Fifteen minutes had passed before we finally came back to our senses. We had sat through wife beating, infant abuse, the theft of a string of sausages, a rampaging crocodile, and the merciless pounding of a policeman. Shit. This was real entertainment – a horrible, nightmarish story that had grown out of ancient English trauma and despair. No one knew why Mr. Punch was such a cunt, or why he had to beat the living shit out of anyone and anything that crossed his path, but they all found it as funny as hell. And so did we.
Barney was visibly shaking with excitement, as the pop from the previous night’s session seeped in sweaty beads through the pores of her skin.
Booga was just like a kid, swept away with enthusiasm every time the crowd roared its disapproval for Mr. Punch’s terrible actions.
Jet Girl laughed moronically, usually at the bits that weren’t funny, whilst continuing to chain-smoke joints.
I was simply transfixed. Mr. Punch was my kind of guy, which made what I had to do even more difficult. Oh well. Our on-stage cue was coming up, we had to swing into action any second.
I breathed heavily in anticipation, and then, all of a sudden, he was there – The Devil (or rather a roughly carved hand-puppet of the devil). Mr. Punch steamed in there with his stick and proceeded to dispense a summary thrashing.
I forgot myself for a moment and got caught up in the action once again. Barney brought me back to reality with a loud gunshot, as she pulled out her revolver and fired an opening salvo at The Devil. She winged him and he turned to look straight at us.
In the blink of an eye, Booga had quickly kicked away the pebbles from the mound in front of him, revealing his high-calibre machine gun, set on top of a pile of larger stones. He clipped up the sights and cocked the first round into the chamber. The kids looked back in horror and disappeared in an instant, like roaches fleeing under cookers, freezers and cupboards to escape the bright lights of a kitchen.
“Take the bastard out!” I yelled at the top of my voice as I pulled out my Glock and hammered away at the fast moving, wooden-headed Satan. Barney and Jet Girl took pot-shots at him like he was a targetduck in a fairground firing range.
Booga opened up with the heavy machine gun and the entire tent started to ripple and disintegrate. The puppet “Professor” dived out from inside, blood spewing from a massive bullet hole in his upper arm, and he rolled off down the pebbly slope.
Punch and Judy Professors use a contrivance known as a swazzle, which they hold in their mouths to provide the squawking voice of Mr. Punch. This particular Professor ran, hell for leather, down the beach, squealing “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The fuckin’ nutter’s shot me!” in his loudest Mr. Punch voice.
The rest of the beach quickly cleared of all holiday makers and sunseekers.
Back in the tent, somehow, by some complete freak-voodoo-magic-witchcraft-sorcery, The Devil was still running back and forth across the stage, operated by invisible forces and possessed of super-puppetry strength.
“Blast the bugger back to hell!” I commanded Booga. My own gun was all out of bullets and I struggled to reload.
“I’m trying,” he replied, firing short, sharp bursts, “but these guns aren’t made for accuracy. They’re only really good for coverage. This little red fucker seems to know which way every bullet is gonna go before I even fire it. I’ll bet he can walk between the raindrops too.”
“Okay. That’s it,” I declared, dropping my half-loaded pistol onto the stony ground, “I’ve had enough of this bullshit.”
I took a grenade out of my purse and yanked out the pin. I tossed it straight into the top of the tattered tent.
The Devil stopped his haring around and fixed me with his scarlet, beaky gaze. He gave one loud, tortured screech that echoed across the now-deserted beach and the entire tent went up with an almighty explosion. Shattered pebbles rained down on us as the cloud of smoke approached and then disappeared.
There was nothing left of the tent, save for a couple of bits of charred material and the burnt stump of Mr. Punch’s slap-stick.
We split up into pairs and combed the beach, just in case there was anything left of our creepy foe. I headed east with Jet Girl, while Booga went west with Barney.
After about ten minutes of searching, Barney yelled out to us. They were miles back down the beach, so we started running to get there faster.
Stuck in the sand, right next to Barney’s foot, was the smouldering face that had splintered off of the head of The Devil. Barney nudged it with her foot to see if there was any fight left in it; it didn’t move.
I picked it up and examined it closely. It was nothing but shattered wood and paint.
Suddenly its eyes opened up and swivelled around to look at me with what I can only describe as a countenance of absolute, pure, unadulterated evil that chilled my soul to its very core.
“Give me that here,” said Jet Girl, snatching the puppet face out of my hands. “I’ll show you what to do with a cunt like that... little fucker...”
She pulled her switchblade out from her boot and proceeded to shave the wooden face along its grain into neat, thin slivers. Then she took one of the strips and rolled it into a long joint with a little tobacco and a peppering of strong weed.
Jet Girl popped the finished doobie into her mouth and smiled.“Smoke ’um. What the fuck is he gonna do about that then, huh?”
Then she flicked open her Zippo and lit up the joint.
Then I woke up.
TANK GIRL
STINKHELMET (unfinished)
PAGE ONE
PANEL ONE
Nice big opening panel. A blazing summer’s day. We are outside of an outbuilding of a large, run-down, industrial-looking farm complex. TANK GIRL (wearing a tramp’s beige suit, a white shirt, and steel toecaped boots, with her hair in a plait and a pair of Eric Morecambe glasses) is talking directly to us. She is holding an automatic rifle with the barrel pointing skyward. Around the corner behind her is a dusty courtyard with what looks like a steeple-less chapel at the far end. BOOGA, dressed in a black boiler suit (open to the chest), is next to her with his back against the wall. No titles until page seven.
CAPTION #1 - A HAPPY HOLIDAY BREAK ON A FAMILY FARMSTEAD HAS TURNED SOUR. SOMEONE IS AFTER US.
CAPTION #2 - COULD IT BE AN ADVERSARY OF OLD?
CAPTION #3 - OR SOME RANDOM MANIAC WHO’S BEEN PLAYING TOO MANY SHOOT-’EM-UPS WHEN HE SHOULD’VE BEEN DOING HIS HOMEWORK?
TANK GIRL - THERE’S AN A-HOLE ON THE ROOF. THERE’S NO WAY OUT OF HERE, EXCEPT ACROSS THAT COURTYARD. AND THE A-HOLE’S GOT IT COVERED, CORNER-TOCORNER.
BOOGA - YEAH MAN. CORNER-TO-FUCKIN’-CORNER.
TANK GIRL
(linked) - CHECK THIS OUT....
PANEL TWO
TANK GIRL flicks a large silver coin out into the air of the courtyard.
S.F.X. - FLICKY-SPIN!
PANEL THREE
A shot flashes and rings out from the church rooftop, a spark flies from the spinning, airborne coin.
S.F.X. - BLAM-CHINK!!
PANEL FOUR
The coin falls back into TANK GIRL’S hand.
S.F.X. - COIN-PLUNK!
PAGE TWO
PANEL ONE
Close on the coin in TANK GIRL’S hand. It depicts the President of Australia (a full-body portrait, however you want to do him), smiling and waving a hand. The text around the outside of the coin face reads –
ONE AUSTRALIAN DOLLAR IN MONEY WE TRUST
The sniper’s bullet has made a perfectly round hole in the centre of the coin, right where the President’s private parts should be.
PANEL TWO
BOOGA holds up the coin and looks at us through the hole.
BOOGA - CHRIST! RIGHT IN THE BALL-BAG.
PANEL THREE
Close on TANK GIRL, serious.
TANK GIRL - THAT’S SHARP SHOOTING AT ITS BEST. WE CAN’T USE OUR USUAL BARNSTORMING TACTICS WITH THIS GUY, HE’LL MASSACRE US IN SECONDS. WE’RE GONNA HAVE TO PLAY A STRATEGIC GAME THIS TIME.
TANK GIRL - ONE OF US IS GONNA HAVE TO GET CLOSE AND OUTFLANK HIM.
PANEL FOUR
BOOGA steps up to TANK GIRL in a volunteering type way.
BOOGA - I’LL GO. I FEEL THAT THIS IS MY MOMENT OF GLORY.
TANK GIRL - BOOGA... NO SHIT!? IT’S UNLIKE YOU TO STEP UP TO THE BREECH AND PULL YOUR PANTS DOWN.
PANEL FIVE
BOOGA pulls on his T.W.A.T (same lettering as S.W.A.T.) baseball cap.
BOOGA - IT’S MY INNER ACTION HERO. I CANNOT DENY HIM THIS TIME.
BOOGA
(linked) - HAS ANYONE GOT A DECENT PISTOL?
PANEL SIX
BARNEY (looking like a dark-haired Woodstock-era Joni Mitchell) presenting BOOGA with a mint condition Nazi Luger pistol.
BARNEY - HERE, THIS WAS MY GREAT UNCLE’S LUGER. TAKE EXTREME CARE OF IT. HE FOUND IT IN THE WRECK OF A CRASHED NAZI BOMBER WHEN HE WAS A KID IN FRANCE. THERE’S ONLY FIVE BULLETS IN IT, THEY’RE ANTIQUE TOO.
BOOGA - WOW. THANKS BARNEY... OKAY. KISS ME GIRLS, I MIGHT NOT BE COMING BACK FROM THIS ONE.
PAGE THREE
PANEL ONE
TANK GIRL, BARNEY and JET GIRL gather around BOOGA and plant smoochy kisses on him. He looks bold and brave in a Bond-like pose.
PANEL TWO
BOOGA sidles up to the corner of the building, gun held aloft and ready, taking a sneaky peek across the courtyard. TANK GIRL is behind him, listening intently.
BOOGA - MY PLAN IS TO GO THROUGH THE STABLES, JUMP OUT OF THE WINDOW – I’LL BE AT MY MOST EXPOSED THERE, SO A LITTLE COVERING FIRE WOULDN’T GO AMISS – THEN I’M GONNA SNEAK DOWN THE BACK OF THE OLD GRAIN STORE, UP THE DRAIN PIPE AND ACROSS THE ROOFTOPS BEHIND HIM.
BOOGA
(linked) - HOPEFULLY I’LL GET A CLEAR SHOT AT THE BACK OF THE BASTARD’S HEAD FROM THERE... READY?
PANELTHREE
BOOGA tiptoes in through the stable.
S.F.X. - TIPPY-TIPPY-TOEY-TIP-TIP!
PANEL FOUR
BOOGA jumps out of the low window at the far end of the building.
S.F.X. - SNEAKY-TOE-TIP!
PANEL FIVE
Close on TANK GIRL, shouting.
TANK GIRL - BOOGA’S OUT OF THE WINDOW, THAT’S OUR CUE!
TANK GIRL
(linked) - COVERING FIRE!!
PANEL SIX
TANK GIRL, BARNEY, JACKIE, ZULU and JET GIRL all open fire into the air with rifles, machine guns, pistols and catapults.
TANK GIRL - MAKE HIM BLEED!!
BARNEY - ARRGGHHH!!!
JACKIE - TAKE THAT, YOU NASTY SHARP-SHOOTING PERSON!!
ZULU - REACH FOR THE SKY!!
JET GIRL - OPEN SHITTING FIRE!!
S.F.X. - BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! RATTY-TAT-TITTY!
PAGE FOUR
PANEL ONE
BOOGA is in a narrow, overgrown alley, fenced in by two high walls. He is looking down at the ground, out of shot. At the end of the alley is the back entrance to the chapel.
BOOGA - PHEW! SAFE! THAT’S THE DODGY BIT OUT OF THE WAY, NOW I NEED TO GET UP THERE AND SHOOT THE GIT’S BRAINS OUT.
BOOGA
(linked) - SAY... TAKE A LOOK AT THAT... THAT’S GOTTA BE A SUPER-RARE SPECIMEN.
PANEL TWO
BOOGA is on his hands and knees, looking closely at a mushroom that looks suspiciously like a dog’s erect cock (this is a Dog Stinkhorn, actually a real fungi, I can supply a picture if needed – ha, what does that say about me?!).
BOOGA - AMAZING. ABSOLUTELY AMAZING. I’VE NEVER SEEN THIS MUSHROOM BEFORE. I MUST TAKE IT BACK TO THE LAB AND EXAMINE IT SCIENTIFICALLY.
PANEL THREE
BOOGA carefully puts the mushroom into his inside pocket, whilst daintily biting a piece of its flesh held in his other hand.
BOOGA - ALWAYS SAMPLE WHAT YOU PICK... PASS A LITTLE THROUGH YOUR BEING... GIVE A LITTLE BACK TO THE COSMOS...
PANEL FOUR
Close on BOOGA, chewing thoughtfully.
BOOGA - HMM... LIQUORICE OVERTONES, WITH A SUBTLE SUGGESTION OF CINNAMON POP-TART... AND... AH, YES, BORSCHT.
PANEL FIVE
BOOGA begins his ascent of the chapel drainpipe.
BOOGA - IT’S ALWAYS A GOOD OMEN WHEN I COME ACROSS A MUSHROOM FOR THE FIRST TIME. MEANS THAT THINGS ARE GONNA BE GOING MY WAY TODAY.
BOOGA - NOW, TO THE JOB IN HAND. SHIN-UP THE SPOUT AND ANNIHILATE THE A-HOLE. THIS IS JUST LIKE MY FAVOURITE FILM, “DIE HARD III – DIE HARD WITH A VEST ON”.
PANEL SIX
BOOGA reaches the rooftop. In the distance, on the far side of the roof, we can see his foe – surrounded by a nest of sandbags and training his telescopic rifle on the farm below. Strangely his uniform and helmet mark him out as a WWII NAZI STORMTROOPER.
BOOGA - WHAT THE FUCK...?
PAGE FIVE
PANEL ONE
The NAZI remains in position (we don’t get to see his hands or face yet). BOOGA stands a few feet behind him, aiming his antique Luger at the back of his head.
BOOGA
(thinks) - THIS IS TOO EASY. ANY SNIPER WORTH TWO CENTS WOULD’VE BLOWN ME CLEAN OFF THE ROOF BY NOW.
BOOGA
(thinks) - AND WHY THE SECOND WORLD WAR NAZI OUTFIT? BETTER JUST SHOOT HIM IN THE HEAD AND BE DONE WITH IT.
PANEL TWO
Close on the Luger as BOOGA pulls the trigger. A pathetic little puff of smoke plumes from the hammer. There is no bang.
S.F.X. - PFFFUTSSSSSS.....
PANEL THREE
BOOGA stares in disappointment as a bullet rolls out of the barrel of the Luger and plops into the open palm of his other hand.
S.F.X. - PLOP!
BOOGA - SHIT... ANTIQUE PISTOL... ANTIQUE BULLETS.
PANEL FOUR
BOOGA pulls the NAZI up by his shoulders. The NAZI is nothing more that a skeleton in uniform. The telescopic rifle falls out of his bony hands. BOOGA is stunned.
BOOGA - MY GOD! HE’S DEAD... AND FOR A LONG TIME TOO, BY THE LOOKS OF THINGS.
PANEL FIVE
BOOGA is holding the NAZI’s helmet, checking out the inside of it.
BOOGA - MAN THIS SMELLS BAD. COULD’VE BEEN FESTERING HERE SINCE THE WAR.
BOOGA
(linked) - BUT THERE HAVE NEVER BEEN ANY NAZIS IN THIS COUNTRY...
PANEL SIX
BOOGA, with a deranged look in his eyes, puts on the Nazi helmet and brandishes his Luger.
BOOGA - ...HAVE THERE?
PAGE SIX
PANEL ONE
BARNEY is looking up from the courtyard through a small pair of binoculars. TANK GIRL is behind her shoulder.
TANK GIRL - WHAT’S HAPPENING? HAS HE DONE IT? WHAT CAN YOU SEE?
BARNEY - YEAH... I THINK SO... HE SHOT HIM IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD. JOLLY UNSPORTING, IF YOU ASK ME.
PANEL TWO
TANK GIRL marches out across the courtyard.
TANK GIRL - THANK JIMBO FOR THAT. MAYBE NOW WE CAN GET IN THE TANK AND GO HOME. IT’S ALMOST TIME FOR AFTERNOON TEA, FOR CHRISTSAKE.
PANEL THREE
BOOGA joins TANK GIRL as they arrive at the tank. He is wearing the soldier’s helmet (he keeps it on until the end of the story) and his eyes are heavily dilated.
TANK GIRL - GOOD JOB, STUD.
TANK GIRL
(linked) - YOU DEFINITELY TURNED HIM OFF, YEAH?
BOOGA - HUH? OH... YEAH... THE GUY IS NO LONGER HERE... THAT’S FOR CERTAIN.
PANEL FOUR
Close on BARNEY – as always her eyes are funny too.
BARNEY - BOOGA, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOUR EYES?
PANEL FIVE
Close on BOOGA, getting into the cab.
BOOGA - OH... THAT... YEAH, I HAD TO... ERM... I STOPPED TO UM... I DID A LITTLE EXPERIMENT... YOU KNOW THE KIND OF THING...
PANEL SIX
The whole gang are squashed into the cockpit of the tank; ZULU is peeking through the curtains from the back. JET GIRL is driving, with a big old smokin’ doobie between her teeth. BOOGA is holding up his mushroom discovery and ogling it with intense fascination.
TANK GIRL - BOOGA... I HOPE YOU DON’T MIND ME ASKING, BUT WHY ARE YOU HOLDING A DOG’S COCK LIKE IT WAS AN ICE LOLLY?
PANEL SEVEN
Close on BOOGA’S face, his eyes spiralling, fixed on the mushroom. TANK GIRL is leaning in from the side, looking puzzled.
BOOGA - I WAS PRETTY CERTAIN THAT IT WAS CALLED STINKHELMET, BUT NOW I’M NOT SO SURE...
BOOGA
(linked) - ...I HAVE EATEN A BIT OF IT.
TANK GIRL- CHRIST. GET US HOME SHARPISH, JET GIRL. IT’S WAY PAST THIS LITTLE BOY’S BED TIME.
PAGE SEVEN
PANEL ONE
Whole page with the STORY TITLES. Big establishing shot. From the front – Number 13, Pleasant Street. A three storey terraced house built at the turn of the century, with bay windows and steps from the front door leading straight onto the street. More steps lead down behind a railing fence to the basement. The tank is parked outside (maybe we can see just the end of it). BOOGA is visible at the middle floor window, staring blankly out into the street, still wearing his helmet. The sun is setting in a magnificent orange-pink splurge behind the rooftops. The other character’s voices are coming from the ground floor living room.
CAPTION #1 - THE HOUSE WHERE WE LIVE RIGHT NOW, NUMBER THIRTEEN PLEASANT STREET. ONE OF THE HIGHEST HOUSES IN THIS OLD CITY. IT’S DRAUGHTY AND DAMP IN THE WINTER, AND ZULU IS ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT THE RATS IN HIS BASEMENT LABORATORY, BUT WE GET CONSTANT SUNSHINE, ALL DAY LONG, AND OUR VIEW DOWN ONTO THE BAY IS JUST BREATHTAKING. WORTH TEN DOLLARS A WEEK RENT OF ANYONE’S MONEY.
CAPTION #2 - WE HAVE TAKEN THE PRECAUTION OF LOCKING BOOGA IN THE UPSTAIRS BEDROOM. IT IS CLEAR TO US THAT HE HAS INGESTED AN INDETERMINATE AMOUNT OF AN UNKNOWN PSYCHOACTIVE STUBSTANCE AND THAT HE IS CURRENTLY TRIPPING HIS FACE OFF.
CAPTION #3 - ZULU WILL BE CARRYING OUT A THOROUGH DISSECTION OF THE REMAINS OF THE FUNGAL SPECIMEN IN DUE COURSE, BUT FOR NOW, IT IS DEFINITELY TIME FOR TEA.
VOICE #1
(from window) - WELL THAT TURNED OUT TO BE THE SHITTEST HOLIDAY IN THE WORLD... EVER! NEXT TIME WE DECIDE TO TAKE A BREAK, LET’S GO ON A PACKAGE DEAL TO A HOTEL FULL OF NORMAL PEOPLE.
VOICE #2
(from window) - YEAH, OR FUCKING DISNEYLAND.
PAGE EIGHT
Tank Girl Page 15
