause). We’re still live sir.

ALASTAIR:           (Composing himself) Let’s finish this then and to hell with the script. We’ll improvise. Let’s pick it up from the ruin of Christmas dinner! (Clears throat)

OLD MAN:           (Back in character) DAMN MOLERATS!  SONS A BITCHES! MURMUGHSES!

NARRATOR:        The heavenly aroma still hung heavy in the house. But it was gone -- all gone -- no turkey -- no turkey sandwiches no turkey salad, no turkey gravy, turkey hash, turkey a la king, or gallons of turkey soup, gone, all gone. The Old Man came as close to crying as I'd ever seen him.

OLD MAN:           Get your coats! We're going to that Super Mutant joint. We're going to have meat by God!

RANDY:                Don’t want to eat with no mutants, they’re scary!

MOTHER:             Oh hush, honey, Grahm is a nice Super mutant, he hardly hurts anybody.

EXT/INT. - GRAHM'S RESTAURANT - DUSK

SFX: PLAY RESTAURANT AMBIANCE #1

MUTANTS 1, 2 and 3 (singing to the tune of Deck the halls)

COOK MEATBAGS AND LOTS OF PRIME MEAT

FA LA LA LA LAAAAAA LAAA LAAA LAA LAAAA

MEATS ARE MEATS….uhhhhh….MILK OF KINDNESS!

FA LA LA LA LAAAAAA LAAA LAAA LAA LAAAA

GRAHM:              No, that not right, try again. Like this…

Deck the halls with boughs of HOLLY! FA LALALALA LA LA LA LA

MUTANTS 1, 2 and 3 (mutter to themselves for a minute)

DECK THE HALLS WITH GUTS OF GLORY!

MEAT MEAT MEAT MEAT FA LALALA!

GRAHM:              No, stop stop stop. Sing something else! You scare humans!

MUTANTS 1, 2 and 3 (mutter to themselves for a minute then sing to 12 Days of Christmas)

MUTANT #1:      On dah first day of Meat Week, puny human gave to meeeeee

Prime meat on a spit pleaseeeeee

MUTANT #2:      On dah second day of Meat Week, puny human gave to meeeeee

Two….uhhhh…prime meat

MUTANT #1:      And uhhh…. Prime meat on a spit pleaseeeeee

GRAHM:              No, stop, embarrassing. Chally Moo Moo sing better. Go get food for customers!

NARRATOR:        That Christmas would live in our memories as the Christmas when we were introduced to Super Mutant levels of meat consumption that gave us the sweats for days. All was right with the world.

EXT. HOUSE – NIGHT: SNOWING.

SFX: PLAY LINE 306 - PARKER LIVING ROOM AMBIANCE #1 AGAIN

NARRATOR:        Later that night the Old Man and my Mom sat together in the close and blessed darkness watching the snowfall, Silent Night playing on our old radio.

OLD MAN:           Honey come look at this. Beautiful…just beautiful…

NARRATOR:       Upstairs, next to me in the blackness lay my oiled blue-steel beauty, the greatest Christmas gift I had ever received. Gradually I drifted off to sleep, atomizing ducks and getting off spectacular hip shots.

MEDIA: OUTRO THEME SOARS. TITLES: CREDITS ROLL. GLITCH. FADE.

MEDIA: END SCENE PACKAGE. DISSOLVE TO EXTERIOR OF TV STATION. SNOW BEGINS FALLING.

KEN:                      As if by a miracle that evening the satellite uplink held until the credits rolled, despite the chaos of half remembered holiday specials bleeding together. From the untamed wilderness of the Northern Commonwealth to the irradiated beaches of Florida that Christmas, TVs flickered to life as Dwellers and Raiders, Settlers and Survivors alike watched and stopped and remembered those no longer with us, but always and forever live in memory and in the stories we tell still around tables, trees, menorahs or campfires. When American storyteller and humorist Jean Parker Shepard Jr. first penned the series of short stories that would later become A Christmas Story, he never intended it to be a holiday classic. On its surface it is, as Shepard writes and relates, a story of the unbridled avarice of the season. Ralphie hungers to be part of a secret club only to discover it was a clever commercial ploy by Madison Avenue. The Old Man was obsessed with turkey, and in the end it was eaten by a pack of wild dogs. So why did it become a classic? Why do any of them? Time marches inexorably, unstoppably forward, it cannot be boxed or bottled. These stories, these specials, these movies, rituals and traditions are the tinder we use every year to light the Yule log burning fires of nostalgia. While time fades all, nostalgia burns brighter with each passing year. We cling clutching close to it in the dark times, in the uncertain times. It is the metaphysical tether to all that we were and times that appeared simpler but only because we were. Nostalgia in all its smiles, tears and the longing for another time and place are always about we felt and our desire to feel that again. It was never about gram’s recipe or Jean Shepard’s A Christmas Story. It was about the warmth, the love, and the undying memory of the faces close to our hearts. The truest holiday classics are happening right here, right now with the friends you’ve made and even love you’ve found in Fallout and gaming; and the hope that this community has given to people and sick children who will forever remember the kindness and love of people they’ve never met and probably never will. And so, create your rituals and traditions, passing them on to children, friends and family. This feeling doesn’t have to come in December alone. That’s the greatest lesson of all. From all of us here to all of you at home in whatever form you celebrate this time of year, may your holidays be filled with light and love. Good night.