Characters
That Guy With The Metal Teeth From The James Bond Movies
Spooky Ghost
The Godfather-Must be able to do the voice right.
Newcomer
Bartender

(Note to Godfather: Do the voice as strongly as possible. I want you to be just barely comprehensible.)
(Note to Metal-Teeth Guy: Clench your jaw the whole time, even when you're talking.)

(The scene is a seedy bar on a Hollywood backlot. A sign on the door reads Bad Guys Only. Bartender is here, polishing glasses with a grimy rag. Enter Godfather.)
Godfather: I'll have a beer, please.
B: What? I don't understand you.
G: I'll have a beer.
B: Huh?
G: (Still just as thickly accented) Give me a beer or I'll have your whole family killed.
B: Right away. (Takes a bottle off a shelf, pours a glass, hands it to Godfather)
(That Guy With The Metal Teeth From The James Bond Movies (henceforth "Jaws") enters.)
Jaws: Hey, Goddy, how's it going?
G: Not so good. Someone refused one of my offers.
J: I thought you made offers people *couldn't* refuse.
G: Tell him that. (Opens a bag at his feet, pulls out a severed head.)
J: Oh, you brought a snack! Can I have some?
G: Help yourself.
(Enter Spooky Ghost)
Spooky Ghost: Bluh bluh bluh BLUH! Bluh bluh bluh BLUH!
J: Take that stupid mask off, Mr. Cogswell. You're not in your abandoned amusement park now.
(SG removes his mask, revealing himself to be...Mr. Cogswell!)
G: Jinkeys!
J: Another one of your perfect plans go wrong, Mr. Cogswell?
SG: Yeah. And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for...
Everybody:(As though repeating something they've heard many times) Those meddling kids, and that mangy mutt.
G: Why don't you take up a more profitable line of work, Cogswell? Come work for me. If those kids try to meddle around me, they'll sleep with the fishes.
SG: I can't help it...it's a compulsion. I have to dress up in stupid-looking rubber monster costumes and try to scare off kids. I've tried to stop. I see a shrink three times a week. But every time Daphne's in the neighborhood, I'm back in the monster mask going "bluh bluh bluh."
J: Daphne, huh? Why don't you just send her some flowers or something?
SG: Yeah, I can see that. I'd send some flowers, marked "from a secret admirer." The whole gang would immediately embark on the "mystery of the secret admirer." Scoob and Shag would demolish my kitchen looking for "clues," while Daphne and Fred would find a flower petal in my bedroom or something like that that "proved" I was the admirer. Finally, Velma would come up with some elaborate trap to catch me and force me to admit that I was Daphne's secret admirer. Forget it.
G: You could always, you know, sign the flowers.
SG: Yeah. "To Daphne, from that creepy guy who's always hanging around the abandoned amusement park." That's it.
J: Why don't you let me introduce you to one of the Bond babes?
SG: The Bond babes?
J: He goes through at least two of 'em a movie, so there's a huge supply. They always feel bitter and rejected after Bond moves on to someone else, so they hook up with the bad guys.
SG: I'll think about it.
(They all stare at their drinks for a moment as the conversation lulls.)
G: I'm working on a new way of extorting people. It's going to be scientific.
J: Scientific?
G: Yes. I have my labs working on it.
SG: Chemistry?
G: No, biochemistry. They've engineered a new disease. We call it the "Martian Death Flu." I'm going to threaten to infect people unless they pay up.
J: That's really cruel. But what if it accidentally gets loose?
G: My men are the best. They won't let anything happen. And even if something does, they're working at a little lab in the wilds of Minnesota, so who's going to get infected?
(SG looks around.)
SG: Hey, where's Nixon? He's usually here by now.
J: Maybe he died for real this time.
G: No, he's probably talking with JFK in the "Dead Presidents" bar.
J: They have a whole bar for dead presidents?
SG: Hey, if they have one for bad guys, why not?
(Newcomer walks in. He sits at one end of the bar, away from the other bad guys.)
J: Who is that guy?
SG: I don't recognize him. Godfather? You know all the bad guys.
G: I don't know him either. Maybe he's not really a bad guy. Bartender!
B: Yes?
G: Test that guy, would you?
B: You're the boss. (He pulls out a little electronic gizmo, points it at Newcomer, and looks down at it.) He's a bad guy, allright. Worse than any of you, as a matter of fact.
SG: Worse than the Godfather?
(Bartender nods.)
J: Maybe he's Bill Gates.
G: No. I know Bill Gates. He's no Bill Gates.
SG: Is he the Cancer Man?
J: Forget it. He isn't smoking. I give up. I'm going to ask him. (He gets up and walks over to the other end of the bar, where Newcomer is quietly sipping something.) Hey! Who are you?
N: Of course you don't recognize me. I'm the guy who wrote all those stupid e-mail forwards.
J: You mean, you wrote "Good Times?"
N: Yep. And the stolen kidney thing. I'm proud of that one.
(SG gets up and comes over.)
SG: You wrote that cookie recipe thing? I've gotten that stupid thing 50 times!
N: What can I say? I'm a victim of my own success.
(G gets up and comes over.)
G: Now, I'm a reasonable man. But I also run one of those free e-mail services. It used to be a nice, profitable business. But then your forwards started coming around. They swamped the servers. It was bad for business. You're bad for business.
(N becomes acutely aware that three big, menacing guys are standing over him.)
N: Hey, now, come on, guys. We're all bad guys here, right?
J: Even bad guys have some standards. (Bares his sharp, metal teeth.)
(N gets up, starts to edge nervously toward the door.)
N: Hey, fellows. Please. Be reasonable.
(He makes a quick feint to one side, dashes around the bad guys, and exits.)
G: I'll show him. When he wakes up tomorrow, his hard disk's head is gonna be in his bed.
(They all nod.)
(Lights down.)