Original Carnies versus The French Mime Assassins

It was a dark and stormy night in Purity, Louisiana. The visitor strode up the gravel driveway of Francis Ford Cuppola’s stately and lately remodeled plantation home with soggy trousers and a trench coat wrapped neat and tightly around him. Once on the porch he swiped dripping wet hair from his eyes, and gripped the polished gold doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head and pounded against the door. Thunder rolled, lightning struck.

The door opened to reveal Francis Ford Cuppola wearing a strange matrix-y grid like hexagonal construction on his head with glowing lights illuminating it’s conjoined parts.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Go away!

Francis spoke hoarsely and slammed the door in the vistor’s face. A stern resolution filled the young man’s soul as the rain poured down. He knocked again. Once more the door opened, Francis’ eyes were wide as he looked at the young man before him on his doorstep. Francis stepped out quickly and suspiciously scanned the outdoors for other visitors before forcefully gripping the man by his lapels and tugged him inside.

Greg Larson, formerly seen last Wicked in a red shirt with a star trek insignia and touted as Francis’ new assistant before being sent on an “away mission”, stood before Francis in the front foyer of his mansion looking at the bearded man quizzically.

Greg Larson: Francis, it’s me-

Francis Ford Cuppola: Quiet! Don’t say anything, don’t say anything.

Greg Larson: But-

Francis dismissed Greg’s speech with a wave of his hand before pulling out a giant black suction cup and

THOKK!

Attaching it to Greg’s head with force.

Greg Larson: Ow.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Not. A. Word.

The suction cup was attached to a flesh-colored tube that ran into Francis’ helmet. Greg watched as Francis stood back and regarded him with wide, penetrating eyes.

Greg Larson: What is—

Francis Ford Cuppola: Don’t tell me. Don't tell me! Uhhhhhhhhm.

Francis concentrated, closing his eyes and waving his hands mystically around him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re here because…. You want to know the meaning of life!

Greg eyed Francis confused.

Greg Larson: No, I—

Francis Ford Cuppola: NOT A WORD! And it’s 42, if you’re curious!

Francis hissed and went back to his deep concentration. One eye opened to regard Greg before closing again as though it had never been open.

Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re here… from the future… with a tremendous message for me…. and you need me to rebuild your time machine for you!

Greg was confused.

Greg Larson: Is this some sort of re-enactment of Back to the Future?

Francis opened his eyes after a moment and looked disappointed as he regarded Greg.

Francis Ford Cuppola: It is, isn’t it?

His shoulders slumped as he glared at Greg.

Francis Ford Cuppola: All right, well then who the hell are you?

Greg Larson: I’m… Greg Larson, remember?

Francis stared blankly at him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Okay…

Greg Larson: Your assistant? ‘G-Reg’?

Francis blinked.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I already have an assistant. Tony something.

Greg tried to jog his memory.

Greg Larson: Formerly Lieutenant First-Class Greg Larson from the Federation Starship Mazerunner, ring a bell?

Francis pretends to remember.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Sweeeeet. Gotta love that federation. You’re a long way from your home planet. *awkward pause.* Well, I’ll see ya.

He un-THOKKed the suction cup from Greg’s head and turned, instantly and angrily lifting his voice into the house.

Francis Ford Cuppola: SCOPES! Your damn thing doesn’t work.

With no further regard, Francis stormed off down the hallway with the flesh-coloured hose and black suction cup trailing behind him and disappeared through a door. Greg followed Francis with his eyes and gulped loudly. He stepped into the home, weary of his soggy clothes and shoes and eyed into the spacious mansion living room where countless individuals were quietly at work cleaning up a mess and polishing items. Greg blinked and took his chances and followed Francis.

Through the door Francis had entered Greg miraculously found himself on a descending spiral stone staircase that led into the bowels of the mansion. Cobwebs and cobblestones made him appreciate the modern upstairs more the deeper down her went. Candles lit the way. He could hear the meaningless bubbling of potions and elixirs, the zap of a Jacob’s Ladder. As the stairway opened into a medieval dungeon/alchemical laboratory, Greg Larson, formerly of the United Federation of Planets, could tell he’d entered into one of the darker portions of Francis’ life, and had certainly left the depths of space behind him.

Through a stone doorway ahead of him through the candlelit dungeon, Greg could see human shadows flickering and dancing animatedly on the floor. He could hear Francis’ unmistakable voice.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Wait till Rodney sees this!

Greg’s ingress into the basement/dungeon took on a slow, careful sneak as he passed long wooden tables where skeletons sat, and old torture implements lined the walls as he crept to peek inside the doorway.

Professor Scopes: Yes, Mr. Cuppola, The Mind Machine is an impressive piece of—

Francis Ford Cuppola: Ut, ut, ut. Mime.

Professor Scopes blinked.

Professor Scopes: Excuse me?

Inside, Francis, flanked by the ever-silent French Mime Assassins, and a short, intelligent looking man named Professor Scopes stood. Francis still wore his blinking helmet. Before them, High tech hardware hummed and glowed around them like some sort of lair for forbidden science. Their attention centered around a giant darkened display screen in between what looked like two enclosed tanning beds.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Call it the Mime Machine.

Professor Scopes: No it it's-

Francis loomed over Scopes suddenly.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Look, do you really want to exclude them? Huh? Is that what you want? Is it? Cause they’re right here, you know? They might not talk, but they probably have fantastic hearing.

Professor Scopes blinked at the two mimes standing on either side of Francis. One gave an exaggerated, pleasant wave. Francis’ eyes gleamed, full of evil ideas, Mad Scientist-style. Professor Scopes cleared his throat.

Professor Scopes: Yes, of course. So as I was saying, The Mind Machine—

Francis Ford Cuppola: Mime.

Professor Scopes: Sorry. As I’ve been trying to tell you, The “Mime” Machine—

Francis Ford Cuppola: Thank you.

Professor Scopes: --Right. Well, this extraordinary device is meant to allow the user to directly interface their brain with the technology, and the screen should display for us what they’re thinking. Its applications in the bio-medical and technology field are immense. Think of all the good we can do, Mr. Cuppola! We can build a bridge for coma victims to communicate with their loved ones! And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. And it’s all on account of your financial patronage, sir.

Francis’ eyes gleamed.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Right. So, what I’m hearing is my Mimes can sit in these tube things, hook up to the machine, and we can see inside of their Mime Minds and they can finally cut a promo to squash my idiot brother and his stupid false mime friend?

Professor Scopes looked uncomfortable.

Professor Scopes: Well, sure, but—

Francis leaned in to give an aside

Francis Ford Cuppola: I don’t really want to KILL my brother, you know? Maybe just maim him a little. At least put the fear of Francis into him, you know? And this other guy? RadRacer or whatever? I did some digging, did you realize he wasn’t even successful in a damned roving carnival run by nincompoops? My mimes are a lock. I just need to get inside their Mime Minds to unleash their full mime potential. That’s gonna be key.

Francis chuckled to himself, his head shifting forward knocking the tip of the helmet Francis is wearing off Scopes’ head.

Professor Scopes: OW!

Francis winced and watched as Scopes gripped the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back to curb any blood spillage.

Professor Scopes: Yes, well, the machine wasn’t built for revenge, Mr. Cuppola.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Yes, it was. Literally. I paid you to build me a machine for revenge. Did you miss that in the fine print?

Professor Scopes: What?!

Francis Ford Cuppola: YES! Screw Biological Medical whatevers. I took all the money I made betting on that hot blue-haired goon in the Amusement Park battle royal thing and financed this machine, Dr. Scopes. I need my Mimes to win so I can prove to stupid Rodney how stupid his dumb face stupid is. Make it do that.

Professor Scopes ruefully eyed Francis as if for the first time.

Professor Scopes: Y-you’re crazy.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Oh really?

Francis gripped Professor Scopes by the lapels.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Look me in the eyes.

Francis pulled Scope in close, eye-to-eye, the helmet glancing painfully of Scopes’ forehead.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Do I look cra-

THUNK

Professor Scopes: UGH!

Francis Ford Cuppola: Sorry.

Professor Scopes pulled away from Francis in an urge to self-preserve.

Professor Scopes: For the last FREEEKING time it isn’t portable!

Francis’ gaze trailed off blankly as he considered.

Francis Ford Cuppola: So then why am I wearing this helmet?

Professor Scopes, still gripping the bridge of his nose, the other hand bracing his temple, shook his head.

Professor Scopes: I honestly have no idea.

Just as Francis was about to remove his helmet, Greg Larson accidentally nudged an empty candelabra and toppled it, coming to stand out in the open amidst the raucous noise.

All eyes fell on him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: An intruder. He will pay the ultimate price. Get him mimes.

Comme Çi and Comme Ça moved forward to confront him. Greg’s hands lifted in defense.

Greg Larson: Wait, wait! Francis! It’s me! Your assistant.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I already have an assistant.

Just then, Tony chu stumbled down the steps behind Greg. A lit cigarette pursed between his lips carrying a bucket with cleaning supplies inside and wearing a pink apron.

Tony Chu: All right, Frankie, Tony cleared the clog in your sink. You sure you don't keep a Yeti somewhere in your house?

Tony came to lay unimpressed eyes on Greg.

Tony Chu: Who’s this bitch?

Greg Larson stood between the French Mime Assassins and Tony’s accusing glare. Francis loomed. The moment hung with only Tony’s cigarette burning as he continued to smoke it without any hands. Then, like a zap from the heavens, it dawned on Francis who Greg was.

Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re Timmy!!!

Everyone blinked. Greg Larson frowned at Francis who pushed between the mimes and looked at Greg with inexplicable fascination.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Timmy, I thought I sent you on an away mission?

Greg Larson uncomfortably shook his head and softened.

Greg Larson: Uh, yeah. You did. And I did go out in the Pure Amusement Park to take some scans with my tri-corder, but I ran into some teenagers dressed as Klingons who tried to rough me up.

The mimes mimed shock. Tony Chu looked impressed. Francis sized Greg up with newfound respect.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Wow. Talk about life imitating art, huh?

Francis looked to the others as Greg, (Timmy) shook his head with remembered sadness.

Greg Larson: Needless to say, Mr. Cuppola, that day, the way made me renounce my allegiance to the Federation.

Tony Chu: Daaaayum, Star Trek. I did not see that coming. You need a hug?

Greg shook his head as Francis eyed him suspiciously.

Francis Ford Cuppola: So… you’re not a Romulan?

Greg eyed Francis.

Greg Larson: No, Mr. Cuppola. I’m not. I’m just Greg Larson.

Francis and the others look disappointed.

Greg Larson: I’ve come to realize how foolish and overwrought my obsession with Star Trek was. It was fruitless. It's no way to be a man, anyway. And I’ve decided to put aside all my Star Trek memorabilia and equipment, for the greater good of being your assistant.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Wow, just like that huh?

Greg Larson: Just like that.

Francis’ sadness over hearing Greg’s tale of woe quickly resorted back to a wide grin.

Francis Ford Cuppola: This means I have an assistant again!

Francis opened his arms wide to welcome Greg who fell into them like he’d just gotten home.

Tony Chu: What the shit?

Tony Chu dropped the bucket from his hand, aghast, the cigarette fell from his lips.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Oh. Right. Tony.

Tony Chu: I cleaned your house, Frankie. Made it smell like authentic new car. And, after all that, you replace me? I see now why your first assistant left.

Francis pulled back and regarded his two presumptive assistants thoughtfully.

Greg Larson: I’m sure we can arrive at some sort of compromise.

Tony Chu: You think you can muscle in on Tony’s turf, Round Eye?

Tony smacked Greg upside the head angrily.

Greg Larson: What? What-no! I would never.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I’m afraid he’s right, Timmy. Two Assistants is about as ridiculous as this helmet I’m still wearing for some reason.

Francis removed the helmet and handed it off to Professor Scopes whose nose had stopped bleeding. Francis had enough time to consider it.

Francis Ford Cuppola: But, on the upside Tony’s racially charged remarks have provided me with a solution to our problem that should make everyone satisfied.

Everyone was all ears.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Remember that one Star Trek episode where Spock and Kirk were forced to fight to the death?

Greg Larson: Oh, God, please no more Star—

Francis Ford Cuppola: You know the ep, Tim.

Francis winked lovingly at Greg who was ready to cry.

Greg Larson: Please, don’t—

Before Greg could adequately plead, Tony had already grabbed two metal poleaxes off a nearby armory rack and tossed one at Greg who caught it with intense hesitation.

Tony Chu: Enough talk.

Tony gripped his poleaxe with both hands and began to circle Greg threateningly.

Greg Larson: Please, Tony—

Tony Chu: Call me, Spock, Star Trek.

And with that, from somewhere impending orchestral music played in the main chamber of Francis’ downstairs dungeon where Tony Chu and Greg Larson crossed paths in armed combat. Francis turned with the mimes back to Professor Scopes who looked past them at Chu and Gregg with concern.

Francis Ford Cuppola: All right, so let’s hook these bad boys in, and see if they can cut me a promo. Rodney’s gonna piss his pants when he sees the lean mean fighting machine I make out of these two!

Professor Scopes: Are you just going to leave them to fight like that?

Francis Ford Cuppola: Who, them? Oh, sure. It’s either that or kill ‘em both. Just like in Star Trek. Now let’s get my Mime Machine working, huh?

With total apprehension, Professor Scopes helped either mime into the tanning-bed looking contraption and fitted each with their interfaces. He looked nervous to Francis Ford Cuppola who already had his hand on the oversized lever on the wall, which would activate the device. IN the room outside Tony Chu expertly swung his poleaxe right for Greg’s head who luckily ducked out of the way of the massive WHOOSH. Francis didn’t seem to notice.

Professor Scopes: Don’t flip that switch yet until I’ve properly sealed the lids to the interface.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I’m flipping the switch.

Professor Scopes: Please don’t flip the switch.

He flips the switch just as Professor Scopes manages to slam the lids closed, sealing the mimes in. Professor Scopes eyes Francis incredulously as Francis' eyes light up in unison with the oversized plasma screen which now effectively provides a window into the Mimes collective consciousness.

---

Inky Blackness.

There in the darkness, suddenly appears a solitary mime staring ominously into the screen, out at Francis.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Spooky.

Professor Scopes: Shhh, shhh.

The Mime slowly raises his arms and begins to mime being inside of an invisible box.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Seriously? Even in their MINDS they mime? Rodney was right.

Professor Scopes: Remember, this is only a trial run, Mr. Cuppola.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Wait. What's happening?

Behind the first mime, a second set of arms appears and begins to mime against the other sides of the box, and then, creepily steps out from behind the first mime, so now there are two side by side.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Creepy.

Professor Scopes: Yet, interesting as well how they can both simultaneously occupy the same space in each others mind. I was expecting two distinct images from each of their minds, and yet they're demonstrating some sort of--

---

The screen darkens on its own. Francis and Professor Scopes look wearily to one another.

Tony Chu: Dayuuummmmm. Those Mimes think loud.

Greg Larson: Yeah, they sounded like the borg.

Tony Chu: Hey! Good call, Star Trek.

Tony and Greg high five each other. A visibly stressed Francis glares at them.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Get back to fighting, you two!

Tony and Greg resume combat in the other room as the lids lift off the mimes, and the two face-painted, beret-wearing malcontents sit up with eyes intently on Francis.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Hey, Mimes! Great promo. *to Professor Scopes* You did TAPE that, right?

Professor Scopes: How? We don't have any recording devices hooked up to the Mime Machine yet.

Francis shrugs nervously as the mimes step from their pod interface units in unison and step toward him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: *nervous laughter* heh heh heh. Wellllll, that was a great thing that, uh, that uh...

The mimes step closer. Francis backs up against the wall.

Francis Ford Cuppola: So, yeah! Rodney P!!!! You're number one, uh, GUY! Right?

They blankly, and ominously stare at Francis.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I swear to you... I will FIND Rodney, I will get him back to you two, and... uh... YEAH! All will be well. You're not really going to kill my brother and his clown friend at Wicked are you?

In unison, the mimes nod.

Francis' nervous laughter increases before,

Francis Ford Cuppola: Heh, okay! All right! Gonna be a super terrific Wicked then, eh?--RUN!

And with that, Professor Scopes and Francis charge out of the room, run past Tony and Greg fighting too scared to look back at the Mimes who may, or may not, be following them.