by Eric




(Chucky enters. His mother meets him at the door.)


CHUCKY:          Hi mom.


MOM:               Hi Chucky.


CHUCKY:          (Clapping his hands) Bonko! Here Bonko!


MOM:               (Wringing her hands) Uh Chucky…


CHUCKY:          Mom! This is going to be the best Christmas ever. I got Bonko a great present. (Claps again) Bonko! Here boy!


MOM:               Honey,  Bonko’s not feeling very well.


CHUCKY:          Bonko?


(Bonko, a mime, slinks in. He drops to sit indian style, with his head in his hands and looks



CHUCKY:          There he is!! The best pet in the world. C’mon boy! Do “walking against the wind”. (Bonko looks up sadly at Chucky.) What’s wrong boy?


MOM:               Chucky, Bonko is very sick.


CHUCKY:          (Tussels Bonko’s hair) You’ll be okay soon boy. We’ll be running together on the beach in no time. Ain’t that right boy.


MOM:               Honey, try to understand.


(Dad walks in with a shot gun)


DAD:                Hi honey..oh…hi Chucky.


CHUCKY:          Dad! No! I won’t let you.


DAD:                I’m sorry, son. We have to. It’s best for Bonko.


CHUCKY:          No! It’s Christmas Eve?


MOM:               I’m sorry, Chucky.


CHUCKY:          But Bonko saved us from that bear. How you can do it to him?


DAD:                We think that when he fought with the bear he got rabies.


(Chucky gasps and looks in horror at Bonko. Bonko looks up casually and opens his mouth

which is full of foam. He shrugs and goes back to sulking.)


CHUCKY:          Bonko! No!! (He runs to his mother)


DAD:                My hands are tied, Chuck. Bonko must be destroyed.


CHUCKY:          But why?


DAD:                Because they need to cut his head off and check for rabies.


MOM:               Chucky, he won’t feel a thing. Mimes don’t feel pain the way we do. It’ll be like he’s going to sleep.


DAD:                Right. There’ll be a quick explosion of gun powder, a blast of bone and brain all over the family room and then it will be like he’s going to sleep.


CHUCKY:          He’s no trouble. He’s quiet. He doesn’t eat much. He cleans his own tights.


DAD:                Do you think I want to do this?


CHUCKY:          Yes!


DAD:                It’s true. I will derive some pleasure from killing a mime.


MOM:               But then again who wouldn’t.


DAD:                When you get older, Chucky, you’ll understand.


MOM:               Yeah Chucky, mimes suck.


DAD:                Those things caused my best friends to bite it back in the war.


CHUCKY:          What war…


DAD:                The…uh…hundred mimes war.


CHUCKY:          This is the worst Christmas ever.


(There is a knock at the door.)


MOM:               Oh they’re here.


CHUCKY:          Who?


DAD:                We invited the Holstein sisters over for eggnog. (The sisters walk in, each brandishing a weapon) And to help kill the mime.


(Chucky runs from the room.)


MOM:               So Bonko, any last requests?


(Bonko stands and prepares to mime.)


DAD:                Too slow. WASTE HIM!!!


(“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” begins as they all begin to fire into the mime. Bonko

takes each bullet in slow motion.)





 (Music stops)


STEVE:            (German Accent to audience) You feel sorry for zis mime? Zat’s because you are crasy. Mimes do not have feelings.


ANNCR:            IKEA…Fuken Mimen.