November is Coming

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.