Archive for The Woman with a Hundred Heads

The Mysterious Mr If, Part the Th*rt**nth

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , on August 22, 2011 by dcairns

This week’s truly exciting episode of my unexplainably unproduced screenplay is the most British thing ever — we have a high speed pursuit featuring characters named after leads in PERFORMANCE and THE WICKER MAN, and an exciting rooftop chase, without which no British thriller, be it THEY MADE ME A FUGITIVE or HELL IS A CITY, can be considered complete.

And I was pleased to morph a reference  from MARY POPPINS into a William Blake quote. Apart from the Disney JUNGLE BOOK bit I think it’s all as Brit as can be.

This was also the point where I discovered Howie’s true comedic function, which is not as romantic interest during the “boring, sub-Bill Forsyth bits,” but as someone to annoy Inspector Turner. And, thematically, as a sort of Everyman for Mr. If to oppose.

But what impresses me, if I do say so myself, is just how damned gripping it all is!

Now read on…

INT. SHEENA’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

Sheena watches TV news with Edward Woodward in her lap.

NEWSCASTER (O.S.)

The headlines today. A wild west-style schoolmarm has been tormented by scallops in Muirhouse. A nun has been fired out of a toilet. And Scotland’s oldest fireman has given birth to a stone desk.

Sheena boggles. The work of Mr. If is everywhere.

There is an innocent-sounding knock at the door.

INT. SHEENA’S HALL – NIGHT

Sheena comes through and approaches the door.

NEWSCASTER (OS)

Doctors are baffled by a giant leg found on a small man.

Sheena looks through the spy hole. Howie.

NEWSCASTER (OS)

And scientists at NASA have discovered what they are calling a “joke planet”.

Sheena considers.

Starts to walk away.

Then changes her mind and undoes the latch.

INT. SHEENA’S STAIRWELL – DAY

The man outside is not Howie. A black-gloved hand holds a photo of Howie up to the spy hole.

The door opens…

INT. HOSPITAL RECEPTION – NIGHT

Swing doors BASH open.

Doctor lectures Nurse while pushing Howie on a gurney.

DR. SPAIN

Brain damage, as medical science pretends to understand it, is simply injury to the meat radio entrusted with receiving the consciousness signal. A mechanical brain, correctly tuned to the ineffable transmission, would serve just as well as our fleshy transponders.

Howie looks somewhat mauled. In the gurney behind him, a stunned fox.

Turner runs alongside Howie.

HOWIE

A fox, inspector, can you believe it? In the reptile house. The last thing I would have expected in a reptile house. It’s a bloody mammal. A rodent or something. They don’t even keep them in the zoo. They’re too boring. Anyway, this one wasn’t, it was positively frisky. It was going for my throat when I managed to knock it unconscious with this…

He holds up his tattered and bloodstained hardback.

HOWIE

The Unbearable Lightness of Being. An ironic title for a hefty hardback.

They pass a smoke-blackened NUN in a tattered habit, walking with the aid of crutches.

HOWIE

Anyway, it’s not me you should be worried about, it’s your own people. There’s been some pretty weird shit going down at Sheena’s place.

They pass an incubator being wheeled by MEN in surgical scrubs. WAILING BABY sound. Inside the incubator – a trout.

TURNER

You mean Miss McQueen?

HOWIE

A lot of this nonsense seems to be focussed on her. Like she’s the epicentre or something.

They pass an OLD TESTAMENT PROPHET carrying a stone slab.

PROPHET

Epicentre! Epicentre!

He turns the slab to face them. The word COCK is carved on it. Then he raises his robe and shows them his wrinkly arse before scampering away, tittering like a big jerk.

HOWIE

Did she tell you she took the If File?

Turner’s face darkens ominously.

TURNER

Stay here and heal. I’m going to check on Miss McQueen.

He hurries off.

Howie cranes his neck after the departing cop.

HOWIE

Sheena…

He tries to dismount the moving gurney. The doctor shoving it won’t slow down and Howie’s bandages hamper him.

He falls.

The doctor disappears around a corner, ignoring him.

In a nearby room, dogs bark.

A tramp with flowers for hair shuffles past sadly.

DR.SPAIN (O.S.)

…and so, Nurse Sheep, what you call telepathy is merely a crossed wire, a case of one brain receiving a signal intended for another. We are all hooked up to the great universal mind, but some of us have bigger satellite dishes.

INT. SHEENA’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

Sheena flees into her flat and throws a dirty plate at the caped, top-hatted man pursuing her.

MR. IF

I am If! If I am! Am I if?

She grabs her gun and shoots If’s hat off.

The next two bullets hit him in the chest.

He staggers. Then rights himself.

He steps in front of the window. Daylight shines through the little round holes in his body.

MR. IF

Gosh durn it, I likes a wumman with spirit.

If holds out his hand to her.

MR. IF

Join me, and rule at my side in the domain of nothingness.

Sheena shoots him again.

MR. IF

You sadden me.

He produces a banana and begins to peel it.

Sheena backs away in alarm.

INT. TURNER’S CAR – DAY

Turner’s car SKIDS round a bend.

HOWIE (O.S.)

Step on it, man! You drive like a lemur. If lemurs could drive.

Howie sits up in the back of the car. Turner is startled, then irate.

TURNER

You’re supposed to be convalescing. Go and convalesce. I’m a policeman. You’re just some nob-end from the zoo.

HOWIE

I’m an interested party and you still drive like a twat. Where’s your blue flashing light?

TURNER

Some bastard’s nicked it and left me this egg timer instead.

They SCREECH round another bend and Howie falls over.

INT. SHEENA’S LIVING ROOM – DAY

Sheena wakes up tied to a rocking chair by what looks like hair. She’s clad only in a grass skirt and a pair of coconut shells.

A rope hangman’s noose hangs from the ceiling above her.

If strides into view. Under his cape he wears Sheena’s clothes. He strokes Edward Woodward in a sinister, master-criminal-type way.

MR. IF

Is it safe?

Sheena struggles with her bonds.

SHEENA

What the f-?

MR. IF

Wigs, Miss McQueen, wigs! Nature’s baldness defamed, and now – a young minx restrained in their silky fronds! Ironic, is it not?

SHEENA

Let me go and give me back my cat, you mad bastard. And take my clothes off!

MR. IF

(gesturing at her near nudity)

I already have. And now, you will tell me where I can find what I seek, Miss McQueen – or should I say – HECTOR BABENCO?

He waves at her with Edward Woodward’s paw.

SHEENA

What the hell do you want, you great weirdo?

MR. IF

A touching display of innocence and nudity, but it will avail you nothing. I shall have my druthers or die trying, and so I reiterate: where? Answer swiftly or pay with your pussy!

He waves the cat at her.

INT. TURNER’S CAR – DAY

The car speeds on. Sand cascades through the egg-timer.

INT. SHEENA’S LIVING ROOM – DAY

If moves gracefully towards the noose in the room’s centre, carrying Sheena’s cat.

SHEENA

Maybe if you’d tell me what it is you’re looking for –

If stuffs Edward Woodward through the noose and secures the rope around the animal’s waist. Then he picks up a carpet beater.

MR. IF

Where? Where? WHERE?

WHACK! He wallops the cat’s arse and sends it arcing round the room on its rope, yowling.

EXT. SHEENA’S FLAT – DAY

Turner and Howie arrive. Respectively bounding and hobbling from the car they find the Nurse from the hospital wearing a blindfold and an usherette’s tray full of oranges standing with her feet in a basin of water by the door.

TURNER

This is a bad sign.

He barges on.

Howie stares at the immobile Nurse.

HOWIE

Boo.

She gives a little theatrical jump. Howie hurries on.

INT. STAIRWELL – DAY

Turner dashes upstairs only to be faced with Sheena’s neighbour, Miss Hing. What she lacks in depth she makes up for in width.

Turner steps aside to let her by. She side-steps in the same direction to let him by. He steps the other way. She does too.

Howie appears behind Turner, snarls savagely, Miss Hing collapses against the railing in terror, and the two men hurry past.

INT. SHEENA’S LIVING ROOM – DAY

Edward Woodward continues to orbit the room.

SHEENA

NO!

She frees an arm, and a coconut falls off, exposing a breast. She shrieks and covers herself. If prepares to wallop Edward Woodward again.

MR. IF

Your womanliness cannot save you now, Mr. Babenco. The file, please.

He swats Edward Woodward’s backside again.

SHEENA

The file? It was on the back of the sofa –

A hammering at the door.

MR. IF

(smarmy)

I like you, you’re a nice lady.

He looks at the sofa. Bare-backed. If is indignant.

MR. IF

Trifle with me and you’ll get your desserts!

INT. SHEENA’S HALLWAY – DAY

Turner shoulders the door open. They burst in.

A BLINDING FLASH

– and then the two men are staggering, dazed. Something has happened, but what?

The only sound is the TV news:

NEWSCASTER (OS)

A dentist in Queensferry has become a small sun. Spokesmen said they didn’t like it, it was a bad colour.

INT. SHEENA’S LIVING ROOM – DAY

Too late. Sheena and If are gone.

Edward Woodward is wearing a sombrero, poncho and Zapata moustache. Meow.

Scrawled on the wall in red paint, the word cat.

Another moustache is pasted to the TV screen, decorating the newscaster.

A Polaroid camera sits atop the set.

NEWSCASTER (T.V.)

Two Scottish Members of Parliament have been dressed in plate armour and fellated by blacksmiths –

Turner switches off the TV, picks up the camera. An undeveloped snap depends from its undercarriage.

An image emerges. Howie and Turner, posing merrily with Sheena and If in the hall – thumbs up. Howie strumming a ukulele. Hawaiian flower garlands all round.

TURNER

Who took this? And why don’t I remember it?

Edward Woodward pads out the door, full of purpose. Howie and Turner look at each other, then follow.

INT. STAIRWELL – DAY

Edward Woodward stops and sits at the top floor landing. A ladder leads up to a hatch into the attic.

HOWIE

I don’t like heights.

Turner starts up the ladder.

TURNER

I’m not wild about them myself.

Howie follows a few steps, then freezes in fear.

EXT. ROOFTOP – DAY

Turner emerges from a skylight.

Mr. If stands on the summit of the roof, a large burlap sack slung over one shoulder.

A moan that could be Sheena’s.

INT. STAIRWELL – DAY

Howie slowly nears the top of the ladder, but finds it very difficult to transfer himself into the attic.

EXT. ROOF – DAY

Turner edges up the steep slant of the roof towards the pinnacle. If nonchalantly saunters away from him.

INT. ATTIC – DAY

Howie makes it into the attic space. A musty rocking horse in a dunce’s cap nods at him rhythmically. A cardboard sign hung round its neck advises STAND UP OR GIVE UP.

Through a skylight he sees blue sky. He closes his eyes and jumps up –

EXT. ROOF – DAY

Howie hauls himself through the hatch and immediately rolls down the roof. He opens his eyes and screams like a woman.

Turner, balancing on the tip of the roof, loses concentration and stumbles. He does the splits over the crest of the building.

If reaches the edge of infinity. Below him, the street.

Howie’s legs dangle over the drainpipe as he scrambles to get back onto a solid surface. With scrabbles back up the roof-slope.

Turner takes out a pair of handcuffs.

TURNER

Now. Now.

If turns, grins and throws his big sack over the side.

HOWIE

No!

The sack explodes on Turner’s car, caving in the roof. The sack is full of potatoes.

If strides towards Turner. A brief scuffle and Turner falls, his hands cuffed together. He rolls helplessly down the roof towards an imminent death.

TURNER

Oh bollocks.

Howie has just reached the tip of the roof and backs away fast as If bears down on him.

MR. IF

Take me home, Daddy!

Turner catches the gutter and dangles.

Howie backs into a chimney. He grabs a TV aerial and swings himself round so that the chimney is between him and If.

If points into the street.

A struggling Sheena, dressed for some reason in a decorator’s paint-stained dungarees, flippers and a giant foam stetson, is being shoved into a car by four Ballerinas.SwanLakeplays on the car stereo.

Turner manages to drag a knee up onto the gutter.

MR. IF

It’s a pleasure to take your acquaintance. You must be the human element everybody’s talking about. You know, on a bright blue day like this it almost seems a pity to be ending the world.

Howie blinks at him.

MR. IF

You’re absolutely right, Miss Streisand. It’s a dirty job but somebody’s got to do it. Hoppla!

WOOSH!

A chimney sweep’s brush ERUPTS from the chimney pot nearest Howie. He steps back in alarm and falls, bumping into Turner who has just climbed to his feet at the roof’s brink.

They teeter together.

MR. IF

A sweep is as mucky

As mucky can be,

And so I cry,

“Weep weep! Weep weep!”

The ballet dancer car putters off erratically.

Howie and Turner fall on their faces onto the roof tiles.

They gasp like landed fish for a moment, then look up.

If is gone. Only a yellow flag gesticulates in the wind.

HOWIE

Historically, the sign of quarantine. Plague!

INT. STAIRWELL – DAY

A red X is painted on Sheena’s front door. Turner and Howie descend. Howie grips the banister and moves very slowly. They meet Miss Hing, quite recovered.

MISS HING

Hello, loves. He had a message for you. He said he would see you in Bolivia.

They look blank.

MISS HING

No, that wasn’t it. Not Bolivia — oblivion. That’s the one.

To Be Continued…

Advertisements

The Mysterious Mr If, Part the Eleventieth

Posted in FILM with tags , , on August 8, 2011 by dcairns

Another unwonted extrusion from my subconscious. This one has forensic clue-mongering dimly derived from SILENCE OF THE LAMBS, I suspect. I recall creating If’s mysterious clue messages by elbowing the keyboard and then using spell-check to reconfigure the resulting alphabet soup into slightly more cohesive word soup (after chopping the strings of consonants into word-sized nuggets with the space bar). This was fun, because it meant the next plot point had to somehow follow on from a phrase created completely at random. If you have a tendency towards linearity or cliche, as practically all screenwriters do, going by our output, I recommend this approach.

And don’t worry — Howie will return in our next exciting installment. Now read on…

EXT. UNIVERSITY BUILDING – DAY

A wisp of smoke curls from inside the bottle bank.

MR. IF (OS)

I expect you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here today.

INT. BOTTLE BANK – DAY

If and his ballerinas stand shoulder to shoulder. The girls muck about with empty bottles in a vague, abstracted way. If puffs a cheroot.

MR. IF

Every revolution has to start somewhere. Strauss had his Batcave, Napoleon his Tracy Island, and Popeye his Radio City Music Hall. This will be my Fortress of Pulchritude, where slowly and surely I shall draw my plans against existence.

An empty Irn Bru bottle drops into the bank with a –

INT. BLUE MUSEUM – DAY

CLUNK. Netherbow enters the museum, still in his mourning gear, hat clamped on head. He scans the room. No signs of life. Sheena is not at her station.

INT. BACKROOM, BLUE MUSEUM – DAY

He finds her in the back, loading a Victorian police pistol.

MR. NETHERBOW

Ms McQueen! Lay down your arms forthwith! Henceforth! Withhence!

SHEENA

No chance. I need home protection for my home. If the Lothian and Borders Police can’t stop my cat from being costumed at will, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.

MR. NETHERBOW

This is unfeasible! Unhand that handgun post-haste! Host-paste! Effective immediately!

They struggle.

Netherbow’s hat falls off, revealing DAISY HAIR. Literally, daisies sprouting from his scalp. He looks frightened and ashamed.

MR. NETHERBOW

Don’t look at me! For I was once as you are now!

Sheena looks sympathetic but confused.

TURNER (V.O.)

“Egg tower mouth doo go jet wren.”

INT. TURNER’S OFFICE – DAY

Turner gazes upon If’s mysterious note.

TURNER

There’s no use approaching this thinking like coppers. This is a nonsense case we’re dealing with. We’ve got to think like slavering loonies or not at all. But even a bampot follows some kind of logic, however warped.

PC THROWER

They say a madman has the strength of ten.

TURNER

Oh do shut up.

He stares at the note. He circles a phrase – “Go jet wren” with his pen. He picks up a phone book. Opens it at W. Runs down the page with his pen – finds a Jethro Wren. Underlines.

EXT. HI-RISE ROOFTOP – DAY

The city sprawls before us like a model in a top-selling gentlemen’s magazine.

Atop this roof is either a big birdcage or a small aviary.

Pigeons flutter and coo, then: Turner and Thrower appear.

TURNER

Mr. Wren? Mr. Jethro Wren?

Turner enters the birdcage, bangs the door on something inside. He looks at it. Thrower follows and trips over it.

A fat CADAVER with a model of Concorde stuck in its forehead.

TURNER

Something in his mouth.

He removes a small speckled egg. Compares it to the note from If’s harpoon.

TURNER

“Egg tower mouth doo go Jet Wren.” It’s unfolding as if in a dream.

Inscribed on the egg in a spidery hand, the words EAT ME.

TURNER

Got a spoon, Thrower?

PC. THROWER

Sir?

TURNER

Never mind.

He cracks the egg on Thrower’s head.

PC. THROWER

But sir – isn’t that destroying evidence?

TURNER

Can’t make an omelette…

He tears the sundered shell. A CHICK chirrups and gets born.

TURNER

Something on its leg.

He unfurls a tiny MESSAGE. Thrower is astonished. Magnifying glass time. Turner reads:

TURNER

“Skin jury the chef use if huge germ.”

PC THROWER

But how – ?

TURNER

Interesting.

PC THROWER

Sir…it was INSIDE…how – ? Sir?

The copper’s face: perplexity.

To Be Continued…

The Mysterious Mr If, Part Two

Posted in FILM with tags , , on June 13, 2011 by dcairns

“Do you like my tie?”

Part the second of my unproduced feature script, THE MYSTERIOUS MR IF. For Part the First, go here.

“Inspiration”, if you can call it that, for this episode came from a couple of things. There really is a police museum on Edinburgh’s historic Royal Mile. And I heard from a friend about another friend who worked in the Camera Obscura at the top of the Mile — sometimes, when the tourists clearly didn’t speak English, this employee would depart from the scripted presentation

In Last Week’s Exciting Episode, Inspector Rathbone Shinty intrepidly failed to apprehend the diabolical Master Criminal known as Mr If. The year was then 1889. It has since moved to the present day, as you can observe by looking around you.

Now read on…

Smog smog smog.

Modern Edinburgh – a city of colour and high def video.

TITLE:

THE MYSTERIOUS MR. IF: A MELLOW DRAMA

SUB-TITLE: LADIES – PLEASE REMOVE YOUR HATS!

EXT. THE ROYAL MILE – DAY

The Lothian and Border Police’s famous BLUE MUSEUM- a modest shop front concealing a veritable diorama of legal history.

SHEENA (O.S.)

“…just another case successfully solved by the Lothian and Borders Police.”

INT. EXHIBITION ROOM, BLUE MUSEUM – DAY

The exhibition details the history of crime and punishment inScotland’s reeky capital.

Mannequins of policemen from different periods dot the floor space, accompanied by display cases housing representative types of truncheon, handcuff, and whistle.

SHEENA MCQUEEN, tour guide, wearily herds a bunch of TOURISTS around the exhibits. She’s a smart girl in her twenties who clearly hates her job, as anyone would, since it involves wearing a tartan version of a WPC’s uniform, only with a shorter skirt. Her glasses are not part of the uniform, she needs those.

SHEENA

Here we see a selection of nineteenth century truncheons, decorated with colourful illustrations hand-painted by the constables’ wives. Favourite subjects for illustration included prisons, handsome policemen, and bruised and bleeding felons…

She pauses.

Her audience, a gaggle of international types, nod enthusiastically but without comprehension.

SHEENA

By the way, do any of you actually understand a word of English? No? Fine. Over here we have a display of handcuffs. These were used…

She trails off. What’s the point anyway?

SHEENA

These were used to stop the sky from falling on cloudy days. I didn’t want to be a tour guide, I wanted to be a detective. Not tall enough. Police stations are likeDisneyland, with signs that read “You must be THIS tall to ride.”

(deep breath)

Handcuffs are also useful for kinky sex games and three-legged races. Do you have those in Japan? Races, I mean, I know you have kinky –

MR. NETHERBOW

Miss McQueen!

She starts. MR. NETHERBOW, a furious little bald man scurries over. He too wears a tartan uniform, only with a BADGE labelling him CURATOR where Sheena’s says GUIDE.

MR. NETHERBOW

I’ve previously told you: no confabulation!

SHEENA

But it’s not as if they can understand a blind word I’m saying anyw-

MR. NETHERBOW

That’s neither here nor germane. Whatever their linguistic handicaps, they are entitled to the unvarnished reality of Edinburgh policing. Facts, Ms McQueen, facts.

SHEENA

Yes, Mr. Netherbow.

She makes an irked face as her boss turns away, applying a feather duster to a stuffed constable.

Sheena marches back to her expectant huddle, and there’s a scene change, which we don’t notice at the time –

INT. EXHIBITION ROOM, BLUE MUSEUM – EVENING (LATER)

Sheena marches up, unbuttons her jacket and raises her arms, opening the jacket and flashing a bra-full –

SHEENA

Ta-daaaa!

Silence. The SHUTTERS are down, the exhibition deserted.

The mannequins show a distinct lack of response. Sheena lets her arms fall.

SHEENA

Suit yourselves.

She returns to THE BACK ROOM:

INT. BACK ROOM, BLUE MUSEUM – EVENING

A KETTLE comes to the bubble.

A changing room with two LOCKERS, plus kitchenette.

Sheena tosses her jacket over a chair and pulls on a woolly jumper. As she struggles with her head and the neck-hole, the kettle switches off and a sudden –

MOO/UCK-PUCK-PUCK/BAAA

– is heard. Sheena’s head emerges from the jumper like a new-born babe’s, only with a more quizzical expression.

It couldn’t be. She shrugs off her worries with her skirt and pulls on a pair of JEANS.

The mysterious series of farmyard noises repeats.

Either a really good impersonator or a bunch of barnyard life is afoot downstairs.

Sheena waddles to the top of the stairs, jeans still at half mast. She can see part of the Files Room from here. A single light bulb is on, swaying softly to stir the shadows.

MOO?

She hoists her jeans and squeezes her bottom in, then crosses to the sink. Among the drying MUGS is a newly-washed period TRUNCHEON. She flicks the droplets from its shaft and creeps downstairs with it, barefoot.

INT. FILES ROOM, BLUE MUSEUM – EVENING

Reaching the foot of the stairs, she glimpses a shadowy cloaked figure reaching into an open filing cabinet. The slender dossier marked IF is clutched in a gloved hand with one empty finger.

The figure turns, revealing a COW MASK instead of a face.

MR. IF

(defiantly)

Moo!

Sheena throws her truncheon at the figure.

She scores a direct hit on the cow mask, dislodging it. A gorilla mask is revealed beneath.

The IF file drops to the floor.

MR. IF

Uck puck puck!

The shadowy form scurries to a tiny basement window looking out on a dingy back alley.

The window seems too small for easy access, but If seems to transform into a loose pile of clothing as he squeezes through in an instant. His bone structure reasserts itself as he gains the street, and his shiny shoes tap off into the gloom.

MR. NETHERBOW (OS)

What means this?

Netherbow stands at the top of the stairs with a stern expression and a plastic head under his arm. The head has a peeling moustache, and Netherbow has a tube of glue.

MR. NETHERBOW

Cease these farmyard impersonations at once. I grow weary of them.

SHEENA

But Mr. Netherbow, there was –

MR. NETHERBOW

Enough! I have spoken. I am firm.

He gestures dramatically and a jet of glue squirts out. He turns and departs.

Sheena glowers after him. Then she goes to the IF file, lying on the floor next to the fallen cow mask. Looking back at the stairs and the window, she stuffs both items up her jumper.

INT. EXHIBITION ROOM, BLUE MUSEUM – EVENING

Bulging abnormally, Sheena enters the exhibition area, coat slung over her shoulder. She stops in surprise.

In front of her, Netherbow is also frozen, slack-jawed.

All the police mannequins are dressed inVictoria’s Secret undies instead of their uniforms.

EXT. BLUE MUSEUM, HIGH STREET – EVENING

A SIGN proclaims this THE BLUE MUSEUM – THE HISTORY OF EDINBURGH’S FINEST.

In the window, the Victoria’s Secret Police make a hollow mockery of this claim.

Sheena exits and hurries off.

Netherbow locks up behind her, while talking heatedly on his mobile.

MR. NETHERBOW

You’ll send a constable? This is a case for Special Branch! The Vice Squad! The S.A.S!

As Sheena leaves, a pair of eyes, wearing dark eye-shadow, watch from inside a red Post Office mailbox.

MR. IF

Uck. Puck. Puck.

Who is the Mysterious Stranger? (Well, it’s obviously Mr If.) What is he after? (The file, clearly?) What strange events await Sheena McQueen of the Blue Museum? (More nonsense, presumably.) Tune in next week for the third exigent episode of THE MYSTERIOUS MR IF!