"Jules & K: Heart of Darkness"  The Recording Script • Written and directed by Christopher Bahn. Copyright 1996. • Episode 2 of the radiodrama series Where Threads Come Loose (originally episode 3 of 1997 Edition) • Originally broadcast on KUOM-AM, January 1994 Audio Excerpt Right-click to download: Tundra Tom Callahan Cast • Jules, the various segments of Jules' psychology, Phil: Tony Pagel • Dave: Steve Nelson • K, Tundra Tom Callahan, Surly Coffeeshop Employee, Gumption the penguin, Ed: Christopher Bahn • Father O'Shaughnessy, Sister Wanda: Dan Stevens Author's Notes • The first of the Cafe Pathetique stories, which would eventually dominate the series. Of the 39 total episodes, 15 followed the exploits of Jules, K and the rest of the maladapted cafe crowd. Cafe Pathetique itself is based loosely on a couple of real college cafes in Dinkytown, near the University of Minnesota campus. EPISODE INTRO: For centuries, artists have tried to dig deep within themselves to create the most meaningful and sublime expressions possible. Shakespeare, Monet, Axl Rose and many others like them have reached for that golden ring, only to find that true poetry is an elusive thing. Tonight, we tell the story of a young poet whose attempt at self-discovery goes tragically awry when he becomes the main character in a radio play entitled... "Heart of Darkness." Art by Dan Grothe & Christopher Bahn SCENE I: Cafe Pathetique (Jazz plays in the background, and there is a murmur of voices and clinking glasses.) Jules: (Upper-class British accent) Dave! How are you, good to see you. Mind if I sit down? Dave: Go ahead, Gerald. Jules: Shhh! Don't call me that here. This is a public cafe, for heaven's sake. Someone might hear you. Dave: Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot you changed your name. Jules: I'm Jules. Jules Hampton Sykes, but call me Jules in public. Have you ever heard of an influential and respected artist with a name like Gerald Jones? Dave: Jules. Got it. Jules: Do you have a cigarette? Dave: Here. Jules: Oh, god, you're smoking generics. Forget it. I only smoke the imported stuff. Dave: Boy, you really are an artist, aren't you? Jules: Of course. Dave: So how's your writing going? Jules: Well, as you know I'm writing mostly political stuff these days. Dave: I thought it was sonnets. Jules: That was last week! For God's sake, Dave, work with me. Dave: Sorrrry. Jules: Anyway... Last night I lay awake wondering to myself about the terrible existential angst that plagues our society these days. Specifically, the angst which accompanies our use of grocery products. Dave: I'm kind of busy right now, Jules. Jules: Hush. These are important questions, with deep ramifications for every member of society. Do you realize that food is like a common thread linking all of us together, from the grossly fat CEO to the toiling laborers in the street? Dave: I must confess I'd never thought about it before. Jules: This subject fills me with a feeling of solidarity, David. Dave: Solidarity. Jules: I feel a kinship with those dirty-faced workmen on the street! The stinking rabble, the lice-ridden tubercular masses! Dave: How much is left in the trust fund, Jules? Jules: Oh, plenty, I won't have to get a job for years at this rate. What brings that up? Dave: Oh, nothing. You were saying. Jules: Foodstuffs—the stuff of life. Take cabbage, for instance. Dave: What about it? Jules: And what of cabbage, you say? It is the backbone of society! I have always harbored a belief that cabbage is absolutely essential for a democratic system to operate smoothly. Roughage, you know. I am reminded of Marx's famous quote: "When one has lettuce, there is apprehension. When two have lettuce, there is fear. But when three have lettuce, there is cause for celebration!" Dave: Marx never said that. Jules: Well, no, he didn't. I wrote that. But it's something Marx would have assiduously agreed with. Dave: Whatever you say. Jules: Oh my god! Dave: What is it? Jules: Don't look. It's that pretentious K. Dave: K? Jules: Yes, K. Dave: It's just Kevin Anderson. I thought you guys were friends. Jules: He changed his name. It's a long story. Dave: He changed his name too? Jules: I said don't look! He'll—Oh, drat it all, he's seen us. K: (He also has an upper-class British accent. He's in a tiff with Jules right now, so his voice also has an icy tone) Jules. Jules: (also icy) Hello, K. K: I trust you are well. Jules: Yes. Have you met David? K: No. Dave: Actually, I was just leaving. Jules: (to Dave) No, you weren't. (to K) K, would you care to sit down? K: Certainly. (SFX: glasses clink, chairs move) So did I tell you another one of my poems was published? Jules: (flatly) That's... great, K. K: Yes, in next month's issue of Guns and Ammo. They said they don't usually publish poetry but in my case they would make an exception. Dave: It was that good? K: That's what my uncle said. He's the publisher, and he thought it was great. Jules: (jealous) I'm very happy for you, K. K: Ah. It seems like only last year that we graduated from Brooklyn Park High School together. Dave: It was last year. You're both freshmen. K: (not fazed) Ah yes. Do you write, David? Dave: No. K: Then I will not acknowledge you. How is your writing going, Jules? Jules: Last night I lay awake wondering to myself about the terrible existential angst that plagues our society these days. K: Oh, me too. Dave: Not you too... K: I didn't do that very long, though, since Cheers was on. I think it's important to spend a few minutes every day in utter abject horror of life and the world, but it can be done between commercial breaks. Do you want to hear my latest poem? Dave: Oh, that's OK, thanks anyway— K: (SFX: Paper unfolding) It's about the plight of the homeless. Here, I'll read it for you: Hey, bag lady Life's a drag, bag lady You hit a snag, your tongue does wag—bag lady. Do you drive a Jag, bag lady? You could go zig zag, bag lady, in your brand new Jag, bag lady. Is there— Dave: (cutting him off) Thank you. I'm impressed. K: But I'm not done. Dave: I don't need to hear any more. I've got a good idea of what it's about. Very impressive. K: What did you think, Jules? Jules: I like it. Keep going in that direction. You might want to vary the rhyme scheme a bit. K: I'll consider it. Jules: I wrote a poem last night expressing my joy about the fact that IBM went up two tenths of a point on the New York Stock Exchange. K: Oh, really? Jules: The poem is told from the viewpoint of a common garden slug, which I feel was a great leap forward for me since all of my previous poems about the financial world have been told through the eyes of sea creatures like sharks and manta rays. K: Discovering invertebrates was a stroke of genius. Jules: I thought so too. I was so happy about writing it that I ran out into the street to share it with passersby. Dave: Oh, Jules, you didn't. Jules: I couldn't help myself. The art was flowing through me, I had to bring it to the people. Dave: You got arrested last time you did that. Jules: Well, that didn't happen this time. Unfortunately, most people I talked to seemed to be in a hurry. Nobody has time for the great works any more. Dave: I can't imagine why. K: Well, I have time for it. Could I read it? Jules: (panicked) Read it? K: I could perhaps make a few suggestions, some changes in your meter, the removal of your usual prosaic style— Jules: Ah... No, thank you. K: What? Why not? Jules: My only copy was eaten by a dog. Dave: (Disbelief) The dog ate your homework. Jules: I tried to read the poem to this old man walking his Doberman, and he set it loose on me. I was able to run away, but it gulped down the poem as if it were... um... I'm trying to think of a suitable metaphor... oh, like it was tasty or something. It's true. All I can remember is this fragment: Yea, wander softly, slowly, I amid the din of meathooks. Dave: Amid what? Jules: The din of meathooks. Dave: I don't get it. Jules: Oh, it's very complex. Dave: I'm sure it is. K: That's terrible, Jules. Jules: What? K: Your poem. It's terrible. Jules: Just because my uncle doesn't publish my poetry— K: My uncle has a keen aesthetic sense for verse. Jules: Ha! I can write better than you can. K: In your dreams, monkey boy. Jules: Ha! Give me a week and I'll write you a sonnet that'll make you weep at its beauty. K: I'm sure it'll make me weep. Jules: I'm serious. I'll bet you my autographed copy of "On The Road" I can write a better poem then you can. K: Alright, you're on. Jules: Alright—one week from today. K: Yeah. We'll see what the poseur can do then. Jules: Oh, yeah? K: Yeah. See you in a week—Gerald. Jules: Ooh! Don't call me that! I'll— Dave: Calm down, Jules, he's gone. Jules: I can whip his ass. Dave: Sure, Jules. Jules: I can! Guns and Ammo... ooh! I'll whip his ass from here to the Loring Bar. Dave: Sure, Jules. Jules: I must confess, David my friend, that of late I've been experiencing a spiritual crisis of sorts. Dave: So soon? Jules: Yes, it's only been a month since the last one. Dave: So what's it this time? Jules: Dave... be honest with me. Do you think my writing is up to my true potential? Dave: Oh, gosh, I don't know, it's so hard to tell... Jules: Just as I thought. It's terrible. I'll never be a real writer! (breaks into loud weeping) Dave: Jules! Stop that! Jules: (sobbing) I'm just a poseur. I'm a horrible person. Do you love me, David? Dave: We're both hetero, Jules. Jules: I mean as a brother. As a fellow artist. Dave: I work in a bookstore, Jules. That isn't the same thing. Jules: But don't you feel the expression bursting through your skin, trying to bubble its way to freedom? Have you no fire in your soul? Dave: Only when I've been drinking. Get off the floor, Jules, you're embarrassing me. This is not the way Jack Kerouac explored the depths of his soul. Jules: What did you say? Dave: I said get off the floor. You're getting dust all over your beret. Jules: No, no, after that. Dave: I said that Jack Kerouac didn't explore the depths of his soul blubbering to himself on the floor of an unswept coffeehouse. Jules: What an idea! David... I'm having an eppy fanny. Dave: That's "epiphany." Jules: Don't be such a philistine. I've just had the most wonderful idea. Dave: Oh, great. Jules: I still have twenty-seven thousand dollars left in Daddy's trust fund. Dave: I don't like where this is heading, Jules. Jules: Ha! I'll show you how to explore the depths of my soul. I must run. Will you be here tomorrow? Dave: I suppose so. Jules: I'll see you then. Ta! Dave: Bye, Gerald. Jules: Ahem. Dave: Jules, Jules, whatever. See you tomorrow. SCENE II: Cafe Pathetique, the next day (same jazz-and-voices ambience, mixed with the sound of dogs barking) Surly Coffeeshop Employee: For the last time, buddy, there are no dogs allowed in here! Jules: Calm down, my friend, it's all in the name of poetry. Surly Coffeeshop Employee: Listen, you wacko, this is Cafe Pathetique. It's a coffeeshop, not an animal shelter. Jules: Fifteen minutes, just give me fifteen minutes, and they'll be gone. No more dogs. Surly Coffeeshop Employee: Well... alright. But if you don't get them out of here by then, I'm calling the cops. Jules: Fascist! Surly Coffeeshop Employee: And I'll take away your discount espresso card! Jules: Not that! I'll get them out, I promise! Just give me a few minutes. Surly Coffeeshop Employee: Fifteen minutes, not a second more. Dave: Jules! What's going on? Jules: I brought dogs to the coffeeshop, Dave. Dave: I can see that. What for? Jules: It's my eppy fanny! Dave: Epiphany. Jules: Whatever. My great idea. Dave: To open a kennel in the middle of Cafe Pathetique? I don't see how— Jules: No, no, just wait. I've got someone for you to meet. Mr. Callahan? Callahan: Yeah? Jules: Dave, this is Mr. Thomas Callahan. Dave: Oh, no. Not— Callahan: Tundra Tom Callahan, arctic explorer, at your service. Jules: Mr. Callahan led the first expedition to Mount Ziffleswop in extreme south Antarctica. He's one of the best. Dave: I've read about you in the papers. But why— Jules: David, my friend, you don't know why he's here? This was your idea! Dave: My idea? Jules: To explore the depths of my soul! Dave: I didn't mean it literally! For god's sake, Jules, with all the intro to poetry classes you've taken, I'd have thought you'd know when somebody is speaking metaphorically. Jules: Oh, pish, Dave. Think of the adventure. Dave: Think of the laws of physics. How are you going to get a sled-dog team physically inside your skull? Callahan: Now, hold on a minute. I'm an expert on these things, and I ain't gonna have no frost-free, pampered cityboy castin' aspersions on my expedition. I admit we're gonna have some trouble getting the team through the ear canal— Dave: You're going to enter Jules' head through his ear. Callahan: Well, how would you do it? Dave: No differently, I guess. Callahan: Hmmph. Anyway, once we get past the ear canal, it should be smooth sailing. Oh, it'll be wet and mucky, no doubt about it. The brain's a moist place. Dave: I'm sure. Callahan: But unlike the antarctic, at least I'll know where I'm headed. Thanks to modern medical science, we know pretty much how the brain's laid out. In the ear, then we wind our way through the medulla and the R-complex, then portage across the corpus callosum and on down to the frontal lobes. Dave: And what's your objective, exactly? Jules: My creative heart! Mr. Callahan is going to delve down deep within me to unlock that most guarded of treasures, the heart of darkness itself, that tiny place in the frontal lobes that controls language—and thus, poetry. Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! Jules: Uh, Mr. Callahan, why do you have a penguin with you? Callahan: Oh, this is no ordinary penguin. This is my trusted guide and companion, my right-hand waterfowl. He's been with me for years. I call him Gumption. Jules: Gumption the penguin. How quaint. Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! Callahan: This here's the bravest penguin you ever did see. He saved my life half a dozen times at Mount Ziffleswop, demanding nothing more than a few morsels of fish and the sweet embrace of my body in the cold antarctic night. Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! Callahan: Yes, my love. Jules: You don't mean to say you're going to take a penguin inside my head? Callahan: Of course I am! He's the guide! He's the one who knows how to get to the mission objective! Jules: I fail to see how a penguin would know anything about the anatomy of the human brain. Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! Callahan: Gumption just so happens to have a degree in neurophysiology from Johns Hopkins University. Jules: This penguin is a brain surgeon. Callahan: Yeah. Jules: That's unusual. Callahan: I told you he was no ordinary penguin. Surly Coffeeshop Employee: Hey, you got five minutes to get those dogs outta here, pal. Jules: OK, OK. Mr. Callahan? Callahan: The dogs is all hitched up, and we've got enough supplies to last four days. Now, about that check... Jules: Yes... twenty-eight thousand dollars. Here you go. Callahan: Thanks, kid. Dave: Jules, I don't think this is a good idea. Jules: Oh, pish, Dave. You have no romantic spirit. Dave: You have no grip on reality. Surly Coffeeshop Employee: Hey! Your dogs are chewing on my tables! I want them out of here! Callahan: The natives is gettin' restless, kid. Jules: Let's get it over with, then. But, Mr. Callahan, before you go in... Callahan: Final instructions—hit me! I've got a complete phrenological map of your cranium, if there's anyplace besides the language center you'd like me to look at. Hell, I don't even have to stop at the brain. If you want, me and my team could swing down into the pancreas and sail around the islands of Langerhans. Jules: No, no, I fear my concern is much more prosaic. Would you mind bathing? Callahan: Hmmph. You and your new ideas. This, this water, I can't trust it. Sandpaper twice weekly, that's the natural way. Jules: Well... alright. But just clean up after yourself while you're in there. And keep your dogs on a tight rein. I know the subconscious is supposed to be like a cesspool, but that doesn't mean I want forty-five poorly paper-trained huskies roaming free down there. Callahan: Yeah, yeah, whatever. Here goes. Hold your head still, I don't want to miss and enter one of your nostrils. Jules: Good luck, Mr. Callahan! Callahan: Hyaa! (SFX: A whip cracks. The dog barking gets louder, and we hear the sled moving across the floor. Suddenly a loud wet sucking sound erupts, and the sled and dogs fade down to silence.) Dave: I don't believe it. Jules: Oh, what a strange feeling! Dave: How do you feel, Jules? Jules: I need to sit down. My head's kind of heavy, and I'm a bit dizzy, but I'm OK. Dave: How will you know if Callahan is successful? Jules: Oh, we've got that all figured out. Here, stick this microphone in my ear. Dave: In your ear? Jules: Yes, it's hooked up to this boom box. I'll be able to hear Callahan as if he was nothing more than some guy sitting around in a radio sound booth with a little bit of reverb on his voice. Dave: That's the weirdest thing I've heard yet, but alright. (SFX: Short but audible "thud" as the mike is inserted.) Jules: Can you hear me, Mr. Callahan? Callahan: (from here on, there's a little bit of reverb on his voice) Loud and clear. I just remembered, wasn't I supposed to have Raquel Welch along? Jules: No, that was Fantastic Voyage. This is just some two-bit radio drama. Callahan: Damn. Jules: What's it like in there? Callahan: Your psyche looks all messed up. It's gonna be pretty treacherous going. I was expecting a tangle, but this is just amazing. It's like a swamp in here. (pauses) Hey, listen to that! Jules: What? Callahan: Real faint, in the background, you can hear your superego calling out. Concentrate. Superego: (A strident, motherly voice, speaking as if scolding a dog. It fades up and then down during its short speech) Gerald! Gerald, you nasty boy! How can you stand to be so filthy! Gerald, are you listening to me? Do as I say! Clean up your act, you little vermin! Gerald! Geeeeeerald! Bad Gerald! Bad boy! Jules: Do you think you can find the language center? Callahan: Oh, yeah, that's no problem—whoops! (SFX: loud crash) Jules: Mr. Callahan! Is everything alright? Callahan: Yeah. I tripped over a pile of your emotional baggage. You should really clean up down here. Hey, what's behind this door? Jules: Door? What door? Callahan: There's a plaque on it, marked Herein Is Locked Away The Precious Memories Of My Forbidden Love. Jules: Mr. Callahan, don't you go opening anything! Callahan: Ah, c'mon, kid, I'm an explorer. (SFX: Door opens, we hear chickens clucking, then the door shuts again.) Callahan: You're a sick man, Jules. Jules: I told you not to open it. Callahan: A man shouldn't entertain fantasies about chickens like that. Jules: To each his own, Mr. Callahan! Now will you please get on with the expedition. Callahan: Right, right. Which way, Gumption? Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! Callahan: Got it. Go, dogs! Mush! (SFX: Sled travels a few seconds through the brain, then stops.) Jules: Is something wrong? Why have you stopped? Callahan: Gumption thinks he smells something dangerous. Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! Callahan: He says it smells like a walrus in heat, so he figures it's probably your libido. Jules: My libido does not smell like a walrus! Callahan: So you say. Me personally, I'm not surprised. Jules: Mr. Callahan— Callahan: Shh! Here it comes! Libido: (Jules' voice, but deeper, and utterly failing in its attempt to be suave.) Hey, sweet thing! What you got cookin'? Heeeeeey, baby—you're beautiful! Callahan: Gumption, get me the Mace. Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! (SFX: Spray of Mace.) Libido: Aaaauuuuugh! Rejected again! Auuuuuuugh! Callahan: Whew. That was a close one. Jules: Mr. Callahan, you didn't do my libido any, um, permanent damage, did you? Callahan: Nah, it'll be incapacitated for a few days, but libidos have notoriously short memories. Pretty soon it won't even remember what happened. Jules: Oh. Good. Callahan: Even so, we got off pretty lucky. Your libido's dangerous, but it's also weak and shriveled from disuse. Jules: Now wait just one moment— Callahan: What I'm really afraid of is encountering your ego. That's probably the biggest thing in here, except for your inferiority complex. Jules: Will you just go find that blasted language center? Callahan: Got it, got it, I'm back on track now. Gumption? Penguin: Auk! Auk! Auk! Auk! Callahan: Right. (SFX: Whip cracks, then more sled noises, which continue until after the id attack) Callahan: We're across the corpus callosum. We're now about halfway to the main objective. Jules: Oh, wonderful! You're making excellent time, Mr. Callahan. Callahan: Mother of Elvis! Jules: What's wrong? Callahan: The id! The id's seen us, and it looks hungry! IDave: Rooooaaaaaaar! Jules: Can you outrun it? Callahan: I dunno. It's about ten neurons behind us, but it's gaining. Go dogs! Mush! Mush, damn you! (SFX: sled goes faster) IDave: Rooooaaaaaaar! Jules: Is there anything I can do to help? Callahan: I dunno! Gumption's throwing raw fish at it, but it doesn't seem interested. (To Penguin:) Cut it out, Gumption, that only works for polar bears. (To Jules:) Try thinking of really unpleasant things—your id desires gratification, and maybe that'll weaken it. Jules: OK... I'll try. (SFX: Chicken clucking fades up.) IDave: Rooooaaaaaaar! Callahan: I said unpleasant things, you fool! You're just making it stronger! Gumption, hand me the pistol! Jules: Mr. Callahan, you didn't bring a firearm into my head, did you? Callahan: No time to argue—it's almost on us! Auuuugh! IDave: Rooooaaaaaaar! (SFX: Two gunshots. Chicken clucking cuts off abruptly.) IDave: Rooooaaaaaaar! Jules: Mr. Callahan! What's going on? Callahan: I winged it. It's gone, but it got three of my dogs ... and ... and ... Gumption. Jules: Oh, dear. Callahan: Oh, Gumption! Oh, my brave, brave companion! You deserved better than this, to die like this, in a stinking, half-rotted excuse for a human brain— Jules: Mr. Callahan— Callahan: I loved him, Jules! I loved that little penguin like my own mother. Jules: Watch what you say or you'll bring my Oedipus complex down on you. Callahan: He never forgave me for that incident with the ostriches. Oh, Gumption, my heart was pure but my flesh was weak. (sobs) Jules: Mr. Callahan, we're going to get censored if we aren't careful. Get a hold of yourself! Callahan: Right... OK. I'm OK. (pauses) Y'know, I think I may be able to take a short-cut to the language center. I'll have to do a little excavation, but— Jules: Excavation? No, I forbid you to— Callahan: Oh, calm down. I swear, all I do is mention the mere idea of a prefrontal lobotomy and you start whining. Now, I think I still have that jackhammer in my pack... Jules: No digging! (SFX: jackhammer) Aaaaaaaagh! Callahan: That'll do it. Go, dogs! Hyaa! (SFX: Dogs bark, and there's some sort of sound to show that they're moving quickly through the brain.) Whoa! Whoa! Here we are. Jules: Mr. Callahan, have you reached the objective? Callahan: Yeah, I'm at the language center. Hang on a sec, it looks like the gates are kinda rusty. (SFX: Creaky door) Okay, I'm in. Jules: Oh, hooray! Do you have a notebook? Write down any brilliant sonnets you find in there. Callahan: Sure, I'll do that. Jules: Oh, thank you, Mr. Callahan. Callahan: Oh, don't thank me, Gerald. Jules: What did you call me? Callahan: I called you Gerald! And there's something I should tell you—my name isn't Thomas Callahan! Jules: What?! Callahan: That's right! I'm really—(SFX: Rubber mask being pulled off, a la Scooby Doo. At the same time, Callahan's voice switches to K's) Your arch-nemesis, K! Jules: Noooooooo! Dave: This is now officially entirely too weird. I'm leaving. Jules: No, Dave, don't leave, you've got to help me! Dave: Goodbye, Jules. Jules: Please! I've got to get K out of my head! He can't stay there, it's mine! Dave: (firmly) Goodbye, Jules. Jules: Oh, no, oh, God, where can I turn? SCENE III: The street outside Cafe Pathetique Phil: Hey, dude! Ed: Dude! Phil: How's it goin', dude? Ed: Good, man. How was the party last night? Phil: Ah, it was boring. The keg fried at 9:30. Ed: (sympathetic) Dude. Phil: But, dude, we went over to Ken's, and he had a sixer of Miller Lite! Ed: Dude! No way, man. Phil: Yeah way! But there were like, forty of us, so there wasn't much to go around. Ed: (sympathetic) Dude. Phil: This town can really be boring sometimes, man. Ed: Dude, look at that weird guy with the beret over there. Phil: Whoa. He's lookin' pretty bad, man. Looks like has a boom box plugged into his head. Ed: (sympathetic) Dude. Phil: He's coming this way. Jules: Get out of my head! Get out of my head! K: (still has reverb on voice) Ha ha ha ha! I'll never leave! Jules: You fiend! You foul miscreant! You'll never get away with this! I'll get you out of my head if it's the last thing I do! K: Never! I'm going to sit here in your brain and write down all your poetry before you even realize you've thought of it! Jules: No! K: Then I'll slip out of your head when you're asleep and publish it all under my own name! Ha ha ha ha! Jules: Nooooooo! K: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! (his laughter continues over the next few lines) Phil: Hey, beret dude—you OK? Jules: Ah... yes, yes, couldn't be better. Phil: Cool. Jules: Would you mind pulling this microphone out of my ear? Phil: Uh... sure, dude, no problem. (SFX: Popping noise as mike is pulled out. K's laughter cuts off abruptly.) Jules: Thank you, my good man. Could you direct me to St. Filbert's Cathedral? Phil: The church, dude? Jules: That is essentially what the word "cathedral" means, yes. Phil: Go six blocks south, then take a left. Ed: Can't miss it, dude. It's, like, huge. Phil: Yeah, it's made out of architecture and stuff. Ed: Cool. Jules: Yes. Thank you, gentlemen, I'll be on my way. Ta-ta. Ed and Phil: Later. (short pause) Phil: So what are you doin' tonight, man? Ed: Nothin'. Phil: Like I was sayin', man, this town is so boring. Ed: I hear you, man. SCENE IV: St. Filbert's Cathedral (SFX: Gregorian chants, or deep organ music. It continues throughout the scene.) Father O'Shaughnessy: And you say he's actually inside your head right now? Jules: Yes, Father O'Shaughnessy. You've got to help me. He's stealing all of my good ideas! Father O'Shaughnessy: You must understand that your case is somewhat unusual. Jules: I know, father, but I'm desperate. I don't know who else to turn to, except the Baptists, and they'll just stick me underwater for a few minutes and then kick me out. Father O'Shaughnessy: It's alright, my son. I think I can help you. One of the nuns here at St. Filbert's Cathedral specializes in exorcism. Jules: Oh, that's wonderfully convenient! Father O'Shaughnessy: My boy, have you never heard of a deus ex machina ending? This is a house of God, after all. Sister Wanda! (SFX: Very heavy footsteps fade up, and the door slams loudly open. Sister Wanda's a big lady.) Sister Wanda: (deep male voice) Yes, Father? Father O'Shaughnessy: This young man here needs to be exorcised. Sister Wanda: I'll do my best, father. Jules: Ouch! Hey, let go of my head! What are you doing?! Aaaaaaaaaagh! (SFX: The entering-Jules'-head effect is done kind of in reverse, with the sucking sound fading up to a pop, and at the same time the barking dogs fade up to full volume.) Sister Wanda: That should do it. Father O'Shaughnessy: Thank you, sister. Sister Wanda: May I go back to my macrame now, father? Father O'Shaughnessy: You have my blessing, sister Wanda. Go in peace. (SFX: Door slams loudly, and the heavy footsteps fade out.) K: Curses! Foiled again! Jules: Oh, thank you, father, you have my everlasting gratitude! Father O'Shaughnessy: Now, boys, perhaps we can draw a moral lesson from what you two have just gone through. True self-exploration is part of the process of maturity, and it takes time. It isn't good to try to artificially speed the process along. If we look at the book of Jonah, Chapter 14, verse 12, we'll see that— K: Oh, shut up, you fascist. Jules: Yeah, I came here for an exorcism, not a lecture. If I wanted to hear a lot of carping from some hoary, sanctimonious old geezer, I'd call up my parents. K: That's tellin' him, Jules! Jules: Let's blow this joint, K. It's too square in here. Father O'Shaughnessy: Boys, I wasn't finished! Come back here! What about the book of Daniel! (SFX: Door slams, music stops.) K & Jules (together): Fascist! K: Wanna go back to the cafe? Jules: Nah, I think I'll go home and lay awake wondering to myself about the terrible existential angst that plagues our society these days. K: Gilligan's Island is on at 4:30. Jules: Cool! Let's do that instead.