|Copies of this unfilmed script can be purchased at
Written by Paul F. Edwards
Second draft - August 27, 1982
This script is of an unfilmed episode.
We have altered the original format for ease of reading.
This end of the Grand Parade. All participants make their way past the Royal Box. Banners and pennons wave. The color and pageantry is impressive.
Baaldorf is eager and excited. Lattinia's nerves are bad and Ariel is doing her nails.
Aaahhh, what a spectacle, eh, Lattinia?
It certainly is, dear.
How can you be so calm in the middle of all this?
It's only a parade, Mother. They haven't started anything yet.
Of course not. Hmmm. Strange. Sir Bowdoin doesn't seem to be here.
I told him not to eat the warthog. It was definitely yukky. On the pink side.
Trumpets and cornets play a FANFARE as all competing teams are assembled on the field. Baaldorf stands.
Ladies and gentlemen, I now declare the Forty-Second Apperanian Tourney Open. Let the games begin!
He gestures "take it" over to TRAQUILL who seems to have dozed off. Shouts, hurrahs and caps in the air from the groundlings. Baaldorf looks over to Traquill. Baaldorf hisses at Lattinia, who nudges Ariel, who shakes Traquill.
. . . So the drunk says, 'Hey, lady, your sign fell down.'
(beat; he blinks)
Mmmm. Sorry. Seem to have dozed off there.
He gets to his feet and points a finger out over the field. A long arc of blue cosmic energy streaks out and a temendous [sic] fireball detonates over the field in sparkling showers of color and billows of smoke. The roar of the crowd is redoubled.
Not bad for two hundred and four.
Oh, no! Are they going to start?
No. They're going to stand around and wave their flags. Of course they're going to start.
Of the Knights in their distinctive colors, moving into the arenas for their various events. Marko competing in the Yeoman Division of the Strongest Man Competition, is starting off with the Keg Toss, in which a hundred-gallon beer barrel is heaved for distance. One of Blackpool's Knights, FOINS, in distinctive black, is consulting with Blackpool before getting into the ring. He then makes ready to compete against an Amazon woman, BROADICEA, in the Two-Handed Broadsword. They heft their weapons.
See you after?
There won't be any after for you, buddy.
You have me at a disadvantage.
You better believe it.
I mean, after all, this is the Broadsword!
That cracks him up, and he doubles over at his wit, like a wild and crazy guy. She is disgusted, advances and decks him with a vicious roundhouse swipe that finishes his program. The Referee dashes in and raises her hand. She beams, victorious.
Greystone and Blackpool are facing each other from opposite sides of a circular, raised, planked, wooden platform; each with a quarterstaff in his hand. They wear no armor, but light leather jerkins with no helmets. The staffs are oak, six feet long and two inches thick. You can flat get your bell rung in this sport.
I'm going to punish you, Greystone.
Let's get on with it.
They begin to circle each other, taking tentative swipes at each other, blood in their eyes like two wild animals. Blackpool makes a feint to his left, then moves to his right. Greystone counters the move perfectly. Blackpool falls to the ground, landing on the edge of the platform.
As he pries loose one of the planks.
Blackpool gets up, maneuvers Erik until Erik's back is to the loose plank. Blackpool lunges straight at Greystone. Greystone trips over the loose plank and loses his balance. Blackpool swings his staff, knocking Greystone over the platform. Blackpool looks down at him.
Lattinia is horrified at what she has just seen.
He lost. He let that jerk beat him.
Who? Which one?
Marko has finished the Barrel Toss and is now waiting to take his turn at the One-Man Battering Ram Contest. GEOFFREY BLACKPOOL lifts his ram, gets set and goes for it. He runs full tilt down a long approach towards a high masonry wall with a solid oaken gate in it. The gate is inches thick and barred in back by a heavy planked log, dropped across its opening through channels of iron. The idea is to ram it in, which has got to be impossible.
Geoffrey lowers his head, flexes his powerful physique and drives his ram full tilt into the door. It only takes a microsecond: his ram is shivered in a thousand fragments and he himself is set back on his ass with a tremendous shock that leaves him blithered, supine on the runway. His Handlers enter and bear him away, unconscious.
Oh, nice, Geoff! Well done! Beautiful, babe!
Geoffrey can only moan incoherently as they try to revive him. Marko makes ready. He hefts a ram the size of a telephone pole but doesn't like the feel. Grabs another. Ahhh. Marko takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and says his lucky prayer.
Charge! His head is down, making like a fighting full from Cordoba.
Watching him, eyes glazed with . . . admiration.
Mmmmm. Check that out. That's what I call . . .
He hits the door and shatters it into flinders, pulverizing not only the wooden barrier, but also the stone masonry that framed it.
. . . a MAN!
Rising from the rubble, his wardrobe somewhat the worse for wear, but all the rest of him intact and triumphant.
Foins walks in, still shaking off the cobwebs from the shellacking he was given by Broadicea. He sits at a bench, sighs, rubs his bumps and bruises.
Didn't like my approach, big deal. Just a little humor there . . .
Suddenly, from nowhere, the weird, black-dressed Masked Men are back. They leap on him, beat him down and bear him off, limp.
Greystone and Blackpool are conferring with Baaldorf and Traquill.
All I know is Bowdoin left the tent last night right after you, and I haven't seen him since.
And my man, Foins, has obviously been kidnapped. His tent was ripped and there were signs of a struggle. I demand an explanation.
Hold it! What do you make of this, Traquill?
There's no magic involved here. We may be dealing with terrorists. On the other hand, maybe they're just off drunk together.
Foins doesn't drink.
Neither does Bowdoin.
This is very puzzling. We've got to work together on this.
I'm being sabotaged here and I don't like it.
Wait a second. I wouldn't kidnap one of my own knights.
Neither would I.
Look. I'll get to the bottom of this. We'll beef up security, close all the exits and double the guards. Now let's get back to the games.
Blackpool and Greystone start to walk off.
I don't care what you do. You're never going to beat us.
Vector is there with Broadicea, following her as she strides the tent like a wild mare, waving her short sword.
You don't seem to understand. What I'm offering you is the opportunity to win!
I don't need your help to win, you miserable little droog.
I can also fix it so you lose.
What have you got in mind?
In the Crack-con Throw, or whatever you call that absurd business, I'll activate the explosive when you throw it at Blackpool.
You can do that?
Absolutely. I can guarantee the Best All-Around Knight title will be yours. Besides, I'll give you three hundred kolnas.
It's a deal.
Broadicea nods her head sagely and sheathes her short sword. She takes an enormous bite of plug from her skirt pocket and chews into it.
Marko is standing between Southwind and his own horse, Ben.
. . . I'm not saying that.
But the pressure's not on you. It's all on Southwind. You see, Erik's got to win tomorrow.
Yeah, that's right, Blackpool beat him in two events.
I know he cheated. That's the kind of guy he is.
The horses seem outraged.
Erik's got to do it all tomorrow. The most important event is the last one -- the joust.
The horses seem to confer together.
That's what I like to hear! I'll tell Erik you said that.
Southwind WHICKERS and raises his right foot, which Marko shakes. Their eyes meet, shining.
I knew I could count on you, stud.
Marko turns and walks away. He hasn't gone twenty paces when they hit him -- the black-clan Men with gymnastic combat styles. Four of them take him down. But Marko begins to thrash their asses. Four more drop on him as though divinely summoned, thus they soon end it. Marko is knocked colder than Michaelmas Night. They heave him onto their shoulders and tote him off in the blackness.
END OF ACT TWO
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