PANEL ONE
Closer on BOOGA, still staring blankly out of the window.
BOOGA
(thinks) - HMMM. NOW THIS IS A BIT OF A PROBLEM... I AM OBVIOUSLY COMPLETELY OFF OF MY MASH AND MY PERCEPTION OF REALITY IS MORE THAN A TOUCH SKEW-WHIFF. BUT... I AM LOOKING STRAIGHT OUT OF THE WINDOW AND I CAN CLEARLY SEE HALF A DOZEN NAZI SOLDIERS SETTING UP A MACHINE GUN NEST IN THE BEDROOM OF THE HOUSE OPPOSITE.
PANEL TWO
In the window of the house opposite, BOOGA’s view of the NAZIS setting a high calibre machine gun on its tripod.
BOOGA (thinks, linked back to panel one)-
SO... DO I TRY TO ATTRACT THE ATTENTION OF THE GUYS DOWNSTAIRS AND LET THEM KNOW THAT THEY MAY – OR INDEED, MAY NOT – BE IN IMMEDIATE DANGER OF COMPLETE ANNIHILATION, THUS RISKING PISSING THEM OFF EVEN MORE AND FORFEITING ANY REFRESHMENT THAT MAY BE ON ITS WAY TO ME...
PANEL THREE
Back even closer on BOOGA.
BOOGA
(thinks) - ...OR DO I SIMPLY ASSUME THAT THE NAZIS ARE A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION, AND THAT I SHOULD KICK BACK IN A COMFY CHAIR AND AWAIT THE ARRIVAL OF TEA AND CAKES?
PANEL FOUR
BOOGA has kicked back in a comfy chair.
BOOGA
(thinks) - I WONDER IF THERE’LL BE FRENCH FANCIES AND MADELEINES?
PANEL FIVE
Across the road, the NAZI gun team are opening fire with their big old Howitzer.
S.F.X. - PACKA-PACKA-PACKA-PACKA
PANEL SIX
In the living room of 13 Pleasant Street, the ostensibly dead bodies of our heroes are strewn about on the blood-smattered furniture – TANK GIRL is on the sofa with a bullet hole in her chest, BARNEY is slumped across an armchair with blood dripping from her mouth, ZULU is up close to us, a bullet hole in his temple, JACKIE is in a pile in the background, JET GIRL is leaning lifelessly against the window, blood trickling from her neck. The room has been smashed to pieces by the spraying bullets, and a hazy layer of smoke remains. Evidence of a tea party is smashed across the floor and walls.
CAPTION #1 - A TERRIBLE HOLIDAY, FOLLOWED BY AN EVEN WORSE TEA TIME. THINGS CAN ONLY GET BETTER...
CAPTION #2 - NEXT – THE FULLY TRIPPED OUT PSYCHEDELIC BLOOD SQUIRTING NAZI REVENGE-FEST OF BOOGA BUKOWSKI.
TANK GIRL vs. THE PRIESTS OF DESTRUCTION
I had my head well down. The bullets were zipping over us like bumble bees on speed. The light was fading, a dewy mist covered everything like a piss-wet blanket. I pushed my shoulder closer into the muddy grass bank; I felt like I couldn’t get low enough into that trench. We were pinned. For the first time in my life I could see no escape. Fuck.
Booga was lying on the floor, struggling to reload all of the weapons.
Jet Girl tried hard to skin up, but her hands were too clammy and the papers were all stuck together. “Fuck it,” she mumbled, “I’ll just have to eat it.”
The sun disappeared behind the tree-lined horizon and the temperature dropped dramatically. My breath crystallised as it left my mouth.
The firing stopped; silence enveloped us like a big envelopey silent thing. What were they playing at?
Jet Girl, numb to the danger, stood up and looked out over the crest of the hillock. Without moving her gaze from the battlefield, she opened her hand towards Booga. “Pass me the flare gun,” she asked without a hint of urgency.
The flare went up with a loud POFF. It came down slowly on its tiny parachute, throwing unearthly shadows into our hidey-hole. Booga had bought a job-lot of black boiler suits from an army surplus store, so the three of us were virtually undetectable in the darkness. We rolled down our balaclavas and slipped on our gloves.
“They’re moving out of the trees,” reported Jet Girl, zipping up her suit and popping closed several straps and harnesses. “Here they come. The fuckin’ Priests of Destruction.”
PETER PAN
Booga
you can be so thick sometimes
like midnight
at the top of the helter skelter
in Peter Pan’s Playground
We sneaked in under the wire fence
dodging the full-moon searchlight
two escaped P.O.W.s
breaking back into our childhoods
Frosty breath
and a full bottle of cider
all you had to do was lean across and kiss me
one on the cheek would’ve done
But you slid down the chute instead
without a mat
and got a splinter in your arse
PETER CRAVEN
The essence of cool
An aroma that fills my life
Whenever Peter Craven is on the screen
Anything is possible
All barriers are smashed to the ground
When Peter Craven turns up his jacket collar
Reality is revealed
A clear view across the universe
When Peter Craven smiles his ironic smile
A 1969 adolescent Egyptian deity
Enshrined in a pyramidal television series
Forever youthful, forever truthful
Eric, Sharon, Denis, Maureen, Bernard,
Potter, and Frankie Abbott...
Sublimely acted and superbly observed
But Peter Craven?
A must
Malcom McFee as Peter Craven
In London Weekend Television’s Please Sir!
A must
BLACK TAROT
Somewhere, why have you been starving me?
The sun had already set
And an invisible jigsaw was working its way into my encyclopaedias
An incomprehensible, beautiful newspaper for fucksake
I thought about going into the control for a night
but it was done by destiny with no housekeeper
She said that I would have to look out for nostrils
“What were you doing in the church hall bowels!”
I needed to use a narrow amount of knob
The paper was covered with woodland service fucking
“I took the glow of auto-pilot.”
The vicar did say that the story would end with an utter free feeling
Deep sheepskin
TANK GIRL in
THE MAGIC OF TANK GIRL
A script for an eight-page comic strip
PAGE ONE
PANEL ONE
Whole page. The (almost) deserted outback, midday. TANK GIRL is sitting (prim and upright), all alone, at a small, round, antique table. Her tank is right behind her. She looks like a splendid 1930s film starlet, with a pencil-line skirt, a dainty cardigan, those special sunglasses that clip onto the front of real glasses, a string of pearls, elegant high heels, and a fine silk scarf wrapped in turban-style around her head. The sun is way up in the cloudless sky. She is concentrating on some writing on a sheet of paper that she is holding up with her left hand. Her right hand is wafting a fountain pen around like it was a cigarette holder. In front of her on the table is a bone china tea set and a very small, portable, vintage typewriter.
CAPTION #1 - I AM TANK GIRL. THE ONLY TANK GIRL. I’M THE FUCKIN’ ONE, OKAY. JUST ME. NO ONE ELSE. DON’T LISTEN TO THEM. THEY’RE ALL MORONS.
CAPTION #2 - PEOPLE HAVE BEEN GETTING IT BADLY WRONG ABOUT ME. THEY’VE BEEN MAKING THINGS UP. THEY’VE CAUGHT A GLIMPSE OF ME AND, THINKING THEY KNOW WHAT I’M ALL ABOUT, THEY’VE FILLED IN THE GAPS USING INFORMATION FROM THEIR OWN LIMITED EXPERIENCE.
CAPTION #3- I’M GONNA TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT, TO KINDA GET MY MANIFESTO DOWN ON PAPER.
CAPTION #4 - SO OPEN UP YOUR TINY MIND, ’CAUSE I’M GONNA FUCK WITH IT.
PAGE TWO
PANEL ONE
From the front, driving down a dusty road on an open topped Beverly Hillbillies style jalopy. BOOGA is at the wheel, wearing shorts, a bowler hat and a white vest bearing the legend ALL ABOUT EVOSTIK. He is taking bites out of a long, thick, continental-style cold sausage. TANK GIRL i
s sitting high up on a sofa, piled onto the back of the car, wearing her Sunday best. She’s turning round to BOOGA, shouting urgently.
CAPTION #1 - I GUESS THE BEST WAY TO ILLUSTRATE MY POINT IS TO TELL YOU A STORY FROM MY PAST, THEN MAYBE YOU’LL CATCH MY DRIFT...
CAPTION #2 - THIS WAS ABOUT A YEAR AGO... ME AND BOOGA HAD DONE OVER A SMALL-TOWN DELICATESSEN AND MADE OFF WITH SOME RATHER LARGE GERMANSTYLE SAUSAGES. WE’D SHOT AWAY THE LOCAL COPS, BUT OUR GETAWAY CAR WASN’T UP TO MUCH...
TANK GIRL - THERE’S MORE COPS ON THE WAY! I CAN SEE THEM OFF ON THE HORIZON, THERE MUST BE A DOZEN CARS OR MORE! CAN’T YOU GET THIS PILE OF SHIT TO MOVE ANY FASTER?
BOOGA - DON’T WORRY YOUR SWEET LITTLE TITS, MY LOVE. I’VE GOT IT ALL UNDER CONTROL... WE’RE ALMOST UP TO TEN MILES AN HOUR NOW.
PANEL TWO
TANK GIRL points far off into the distance in front of the car.
TANK GIRL - PULL INTO THAT OLD BARN UP AHEAD. THERE’S NO WAY WE CAN OUTRUN THEM, WE’RE GONNA HAVE TO SHOOT IT OUT.
PANEL THREE
The car is skidding slowly to a halt inside the barn. TANK GIRL is already jumping off the top of her sofa-seat, gun at the ready. BOOGA is halfway out of the driver’s seat with his sawn-off shotgun and a sausage.
S.F.X. - SKEEEED!
BOOGA - I’LL TELL YOU WHAT WE COULD DO WITH NOW...
TANK GIRL - GO ON THEN, TELL ME WHAT WE COULD DO WITH NOW.
PANEL FOUR
BOOGA has his back to the closed barn door, checking the shells in his gun. There is a thin crack in the wooden slats, through which we can see the COPS converging outside.
BOOGA - A CHANGE OF PLATES! IF WE COULD SWITCH OUR NUMBER PLATES, THEN WE COULD JUST DRIVE OUT THE BACK WAY AND THE COPS WOULDN’T EVEN RAISE AN EYEBROW!
PANEL FIVE
TANK GIRL is getting primed to make her move, holding her weapon ready and her body tensed. BOOGA has let his gun arm drop limply, as he dreamily recollects his story.
TANK GIRL - DON’T START WITH ALL THAT NUMBER PLATE BULLSHIT AGAIN. I THOUGHT THAT WE’D AGREED THAT YOU WOULDN’T EVER TALK ABOUT THAT?
BOOGA - YEAH, BUT YOU’VE GOT TO ADMIT THAT IT WAS A GREAT IDEA. ONE OF MY BEST IN FACT...
PAGE THREE
PANEL ONE
BOOGA is standing, with dungaree-overalls on and a pencil behind his ear, behind a wooden counter in a large wooden shed. The wall behind him has a couple of blank number plates hanging from it. TANK GIRL is leaning on the customer side of the counter, looking cheerily quizzical.
CAPTION - “...I’M SURPRISED THAT NOBODY HAD THOUGHT OF IT BEFORE. I COULD’VE MADE IT RICH, IF IT WASN’T FOR THAT UNFORTUNATE LITTLE INCIDENT...”
TANK GIRL - SO. BOOGA. THIS IS YOUR NEW SHOP, HUH? FILL ME IN, WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT?
PANEL TWO
BOOGA is proudly holding a car number plate. It reads –
2 CRAP
BOOGA - IT ALL STARTED WITH THE NEW PLATES THAT I BOUGHT YOU AS A VALENTINE’S GIFT. THEY GOT ME TO THINKING ABOUT ALL OF THE NUMBERS THAT NO ONE WANTS BECAUSE THEY’RE TOO CRAP.
BOOGA
(linked) - SO I CHECKED OUT IF THE PLATE “2 CRAP” WAS STILL AVAILABLE AND IT WAS! AND IT WAS CHEAPER THAN AN ORDINARY PLATE TOO!
BOOGA
(linked) - THEN I SAT DOWN FOR A FEW DAYS AND MADE A LIST OF ALL OF THE WORST NUMBERS I COULD THINK OF. THEN I BOUGHT THEM ALL UP FOR NEXT TO NOTHING. AND HERE I AM! IN MY VERY OWN SHOP!
PANEL THREE
BOOGA is showing TANK GIRL his wall display of crap plates –
5HIT 4 BR41NS
1 M A TW4T
B19 TURD
1D10T 5CUM
F4T PR1CK
PI55 F4CE
TANK GIRL - HAVE YOU SOLD ANYTHING YET?
BOOGA - NOTHING SO FAR. I RECKON IT’LL TAKE A LITTLE WHILE FOR IT TO CATCH ON, BUT WHEN IT DOES, OH BOY, YOU’D BETTER STAND ASIDE AND LET THE PEOPLE THROUGH!
PANEL FOUR
Close on BOOGA, beaming happily towards the door.
BOOGA - HEY! HERE COMES AN EAGER CUSTOMER RIGHT NOW! HE LOOKS KIND OF FAMILIAR...
PANEL FIVE
A rotund, middle-aged guy in a suit, with a bald head and a big, bushy beard (this is HARRY KUNT) is standing in front of the counter, looking pretty pissed off. TANK GIRL is next to him, raising an eyebrow. BOOGA is back behind the counter, concerned.
HARRY - WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON OUT THERE? IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE SOME KIND OF SICK JOKE?
BOOGA - WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
HARRY - COME OUTSIDE AND I’LL SHOW YOU.
PANEL SIX
The trio have stopped next to Tank Girl’s new mini-tank. TANK GIRL and BOOGA are staring down at HARRY, who is crouching by the front of the tank and pointing at the number plate, which reads –
U R A KUNT
HARRY - THERE, THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.
HARRY
(linked) - ARE YOU PEOPLE TAKING THE RISE OUT ME?
BOOGA &
TANK GIRL - WHAT?!
PAGE FOUR
PANEL ONE
HARRY is storming off back to his shitty car. BOOGA is running after him, whilst rifling through his own pockets at the same time. We can now see that they are situated in a rocky valley.
HARRY - MY NAME IS HARRY KUNT. I’M THE CHAIRMAN OF THE CLEAN LIVING AND FAMILY STANDARDS COMMISSION. AND I’M SHUTTING THIS FILTHY OUTFIT DOWN!
BOOGA - HEY, COME BACK! HARRY MATE, I MEAN MR. KUNT, I MEAN... WAIT A SECOND. YOU DON’T HAVE TO SHUT US DOWN. HERE, TAKE A SMALL GRATUITY...
PANEL TWO
HARRY has stopped by the side of his car and is looking, aghast, as BOOGA tries to find something to pay him off with from a handful of pocket-crap, which includes a screwed-up dollar bill, a rubber band, and a tiny one-bullet pistol.
BOOGA - PLEASE, HERE... BUY YOURSELF SOMETHING NICE... OH, NOT WITH THAT, THAT’S MY SATURDAY NIGHT SPECIAL.
PANEL THREE
The little pistol accidentally goes off in BOOGA’s hand, and the bullet hits HARRY right between the eyes.
S.F.X. - BANG!
HARRY - ERGH.
PANEL FOUR
TANK GIRL and BOOGA both looking down, stunned, at HARRY’s dead, bleeding body on the dusty ground.
BOOGA - OH SHIT!
TANK GIRL - BOOGA, YOU BIG MUFFIN HEAD! YOU’VE ACCIDENTALLY SHOT AND KILLED MR. KUNT!
PANEL FIVE
Close on BOOGA, panicking, and TANK GIRL, cool and in control.
BOOGA - WHAT AM I GONNA DO? I CAN’T CARRY ON BUSINESS WITH HARRY ALL OVER THE GROUND OUT HERE.
TANK GIRL - TELL YOU WHAT, STICK HIM IN THE FRONT OF HIS CAR AND PULL IT OVER INTO THE MOUTH OF THE OLD MINE SHAFT. WE’LL BLOW THE FRONT IN AND HE’LL BE BURIED FOREVER!
BOOGA - TASTY!
PANEL SIX
Crouching behind a large rock, TANK GIRL has her hands pressed to her ears to suppress the noise; BOOGA is holding ready on the plunger of a detonator; a wire heads off from the detonator towards the rock face at the side of the valley.
CAPTION - SEVENTEEN EXPLOSIVE-WIRING MINUTES LATER...
TANK GIRL - OKAY, COUNT TO FIVE AND THEN PRESS HARD ON THE KNOB.
PAGE FIVE
PANEL ONE
A view of the valley showing the rock face in the background, with an explosion coming out of a small cave entrance at the bottom and a crumbling crack appearing at the top leaking splashes of water. Tiny, in the middle of the valley, are BOOGA and TANK GIRL, hiding behind their rock.
S.F.X.
(from cave) - KAMBOUMPFFFF!!
S.F.X. - CRIKKK... SPLIT... SPLOSH...
BOOGA - YOU KNOW WHAT I FORGOT TO MENTION?
TANK GIRL - NO. WHAT DID YOU FORGET TO MENTION?
BOOGA - LAKE TONKA-TONKA IS RIGHT BEHIND THAT ROCKFACE. ITS WATERS COME RIGHT TO THE TOP OF THE OTHER SIDE OF THE VALLEY.
PANEL TWO
TANK GIRL and BOOGA running towards us in a blind panic. A wall of water is crashing through a breach in the rock face behind them.
>
S.F.X. - COW-SPLOOOOUSH!!!
BOOGA - RUN FOR YOUR TRUNKS!
TANK GIRL - I CAN’T SWIM NOW, I’VE ONLY JUST HAD LUNCH!
PANEL THREE
TANK GIRL and BOOGA hanging in the branches of a leaf-less tree; they are washed-out and bedraggled. All around them is still water, coming right up to the top of a near-by shed.
BOOGA - OH TITS.
TANK GIRL - THIS IS EVEN WORSE THAN THE TIME YOU SET UP BUSINESS SELLING BROWN TOILET SEATS...
PANEL FOUR
In a cavernous warehouse, surrounded by stacked up packing cases. BOOGA and TANK GIRL are standing by an open box. Booga is proudly holding up a shiny new shit-brown toilet seat. TANK GIRL looks positively amazed.
CAPTION - “...THAT WAS QUITE LITERALLY THE SHITTEST IDEA THAT ANYONE HAS EVER HAD.”
BOOGA - IT’S INCREDIBLE! I BOUGHT A WHOLE FACTORYWORTH OF BANKRUPT STOCK – FIFTY THOUSAND TOILET SEATS AT LESS THAN A DOLLAR A PIECE!
TANK GIRL - BUT BOOGA, THEY’RE ALL SHIT-BROWN.
PANEL FIVE
BOOGA, talking animatedly through the hole in the seat.
BOOGA - YES! I KNOW! THAT’S WHERE I GET TO WORK MY SALESMAN MAGIC! JUST THINK – A TOILET SEAT THAT YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO CLEAN AGAIN! IT COULD BE COMPLETELY COVERED IN POO AND NO ONE WOULD NOTICE BECAUSE IT ALREADY LOOKS LIKE SHIT!
BOOGA - THE MARKETING POSSIBILITIES ARE NEVER ENDING – THERE’S STUDENTS, DOPEHEADS, COMIC WRITERS, OLD WOMEN... THINK OF ALL THE PEOPLE WHO DON’T CLEAN THEIR BOGS, THE LIST GOES ON FOREVER!
PANEL SIX
BOOGA has sat down on a case of toilet seats. TANK GIRL is pacing. A ringing is coming from BOOGA’s cell phone.
TANK GIRL - BUT BOOGA, THE FACTORY WENT BANKRUPT BECAUSE IT COULDN’T SELL BROWN TOILET SEATS. DON’T YOU SEE? YOU’RE SITTING ON A FINANCIAL DISASTER.
BOOGA - ON THE CONTRARY, I’M SITTING ON A SMALL FORTUNE, AND I DIDN’T EVEN NEED TO WIPE MY BOTTOM!
S.F.X. (from phone) - DRING-DRING!
PAGE SIX
PANEL ONE
BOOGA answers his flip-up phone with business-like poise.
BOOGA - HI, BOOGABOGS INCORPORATED, WHAT CAN I DO YOU FOR?
BOOGA - YEP... I SEE... NO PROBLEM... CAN DO... OKAY, SO I’LL BE DISPATCHING HALF A DOZEN BROWN TOILET SEATS RIGHT OFF TO YOU AT H.K. DELI AND HARDWARE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PURCHASE, SIR. AND, AS WE LIKE TO SAY HERE AT BOOGABOGS, “IF YOU CAN’T DO BUSINESS ON A TOILET SEAT, THEN WHAT CAN YOU DO IT ON?”
Tank Girl Page 16
