An epic new series about the only land stranger than Game of Thrones: America.
By CH Staff
ESTABLISHING SHOTS POUNDING, INTENSE MUSIC. In SLOW MOTION, We fly over a a PEASANT RABBLE, SCREAMING; over a LONE FARMER tilling a dead field; over a RICH LORD feasting. NARRATOR (V.O.) (elderly, English) Let me tell you a story. A story of a mighty lord... Over A KNIGHT battling a HEATHEN; over a MERCHANT selling a paltry supply of goods. VO Who ruled the mighty land of Am'rica... We arrive at a WHITE CASTLE and move into a window to the... INT. THRONE ROOM LORD BARAK sits on a throne, spinning a sword. JOBIDEN, his loyal adviser looks out of a window. NARRATOR (V.O.) ...and those who sought to challenge his rule. LORD BARAK Do you hear them, Jobiden? Twas but a fortyear hence they chose me to lead them and now they call for my head! JOBIDEN The rabble is fickle, Lord Barak. LORD BARAK Why do they hate me so? I sought to make healing elixirs floweth freely, to bring home our brave knights, and yet they curse me! Barak goes to the window and gazes. LORD BARAK My armies are abroad, my coffers are empty and, as we speak, my enemies plot my demise. Ever since they cau-cused in I-owa, they have been sowing discontent and discord across my realm! JOBIDEN What, pray tell, is Cau-cus? LORD BARAK Not a man among us knows. Barak SIGHS deeply. LORD BARAK A tempest swirls on the horizon, Jobiden, and I fear we are in its path. We FLY out the window, up into the air, seeing the country as a Game of Thrones-style Map. DISSOLVE TO: INT. ROUND TABLE ROOM A huge medieval hall with a massive round table in the center. Barak's CHALLENGERS (we'll meet them shortly) sit at the table surrounded by NOISY PEASANTS. SIR ROMNEY, a gallant knight in shining gold armor, stands and bangs his sword against his breastplate, silencing everyone. SIR ROMNEY Citizens! It is I, Sir Romney of the Northlands! Gaze upon me! Fair of face and deep of purse am I. Only I can defeat Lord Barak! More minor lords and barons pledge fealty to me than any other! Their banners hang on the walls of my seventeen castles! Why, even the dark sorcerer Santorum (pronounced Szan-tor-rum) yields to my power. SANTORUM, a Voldermort-like character, appears in a puff of smoke, sneering: SANTORUM Sssss. You are wisssse and powerful, surely though, you would still require a viceroy to aid you in your glorious battlessssss. SIR ROMNEY Silence, Santorum! Spin your poisons elsewhere! These fair people do not wish to hear your wicked words...unless they do? Do you? A Beat. Nobody says anything. Romney scatters coins around. The Peasants CHEER! A TAPPING CANE distracts them. RUNPUL, bent and tiny, enters, talking as he goes. RUNPUL (in verse) Deep of purse Sir Romney be / but his coin com'eth from all of thee / Be not fooled by his golden present / Sir Romney is no friend to the peasant! Grumbling among the masses. Some throw their coins back. ROMNEY Nonsense! Many of my friends own peasants! MUCH LOUDER OUTRAGE. NEWT, a rotund scribe, beats a turkey leg against the table. He is surrounded by a harem of women. NEWT Ronpul, you shriveled hermit! You crooked old fool. How dare you insult the brave Sir Romney? Who I would be honored to join in the battle against Lord Barak! SANTORUM Twasn't but a fortnight ago you proclaimed Sir Romney unfit to rule! Now you propose yourself as his viceroy? I'm confused. NEWT (exploding, spitting food) SO AM I! ROMNEY You're a swollen old gasbag Newt, and your head is unnaturally pumpkin-like. You stand not a chance to become my viceroy! (humorously) Why, you might not even be able to stand a'tall! Santorum tries to stifle a laugh. RONPUL A witty song Sir Romney sings / A better jester than a king? SIR ROMNEY Insolence! Romney draws his blade. Santorum harnesses some dark magic. He is making hand motions like he's fondling two balls. He opens his mouth, moving his tongue. Some peasants look at him sideways. SANTORUM What? What? This is how you do magic. What? Ssss. Newt quietly devours a turkey leg. Romney charges Ronpul. Runpul SLAMS his CANE on the ground, sending out a shockwave and knocking everyone into their seats. RONPUL ENOUGH! The Gods may grant to every man / The right to bear his blade in hand / But sheath them now for we must choose / the man to whom Lord Barak will lose! SIR ROMNEY It's obviously going to be me. NEWT Yeah, of course. SANTORUM Yessssss. RONPUL ...Yeah. NEWT (chewing on a turkey leg) But first... A feast! Newt pushes a partial-eaten turkey away and pulls in a fresh one. OTHER CANDIDATES Eh, I'm not really hungry. / Me neither. / I could eat a sssssnack. Santorum eats a live mouse. CUT TO: INT. THRONE ROOM Lord Barak stands from his throne, regal and determined. Jobiden plays a Lyre in the corner. LORD BARAK Jobiden, send out the ravens to each and every one of my faithful followers! JOBIDEN But sire, we've sent thousands of ravens already. The peasants, they have become annoyed and ignore the ravens. LORD BARAK Then send more! We must swell our coffers! My Queen! Take my hand. QUEEN MICHELLE, an elegant beauty, takes Lord Barak's hand. LORD BARAK For our elders wrote on the ancient scroll that every fortyear the high lord must defend his rule against all challengers! Angle on the Constitution, hung on the wall. LORD BARAK (super intense) And I will not leave the White Castle without a fight. Mark my words, friends, November is coming... An INTENSE DRUM BEAT TEXT: November is Coming... MICHELLE (totally normal) Hon, did you know that the peasant kids are getting served steeped pig anus even though the farmers have plenty of leafy greens in their fields? LORD BARAK Come on, Michelle. Nobody gives a shit. (beat) I'm sorry. END.