Here's another inadvertent reconstruction of my past. Still quite well written. They can't go on forever.
(Our voices echo loudly in a torch lit cavern.)
Smuthers: So, how do you like your bombing strategy now?
Myself: Don't blame my strategy. I wanted to bomb their bombers.
Smuthers: They must have a hell of a lot of them.
Myself: Nothing we can't take on the chin, I'm sure.
Smuthers: They flattened our whole country.
Myself: Opened up the skyline nicely, though, don't you think?
Smuthers: And the ground beneath it. I suppose you're also fond of living in the stone age.
Myself: It has a certain Spartan appeal, now that you mention it.
Smuthers: What, huddling in a cave?
Myself: Think of it more as shielding yourself in the armour of the earth's crust.
Smuthers: You mean, dust.
Myself: I won't hear any more complaints about this location, okay? It offers exceptional acoustics. Now, are you finished? Can I introduce my guest? Because he's the vigilant radar operator who first spotted the enemy formation of heavy bombers which has since driven us all underground, Corporal Barry Piltdown! (Echoing boos. Enter Piltdown.) Oops, sorry! I forgot to ask them to welcome you.
Piltdown: They blame me. No one should blame me. I did all I could.
Myself: I'm sure you did. And a very important job it is. I hope they have someone covering for you while you're here.
Piltdown: Why? It doesn't matter.
Myself: What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Certainly it matters. With that post unmanned, we'd have no early warning.
Piltdown: I don't expect you to understand, captain. How did you get to be captain, anyway? Probably captain of your high school basketball team, right? (I wear a guilty expression.) Sure. Everything handed to you all your life. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents couldn't afford to lavish me with new basketballs and smart leather sneakers. And now you sit there in your captain's chair and you want to ask me why it doesn't matter?
Myself: Now, look, corporal, we don't have all day. As the C.O. of this show, I order you to answer the question.
Piltdown: Okay, then, if you're gonna pull rank, it doesn't matter because of officers. My commanding officer was a captain like yourself, sir. As soon as I sighted the enemy, I called him, long distance. He asked me how many planes there were. I told him that I couldn't tell because they formed a solid mass on my screen. He asked how long they would take to reach his position on the mainland. I estimated five minutes. He told me to keep an eye on it and he'd call me back in five minutes. (The crowd erupts in a clamour.)
Myself: (Clunking a steel hammer against my granite desk) Order! Order in the cave! (The clunks feed back into a deafening hum that forces everyone to cover their ears in pain. Voices cease under its slow decay, last words reverberating.) Please don't make me do that again.
Smuthers: What a bumbler. And I thought you were bad.
Myself: Sounds like a weak link in the chain, all right, but there's no need to slide into apathy. They haven't licked us yet. We're still free to practice the sacred rites of our ancestors.
Smuthers: In the catacombs?
Myself: Is that what I get for helping you with your history paper?
Piltdown: (After sighing heavily) We're doomed.
Myself: Doomed! How do you expect us to ever win with that attitude, soldier?
Piltdown: Only if the enemy has more officers than we do, sir.
COMMERCIAL
Myself: Since the big enemy push, we've been hearing horror stories about the brainwashing of our soldiers in captivity. One who was able to escape their clutches to tell us about it is Private Ruth Brinks. Let's give her a big hand! (Applause. Enter Brinks, in uniform, with no signs of injury.) Nice to see you up on your feet.
Brinks: Thanks. I feel great.
Myself: They said you were imprisoned in a hospital. How did you break out?
Brinks: On a stretcher.
Myself: Then you must have been eager to leave. What did those beasts do to you in there?
Brinks: They performed emergency surgery on me.
Myself: Good God! The butchers!
Brinks: No, it's all right, I needed it. Acute appendicitis.
Myself: You mean you let them cut you open? What if they put something in you?
Brinks: I doubt they'd do that. They're doctors.
Myself: You shouldn't trust them so much.
Brinks: They're really not that bad, sir.
Myself: They didn't molest you?
Brinks: Not in the slightest.
Myself: (Eyeing her with suspicion) Yes, you do appear rather pristine for a recently freed POW.
Brinks: What's that supposed to mean?
Myself: Just that you must have cooperated with them.
Brinks: I did! I laid right down on their table with my bursting appendix and let them save my life.
Myself: How do you know you didn't give away any important secrets under anesthesia?
Brinks: I'm a private, what could I tell them?
Myself: They didn't torture you when you came to?
Brinks: No, they took excellent care of me.
Myself: That will be quite enough high praise for those church bombing barbarians, private. It's as plain as day that they've turned you. Don't worry, though. You're young. You'll bounce back.
Brinks: If you don't mind me saying, sir, you don't appear to know the enemy as well as they know you.
Myself: Me?
Brinks: Yes, sir. You're a big star over there. Everyone knows your face.
Myself: (Smiling) They do?
Brinks: Yes, it's on all the target ranges.
COMMERCIAL: Underground Wonderland
(A father puts his young daughter to bed.)
Daughter: Tell me a story, daddy.
Father: Sure, kitten. Which one would you like to hear?
Daughter: The one about the bunny.
Father: Peter Cotton Candy?
Daughter: Yeah!
Father: Okay, get under your blankets and get ready. That's a good girl. (Begin animation.) Peter Cotton Candy was a funny bunny. He liked to pop out of his hole and surprise girls. They thought he was silly to live in a hole, but Pete hated the sleet. Then, one day, a buzzing cloud of girl eating locusts descended on the land. Soon, the girls all wanted holes where they could hide. One of them started digging in the field when out popped Peter. It looked like his hole was deep enough for her. To find out for sure, she stepped on it, and she started to fall and fall.
But she landed on a big, stretchy tent and it didn't hurt a bit. She looked around and couldn't believe her luck. She was in a colourful amusement park, with rides and games and music and as much free cotton candy as she could eat. Best of all, she was safe from the locusts forever. The girl was so grateful to Peter that she gave him a big kiss, and it magically changed him into a pink pony with silver butterfly wings. (A flute starts to pipe out a lullaby.) And she climbed up on his back and began the long ride to Sleepy Slumber Land. The End. (End animation. The story has put the girl to sleep. The man is about to go when her eyes open. Halt music.)
Daughter: Daddy?
Father: Yes?
Daughter: What's a cloud?
Father: (Patting her head) Nothing you need to worry about, kitten. Kiss goodnight? (Resume lullaby. He stoops to gently peck her forehead. The child smiles contentedly and closes her eyes. He turns from her, and steps into a large, empty bucket, which is suspended by a rope. Looking up, he signals with two sharp tugs, and is reeled up, out of sight.)
Announcer: Underground is safe and sound. Drop into an air raid shelter near you. (Conclude music.)
Myself: He's the hospitable donor of our quaint subterranean redoubt, no less a personage than the Canadian Count of Monte Python! (Enter a distinguished looking man in his fifties, sporting a black tuxedo under his long, black, flowing cloak.) You've done a great service to your country, your grace.
Python: (Transylvanian accent) I am only too glad to help. There is still plenty of room in my cave for newcomers, especially if they are as exquisite as the lieutenant here. (Smuthers blushes with pleasure.)
Myself: Your heart knows no bounds. Tell me, how did you come to be named after a snake?
Python: From our property. Monte Python is the original family island estate, off the coast of French Guyana.
Myself: Oh, does it have a lot of pythons?
Python: Yes, I'm afraid people are bitten there all the time. (He smiles, exposing sharp fangs.)
Myself: That's funny, I thought pythons were constrictors, non venomous. Anyway, I've often wondered what it takes to be christened a Canadian count.
Python: In my case, I imagine it was my considerable holdings.
Myself: In which institutions, if you don't mind my asking?
Python: The Federal Blood Bank, mostly. Pardon me, it's time to wind my watch. (He pulls out an old fashioned gold watch on a chain and dangles it in front of Smuthers.) Do you like it? It's antique.
Smuthers: (Her face goes blank.) It's very... shiny.
Myself: Well, the Blood Bank's certainly a valuable institution, especially during a war. It was truly noble of you to collect and share such a vital resource.
Smuthers: (Entranced and listless) I, too, am impressed by your generosity.
Python: (Eying her exposed neck) Don't be, darling. It always pays me back, every full moon.
Myself: Well, if anyone deserves it, it's a nice count like you. Let's have another big hand for the selfless and compassionate Canadian Count of Monte Python, for teaching us the true meaning of class. (Echoing cheers.) And we'll be right back after the break with a primitive chant and some ceremonial wall painting.
COMMERCIAL
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