by Darius James
We let Negroes burn, and the stench filled every village and every hamlet, every state and every city, but we didn’t care. In our hearts, we thought, “Let those Negroes burn!”
Then one day, the air cleared, and all of Mickey’s friends, white men and white women, white boys and white girls, joined hands and sang, paraphrasing the words of that old darky spiritual:
“Gone at last! Gone at last! Thank God Almighty, them niggers is gone at last!”
INT. The Zombie Master’s lair—Night.
With his conked head rolled back on his neck, the ZOMBIE MASTER sits in a canvas butterfly chair dressed in black, short-coated tuxedo with tails and a satin-lined cape.
His lair, located in an underground grotto miles below the Magic Mall’s whimsical machinations, is decorated 1950s Pop Atomic with an Abstract Expressionist twist. Metal African masks, pared to geometric essentials, hang on the walls.
On a mouse-eared, wall-unit HD TV screen in the background, DOKTOR MENGELE DUCK, a monocled, Teutonic Donald in physician’s whites, performs “wacky” organ-shifting experiments on BRER RABBIT, BRER FOX, and BRER BEAR. His assistants HUEY, DEWEY, and LOUIE whistle “Zippity Doo Dah” while they work.
Suddenly, the Zombie Master snaps upright in his chair. His gleaming pompadour is in spiked disarray. His gold-toothed grin is the sardonic smile of a clown in the throes of a methamphetamine rush. White lines spiral at furious speeds inside his dark-framed glasses’ circular black fields.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
I have seen the future! And I saw a Mau-Mau kissin’ Sannie Clause!
Slicked with greasy kid stuff, a duck-tailed HEAD pumps up and down in the Zombie Master’s lap, its lumpy misshapen ass sparkling with sequins. The Zombie Master’s pelvis bucks in orgasmic release and the spinning-eye Hypno-Specs fall off his face. His pupils expand to the size of quarters.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
Buzzard elbows in chitlins à la king!
Green with mildew and pocked with worm holes, the duck-tailed CREATURE rises from the floor in sequined, ankle-baring bell-bottoms.
With its upper lip curled in an arrogant sneer and its cheeks swollen by a mouthful of congealed cum, the creature’s pendulous belly rolls pass the flaps of its fringed, western shirt. It tugs at the lapels of its embroidered stand-up collar, nodding its head to an inner rockabilly beat. It swallows. And its Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
The creature wipes a string of cum from its chin. The gob of cum falls to the floor, splashing the toe of its one blue suede shoe.
It should be evident by now that this bloated rockabilly beast is none other than that “Patron Saint of White Trash Trailer Parks”—the ELVIS ZOMBIE.
Standing, the Zombie Master pulls up his trousers, zips his fly, and adjusts his cummerbund. He embraces the Elvis Zombie, dancing the tango in orthopedic space shoes. Blue sparks leap from his eyes.
The Zombie Master sings:
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
I put a spell on you . . . !
Walt Disney reappears on the TV screen. The Zombie Master watches Walt with his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He lets the Elvis Zombie drop to the floor.
WALT DISNEY
Jubilation time is here again, friends! And I’m proud to announce our tenth annual “Second Coming of Christ” parade! This year is going to be bigger and better than ever! There’s gonna be a parade on Main Street, USA, with floats ’n’ fireworks ’n’ marching bands! We’re gonna eat lotsa corn dogs ’n’ cotton candy ’n’ sell balloons ’n’ T-shirts ’n’ “Wind Him Up and Watch Him Walk Across the Water” toys! Come and see all your cartoon friends act out your favorite scenes from the New Testament! Goofy ’n’ all the gang will be there! And the best part is, Christ won’t make a blessed cent! Little hebe’s been cleanin’ up for years, anyway! So come and join the fun! It’s gonna be spectacular! Heck, I might even resurrect myself for the occasion!
The Zombie Master shakes his head, eyeing Walt Disney with disgust.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
There’s somethin’ wrong with you! Somethin’ missin’ someplace somewhere! Bellevue! That’s it! You ain’t all there! You look like—ummm-umm—I don’t know!
The Zombie Master hurries from his lair, followed by the limping Elvis Zombie.
FADE
INT. The Zombie Master’s Laboratory—Night.
The laboratory, paneled in sheet metal and stocked with human body parts turned blue with frost, is an enormous walk-in refrigerator dominated by two growling Grafenberg generators flaring tines of electricity. CADAVERS of both genders and all races lie in naked decay on operating tables throughout the room. Hundreds of arms and legs hang overhead. Several faces stitched in catgut are scattered across a butcher-block tabletop. Racks of headless torsos without arms or legs are stacked against the walls. Glass jars of eyes, noses, and ears floating in pickling brine are shelved alongside rows of half-pint bottles labeled “Alligator Wine.”
J.F.K.’S HEAD, complete with exit wounds, scuttles across the floor on spindly spider legs, chasing a centipede-appendaged PENIS.
J.F.K.
I always wanted to suck my own cock!
Trailed by the Elvis Zombie, the Zombie Master strides into the laboratory with his cape billowing behind him. His brow is stern with determination. His breath is white in the chilled air. With a wooden oar, he stirs a stew of eyeballs bubbling in a cauldron of purple liquids.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
Take the blind out of an alligator.
Take the left eye out of a fish.
Take the skin off of a frog. And
Mix it all up in a dish.
With his arms whirling in high-speed motion, as if he’s suddenly grown octopus tentacles, the Zombie Master stitches and sews, reconstructing the roomful of cadavers. He reanimates each of the cadavers with a sip of Alligator Wine.
Squinting, the Zombie Master holds a petri dish up to the glaring overhead light.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
In this dish, I have saved the tissue trimmed from the nose of Captain Nee-Gro, that 3-D wonder of the white man’s technology. And with it, I plan to clone his proboscis back to its original Negroid proportions, placing it in the service of the revolution!
Tilting a half-pint bottle of Alligator Wine to his lips, the Zombie Master grumbles—
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
Baboon-fuckin’ muthafucka don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no eight-bar blues! Nigga need to go back to school and learn his ABC’s and 1-2-3’s so he can put some blues back in his Do Re Mi!
He sets to work. There is an explosive sneeze. Droplets of lime-colored slime fleck his face. He stares up in awe.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
(grinning)
LOOK OUT WHYTEY! MICHAEL’S GONNA GIT CHO’ MAMA!
EXT. Disney Magic Mall—Day.
Mickey Mouse smiles like a benevolent Big Brother in a colorful flower arrangement of the National Socialist flag on the Magic Mall’s great lawn. Perched in the trees of an adjacent grove, a flock of MECHANICAL ZOOT-SUITED CROWS caw high-spirited gospel songs, shake their tail feathers, and jangley tambourines. A portly CLERIC-COLLARED CROW exclaims in a leathery voice:
CLERIC CROW
Chirren! Git ready to cakewalk to Hebben!
EXT.—Main Street, USA—Day.
The whistling cartoon sun shines with summertime brilliance on the parade of nymphet-fresh blond MAJORETTES, who, under the shade of brightly fringed, pom-pom parasols held aloft by blackfaced, buck-dancing DANDIES, kick young, tanned legs and gold-tassled boots in the air, exposing their clean, white panties. The muddy blare of a brass MARCHING BAND is heard offscreen.
With flags unfurled, synchronized MICKEY YOUTH MARCHING BAND MEMBERS, attired in lederhosen and mouse-eared leather caps, goose-step past festive crowds of crucifix-worshiping, corn-dog-chewing CAUCASIANS who look and act like an extended family of inbred Appalachian mutants gathered for a Fourth of July picnic. As the first float rolls into view, the CROWD
roars—
HONKIE-MUTANT CROWD
Heil Mickey! Heil Mickey CHRIST!
Crowned by a circle of thorns, Mickey Christ hangs by his inflated white-gloved hands on a neon-lit cross with his owlish Walter Kean eyes staring sadly at the sky.
Hook-beaked MYNAH BIRDS, in black rabbinical wear, hurl rocks at the CRUCIFIED RODENT. A YARMULKED BIRD peeps under Mickey’s loincloth—
YARMULKED MYNAH BIRD
(thick Yiddish accent)
Circumcise? What’s to circumcise?
In a mock manger rolling on a set of fatwheel tires, a haloed Huey, Dewy, and Louie tweak one another’s beaks in a wicker bassinet. The MAD HATTER and his TEA-PARTY PALS reinterpret the Last Supper. The crowd titters with affectionate laughter.
Thunder booms and lightning cracks across a gold-streaked, purple sky.
With puffed, rose-tinted cheeks, pudgy pink CHERUBIM blowing long golden trumpets flap above the gayly bannered, turn-of-the-century street, heralding the arrival of a surfer-blond JESUS with plastic, flickering eyes. The crowd whistles and applauds.
With a white-feathered dove roosting on his shoulder, OUR LORD OF THE PLASTIC FLICKER EYES stands barefoot on a purple-cushioned throne, smiling like a fluffy young girl crowned Queen of the Rose Bowl Parade. He lifts his arms to the sky, gesturing as if he were about to bless the crowd. A red-petaled rose appears between his fingers. His fingers pop and smoke like a string of Chinese firecrackers. The rose transforms into many loaves of Wonder Bread and cans of Bumble Bee tuna fish. Jesus hurls them at the crowd.
To the delight of his tuna-fish and Wonder Bread–fed following, Jesus sits down on his throne and swaps jokes with the HOLY GHOST.
HOLY GHOST
Guilt! You idiot! Guilt! I said drive the guilt out of the temples!
SFX: An explosive, offscreen sneeze.
JESUS CHRIST
God bless you!
Jesus turns his head in the direction of the sneeze and is doused in slime. His flickering plastic eyes blink in cartoon amazement.
EXT. Sleeping Beauty Castle—Day.
A gigantic cherry-shaped NOSE, looking as if it were dipped in a crock of chocolate fondue, cleaves to the sides of Sleeping Beauty Castle. A green paste leaks from its nostrils.
EXT. Main Street, USA—Day.
The Crowd scrambles in blind panic, slipping and sliding in the muck slaking the sidewalks.
EXT. Sleeping Beauty Castle—Day.
Slithering down the castle’s walls, the GIANT SNOTBOX excretes a trail of slime, honking and snorting its way toward Main Street, USA.
With a mighty sneeze, the GODZILLA-SIZED PROBOSCIS erupts like a lava-spewing volcano, slathering the streets in a thick carpet of mucus. Brown boulder-sized boogers tumble down the street, crushing panicked pedestrians in their path. Flailing BODIES drown in the flood of green goo. The Nose rears up in rage and snorts with cyclonic force. PEOPLE are spirited off the ground, twirling into the hairy darkness of its twin nose-holes.
Suddenly, the street splits into a web of cracks. The Christ float jostles like a rickety carnival ride. Chunks of tar and concrete are belched into the air. Hundreds of SKELETAL HANDS grapple their way through the debris and tear at the float’s painted crusts of papier-mâché, exposing the float’s chicken-wire frame.
Swarms of Zombies climb from the crater beneath the float with entrails hanging in ropy loops from their stomachs’ rotted recesses. Oozing a putrid puree of pukesome pus, hundreds of Zombies claw up the sides of the float, and a pustulated hand reaches out to OUR LORD. The hand yanks out one of his eyes. The eyeball is mashed into the bowl of a hash pipe and smoked. Another of the Zombies bites his finger, siphons the blood into an empty bottle of Thunderbird wine, and drinks it. Christ’s rib cage is ripped from his chest, dunked in a tub of hot sauce and butter, then barbequed in a bonfire. His head is twisted from his neck, then eaten like a slice of watermelon.
The Disney Magic Mall is overrun with Zombies, who shamble through the ice-cream-and-candy splendor of Fantasyland and ride the Monorail over the technological wonders of Tomorrowland.
As Zombies spin inside oversized teacups, dissolve to:
INT. Sleeping Beauty Castle—Day.
A hand-held lantern throws the shadows of the Zombie Master and the limping Elvis Zombie against the walls of the cramped, cobwebbed corridor. The Elvis Zombie carries a stake and a wooden mallet.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
It is time to end Disney’s reign of whyte-supremacist terror!
ELVIS ZOMBIE
Yes, master. Kill whytey!
A BAT flies into view. The Elvis Zombie catches it by its wings in midflap and gobbles it whole, smearing his face with rabid blood.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. Sleeping Beauty Castle—Subbasement.
The Zombie Master with his lantern and the Elvis Zombie with the stake and mallet stand at the top of a long staircase of crumbling stone. They walk down the stairs.
The Zombie Master opens the metal door of a refrigeration chamber. Inside, Walt Disney rests in his glass coffin.
The Zombie Master stares down at the sleeping Walt, lifting the coffin’s glass lid. He takes the stake and mallet from the Elvis Zombie and hammers the stake into Walt’s heart.
Smoke and sparks sizzle from Disney’s neck. The hollows of his eyes burn bright blue. His body flops like a landed fish. His face contorts into a series of unnatural expressions.
The Zombie Master’s eyes are wide with realization.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
Why Disney ain’t froze at all! He jus’ a puppet in his own mad design!
Disney’s face blackens and melts. Underneath is a network of circuitry wire and tiny blinking lights.
WALT DISNEY
Elephants would fly . . . fifty years
later . . . and . . . swill . . . from his jar of . . . urine-
stenched street corners . . . and the glory of
Fantasyland would be revealed!
Walt’s eyes flash and his head blows up. His body flares into flames.
FADE
EXT. Main Street, USA—Evening.
With his chest puffed in victory, the Zombie Master strides down Main Street, USA. His assistant limps at his side. The Disney Magic Mall has been reduced to rubble. Fires burn everywhere. The streets are clogged with mucus. Hundreds of Zombies wander about, munching bloody body parts. GOOFY’S head grins on top of a tall wooden stake. Blood drips from his eyes.
The two stroll past a Majorette trapped in a bubble of snot, stepping over a white dove squashed in the mud. A Zombie in the Mad Hatter’s “10/6” top hat shares a crack pipe with the hookah-toking CATERPILLAR. The ABRAHAM LINCOLN ROBOT stumbles about in confusion.
Finally, the Zombie Master and the Elvis Zombie come upon the Giant Nose. Blood pours from its nostrils in great profusion. Sadly, it is dying in the street. The Zombie Master has tears in his eyes.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
Friend, you’re a good soldier. You fought with valiancy and courage. The Revolution will not forget you.
Ragged Zombies stagger out of the burning rumble and gather around in great numbers. The Zombie Master pats the Nose.
THE ZOMBIE MASTER
Good-bye, my friend.
The Elvis Zombie’s eyes are turned heavenward, nearby flames light his face. He croons a gospel song. The other zombies moan behind him.
ELVIS ZOMBIE
Mosin’ on up to Moses on a mule . . .
The music swells and the song takes a sudden, upbeat, rock-and-roll turn.
ELVIS ZOMBIE
One for the money! Two for the show! Three to get ready! Now go! Go! Go!
With a complicated series of karate kicks and jabs, the Elvis Zombie moves like he’s just returned to the Vegas stage. Unfortunately, as a result of advanced decomposition, his body parts fly straight into the lens of the camera. The spider-legged J.F.K. head croaks beside the dung heap we knew as “Elvis.”
As the end credits rol
l, everyone holds hands around the bleeding nose in a “We Are the World” tableau. A feathered SKELETON painted with psychedelic sixties designs plays an electric guitar. The skeleton bites the strings and sets the guitar on fire. The following words appear:
THE END
INT. Grindhouse—Auditorium—Night.
As a worn velvet curtain slides over the white space of the movie screen, the auditorium’s lights brighten overhead, and Bubbles dives underneath the row of theater seats bolted to the floor in front of her.
Crawling on her belly toward the outer lobby, Bubbles wades through puddles of warm malt liquor and soggy french fries, watching the ongoing scene out of the corner of her eye.
Bouncing in unison with the coiled spring of a Slinky, a boisterous mob of MUPPET B-BOYS swagger down the aisles on the toes of their unlaced sneakered feet, swinging cotton-stuffed arms in stylized arrogance.
With siren-whining boom boxes blaring behind them, two ball-capped Black Muppets, or BUPPETS, in T-shirts declaring, “IT’S A DICK THAANG! YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND,” share a plaid cardboard boat of fried chicken wings slathered in hot sauce.
FIRST BUPPET
Boyee! I got a stupid fresh concept! Let’s beam up on the rock, go to Central Park, an’ rape us some whyte women!
SECOND BUPPET
Yeah! Get our picture on th’ front page of th’New York Post, shakin’ hands wit’ d’fat Reverend Do Rag—“YOUNG NEGROES SCAM MUCH BOOTY IN CENTRAL PARK!” Scare mo’fuckas on d’six o’clock news. Shit be dope!
FIRST BUPPET
Word! Den we do a rap, mash th’shit on wax, an’ make us much money! Catch all th’ honeys!
SECOND BUPPET
Yeah! Dat’s d’trick! Have all d’babes suckin’ our dicks!
With splintered chicken bones scattering in all directions, the two Buppets jump up and down like a pair of caged rhesus monkeys on crack. Swelling to monstrous proportions, they then roll on the floor, hammering hambone rhythms on their heads; each looks like two large Easter eggs with enormous erections.