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                     EXTRAORDINARY POD PEOPLE
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       a one-act play by Joe Blevins (joeblev@concentric.net)
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                  based on the movie "Pod People"
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[Curtain rises.  Lights up.  The setting is a grimy hotel room in
a seedy flophouse.  The words "HOTEL BROSLIN" are spelled out in
blinking, buzzing red neon outside the window.  The sign casts a
sickly crimson glow over the whole room.  There's a large wicker
basket on a dresser.  It wobbles a bit and we hear a faint growling
noise from inside.  The rest of the room is in disarray.  It looks
like it's been ransacked.]

[Enter TOMMY, the kid from "Pod People," now a young man.  He still
has that girlish, oddly-accented voice and a mop of curly red hair.
He speaks as if there's someone else there, but the room seems to be
empty.  He has a backpack.]

TOMMY: Trumpy, I'm back!  Did you miss me?  [no response; Tommy looks
       around the room]  Trumpy!  You said you'd straighten up while
       I was out.  But the room looks even messier than it was when I
       left.  You've been naughty, Trumpy.  Very, very naughty.

[There is no response.  Tommy dumps the contents of his backpack onto
the unmade bed.  Various unidentifiable items, both large and small,
tumble out.]

TOMMY: I got you some things while I was out today, Trumpy.  I got
       those cocktail onions you said you wanted, and a whole bunch
       of Clark bars.

[Tommy walks over toward the wicker basket.  He opens it and pours
the Clark bars and cocktail onions into it.  The basket shakes
vigorously and we hear loud chewing and chomping.]

TOMMY: My goodness, Trumpy!  You sure do have an appetite!  But
       that's not all I got you today, Trumpy.  Look at this.

[Tommy crosses to bed and picks up a small portable radio.]

TOMMY: It's a transistor radio!  Now you'll have something to listen
       to while I'm out.  I bought it from a nice man who was selling
       electronics out of his trenchcoat.  I'll try to get a station
       tuned in for you.

[Tommy turns on the radio and adjusts the dial.  At first, all we hear
is static.  Then a station comes in clearly.  We hear some pseudo-rock
music.]

GROUP ON RADIO: "All I want to feel is the wind in my eyes!
                 Hear the engine roll now!
                 Hear the engine roll now!"

[A horrifying wail comes from the the wicker basket.  The basket jumps
up and down, almost falling off the dresser.]

TOMMY: [taken aback] Oooh, you don't like that, do you, Trumpy?

[More wailing and groaning from the basket.  It's deafening.]

TOMMY: All right, all right.  I'll turn the radio off.

[Tommy tries adjusting the dial on the radio, but nothing happens.]

TOMMY: What's the matter with this thing?

[The awful sounds from the basket become even worse.  In desperation,
Tommy opens the window and tosses the radio out.  The wailing gradually
subsides.  Just then, there is a pounding at the door.  We hear the
voice of the gruff HOTEL MANAGER, who speaks with a heavy Noo Yawk
accent.]

MANAGER'S VOICE: Hey, kid!  Whuddya doin' in dere?  Sounds like a
                 freakin' riot.
TOMMY: Uh, nothing, Mr. Manager, sir.
MANAGER'S VOICE: Bull!  Now open dis door, kid, before I bust it down.
TOMMY: Honestly, everything's okay, sir.
MANAGER'S VOICE: All right.  You asked for it.

[The Manager breaks through the door.  He is a large burly man with a
stained white undershirt.]

MANAGER: [looks around] What the hell happened in here?

[A pause.  Then the basket opens, and TRUMPY -- a small furry alien
with a trunk-like nose and a pointy head -- jumps out.]

MANAGER: [horrified] AAAAUUUUGGGHH!  What is that thing?

[Trumpy runs toward the Manager and tackles him to the ground.  He
thrashes the man until he lies lifeless on the floor.  All the while,
wacky Spike Jones-type music blares over the sound system.  A great
deal of stage blood is shed in the process.]

TOMMY: [surveying the carnage] Trumpy, you can do tragic things!

[Trumpy shrugs and goes back to throttling the Hotel Manager.]

[Lights dim.  Curtain falls.]

                           [THE END]