“Meo en Mis Pantalones”
Escrito por Sobrina Holly
Fade in: Lush green grass covers rolling hills dotted by gravemarkers. Here and there, crumbling stone crypts lie half-hidden in the ominous fog. Dramatic, scary music plays, as this is truly a dramatic and scary place.
Pepino: This is truly dramatic and scary place, Fournay. Are you sure that Montenegro woman is to be trusted? And what of that chemistry locura?
Fournier: Silence, mariachi, I already told you. I am the great journalist Ron Fournay; my sources are good. You know, there is a lesson to be learned here about listening the first time …
(Cut to Pepino’s eyes, widening in panic.)
Pepino: Estoy escuchando, I’m listening!
Fournier: Like I said, my sources are good and Ms. Montenegro is the best. She may be lost when it comes to chemistry, but she knows Farrell.
(Suddenly, a gust of wind howls through the graveyard and the dense fog swirls around the two men. Pepino grasps his sombrero just as it begins to fly off his egg-white bald spotted headed. It begins to drizzle, ominously.)
Pepino: Well then let’s find this crypt your espía spoke of.
(The two men begin searching the graveyard, their shoes squeaking in the muddy ground. The drizzle intensifies into a downpour and raindrops begin to pool in the gringo mariachi’s sombrero. Suddenly: a victorious shout, followed by dramatic organ music that rises sharply in anticipation. The camera pans to Fournay, who stands beside the oldest crypt in the yard. The crumbled facade almost obscures the name carved above the heavy, stone door. But as the camera swiftly zooms in, one can just make out the word “Farrell”. The organ music reaches its peak.)
Pepino: The Farrell bastard! This is his family’s crypt!
(Quite suddenly, a voice from off-camera speaks in a deep, manly-man way)
Voice: Si, you have found the Farrell crypt. I hoped you would, as I have been waiting in this dramatic and scary graveyard for your arrival. Now, señor, prepare to die.
(A figure steps out from behind the Farrell crypt. He is a 40+ year old handsome Mexican cowboy with leathery skin. A ten-gallon hat rests on his head, shielding his rugged face from the cold rain. The organ music returns.)
Pepino: Raul! (Cue terrified, azure eyes.)
Fournier: What is this? Why does this cowboy want to kill you, mariachi?
(Fournier recieves no answer, as Raul and Pepino embark on a fierce staring contest. The camera jumps from one man’s eyes to another. One set of eyes are a deep blue and terrified, while the others are chocolate and murderous.)
Fournier: I demand you explain what is going on. Why must you kill the mariachi? We have right to know the truth!
(Quick cut to black.)