I decided to write a concluding host sketch for my MiSTing of Arthur Scott Bailey’s The Tale Of Fatty Raccoon. It’s just the Brains aboard the Satellite of Love. If I ever did reassemble these chapters into a full, complete, MiSTing, I might rewrite or replace this.
[ SATELLITE OF LOVE. TOM zips in, wearing a nightshirt, cap, and an eye mask over his transparent dome. CAMBOT is close on TOM. ]
TOM: I’ll change, I’ll change, I’m not the raccoon I was! [ Looking to the opposite corner of the screen ] You there!
[ CAMBOT pulls back, revealing GYPSY in front of the desk, at the corner of the screen ]
TOM: What day is it?
GYPSY: What day? … Why it’s Thursday.
TOM: Thursday! Then I haven’t missed it! The spirits must have done everything in one night!
TOM: Well, of course they can, they’re spirits — Tell me, Farmer Green’s house, does he still have those turkeys there?
GYPSY: The ones as big as me? They’re still there.
TOM: Quick, run there and tell them I’m not going to eat them! Do it in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half a crown!
[ GYPSY leaves the frame; CAMBOT pans back in on TOM ]
TOM: [ Sing-song, dancing about ] Oh, I don’t know anything, I never did know anything, I don’t know anything … I need to … I need to stand on my head!
[ TOM wiggles a bit and, of course, does not ]
TOM: I *don’t* need to stand on my head! … Oh, oh, to work, now. To setting things right.
[ TOM zips off-camera, and reappears with a decent coat and a hat on. As he crosses the desk, the off-camera voice of CROW becomes audible. He’s singing ‘Barbara Allen’. TOM comes up to MIKE, who’s holding a feather duster and wearing a ruffled collar to evoke a maid. TOM looks wistfully out of frame, in CROW’s direction. MIKE gently takes TOM’s hat, smiles the tiniest bit and nods, and steps out of frame. CAMBOT pulls back to reveal CROW, wearing rabbit ears, and pink eyes. CROW is singing and whooping it up in front of an imaginary party. ]
CROW: [ Singing ] For love of Barbara Al — [ Abruptly stopping ] Uncle Fatty!
TOM: Jimmy … is it too late to accept your invitation to dinner?
CROW: Too late? Too late! I’m delighted, Uncle Fatty. [ Talking to the air ] Brother, look who it is!
TOM: Can you forgive a pigheaded old fool? For clinging to my soreness about the barber shop thing? For not visiting you recovering from your pink eye?
CROW: Of course, dear Uncle! Oh, bless you, you’ve made me and my brother [ waving his arm out to nothing ] boundlessly happy!
TOM: Yes, Jimmy. You … [ looking to the camera, shaking his head ] … and your ‘brother’. [ He looks down, sad, a moment ]
CROW: Jasper, a polka! o/` Pol-i-tics and foreign wars! o/`
[ Music; CAMBOT focuses in on TOM as the light dims and he moves back to the original side of the desk. After a short while, the lights come on again. MIKE, holding a pitchfork, enters from the opposite side of the screen. ]
TOM: [ Surly ] Farmer Green! You’re late! What do you mean coming in this time of day? Mmm?!
MIKE: [ Baffled ] I’m … sorry?
TOM: Well, we won’t beat around the bush. I’m not going to stand for this sort of thing any longer; I have *no alternative* but to raise your corn. …
[ MIKE shows no sign of understanding any of this ]
TOM: Oh, I haven’t taken leave of my senses, Green. I’ve come to them. I’ve seen what my gluttony, my selfishness, my pettiness has done. I — I want to try to help you and that boy Johnnie of yours. No one should grow up without benefit of raccoon.
MIKE: [ Jabbing TOM with the pitchfork ] Shoo! Shoo, raccoon! Go on! Get out of here!
TOM: No! Wait! I’ve learned the errors of my — Ow! Ow! Stop! I know what —
[ MIKE jabs a bit more ]
TOM: These spirits showed me how my refusal to connect —
MIKE: Git on home!
[ MIKE connects with the pitchfork again; TOM moves away, eventually going off-screen ]
TOM: Stop it! We could make viral videos together!
MIKE: Crazy old forest animals. Don’t know what gets into …
TOM: [ Simultaneously ] I HOPE YOU GET EATEN BY A FLIVVER!
CROW: [ Leaning into camera ] God … bless us? Everyone?
| \ | / \ | / \|/ ---O--- /|\ / | \ / | \ |
Mystery Science Theater 3000, its characters, its setup, and whatever else I’m overlooking are the property of someone who isn’t me. Satellite of Love, LLC, I guess. Arthur Scott Bailey’s _The Tale of Fatty Raccoon_ is in the public domain and so *does* belong to me, and to you, and to anyone else who wants to create something new that brings joy to the world. So now you go out and bring some world-joy with all this. No pressure. But start … *now*.
> “Ho, ho! That’s a good one! That’s a good joke!” The tramp
> raccoon laughed heartily.