Vintage Scripts (a collection of original amateur screenplays).

[Low_Roads]

Yikes! Spock's Brain ("You are not Morg! You are not Eymorg!")! That goofy blinder-like head gear Nimoy had to wear! McCoy performing brain surgery so simple "a child could do it!" Yeah, that was a cringer, all right! Glad the Kahlua Brothers haven't sunk that low... yet! Well, wackiness is more acceptable in a farce than in serious SF, happily! Thanks for the hardy vote of confidence, Hawk! Two more segments... I hope the story continues to entertain!

 

[Low_Roads]

Part 2​

Maui wears a "PRESS" card on his hat; Kona wears a camera on a neck-strap.

Maui: Now remember, Kona--this is our big chance to make good. Did you remember to load the camera?

Kona: Yep.

Maui: Good. The Sun-Sentinel will probably pay twice as much for a photo interview. You're absolutely sure the camera has film in it?

Kona: Yeah, I'm sure.

Maui: Because I "shutter" to think of the consequences if it doesn't.

Kona: All right, all right. I don't know who made you the big "shot".

Maui: Well, you didn't have to "snap" at me. Ha-ha-ha! Snap. Snap-shot? Get it?

Kona: No.

Maui: Mmph. Well, let's ring the bell and see what "develops".

Kona: I didn't get that one either.

Maui repeatedly rings the bell. Back in the laboratory...

Prof: A brain...A brain...(brightens) Gocko, I could borrow your brain...

Gocko begins to protest. The doorbell rings.

Prof: Gocko! Visitors... This could be most providential... Go and invite our guests in.

Gocko: Arrgh-garch-a-harg.

The hunchback fetches a mighty club.

Prof: Gocko! Gently.

The hunchback sets the weapon down and hefts on only slightly smaller, in a questioning manner.

Prof: That's more like it. We mustn't be rude.

Maui is still pressing the bell, each time with greater frustration. Finally, he gives up in disgust.

Maui: This is getting us nowhere fast.

Kona: What do we do now, Maui?

Maui: Let me think...

Maui leans on the door. It abruptly opens, leaving him flat on his face inside. Kona inspects the entranceway.

Kona: Hey, Maui!

Maui: (muffled) What?

Kona: The door's open.

Maui: (picking himself up) Thanks. You know, Kona, I don't know what I'd do without you...

Kona is both pleased and embarrassed by this admission.

Kona: Awww...

Maui: (shouting)...BUT I'D CERTAINLY LIKE TO TRY!!!

Kona: What do we do now, Maui?

Maui: Mmmm...The door was unlocked. You know, Kona, I bet the Professor was only pretending not to be home. Let's check it out. (Neither Kahlua budges.) After you...

Kona: Oh, no. After you...

Maui: Get going!

They cautiously enter the house. Inside, they stare cautiously at the "scary" trappings. Specimen bottles adorn the shelves. A skull with a candle on top is surrounded by phony rubber snakes that bob up and down.

Kona: This place is scary.

Maui: (attempting to put up a bold front) Oh, you-you're just chicken, Kona.

Kona: I don't like it here.

Maui: Okay, okay. Just sit in that chair and don't move. I'll find Professor Pendergast myself.

Maui leaves Kona sitting in the chair and wanders out of the room. Up above Kona's head, a cat knocks a plastic beaker over, spilling its contents, a pickled brain. The brain clunks Kona on the head, and he tumbles onto the floor. When he comes to, seconds later, he notices the brain lying next to him.

Kona: Oh no! Oh no! My brain got knocked out! Maui! Maui, help me!

Maui: (rushing into the room) What the--

Kona: Maui! Look what happened to me! (He holds up the brain.)

Maui: (examining the situation) Hmmmm. (He produces some string.) Here. Tie it back on. We'll find the Professor and he'll fix you up. (Kona ties the brain to the top of his head. He and Maui enter a hallway. Kona is leading. As they pass a doorway, Gocko appears and begins to stealthily follows the Kahluas. Kona pauses and goes "shhh" to Maui, Maui goes "shhh" to Gocko, does a double-take, and runs off. Gocko takes his place.

Kona: I'm nervous, Maui. Here, hold my hand. (Perplexed, Gocko nonetheless complies. Kona is relieved.) Whew! That's better. I sure hope the Professor don't have no mean bodyguards.

As they enter a new corridor, Maui races past them. Kona's eyes grow very wide. He turns, sees Gocko, turns back. He sighs, and promptly faints into Gocko's arms. Maui sits on a couch, very dejected.

Maui: I feel awful. My best pal, and I deserted him. That's monster might be torturing him. He...he might even be dead! Gee, I hope the camera's okay.

A bat on a string is clumsily lowered beside Maui. It transforms itself into an elegantly-attired femme.

Vampira: (sultry) Hello.

Maui: Oh, hi. (double take) Hey, where'd you come from?

Vampira: (twirling his hair) From out of your dreams, I hope.

Maui: (dopey laugh) Ah shucks. (suddenly remembering) Hey, lady--do you live here?

Vampira: I did once.

Maui: (not looking directly at the woman) You see, my buddy's in terrible trouble...

Vampira bares her fangs and moves in for the kill.

Maui: ...and I gotta find him. (feeling her cold breath on his neck) Eeyow!

Vampira: Look into my eyes...Look into my eyes...

Maui: Uh...uh...You'll have to excuse me, lady. I have to go home. I forgot something.

Vampira: (still sultry) What did you forget?

Maui: I forgot to stay there. (he hastily exits)


Next: Conclusion.

 

[Cbarton]

My my....an extra brain...Vampira...a retreating friend...only thing missing now if for them to relalize they forgot the flash for the camera...

Can't wait for the conclusion my friend...

 

[Low_Roads]

Yeah, that missing flash cube could turn out to be a disaster... vampire's hate strobes worse than sunlight! The "pickled brain" bit is one that Huntz Hall and Leo Gorcey didn't pull in their career (although it's tailor-made for 'em... would have fit very neatly into "The Bowery Boys Meet the Monsters")... given time, they probably would have. Thanks very much for keeping pace with the action, Hawk! A single installment more, and the Kahlua boys are gone for good. I'd have liked one more crack at them, actually... tried them out in a different setting... outer space, maybe (the Stooges, Abbott and Costello... everyone goes there eventually!) But this was GM's bailiwick... I doubt very much I could have handled it solo.

 

[Low_Roads]

Part 3​

Back in the laboratory...Kona is bound and gagged on a table. Pendergast is in the process of examining the brain Kona had strapped to his head. Gocko holds up a tray of instruments.

Prof: Phooey! This brain is as useless as the others. It's too old. (Gocko mumbles unintelligibly.) I know, Gocko. He can not be allowed to leave and spread tales about us. I must eliminate him. But first, some anesthetic so he gives us no trouble.

Pendergast plucks up a gigantic hypodermic needle. Close-up of Kona as his eyes bulge. Maui, still in flight from Vampira, blunders into the room.

Maui: Hey, that's my pal you got there. What do you think you're doing?

Prof: Uh...your companion came to me in a rather--shall we say bruised--condition. I was just about to administer a little pain killer...er...for his headache.

Maui: Oh...Well, in that case, go ahead. Don't mind me.

Kona: (frantic) Mmph!

Prof: I see you have a press card on your hat. You and your friend here must be reporters.

Maui: Naw, he's just a photographer. I'm the one who does the interviewing. I'm the brains of the outfit.

Prof: (his eyes lighting up) Brains...

Kona: Mmph!

Prof: (draping an arm around Maui) My bodyguard can take care of things here. Why don't we step into the next room and discuss the possibility of an interview.

Maui: Gee, that would be swell.

Kona: Mmph!

As Maui and the madman exit, we see that Pendergast still grips the hypo behind his back. Gocko hovers over Kona, poking him with a scalpel and snickering. Suddenly, a shadowy figure steals up behind Gocko. The figure signals Kona to be quiet, then whumps Gocko over the head. Kona is ungagged by his rescuer.

Kona: Who are you?

Stranger: A prisoner, like yourself. I came to the Professor, seeking a cure for my condition, and the fiend locked me up instead.

Kona: Condition? You look healthy to me.

Stranger: Nonetheless, I suffer from a rare disease known as Porkanthropy.

Kona: Pork-a-what?

Stranger: Porkanthropy. Under the rays of the full moon I change into a raging thing, half man, half wart-hog.

Kona: No...

Stranger: Yes--I am a were-pig.

Kona: But there's a full moon tonight.

Stranger: All the more reason to hurry.

The stranger begins to loosen Kona's bonds. Suddenly, he stiffens and looks up, an agonized expression on his face. A window. A paper moon on a visible string is pulled jerkily into view. Close-up of Kona's face.

Kona: Boy, I sure am lucky you showed up. I was...

Kona's eyes bulge. The camera pans down to reveal two hairy paws, then up to disclose two malignant eyes peering over an inhuman snout with tusks. The stranger has become a were-pig.

Kona: Holy Kazoozis!

The creature growls and grabs Kona by the throat.

Kona: I...I never go to luaus! I don't even like bacon!

Maui returns, hypo in hand. Pendergast follows, holding his own behind. He staggers and falls.

Kona: Maui! The robot--turn him on!

Maui: But he's not my type!

Kona: Turn on his power at the console. I saw the Professor give him orders through the microphone.

Maui: Oh, I get it. (Maui begins punching buttons. Ajax abruptly sits up straight. Elated, to himself) Okay-dokay-artichoky...(He plucks up the microphone.) Hello, robot. Er... get that ugly thing! (The robot lumbers over and grabs Kona's leg.) No, no, the black, hairy one!

The monsters begin to battle, smashing equipment right and left. Maui rushes over to Kona.

Kona: Ha-ha-ha!

Maui: What's eating you?

Kona: I just got it! Snap-shot! Ha-ha-ha!

A beaker crashes into the wall near Maui's head.

Maui: Never mind that now--let's get outta here!

Maui releases Kona and they make their escape. The Kahluas race down a corridor, only to have their progress cut off by a crashing iron gate. They turn, to see Gocko, Ajax, Vampira, the Were-Pig, and the Professor bearing down on them. The Kahluas grab each other in terror. Fade out.

Fade in to the setting in scene one, with the palm trees. Close-up of Kona. He is obviously talking to Maui.

Maui: (off-screen) You're a real rat, Kona.

Kona: Awww, Maui, it was only a suggestion. We could make a lot of money.

Maui: For the last time--(zoom back to show that Maui is talking to Kona from Ajax's body)--We're not going into the scrap-metal busniness.

Fade out.

-FINI-​

Next: "BOX".

 

[Low_Roads]

Box.

The teensy character count in this screenplay happened by design... agenda conflicts with crew and performers accounted for the lion's share of my production headaches, and I figured that dialing down the number of personnel would lead to a flexible, easy-to-achieve shooting schedule. It was a tactic that nearly worked... filming over a vacation break, using the catwalks and green-room of my old community college theater for sets, three of us (two actors, one cameraman) were able to polish off a hearty two-thirds of the shoot in a mere couple of days. Essentially, only the special-effects miniature work was left, a detail I assumed I'd be able to add in my own good time. That was the project's undoing, not striking while the iron was hot... more urgent priorities (work and college classes) kept me from ever getting back to it. I'd never cracked the dubbing problem anyway; "BOX", being such a wordy conceit, would have proved a post-production nightmare. The end result was a 300-foot reel of roughly edited, beautiful cinematography, whose partial success I attribute to the very creative guy behind the camera rather than myself (though directing, I didn't spend much time peeking through the viewfinder, as I was also essaying the role of Dr. Corbit). It was shot on Tri-X Reversal, a black-and-white film-stock which yielded great results in low light. The moodiness of heavily shadowed monochromatic imagery really suited the starkness of the plot... a pity I was never able to pull the needed remaining scenes together.

BOX

a screenplay by
Foster Glenn Oakes​

Characters:
Dr. Vincent Millard
Dr. Arnold Corbit

The scene opens with an INTERIOR shot of DR. VINCENT MILLARD at his desk. He addresses a second man, off-screen.

Millard: Dr. Corbit, I appreciate your sacrificing time from your own project to help us with our current dilemma. It will hardly be wasted, I promise you.

Reverse shot reveals DR. ARNOLD CORBIT.

Corbit: No... I shouldn't think so. The secrecy surrounding this lab has prompted plenty of speculation. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intensely curious. I know very little about your work, except that you're engaged in temporal research... snatching artifacts from other eras to be examined in our own.

Dr. Millard hands Dr. Corbit several bound pages.

Millard: You'll find full information in this report. One incident only is excluded, information we don't want publicized. When this last object was drawn through the time portal... the one we want you to investigate... two lab technicians vanished. Instantaneously.

Corbit: Instantaneously? But... what was the cause? Some sort of backfire from your machinery?

Millard: No. We've only ever gotten item-retrieval to work one way: from our future to our present. Whatever happened to those men is a mystery... part of the problem I hope you'll help us solve.

The men leave the office. Cut to a hallway, as they approach a barred door marked "TOP CLEARANCE ONLY". Dr. Millard produces a key. As the camera trucks through the opening door, a silver foot-long cube, gaping open at the top, can be seen resting on a work table.

Corbit: A simple metal cube. Don't tell me that's all there is to it.

Millard: Actually, it's far more complex than it appears. Examine the aperture, please.

A view from within the box, looking up at the two men as they peer down the opening. The camera trucks far back to reveal a dim interior vast and cavernous. Dr. Corbit is shaken.

Corbit: Why it's... it's extrademensional! Beyond any notion of physics as we understand it!

Dr. Corbit circles the box, frustrated.

Corbit: It's an impossibility! How do we study it? How can we gage its purpose? Its mechanics? What do we even call the blasted thing?

Millard: (sharply) Dr. Corbit!

Corbit: What? What is it?

Dr. Millard points to a blackboard. Corbit turns to find the words "I AM BOX" printed in simple, sterile lettering.

Corbit: "I am box"... what does that mean?

Millard: It just appeared! Right after you spoke!

Corbit: Dr. Millard... I expressed a desire and it responded! This is a functioning devise!

Millard: Then... then we'll be able to speak with it!

The men face the box. Dr. Corbit addresses it.

Corbit: I am Dr. Arnold Corbit. This is Dr. Vincent Millard. You and I are now in the twentieth century. What century do you come from?

Before them on the blackboard, the words wipe into being: "MY TIME IS 2404 A.D."

Dr. Millard: It answered! You say you are Box. What does that mean?

Box: I AM A MACHINE OF CONVERSION.

Millard: Conversion?

Corbit: Like an engine, perhaps... conversion of air and fuel into energy. It may be some sort of futuristic power source.

Millard: And maybe the solution to our current energy crisis! We're making progress now, the very thing this project was meant to achieve! Let's not pose any more aimless inquiry; heaven alone knows how long this device will remain active. Help me formulate a proper list!

The doctors exit. In the ill-lit, shadowy room, Box takes on a looming, menacing aspect.

The doctors reenter some time later, armed with several sheets. Millard faces the device, all bright enthusiasm. Corbit prepares to take notes.

Millard: Box, you told us that you are a machine of conversion. What kind material do you convert?

Box: ORGANIC AND INORGANIC MATTER.

Corbit: Well that's too general to be useful.

Millard: What kind of organic and inorganic matter do you convert, specifically?

Box: EVERY KIND.

Millard: And what do you convert this matter into?

Box: NO SPECIMEN AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME.

Millard: I don't need a specimen. Simply explain to me.

Box: ACTIVE MATTER CONVERTED INTO INACTIVE MATTER.

Corbit: Hmmm... the way a blast furnace produces slag, I suppose...

Millard Then why doesn't it say that? Why is it being evasive?

Corbit: Evasive?! Millard, it can't evade. It's only a machine. We just aren't posing questions in the right way. Don't press it. Continue to the next topic.

Millard: (ruffled) Box... we have noted signs of mass destruction in your century... hints of widespread ruin. What can you tell us about this?

Box: ACTIVE MATTER HAS BEEN CONVERTED INTO INACTIVE MATTER.

Millard: ... do you see that! Not evasive? It's purposely dodging my point! Giving vague replies!

Corbit: Easy now. It's being didactic, not devious. You'd expect that from computerized thinking. Look, you're becoming overwrought. Let me take over the questioning...

Box: NO FURTHER QUESTIONS. DISCONTINUE INQUIRY.

Millard and Corbit stand mute, stunned.

Millard: (after a minute) Okay. Let's leave it alone, Dr. Corbit.

The doctors exit, bolting the door securely behind them.


Next... conclusion.

 

[Cbarton]

Interesting plot. I wonder if either of the two prof's will become 'converted'...

Can't wait for the conclusion, LBH

 

[Low_Roads]

Thanks Hawk! This is a lightly altered rewrite of the story... the original draft was pretty sloppy work and painfully sophomoric in its seriousness (rather than being painfully sophomoric in its humor, as so many of my other screenplays were). Still not Pulitzer material, but far more endurable. Only the dialogue has been cleaned up; the plot points remain intact.

I wonder if either of the two prof's will become 'converted'...

It's a distinct possibility as long as they insist on monkeying around with the blamed thing! BOX is clearly rather short tempered. It never developed any of HAL's sly manners or tact... no way you'd go outside the ship based on its say-so! Then again, Hal wouldn't look particularly decorative perched on a knickknack shelf, so everything evens out.

 

[Low_Roads]

Part 2.​

Millard: So it's a machine, is it? This one would seem to have a devilish capacity for independent thought! And temper!

Corbit: ... who can say how far artificial intelligence might have progressed in four hundred years. It did seem to display annoyance. At least it didn't prove outwardly threatening...

Millard: Not to us! But don't forget my two technicians! Something dissolved them into nothingness the moment Box arrived! And that isn't all the evidence I have!

Millard opens a drawer and produces a small block of featureless matter.

Millard: Each century has offered up intriguing artifacts for study... until we reached the Twenty-fifth. That widespread ruin I mentioned... composed entirely of this material. It's inert... unnervingly sterile, dead at an atomic level. "Inactive", as Box would put it. We've got tons of this stuff in storage... and nothing else past 2404. Not until we latched onto Box!

Corbit: Dr. Millard, I'd like to think this through. Do you mind if I leave for a walk? Alone?

Millard: Certainly not. I'd like some time myself to privately reflect.

Cut to EXTERIOR of Corbit hiking through the woods outside the Institute.

Corbit: (musing, voice-over) I grow increasingly uneasy about this project. Box is an entity we can barely understand, let alone control. If Dr. Millard's suspicions are confirmed, what sort of threat might we be facing? A machine of conversion... conversion...

Suddenly, Corbit turns and bolts back toward the lab. INTERIOR. He arrives to find Dr. Millard unexpectedly morose. The scientist fingers a strange hermetic container; on his desk lies the declaration he drew from it.

Millard: You've worked it out, haven't you? I can tell from your expression. So have I... (indicates the message) This is the official notice... the testament of the last man on earth. I just brought it through the portal.

Cut to an EXTERIOR montage scene from the speculated future: shots of various kinds of military equipment.

Millard: (voice-over) For as long as man has made war, he's prayed for a way to erase that destructive impulse... in the twenty-fifth century, he finally devised the means of doing so. A weapon to literally end all weapons. The ultimate armament for peace...

An INTERIOR shot of Box.

Millard: (voice-over) A "conversion" device? Subtle... oh, so subtle! Assimilation: that's what it really meant. A product of secret worldwide agreements... infused with inconceivable energies... intended to assimilate all warring factions at the outbreak of hostility. But there was an flaw in its design.

EXTERIOR spectacle of soldiers and war material buffeted by immense forces and vortexed into Box's aperture.

Millard: (voice-over) Box was built to be simple: to react reflexively to any hint of violence. And it worked horribly well. Soon, every military in the world stood down rather than risk assimilation into Box's litter of inert refuse. Man's dream of universal peace had been achieved... so optimists believed. If only the idea of "war" was so easy to define...

Cut to scenes of riots and street crime.

Millard: (voice-over) Take the "war on crime". Nations might have absolute control over their official militias... but the petty hatreds and lusts of millions of individual citizens would always be a chaotic variable. Box began to look upon the police function as war in miniature: officer, offender and victim pacified into a general, leavening "inactivity".

Scenes of agriculture and industry.

Millard: And what of the "war against nature"? How do civilizations survive without vandalizing their environments to some degree? Slaughtering lesser creatures for food, eradicating crop pests or disease vectors? Aren't these also aggressive violences? Box came to believe so. Charged with creating a perfect peace, it broadened its charter to encompass all non-passive human striving...

Cut back to Millard and Corbit.

Millard: Civilization fell apart almost immediately. The resulting barbarism accelerated Box's assimilation campaign. Individuals lingered in remote locations, but all humanity was marked as soon as it tried to feed or defend itself. The man who wrote this (indicating message) was one of the last.

Corbit: Dr. Millard, what if Box comes to suspect the widespread unrest of our current age?

Millard: Then we'll be wiped out four centuries ahead of schedule.

Corbit: Isn't there any way we might destroy it first?

Millard: I... I don't know that we can. The writer suggests an approach that he was in no position to implement. I think it has to do with reprogramming. But the language... it comes from so far beyond our era. I can't decipher it easily...

Corbit: Get some rest, then. I'll work on it awhile. If a solution does exist, we must learn about it now!

Millard: That... that damn thing! I... I so much wanted the future to brighten our present. That's all I ever intended...

Dr. Millard starts off toward his sleeping quarters. Before he can reach his bed, he spies an axe next to the fire extinquisher. Cut to the inside of the research room. Millard enters furtively.

Millard: Box? Are you operational?

There is no response. As Millard raises the axe, he's immediately hit by a blast of force. Cut to Dr. Corbit, who hears the commotion. He rushes to the research room to find Box, but no Millard.

Corbit: Box... where is Dr. Millard?

A small block of inert matter tumbles to the floor in front of Corbit. After a few moments of silence, he clutches the fragment with nerveless fingers and exits the room.

Back in Millard's office, Corbit completes his decipherment of the future message.

Corbit: (voice-over) Finished. But will this work? A man who died four hundred years in the future thought so. And so did poor broken Millard.

At the thought of Millard, Corbit involuntarily glances at the block of matter.

Corbit: Besides... what alternative do I have?

Corbit grasps the block and slips it into his pocket. Cut to the inside of the research room. Corbit enters.

Corbit: Box. (there is a pause) I know you can hear me. You won't harm me. I'm remaining entirely passive.

Corbit summons his courage, then plucks the Millard-block from his coat. He dangles it above Box's open aperture, then lets if fall. He takes several steps back. A breath of swirling wind courses through the room. Corbit braces himself against the wall. On the blackboard, a solid white line, similar to an EKG, emerges to emit steady, stately spikes. The peaks grow higher and sharper, then turn erratic. The wind becomes a gale. The lines on the board become random and fractured. Corbit clings desperately to a cabinet, as the howling wind slashes at him. Low-pitched metallic groaning issues from the bowls of Box. Its surface metal flares and crisps; a searing, strobing light issues from the aperture, a hint at upheavals deep within. The cube bursts into blinding incandescence; it keens insanely; the wind becomes a wall of unbearable pressure. Then... it winks out of existence so totally that not even a scorched spot remains. The savaged Corbit undoes his death-grip on the cabinet. He ventures to the void where Box had been, only to spy a single word etched onto the chalkboard: "EMPTY". He takes up the eraser and carefully wipes it away.

Cut to Millard's office, where Corbit types.

Corbit: (voice-over) Box was a simple mechanism: entering substance triggered its cascade of titanic power, power that needed to be titanic in order to reduce matter to zero atomic function. But what might happen if that released energy found no focus... if the introduced matter had already been rendered completely inert? Might not that buildup of energy seek out any convenient outlet for its fury... rebound on its originator, the only possible alternate target? Dr. Millard thought so. Our last living ancestor thought so. Humanity's future can be thankful they were right. So concludes this report. As no further discernible danger remains, this investigator gives the time-portal project a clean bill of health. Experimentation is hereby cleared to continue.

Outside, a lightning strike illuminates the sky. Corbit looks up sharply as angry storm clouds roil just beyond the window. Fade to black.

The End​

Next: "Kount Kongo".

 

[Cbarton]

Excellent conclusion, LBH! A chemical reaction cannot continue without the substrates to create the final product. Just goes to show that 'perfect' systems can work all too well...

 

[Low_Roads]

Couldn't be more grateful to receive an educated take on the story's resolution, Hawk! Frankly, I was faking my way through the climax... plot devices, especially in fantastic scenarios, don't have to be possible so much as seem reasonable. Using oblique language ("what might happen if...?) helps to hide the faults somewhat... that last speech was considerably more direct, awkward and unconvincing before the rewrite! Again, my deepest thanks for your kind appraisal of this somber, deadly serious entry. Upcoming "Kount Kongo" is destined to plow the by-now very familiar ground of satire... a lot less dry (for whatever benefits or deficits that confers!)

 

[Low_Roads]

Kount Kongo.

Take two. My initial attempt at posting this screenplay was wiped out during the Great Crash of 2009... a painful loss, as I'd made no copies of the revised treatment. I finally got around to rewriting it; this is pretty close to what was submitted a few months back.

Briefly, "Kount Kongo" is a "King Kong" parody (obviously!) which would have employed stop motion model animation, a skill I was developing at the time (early 1970s). No portion of the film was ever produced.

Kount Kongo

a screenplay by Foster Glenn Oakes​

Characters
Levi Denham
Bonn Marrow
Jock Crisco
Capt. Engelnook
Savage Native Chief
Radio Announcer (voice)

INTERIOR. Levi Denham's office. LEVI DENHAM and CAPT. ENGELNOOK sit at Denham's desk.

Denham: Capt. Engelnook, I've just got to find a starlet for my new picture! This could be a great show, if it just had some romantic interest!

Engelnook: None of the agents will talk to you since that alligator ate your last girl.

Denham: Yeah, but I got it on film, didn't I? What a swell shot! (with resolve) What I need is an unknown. Someone the world has never heard of, (under his breath) and who's hopefully never heard of me. See you later, Skipper.

He exits.

EXTERIOR. Denham trudges through the streets of San Francisco, exhausted. He plops himself down in front of an orange juice stand (bearing the sign: "Orange Juice -- Two Glasses, 1 Cent"). Behind the counter, pretty BONN MARROW prepares to take his order.

Bonn: Orange juice, mister?

Denham: Sure, kid. Make it a double. (to himself) Drat! I've combed the Tenderloin top to bottom, and still I can't find a girl who's right for the part.

Bonn: Here you go, sport.

Denham accepts the glass, glancing at Bonn. He turns away, then does a double-take.

Denham: Say... what's your name?

Bonn: (suspicious) You aren't from the Board of Health, are you?

Denham: Nooooo! I'm Levi Denham, the movie producer. And I want you to star in my next big hit! What do you say?

Bonn: Hey, that sounds wonderful, Mr. Denham! I've had it with the juice racket... no money in it. My name is Bonny Marrow! So when do we leave?

Denham: Right this minute! (He takes Bonn by the wrist and yanks her clear out of the frame).

Dissolve to Captain Engelnook's ship at sea. Cut to INTERIOR. Engelnook, Denham, Bonn and JOCK CRISCO are gathered around a table in the Captain's cabin. Denham clutchs a folded map.

Engelnook: Denham, Miss Marrow, meet Jock Crisco, my tough but good-natured first mate.

Jock: Well, Mr. Denham, let's have a look at this map a'yours.

Denham: (unfolding it on the table) This is our destination. (CU of map; Denham indicates details with a pointer) You won't find this island on any chart. This is Bonehead Island!

Engelnook: Bonehead Island! I've heard legends...

Denham: Skipper, have you ever heard of... Kount Kongo?

Engelnook: Kount Kongo! Yes... some sort of pagan god...

Denham: See this wall? The natives of the island built it centuries ago: one side for them, one side for him.

Jock: (surveying the unequal portions) They might've built it a little farther inland.

Denham: My picture will be about what we find on the other side of that wall. I tell you, it'll be bigger than "The Jazz Singer"!

Dissolve to EXTERIOR. The ship has dropped anchor off the coast of Bonehead Island. On deck, the adventurers marvel over the savage spectacle. The sound of drumming issues from the nearby native village.

Denham: Hear that? The war tom-toms of a primitive tribe!

Engelnook: We better go well armed.

The party lands on the beach. Denham carries his camera and each member shoulders a rifle. After passing a multitude of grass huts, the expedition comes upon a great stone wall and gate.

Engelnook: Look at that colossal wall! Just like on your map!

Bonn: Oh, it's even bigger than that!

Denham spies a SAVAGE NATIVE CHIEF standing with his back turned. He motions for the party to stay hidden while he approaches stealthily with his camera. He's just about to roll film, when the islander whirls unexpectedly, yelling "Ooga Booga!" The movie producer stumbles over backwards and starts to scamper away, but quickly regains his composure when he realizes there's no danger.

Chief: Hiya folks! Something I can do for you? Souvenirs? Tour of the island?

Denham: What luck! He speaks English! (to the Chief) Hey you, savage. Get your people to stop that racket, will you?

The Chief parts some tall brush to lift the needle from a hidden phonograph record. The drumming stop abruptly. Denham and Engelnook trade dubious glances.

Chief: (eying Bonn) Say, how'd you like to rent out the platinum blonde? I need one for the sacrifice to Kount Kongo. Tourist season, you know.

Jock: Watch your tongue, you filthy heathen!

The Chief looks injured.

Denham: Kount Kongo, you say? Hot dog! Can you tell me where he is right now?

Chief: Oh, he's out in the jungle somewhere, eating bananas. big bananas.

Denham: (tossing him a nickel) Here ya go, buster. Buy yourself a taxi cab. (to his party) Forward, men!

They tramp through the open gate. The Chief stares at the coin in annoyance, then notices that Bonn has paused against a tree to fan her face. He fishes a length of rope from one of the huts and rapidly binds her to the trunk.

Bonn: What the heck do you think you're doing? Help me, someone!

Unfortunately, her companions are now clear out of sight. The Chief produces a small gong, which he raps lightly with his finger. The noise reverberates throughout the forest. With a tumult of cracking branches and uprooted brush, Kount Kongo stalks into the clearing. He snatches the screaming girl from her bonds, examines her with mild interest, then plods back into the wild.

Cut to Denham, Jock and Engelnook, as they stalk after their quarry. Jock hears Bonn's screams and pauses.

Jock: What's that?

Engelnook: I know that sound well. It's the mating call of the red-tailed juju bird.

Denham: No it isn't! That's Bonn!

Jock: Come on, we gotta save her!

The three men race in the direction of the anguished screams. Without warning, a huge stegosaurus lumbers from the foliage to block their path.

Denham: Look at that, will you! It's a prehistoric dinosaur!

Denham takes careful aim and fires. The stegosaur and the surrounding landscape are blown sky-high. The producer gawks at his rifle in amazement. The rescuers continue, but their progress is soon again halted by the broad expanse of a lake.

Jock: We have to get across this somehow!

Denham: I know! We'll build a raft!

Meanwhile, Kongo has paused for a banana break. He sets Bonn on the branch of a tall tree. From behind, a hungry Tyrannosaurus Rex enters, licking its lips. Bonn screams. On the raft, Jock reacts with alarm.

Jock: Listen to that! She's in serious trouble!

Denham: Steady, Jock. We're almost there.

At that moment, the head of a huge brontosaurus breaks the water's surface. The men fire their weapons in vain, as hungry jaws descend on them. Kongo, meanwhile, makes ready to battle the Tyrannosaurus. The giant ape assumes a boxing stance, jabbing, feinting and accidentally backing himself into a palm tree. He turns and furiously pummels the unoffending plant to pieces before realizing his error. As the two behemoths slug it out, Denham, Jock and Engelnook arrive to help Bonn from her perch.

Bonn: Thank goodness! What took you so long?

Jock: We were attacked by a brontosaurus.

Bonn: Oh! Did it try to eat you?

Jock: Nah, they're vegetarians. It just ate the raft and left. We swam to shore and made our way here.

Denham: Okay, if we're all caught up now, let's scram!

The group departs. Back at the battle, Kongo pulls out a homemade sling-shot and fires at his opponent, toppling it. He turns for Bonn's approval, just in time to see the party scamper away. Kongo pursues them through the jungle to the great wall, where the Chief waits impatiently.

Chief: Hey, whatta you people think you're doing! The animals are getting killed off right and left! No one's enjoying themselves! You're gonna get me reported to the Better Business Bureau...

Denham: Look out! It's Kongo!

The giant ape kicks the gate wide open. Everyone runs for cover. Kongo grabs up the Chief, but (discovering he isn't holding Bonn) carelessly tosses the man over his shoulder.

Denham: He's looking for Bonn!

Jock: Let's get her back to the ship!

They try to sneak away, but Kongo spots them and gives chase. As they reach the beach, Kongo trips on a vine, knocking himself unconscious. Denham and Engelnook approach the stunned colossus.

Denham: Boy, oh boy! Look at 'im, Skipper! A million dollar attraction!

Engelnook: You don't mean to take this beast back to civilization?!

Denham: Sure! I can see it now! The lights! The music! Kount Kongo, the Eighth Wonder of the World!

Dissolve back to San Francisco. A huge crowd stares up at Kongo, who has been handcuffed to a street lamp. A fluttering advertising banner reads: "Kount Kongo, the 1/8th Wonder of the World!"

Denham: What a haul! 34 bucks! And this is only the beginning!

Engelnook: I don't like it, Denham. Something could go wrong.

Elsewhere, Jock and Bonn are occupied taking photos of the restrained beast.

Jock: Stand in front of Kongo, Bonn. I want a shot of the two of you together.

Bonn assumes the proper positioning (a gag pose, in which diminished perspective makes her appear to be taller than the giant gorilla [she pretends to prop her elbow on his head]) and Jock snaps the picture. Kongo goes ape.

Engelnook: Look out! He thinks you're trying to hurt the girl!

As Jock stands there with a "what the hell did I do?" look on his face, Kongo undoes the cuffs, snatches up Bonn and toddles off.

Denham: He's heading for Coit Tower!

Engelnook: If he ever reaches the top, we'll never be able to get near him!

Cut to a 1930s-style radio.

Announcer: (voiceover, in an insinuating gossip columnist drawl) Glamorous starlet Bonny Marrow has recently been seen atop fashionable Coit Tower in the company of show business sensation Kount Kongo. Could wedding bells be in the offing for this famous couple? The whole city waits breathlessly...

Back at the base of the tower, Denham and Engelnook fume.

Engelnook: Denham! Where's Jock?

Denham: (attracted to the sound of an airborne motor) There! In that aeroplane! Why the fool! He'll be killed!

Jock pilots past Kongo, firing at him with a pistol. The giant ape scratches at the bullets in feeble-minded irritation. Jock then flies directly above the beast. He dangles a banana (a Fruity Brand banana, label prominently displayed) from a string. Kongo rushes greedily for his favorite food and plummets over the tower's ledge to the pavement below.

Return to radio.

Announcer: ... word's just reached us that Kount Kongo has jilted Bonn Marrow in order to pursue a fresh career course. Whether or not Bonn can find happiness with new beau, Jock Crisco, this fickle shift is sure to mark a decline in the furry mega-star's fortunes...

Down below, Denham and Engelnook reverently approach the splattered ape.

Engelnook: Well, Denham... looks like the plane got him.

Denham: No, Skipper. It wasn't the airplane. 'Twas Fruity killed the beast.

Engelnook starts to nod solemnly, then stares at Denham in disgust.

One final long shot and the screen fades to oblivion.

-END-​

Next... "Holy Shit!"

 

[Low_Roads]

Holy Shit!

My longtime pal GM collaborated with me on many projects during the '70s and '80s, but none of them blended our efforts more completely than this one. I banged out the first draft of this script (it's considerably shorter, and I'll post it afterward for comparison purposes)... GM was responsible for this cleaned-up, expanded rewrite. Neither of us, however, touched a typewriter until we'd worked out every conceivable detail in weeks' worth of bull sessions. The original concept was probably mine (I was the one with the '50s sf fixation. GM was drawn more toward the old-time Gothic horrors), but I'm sure he came up with all the person and place names... devising snappy monikers was very much his forte. At this point, it would be impossible to claim individual credit for any of the plot points or quirky details. As joint efforts go, this is as close to a single voice as it gets.

Each of us had staked out specific roles: I would have played Sheriff Kincaid, GM was slated for Prof. Peabody. He would have directed, I was going to handle the fx visuals. No other acting parts or production responsibilities were assigned, though. In the end, the film had simply grown too ambitious... neither of us had free time for a shooting schedule this demanding. We also had no access to necessary set pieces; where we ever expected to find a railroad hand-car is beyond me now! I did build the stop motion monster model. It was made of flimsy material and has disintegrated, alas; no photos of it were ever taken. If anyone's curious about its design, check out the page from "Spectales of Doom", offered below. I co-opted the critter for other projects, more than once. "Waste not, want not" is a motto I've always taken to heart!

Holy Shit!

A Screenplay
by GM

Original story by GM and Foster Glenn Oakes​

Cast of Characters
(in order of their appearance)

"Old Grisly" Griswald
Sheriff Jack Kincaid
Doc Gruber
Crapulous Joe
Professor Peabody
Biff Carter
Mary Kincaid


Our picture opens at an alien space station somewhere in the vast reaches of the Andromeda Galaxy. A flying saucer lifts off and shoots through an open portal into the dark void of space. After passing innumerable stars and planets, the sleek space craft approaches its destination--the planet Earth.

EXTERIOR. OLD GRISLY, a grizzled prospector, kneels on the sands of the Arizona desert, selecting various rocks and cracking them open. A great flash of light brilliantly illuminates the old man, as well as the surrounding terrain. Grisly straightens up, starts to look around, then shrugs slightly and rubs his eyes before resuming his work. Behind him, the saucer is emitting a metallic whir as it lowers a long walkway. Meanwhile, Grisly has just finished smashing open a stone of tremendous size. It contains a core of purest gold. There is a CU of Grisly, as a single tear of happiness washes the dirt from his wrinkled cheek. At this point, a huge shadow falls over the old man. Fearfully, he turns and looks up. There is a CU, as his eyes widen in terror.

Grisly: Holy Shit!!!

The TITLES and CREDITS appear.

INTERIOR. The office of the sheriff. SHERIFF KINCAID sits at his desk, drinking a bottle of orange soda an reading a funnybook. Beside him is a plate of doughnuts. There is a rap on the door. Kincaid answers it. Enter DOC GRUBER.

Doc: Howdy, Sheriff.

Kincaid: Howdy, Doc.

Doc: Where's the patient?

Kincaid: In the back. Want me to fetch him out?

Doc: Yep.

Kincaid obtains keys, exits as Doc opens his bag. TRANSITION to CU of Grisly's eye. Doc peers into its depths with a penlight. He terminates examination, pinches the bridge of his nose. Kincaid hands the medico an orange soda, then obtains another for himself.

Kincaid: What's the story, Doc?

Doc: I wish I knew.

Kincaid: That bad, huh?

Doc: That bad. I can't find a normal reflex or reaction in this man's entire body. It's... it's like some terrible disease ravaged his brain, short-circuiting all his body functions.

Kincaid: Poor old geezer. I found him stumbling around out in the desert with that same look on his face, like he'd seen something too horrible to tell. What do you s'pose he's ailin' from?

Doc: Off-hand, I'd have to say it looks like acute shock.

Kincaid: Well, I don't see nothin' cute about it, Doc. If there's one thing the town of Poco Dinero don't need, it's this kind of trouble. (awkward pause) Why don't you have a doughnut? Mary baked 'em fresh this mornin'.

Kincaid places the plate on the table, near Doc, but nearer Grisly. Doc has started to rebag his instruments.

Doc: Thanks. She's a good girl, Mary.

Kincaid: Yep. Make somebody a fine wife someday. Don't know what I'd do around here without her. 'Specially since her ma died. (suddenly becoming intent) Ya know, Doc, if you can't savvy this thing out, I think maybe I might know someone who could.

Gruber looks up, interested. Kincaid goes to his file cabinet. There is a CU, as he opens a drawer and we see that it contains dividers marked "Captain Marvel", "Batman", "Playboy", "Police Gazette", and "Argosy". Kincaid rifles the contents of the latter folder.

Kincaid: Le'see now... nope... wait a minute--here we go. (he extracts a tattered copy of Argosy, begins to turn its pages) There. (Gruber looks over Kincaid's shoulder) This here's the fella. Lives on the coast. Uh... name of Professor Peabody.

Doc: I've heard of him. He's got degrees in medicine, biology, and... and...

Kincaid: (searching the article) ... "and the physical sciences."

Doc: He's had an astonishing degree of success in cases involving traumatic shock. I'll write to him about all this. I only hope he can help us.

Kincaid: Yeah, me too. Old Grisly is kind of an institution around here.

Doc: Say, I'll take my doughnut now.

A CU, as Gruber's hand finds an empty plate. Grisly still sits placidly beside it, only now a broad, silly grin adorns his kisser. Doc looks around. A split second before he looks at Grisly, the old prospector's smile vanishes, only to reappear as soon as the medico glances away.

CU of Kincaid. He is perplexed and dismayed to find both his and Gruber's pop bottle empty.


Next... Part 2.

 

[Journia]

Wow, this is very very good. I hope Part two comes soon! I am enjoying this!

 

[Low_Roads]

Thanks J! Sorry for the late reply... beastly heat and an increased work load (plus I'm shaking the remains of a cold) have reduced me to an after-hours puddle anymore. Glad you're enjoying "Holy Shit!" This is a long 'un (nearly feature length... well, short feature length)... I've broken it into 9 parts, with a 10th comprising my original draft of the script. Which means it'll be around for a couple of months. Anything to kill time!

 

[Journia]

WOOOOOOOOOT I can't wait for the rest of this Sir!

 

[Cbarton]

I think I'm a likin' this one too. Desert scene, UFO, devoted daughter raised by Dad, Eastern Coast professor being called upon. Yup, has it all!

I think I'll just sit a spell an' wait for the next episode in this serial...

 

[Low_Roads]

Thank you Hawk! This screenplay was indeed intended to match a distinct set of specific requirements... creating a piece of quintessential '50s style sf cinema had long been my dream (to join company with the movies that had provided some of my most pleasurable boyhood memories). I'd taken several shots at it... "Masters of the Cosmos" (in this collection) was one; "Lieutenant Martin Maxwell on the Moon" (also in this collection) was another. Several others were knocked out, too poor to be presented here. "Holy Shit!" was about as close to the ideal as the quest got. It's not something I'd try anymore... at this point, I'm not even sure what "quintessential '50s style sf cinema" means. Like a single film could sum up a decade!

 

[Low_Roads]

Part 2​

EXTERIOR. CRAPULOUS JOE, an Indian perpetually under the influence, squats astride a sand dune, taking long pulls on his jug, which is adorned with a quartet of X's. Abruptly, a metallic whine catches Joe's auditory attention. Drawn to the spot of its emission, he discovers the great saucer. With a reverent grunt of surprise, he prostrates himself before the vehicle, as a worshipper would before his god. A loud and unseemly belch invades the soundtrack.

EXTERIOR. The Poco Dinero Railroad Station. Kincaid and Gruber stand on the platform, obviously awaiting an arrival.

Kincaid: Imagine that... this Professor fella agreeing to come all the way from that university in California, just to help us.

Doc: You know, maybe I should have told them in the letter that no trains have been through here since... wait! I think I see them now!

A considerable distance down the tracks, a hand-car bearing two figures becomes visible. It is making rather slow progress toward the station. As the conveyance draws nearer, the figures there-on become discernible as PROFESSOR PEABODY and BIFF CARTER. Biff pumps the handle; Peabody stands in front like the captain at the prow of his ship. As the hand-car reaches the station, Biff slows it to a stop. Peabody, unmindful of his own momentum, is carried over onto the tracks, where he crumples into a heap, buttocks skyward. Biff immediately rushes to the Professor's assistance. When the scientist has been somewhat restored, he and Biff turn to face their reception committee.

Prof: (taking the hand offered by Gruber) I say, you must be Doctor Gruber--the man who sent me the rather curious communique--about the patient in what was apparently a semi-comatose condition?

Doc: Yep.

Peabody smiles in his very best "English twit" manner.

Doc: This is Sheriff Jack Kincaid.

Prof: (shaking Sheriff's hand) Part of the local constabulary, no doubt.

Kincaid: No, I'm an Oddfellow.

Doc: (patting the Sheriff's shoulder) And a Moose in good standing!

Prof: (clearly misunderstanding) Oh, how unfortunate.

Biff: (valiantly changing the subject) Hi, I'm Biff Carter.

Prof: My finest pupil. I'm quite helpless without him, actually. Well, Doctor--if you will be so kind as to direct me to your patient, we'll begin immediately.

The two learned men stroll together; Biff and the Sheriff follow. Kincaid puts his arm around the boy in a gregarious manner.

Kincaid: Say, young fellow--I've got a girl about your age, named Mary. She's been helping the Doc out with his new patient.

Biff receives this information with a dubious expression.

INTERIOR. Doc Gruber's office. MARY KINCAID, her hair in a bun and a pair of thick-lensed spectacles perched on her nose, spoonfeeds a bowl of stew to Old Grisly. Her father and the others enter. Mary looks up, and we see the company from her point of view. The camera pans from Gruber to the Sheriff to Biff to Peabody, then swings abruptly back to Biff, riveting its attention there, perhaps even zooming in. Mary pokes a spoonful of food into Grisly's eye.

Kincaid: Howdy, sweetheart. Gentlemen, this is my little girl. Mary, this is Professor Peabody and his assistant, Biff Carter. They come all the way from a university in California.

Biff extends his hand.

Biff: Hi!

Mary swoons; Doc Gruber catches her. Meanwhile, Peabody has begun a scrutinization of Old Grisly.

Prof: This, then, is the patient?

Doc: (handing Mary to her father) Yep. Prospector. Name of Elmer Griswald. He's been that way ever since we found him... seven days ago.

Kincaid goes to the surgical freezer, opens it. Next to a container of whole blood, there is a carton containing several bottles of orange soda. Kincaid pulls out a bottle and holds it aloft.

Kincaid: Either of you city boys care for a shot of the "stern stuff"? Ha, ha!

Old Grisly immediately joins in Kincaid's laughter, chuckling wildly while still retaining his blank stare. Soon he dies down. Biff accepts an orange soda; Kincaid takes one for himself.

Doc: Professor, can you help Old Grisly?

Prof: This "Old Grisly", as you call him, is in a state of extreme withdrawal. Only by appealing to his subconscious through hypnosis can we hope to get at the truth.

Peabody pulls the gold chain from his vest pockets; however, it is weighed with nought but lead washers.

Prof: I... er... had some unexpected expenses this month. Laboratory equipment and the like.

Biff pulls out a gold watch and hands it to the Professor.

Biff: Here, Professor. Use mine.

Peabody smiles an embarrassed thanks. The learned old gentleman takes the timepiece and dangles it in front of the prospector's face. He gently begins to sway it back and forth across Old Grisly's line of sight.

Prof: (softly) Mr. Griswald... Grisly... do I have your attention, old man? I want to take you back... back... I want to know what happened to you... (Grisly grunts) Something did happen to you, didn't it? (Grisly grunts again) Come now, you're among friends. Tell us all about it.

Old Grisly rises from the table and begins to go through the same motions he was performing before the shadow fell across him. He picks up various test tubes and other medical equipment, smashing them with his hammer.

Doc: Hey--!

Biff: Shhh--we must not break the trance.

Old Grisly continues his studious destruction. All present draw closer to him. Suddenly, he spins on them.

Old Grisly: Holy Shit!!!

Everyone falls over backward.

Prof: (picking himself up) Colorful old chap!

Kincaid: (to Mary) Leave the room, gal.

Prof: (looking into Grisly's eyes) There is no need for that, Marshal. I'm afraid he won't say anything more. His mind is irreversibly locked onto this one concept. Unfortunately, without further information, there is nothing I can do.


Next... Part 3.

 

[Journia]

more....I crave more holy shit.....

its good.

 

[Low_Roads]

Most kind of you, J! Another handful of pages due next Tuesday! GM really did do a great job expanding the original premise (that business about Ol' Grisly busting up Doc Gruber's office while under hypnosis was extrapolated material). It'll be easier to note the additions once I present the first draft.

 

[Cbarton]

The plot thickens...

LOVE the handcar arrival. I'm looking forward to more of these many 'humbling' moments for the haughty professor! And sadly, I've worked with health professionals that would have stored the fresh frozen plasma along with the sodas!

:::runs home to get allowance so I can see Tueday's matinee:::

 

[Low_Roads]

Damn, sorry about the late reply, Hawk! Glad you liked the hand-car scene! It would have been fun to stage, although a mock-up would inevitably have been required (I doubt the railroad even made hand-cars anymore at that time. Even if they had, our chance of snagging one for an amateur movie appearance was nil). That and a miniature for the long shot, which would have been my responsibility as special-effects coordinator.

Stowing soft drinks alongside blood reserves probably isn't a cardinal sin (I mean, they sterilize those bottles prior to shipping, right?) unless you happen to mix them up during a transfusion. Carbonated blood may sound like fun, but I suspect the incessant fizzing would keep you awake for weeks!

Hope you scored enough quarters... part 3 due in mere days!

 

[Cbarton]

Carbonated blood may sound like fun, but I suspect the incessant fizzing would keep you awake for weeks!

If the doc in this tale did do that, it would be the most interesting case of 'the bends' ever documented, since a reaction similar to carbonation of nitrogen gas in the blood stream is what causes the malady.

 

[Low_Roads]

That's true, isn't it! Make a whale of an ad compaign: "The bends in every bottle!" I doubt the cataclysmic sugar rush would do your system any favors either.