Announcer: "Spy Guys" will begin after this commercial message.
Scene One: Onboard the private Boeing 777-232ER that is known affectionately as "SnL One." Our intrepid GLOBE agents are sitting in the conference area.
Mr. Winter: I've called you all here so that we can discuss the events so far. Before we begin, would anyone like a nice cold Carling Black Label? Besides me, of course? (Indicating a cooler filled with cans of Carling Black Label beer.)
Kittridge: What, no Tareyton cigarettes?
Glory: I'll take one, thanks.
Slate: Sure. I find that Carling Black Label refreshes my thirst with a nice smooth taste. (Holds up a can and smiles)
Skipster: I'll agree with you on that one, John. I'll take one, also.
Buffy: Oh yes! I'll have one. But one is my limit. (beams) I believe in drinking responsibly.
Kittridge: I believe in drinking irresponsibly. I'll take three.
Mr. Winter: Ahem. So the key that will activate the Doomsday Clock, which has the power to destroy the world, has fallen into the wrong hands. Whereas the hands of the Doomsday Clock can only mirror the time unless activated, the hands now controlling those hands are slimy and dirty. Which reminds me... I forgot to wash my hands. Excuse me. (Mr. Winter disappears into the lavatory. )
Kittridge drains his third beer, crushes the can and tosses it neatly over his shoulder into a judiciously placed recycle bin. He deftly reaches for another beer, pops it open and takes a huge swallow. He lets out a belch, and laughs.
Kittridge (to no one in particular): Wake me when he comes back. Or better yet... don't.
Mr. Winter returns from the lavatory.
Mr. Winter: Yes. So, where was I?
Kittridge: You were saying something about washing your slimy and dirty hands.
Mr. Winter: No... I did that... Oh, yes! Because of a tracking device built into the key, we have been able to track it here to Louisville, Tennessee...
Mr. Winter: Excuse me?
Glory: Louisville is in Kentucky.
Mr. Winter: When did they move it? (pause) Well... never mind about that now. The little black box that Mr. Slate is holding (Slate holds up "the little black box.") is actually the tracking device, which Mr. Slate has improved upon considerably. (Slate beams.)
Kittridge (to Slate, as he grabs another beer): Any chance of "improving" that thing so it'll track down a few saucy-looking ladies? (Kittridge silently mouths the word "saw-sayyy" to himself and chuckles.)
Mr. Winter: We have discovered that a group of individuals, posing as a tribute band to the internationally known and beloved group, The Rutles, are behind the key caper. This band, aptly named "Cheese 'n Onions" will be performing tomorrow at noon, in a televised concert which will be seen by every living person in the world.
Kittridge: Every living person? (Mr. Winter nods.) That certainly is convenient, plot-wise...
Mr. Winter: This will also give us the opportunity to nab them. (pause) Is there anything I've forgotten?
Kittridge: Only that everyone here already knew virtually all of that...
Mr. Winter (glaring at Kittridge): Agent Kittridge... I suggest you refrain from drinking any more Carling Black Label beer. As a matter of fact, I'm ordering you to stop right now! If you can't add anything worthwhile to this meeting, please feel free to leave this room.
Mr. Winter: Yes it is very plain! Mr. Kittridge is getting shittridge... I mean, shitfaced!
Kittridge: Mr. Winter! I'm surprised at you! (pause) I mean, I thought you British used the word "shite."
Glory (ignoring Kittridge): I meant, we're on a plane, Mr. Winter. Kittridge needs to leave the plane.
Kittridge (to Glory, with a sarcastic bow after he stands): Whatever you wish, oh mighty Ice Maiden!
Kittridge leaves in a huff. (Actually, more like a minute-and-a-huff, since he has trouble finding the exit.)
Glory: Thank God! That bozo gives me a headache. I can't figure out for the life of me what he's doing in GLOBE. Sometimes I think he's really working for the other side!
Mr. Winter: I suggest we get some needed sleep. Tomorrow is a big day. Goodnight all.
The GLOBE agents retreat to their separate sleeping quarters aboard the huge plane. The Skipster makes his way to his suite, when he becomes aware of someone following him. He turns and sees Buffy.
Skipster: Oh, hi, Buffy. Did you need me to show you to your room?
Buffy (smiling): Actually... I'd like to see your room.
Suddenly, Buffy reaches up and kisses the Skipster passionately. The Skipster is taken aback at first, but then surrenders to her hot kisses. He gazes into her face.
Skipster: All right. (The Skipster takes Buffy's arm and they disappear into his private suite. As Buffy hums Madonna's "Like A Virgin," The Skipster locks the door behind them.)
* * * * *
Scene Two: We see Kittridge approximately two hours after he left Mr. Winter's meeting, and the Snl One. He exits one of several Louisville bars which he has visited in the interim. Despite the passage of time -- and no Carling Black Label to be found -- he is still moderately drunk. Upon exiting the bar, he walks into the parking lot instead of back onto the sidewalk, which had been his intention.
Kittridge (talking to himself): Crummy hick bars! Not one of 'em serves Black Label! Maybe I should go back to the plane... (pause) No! No way! First, Mr. Magnanimous Skipster says "Help yourself to the bar, kiddies," and then Old Man Winter decides we all need to get sober and discuss our mission?!? What a crock! They can all go...
Among the numerous nondescript automobiles and SUVs, Kittridge's bloodshot eyes suddenly discern a gleaming black sportscar. He immediately recognizes the model.
Kittridge (softly, almost reverently): Holy shit! A Borgatti! A Borgatti! They only rolled forty-seven of those puppies off the assembly line before the whole factory was flooded and destroyed by spaghetti sauce!
Kittridge approaches the immaculate, highly-polished vehicle and eyes it up and down with admiration before noticing three seedy-looking men -- Banjo, T-Bone, and Cletus -- standing a few feet behind him, reflected in the windows of the Borgatti. He turns to face them, his eyes attempting to focus.
Kittridge: Hey, don't worry, guys! I wasn't going to mess with your car, I was only admiring it! (Kittridge's eyes narrow as he gets a better look at the three men.) Then again, from the looks of you three, it obviously isn't your car!
Banjo: An' it ain't your car, neither!
T-Bone (to Banjo): He just admitted that, Banjo.
Banjo (to T-Bone, while slapping him in the back of the head): Shuddup, willya? (to Kittridge) So... What's the attraction here, pal?
Kittridge: It's a classic! And I used to have one... not that it's any of your business... "pal."
Cletus: You couldn't afford t'buy one o'these on a GLOBE agent's salary!
Kittridge (smirking): I never said I bought one... I said I had one. (long pause) And don't think I'm so drunk that I missed your reference to my being a GLOBE agent.
Banjo (slapping Cletus in the back of the head): You loudmouth!
Kittridge (suddenly acting quite sober): You shouldn't slap your own brothers around like that... Banjo.
Banjo: Huh? You know who I am?
T-Bone: He must know all of us, Banjo! He said "brothers!"
Banjo (slapping T-Bone in the back of the head): Shuddup!!!
Kittridge (nodding): Uh-huh... You're the Flying Risotto Brothers, all right!
Cletus: He does know us! We's famous! He musta seen our stage act!
Kittridge: Yeah, right. As if! Sorry, Cletus -- It is "Cletus," isn't it? -- but I know you three from GLOBE files. Three performing idiots who occasionally hire out to ENEMA, and... (Kittridge pauses, wide-eyed.) Oh, shit. If you three morons are following me here in Louisville, then this Doomsday Clock matter must be bigger than we all thought!
T-Bone : Banjo, he knows ENEMA is behind Mike Rotch and the others!
Kittridge (grinning): Well, I certainly do now...
Banjo (slapping T-Bone in the back of the head): You nitwit! Shuddup!
T-Bone: We gotta kill 'im!
Cletus' left leg begins trembling, and he breaks out into a cold sweat.
Cletus: N-no... W-w-we c-can't k-k-k-kill 'im!
Banjo (looking at Cletus): Aw, crap...
T-Bone (to Cletus): Why not?
Banjo and Cletus: You know why!
T-Bone: Oh, that again! (pause) I'll handle this... (T-Bone produces a pistol bearing a silencer and shoots Kittridge in the chest. Almost immediately, Kittridge drops like a stone.)
Cletus: You knuckle-head! Why'd ya kill 'im?!?
T-Bone: I didn't, dummy! That was a trank dart!
Banjo (hurriedly): Okay, okay, okay, lissen up, you two bozos! We gotta get 'im back t'Mike Rotch and the others, and since we're on foot, just like he was, we're gonna hafta take 'im in this little Brigatti...
Banjo (slapping T-Bone in the back of the head): Nobody freakin' cares, dimwit!!! Cletus, pry that trunk open, and you two stuff 'im in there while I hot-wire this thing!
* * * * *
Scene Three: The same parking lot, approximately half an hour later. A man exits the bar, walking unsteadily toward the spot where his Borgatti had been parked.
Man: DUDE!!! WHERE'S MY CAR?!?
TO BE CONTINUED...