|
a preview of
Silence of the Sheep by Steve Gallagher (dagalagas@yahoo.com) 
HILTON: Clinton exploited mind control techniques he learned on a 1969 visit to Moscow. These techniques were later enhanced by the teachings of Yau Kahn Liu, master of the ancient art of Chaw Fui - "subconsciously reinforced blissful ignorance". Liu, who worked under the name "Ken Lee" at Charlie Trie's Little Rock restaurant, eventually exposed Bill Clinton's tricks in exchange for a new identity and three pairs of American jeans. You do know how Clinton eventually wound up in this mental institution, don't you? CLARISE: Yes, Dr. Hilton. Once the American people realized that they had been horribly manipulated into electing a shameless criminal, his approval numbers plummeted to 54%. In an attempt to raise those numbers, he declared war on thirty-seven different countries. Finally, when he ordered Carnival Cruise Lines to attack the southern coast of Ohio, he was forcibly removed from the White House. HILTON: That's when they found the bodies under the porch... CLARISE: Oh that was so horrible! Everyone had assumed those people just fled the country to avoid testifying in the campaign finance investigation. HILTON: Bill Clinton is our most dangerous patient. We've tried to study him, of course - but he's much too sophisticated for the standard tests. Crawford's very clever, isn't he? I mean - using you. CLARISE: What do you mean, Dr. Hilton? HILTON: (flirting) A pretty young woman to turn Clinton on? I don't believe he's even seen a woman in seven years. And oh, are you ever his type - I mean... with your lack of penis and all. CLARISE: (indignant) I graduated Magna cum Laude from Pepperdine University, Dr. Hilton. HILTON: (angry at the rebuke) Good. Then you should be able to remember the rules - do not go near the Plexiglas. If he flatters you, remember that it's disingenuous. If he makes a pass at you, claim to be happily married... it won't stop him, but he may tone it down a little. Do you understand me? CLARISE: I understand. HILTON: I'm going to show you why we insist on such precautions... On the afternoon of June 8, 2004, Arianna Huffington requested a meeting with our prisoner... this is what he did to her! He hands Clarise a small, dog-eared photo. Looking at it, she is stopped in her tracks. This pleases Hilton. HILTON: That's from the 2004 Democratic National Convention - only weeks after their meeting. Huffington gave the keynote address, and officially introduced Sheila Jackson Lee as "The Next President of the United States". He turns, pushes a button. A steel door buzzes slowly open.
HILTON: You're on your own now, Starling. I've set up a chair down there. Be careful. He turns on his heel and goes, the door closing behind him. The camera follows Clarise, as her footsteps echo down the hall. High to her right, surveillance cameras. On her left, dark cells, with shadowy occupants pacing and muttering. Suddenly a squirrelly figure in the next-to-last cell hurtles towards her, his face mashing grotesquely against the bars as he hisses. His face is instantly recognizable as Chuck Schumer. SCHUMER: I can sssssmell tobacco, eeeee-vile tobacco. You're not smoking ta...ta... tobacco, ARE you bitch!? Clarise flinches momentarily, but then walks on. As she gets closer, we can see the last cell - three stone walls without windows and a two-inch thick plexiglas wall facing the corridor. Childish, dirty drawings of naked women hang from the walls, interspersed with photos of Clinton and famous Hollywood celebrities. Clarise stops and stares at Bill Clinton, standing silently erect in the center of the room and glaring at her intensely. He is wearing a neat, dark blue, pinstripe suit. His shirt is starched and new, and his red tie is perfectly knotted at his neck. CLARISE: Hello, President Clinton... My name is Clarise Starling. May I talk with you? CLINTON: I always have time for a female caller... especially for one as lovely as you. CLARISE: Mr. President, we've been having a hard time with a political profiling case. I want to ask for your help with a questionnaire. CLINTON: "We" being the Investigative Journalism Unit, down at the Scaife Institute? You're one of Jack Crawford's, I suspect. CLARISE: I am, yes. CLINTON: May I see your press credentials? Clarise is surprised, but fishes her ID card from her bag, and holds it up for his inspection. He bites his lip and sniffs the air. CLINTON: Closer, please... clo-ser... clo-ser... She complies each time, trying to hide her fear. Clinton moves his face toward the air holes in the plexiglas. His nostrils lift, as he gently, like an animal, tests the air. Then he smiles, glancing at her card. CLINTON: That expires in one week. You're not a real journalist, are you? CLARISE: I'm still in training at the Institute. CLINTON: Jack Crawford sent a cub reporter to interview me? Well then... let me tell you about my plans to help working mothers deal with emotionally-draining, child-rearing issues. CLARISE: You're wasting your time, Mr. President. I've studied many of the manipulation techniques you employ, and frankly, I consider myself quite immune. CLINTON: Well, look out Christopher Hitchens! Sit. Please. She sits in the folding metal chair. He waits politely till she's settled, then sits down himself, and faces her. CLINTON: Now then. What did Chuckie Schumer say to you? (she is puzzled) "Shameless Schumer" in the next cell. He hissed at you. What did he say? CLARISE: He said - "I can smell tobacco on you." CLINTON: I see. Chuckie's really out of it. He hasn't caught on that tobacco-bashing went out of style, along with feminism, back in the late 90's. I don't smell tobacco... but you do use Jergen's skin cream, and sometimes you wear "Obsequious" - from the Kathie Lee Gifford collection... but not today... CLARISE: (shifting uncomfortably) Did you do those drawings? CLINTON: Yes. That one's Donna Shalala, legs akimbo in the Lincoln bedroom. And that's Diane Feinstein, viewed from the rear as she puts her stockings back on. CLARISE: All that detail - just from memory...? CLINTON: Memory, Miss Starling, is what I have... instead of a date. A pause, then Clarise nervously takes the questionnaire from her case. CLARISE: Mr. Clinton, if you'd please consider - CLINTON: No, no, no... relax. You were doing fine, you've been probing, without being confrontational. You'll make an exceptional journalist. I don't think a Pulitzer is out of the question. CLARISE: Chaw Fui Lesson Six - compliment your subject to lower their defenses. I've studied, Mr. President. CLINTON: Jack Crawford must be very busy indeed if he's recruiting help from the student body. Busy hunting that new one - Mr. Maytag?... Such a naughty boy! Did Crawford send you to ask for my advice on him? CLARISE: Well, I came because we need - CLINTON: How many conservatives has he converted, our Mr. Maytag? CLARISE: Five... five, so far. CLINTON: All hopelessly liberal now? CLARISE: Yes... if you could - CLINTON: Mr. Maytag - the washing machine. Why do you think he enjoys his activities, Clarise? Thrill me with your acumen. CLARISE: It excites him... most politicians collect converts like trophies... it increases their power. CLINTON: That wasn't my sole motivation. CLARISE: No. You were also trying to get laid, I suppose. A tense beat, then a smile from him, at this small boldness. CLINTON: Send that through. She places the questionnaire in the tray that slides in and out of the cell, and pushes it through. He rises, glances at it, and turns a page or two disdainfully. CLINTON: Oh, Miss Starling... do you really think you can dissect me with this blunt little tool? CLARISE: No. I only hoped that your knowledge - Suddenly he whips the tray back at her, with a harsh clang that makes her start. His voice remains a pleasant southern purr. CLINTON: You're sooo above it all, aren't you...? (mocking) "Oh, Mr. Clinton, I would never fall for your tricks...I'm so goddamned smart!" That's just because I'm in here! Give me a podium, an American flag behind me, and some fawning press coverage - I'll have you blubbering for universal health care in no time! I bite my lip, and you'd hand over your guns in a minute! (calming down, internalizing his fury) Good training has given you some room for independent thought, but you're not more than one generation from political sheep, are you - Miss Starling...? That accent you're trying so desperately to shed - pure Upper West Side. Who'd your parents vote for in 1980, dear? It wasn't Reagan, was it? A Carter family, I'm sure. Did your Mommy and Daddy meet at a Jackson Browne concert or at some Earth Day festivities? ...And I'm sure their divorce was messy... Daddy wanted to feel young again... or did Mommy tire of motherhood and feel the need to "grow"? His every word has struck her like tiny, precise darts. But she squares her jaw and won't give ground. CLARISE: You see a lot, Mr. Clinton. But are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself? How about it...? Look at yourself and write down the truth. (She slams the tray back at him) Or maybe even you're embarrassed by the things you've done... CLINTON: I'm immune to shame, Clarise... you're a tough one, aren't you? CLARISE: I can be. CLINTON: You fear me... you worry that appeals to your emotions might overwhelm your intellect - your ability to think with precision and clarity. My, wouldn't that sting! Now, please excuse me. Good day. CLARISE: And the questionnaire...? CLINTON: An independent prosecutor tried to unmask my evil secrets once... I had the press eat him alive, while I enjoyed some fava beans and a nice Chianti... Fly back to school, little Starling...fly, fly... |
|
|
