Gladiator Thanksgiving

"Mom always liked you better. She sold me into slavery first."

Int: The Temple of SIBYL, the great Roman prophetess and the only one you can trust to tell you if you’re going to need a jacket later.

Before Sibyl, uncharacteristically obsequious, are the pale and effete twin emperors, CARACALLA and GETALIFE.

Caracalla: Oh, Great Sibyl — love the hair, by the way — you must help us. The box office for our last spectacle at the Colosseum is in the toilet. And we brought in giant baboons, which cost a fortune. We’re never going to recoup costs on that.

Getalife: We need something that will really grab the public: Violence! Inhuman cruelty. Brother pitted against brother. And snacks — that’s important.

Sibyl: (Grabbing the bowl of entrails she always keeps nearby and studying it.) Let me look far into the future. Black Friday, not enough people trampled…’Presidential elections in a place called the U.S. of A., maybe.. … Wait, I see it! A treacherous coming together of clans under the guise of a great feast! Small slights escalating into festering, mortal wounds! Grievous insults. No, it’s TOO HORRIBLE!

Sibyl faints dead away.

CUT TO:

INT: The Roman Colosseum. Emperors Caracalla and Getalife wave limply to the crowd, for the truth is they never exercise.

In the arena, there’s a long Thanksgiving table with perfectly roasted Thanksgiving turkeys, platters of delectable sides, and the livers of Roman senators who dared tell Caracalla and Getalife that strongly colored togas made them look washed out.

JACKED GLADIATORS, including the famed MIKEUS TYSONNIUS, MUHAMUD ALIUS , GEORGIUS FOREMUNUS and LUCIUS, the brooding and sensitive new gladiator in town, march into the arena. Several are carrying casserole dishes.

Tysonnius: (whispering to Muhamud) What the fuck, Muhamud? You brought sweet potato pie, too? The wax tablet was very clear on who brings what. Now we’re going to have two sweet potato pies and no pecan.

Muhamud: (Swinging his spiked mace ball and splattering Tysonnius’ pie all over the arena). Not any more.

Tysonnius: (Enraged.) THAT WAS MY MOTHER’S RECIPE!!!

Muhamud swings his spiked ball once more and splatters Tysonnius’ head all over the arena. The crowd erupts with cheers. Muhamud bows before the effete twin emperors.

Getalife: (Whispering to his brother.) Give him the drumstick.

CUT TO:

The arema, several hours later. The bloated bodies of SEVERAL GLADIATORS are scattered around the arena. SEVERAL MORE GLADIATORS, obviously exhausted and ill but still managing to shovel it in, are around the table bickering.

GLADIATOR A: Mom always like you better. She sold me into slavery first.

GLADIATOR B: Vegan turkey? What kind of pussy eats Burmese Tofu covered with rice paper? Is Mr. Sensitive gluten free too?

GLADIATOR C: (Grabbing his TRIDENT DAGGER) I worked for three days crafting that turkey. Why do you always undermine everything I do? Belittle, belittle, every since we started gladiator school.

Lucius: (With great sensitivity). Brothers, please, will we kill one another for the entertainment of those debauched twin emperors? Better we create a new Rome, with equality for all and affordable health care.

Gladiator A: (Enraged.) You’re talking. politics? We all agreed, no politics.

Gladiator A whips TWO SHORT DAGGERS out of his belt and stabs the sensitive Lucius in both ears. THE CROWD ROARS. Lucius, grievously wounded, manages to stagger to his feet.

Lucius: Did somebody say something? I can’t hear. I’ve got daggers in my ears.

Lucius keels over dead. A pair of white horses try to drag his body away, but Lucius is so bloated from eating for several hours,they cannot budge him.

Emperor Caracalla: (Yelling from the Emperor’s Box in the stands). Did everyone save room for desert?

Georgius Foremanus stands and addresses the crowd.

Georgius: Verily, I have disgraced myself. I cannot take another bite. I die a Roman.

Georgius throws himself on his LAVISHLY ENGRAVED SWORD.

The crowd goes wild, jumping to their feet and screaming.

The debauched twin emperors stand, glowing in the appreciative screams of the crowd.

Caracalla: They love us.

Getalife: We gotta do this again next year.