Wild Wild West Page #2

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SUPER:
"NEW YORK CITY"

This lavishly decorated room is filled with upper-crust

SOCIETY PEOPLE having their version of a good time.

Among them is an elegant and dashing Frenchman, the BARON.

He wears pince-nez glasses above a mustache and full beard.

He walks with a pronounced stiff-legged limp. At the

moment he's sniffing an inferior wine and scowling at a

really bad painting. He winces as a hefty Margaret Dumont

type society MATRON slinks flirtatiously up behind him.

MATRON:

Oh Baron, so here's where you've

been hiding. All the ladies are

asking about you, but I told them

you are mine tonight!

(re the painting)

Ah, the Baron appreciates a fine

painting, n'est-ce-pas?

The Baron tries to overlook her godawful French and

responds indulgently in a Pepe le Pew FRENCH ACCENT:

BARON:

In-croy-able.

MATRON:

(translating)

In-croy-able...? Incredible, yes?

BARON:

Incredible, yes, that this charlatan

has found anyone to buy these

paintings. Ah, but perhaps the

poor man is, how you say, paralyzed

and is forced to hold the paint

brush in his mouth, non?

The lady is speechless. The Baron notices a man urgently

beckoning to him from across the room. It is POMEROY, a

shifty-eyed business tycoon

BARON:

Ah! I am desolate to be pulled

from your large presence! But I

believe I am required... uh, you

would say "yonder."

And he hurries away from the overheated, disappointed

dame.

INT. MANSION - LIBRARY - NIGHT

Pomeroy ushers the Baron and three other distinguished

GENTLEMEN into the richly appointed library. Suddenly

serious, he locks the door and crosses to a bookshelf.

POMEROY:

Gentlemen, down to the real business

of the evening. Allow me to present

our...

(American accent)

... piece de resistance.

(to the Baron)

Is that how you parlay it, Baron?

The Baron smiles graciously and corrects his French:

BARON:

Piece de resistance, Monsieur.

POMEROY:

Uh... yes...

Pomeroy swings open a section of bookshelf revealing a

hidden compartment. And there stands -- a gleaming brass,

carriage-mounted Gatling gun. Pomeroy proudly rolls it

into the room. The men are impressed.

POMEROY:

Dr. Gatling's latest model. Fires

eighty rounds without reloading.

GENTLEMAN:

How many of these do you have,

sir?

Pomeroy smiles as he moves to a side table and opens a

box of expensive cigars.

POMEROY:

Sixteen. All of them freshly,

shall we say, "removed" from a

poorly guarded local armory. And

available to you at a very

reasonable price. Cigars,

gentlemen?

The three gentlemen gather round, taking cigars.

Unseen by them, the Baron has moved away and is pulling

something strange out of his pants leg -- a loaded magazine

for the Gatling gun.

GENTLEMAN:

Mighty effective, I'd imagine, for

keeping the damn regulators out of

my business. Let's talk money.

Pomeroy smiles greedily and toasts them:

POMEROY:

My kind of music.

KER-KLATCH. They all turn at the sound. The Baron is

sliding the magazine into the Gatling gun.

POMEROY:

(nervously)

Uh... Baron, sir, what...? Uh...

ne touchez la...

To their horror, the smiling Baron starts calmly cranking

away -- BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM!!!

Pomeroy and his terrified guests hit the floor. But the

Baron aims just above them, strafing the oak-paneled wall.

The Baron pauses. He now aims the smoking gun barrels at

the men as they poke their startled faces up from behind

the furniture.

Then he notices another big, awful painting by the same

no-talent painter. He swivels the big gun --

BLAMBLAMBLAM! -- and decimates it. He sighs, satisfied:

BARON:

Art lovers will thank me.

He swings the gun back onto the baffled men. Pomeroy's

enraged client turns to him.

GENTLEMAN:

Who is this madman?!

POMEROY:

The... the Baron! He said he came

with you.

GENTLEMAN:

He most certainly did not!

POMEROY:

Well, then who the hell...?!

They stop in mid-argument, wide-eyed as they see --

The Baron removing his fake mustache and beard. He drops

his pince-nez, along with his French accent. He is in

fact:

ARTEMUS:

Artemus Gordon, U.S. Marshal. And

you, my good sir, are under arrest

for possession of stolen Government

property...

Artemus takes a sip of wine, wincing at the flavor.

ARTEMUS:

...And for serving a decidedly

inferior Pouilly-Fuisse.

EXT. THE WHITE HOUSE - ESTABLISH - DAY

It looks pretty much the same except for the dirt driveway

and the herd of sheep tending the lawn.

INT. WHITE HOUSE - PRESIDENT'S OFFICE - DAY

The doors fly open and in marches PRESIDENT ULYSSES S.

GRANT, a cigar in his teeth, followed by COLONEL RICHARDS,

a veteran lawman, and Grant's diffident assistant PANGBORN.

GRANT:

Don't try to bamboozle me, Colonel.

Has another scientist been kidnapped

or not?

RICHARDS:

(apologetic)

Well, yes sir. A Professor Morton,

but with just a little more time,

sir, I can assure you a breakthrough

on this case...

Grant marches to his desk, flinging his spent cigar into

an ashtray.

GRANT:

Listen, in two days I'm embarking

on a tour of the western

territories. And I want to know

at least one problem is being

handled competently in my absence.

RICHARDS:

Of course, sir, that's why I've

assigned a new man. And he's no

ordinary Marshal. He's quite

sophisticated. Three college

degrees. A master of disguise.

Speaks French...

GRANT:

(unimpressed)

French?

RICHARDS:

Yes sir.

GRANT:

French? Damn it, I want my own

man on this case. Somebody I trust.

Somebody who doesn't mind breaking

up the furniture!

CRASH! They HEAR a SCUFFLE outside the door. The

President smiles. He glances at his watch.

GRANT:

Sounds like him now.

The doors fly open. TWO GUARDS are tossed onto the carpet.

Jim stands over them, straightening his gun-belt.

JIM:

Sorry, sir. What's this about no

guns in the White House?

Grant walks over to greet him.

GRANT:

Captain West...

They shake hands warmly.

JIM:

Mr. President, good to see you

again, sir.

(re the guards)

Sorry about all that.

GRANT:

(to the guards)

That'll be all, boys.

The guards get up and leave. Jim nods to them:

JIM:

Good work. Really.

GRANT:

This is Colonel Richards.

JIM:

Nice to finally meet you, sir.

Jim shakes hands with a baffled Richards who turns

helplessly to Grant and blusters:

RICHARDS:

Why surely, Mr. President, there

must be some mistake. I mean...

GRANT:

A mistake? To assign this case to

the man who blew up all the bridges

on the Chattanooga River and single-

handedly trapped Jackson's entire

cavalry? How is that a mistake?

Richards stews but he knows when to shut up. Grant turns

to Jim and gestures to a pile of newspapers on his desk.

GRANT:

Here's the problem, James. Somebody

has been abducting this country's

best scientists.

(pointedly to Richards)

That's eight in the last three

years. It's becoming a national

scandal... and God knows I've had

enough of those.

Grant goes to get another cigar, but his humidor is empty.

He starts searching the room for a cigar during:

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