A FACEFUL OF FUCK
SCREENPLAY BY ME
EXTERIOR - SOME PLACE IN THE OLD WEST - DAY
SLOW PAN over the desert. A scruffy-looking OUTLAW is busy unhitching his horse from a tree by a dried up waterhole. On the left-hand side of the screen in the extreme foreground we can see over the right shoulder of a tall MARSHALL, pointing a six-shooter at the OUTLAW. Only the angle of the MARSHALL's stubbly jaw can be seen beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
Hold it right there, varmint.
The OUTLAW looks up suddenly - fear, surprise, recognition and shame all flickering rapidly over his haggard features. The OUTLAW's horse lifts its tail and drops a chunk of shit out of its asshole with a plop.
We both knew I'd catch up with you some day... pard. And on that day I'd have to shoot you dead, 'else all them poor souls way back in Cooter Valley would never rest easy. But before I send a man to meet his maker, I gotta dress him up as a ballerina and watch him eat a dolphin in under four and a half minutes. It's just something m'pappy taught me gotta be done.
The MARSHALL holsters his gun, hauls a filthy ballerina costume from his saddle bag, unties a feebly twitching dolphin slung over the back of his horse, flings them both down in front of the OUTLAW and pulls an old pocket watch from his shirt.
Get busy, you cowpunching dirtbag. You got just under four minutes. Don't even think about runnin'.
The MARSHALL raps on the butt of his holstered revolver with a callused knuckle for emphasis and watches dispassionately as the OUTLAW struggles into the grubby leotard and tutu. The OUTLAW, now dressed as a ballerina, begins to eat the dolphin. The dolphin emits a faint gurgle from its blowhole.
CUT AWAY to time-lapse footage of a decomposing lemming for the next few minutes then CUT BACK to the unfolding drama.
The OUTLAW has eaten maybe a third of the dolphin. The MARSHALL checks his pocket watch for a moment and tucks it back into his shirt.
Time's up, shitheel.
The OUTLAW looks up, a chunk of dripping dolphin meat paused halfway to his mouth. The MARSHALL draws his six-shooter and blasts the top of the OUTLAW's head off in a crimson spray of gore. A flying shard of the OUTLAW's skull buries itself in a termite mound twenty feet away, demolishing the egg-laying chamber.
Seventeen-thousand tumbleweeds drift by.
The MARSHALL re-holsters his shootin' iron, does a triple back flip into the saddle, blows the dead OUTLAW a kiss and rides off into the sunset. The OUTLAW's horse drops another shit out of its ass.