Mexican Hate Dance

The Supreme Court says: Happy hunting, Texas!

[The office of Texas Governor GREG ABBOTT, which resembles Governor Lepetomane’s office in Blazing Saddles. ABBOTT, dressed in grey trousers, black morning coat, checkered vest over a white shirt and purple cravat, and a brown leather holster with a sidearm, sits in an old-fashioned high-backed oak cane wheelchair behind an enormous mahogany desk. Treating with him is SILAS YOKUM, a pudgy balding white boob whose shitty beard is so full of product it practically drips, dressed in a short-leg light blue sack suit with French vanilla shirt, gold-spotted bow tie, cowboy boots, and a brown leather holster with a sidearm. JARVIS, an elderly black retainer dressed like a lawn jockey, sits by the office door with a bucket between his feet.]

YOKUM: Gov’ner, looky here, the Supreme Court done give us the green light an’ we gawt to arrest us some Messicans pronto an’ show people we mean business.

ABBOTT: Waaa-aal I dunno, Sy. Them fellers yew got huntin’ down Messicans ain’t nothin’ but yella-livered gutter trash. They might make some mistakes could make us look lahk a buncha assholes.

YOKUM: Gov’ner, how kin yew say sech a thing! Them boys is f’um trash, true enough. They paw got drunk up an’ rolled inna gully an’ die an’ they mauma was livin’ offen the land and robbin’ touris’s with a shotgun at Big Bend Nash-nal Pahk till the Rangers tuck her in — Pa’k Rangers, I should say ‘cuz a Texas Ranger woul’n’t ne’er do sech a thang to a Texas Lady, YEE-HAW!

[YOKUM shoots in his sidearm at the ceiling, raining down plaster; neither ABBOTT nor JARVIS reacts. YOKUM holsters his sidearm.]

But it war a sho-nuff shit-show an’ we hadda get Cliven Bundy and the boys to come down an’ raise a ruckus ta git her out the hoosegow. But them boys done rose up in mah service an’ warsh themself regular-like an’ they swear awn they mauma they gawt them a high-profile invasionary critter fo’ yew ta show the media.

ABBOTT: Waa-aall I reckon I kin tek a look, Sy, but looky heah, I’m a-wawnin’ yew, if’n these heah boys fuck up I’m-a gawna give yew ‘nother bath in th’ hogslop.

YOKUM: Yew won’t regret it, Gov’ner, I sweah. [Yells toward the wings] Jebediah! Beauregard! Y’all kin come in nah!

[JEBEDIAH and BEAUREGARD, absolutely the spit of L.Q. Jones and Strother Martin, respectively, in The Wild Bunch, come in, roughly pushing before them a prisoner, a Hispanic-looking man of about 35 wearing dark grey Calvin Klein suit separates, a black t-shirt, and athletic shoes, and carrying a thick book with the word LORCA in gilt on the front cover.]

ABBOTT: So this heah’s the invadah? Looks a maht clean-cut fo’ am invadah ta me.

PRISONER: See here, what’s this all about.

BEAUREGARD: Yew shut yer stinkin’ Messican or Guatemalan or Venezuelan or what the hell-ever-an it’s-all-Messican ta me mouth, ya damn invadah!

JEBEDIAH: [To YOKUM and ABBOTT] We caught ‘im dead ta rahts, Mr. Gov’ner, Mr. Yokum, suh! He were dahn t’ one o’ them Stahbucks right dahntahn heah in Austin, givin’ instructions ta some young Messican bucks in they Messican tongue!

BEAUREGARD: Thass raht! They was all sippin’ lotties and eatin’ scahns purty as y’please, but oooh they was a-listenin’ hard to this’un, lahk he was tellin’ em all how ta kill them some hwhaht peoples an’ eat ‘em up, ‘cuz yew know they’s all cannibals now, I done heard tell!

JEBEDIAH: Hit the Gawd’s truth, Gov’ner! I heard thet all them Messicans is all gawn cannibal, like thet Ket-zo-ka-wattle the Aztec!

BEAUREGARD: [To JEBEDIAH] No, Jeb, they’s Hey-ee-shuns, thass what they is.

JEBEDIAH: Hey-ee-shun! Never heard sech a thang! They’s Messican cannibals!

BEAUREGARD: No, Jeb, they’s f’um Hay-ee-sha where they gawt thet voodoo what makes ‘em woana eat folks up like they was poultry or biscuits or somethin’.

JEBEDIAH: I’m a-tellin’ yew the cannibals an’ th’ ray-piss an’ th’ mass-murderers is all Messicans!

PRISONER: If I may speak, gentlemen —

BEAUREGARD: YEW SHUT UP YEW MAN-EATIN’ HAY-EE-SHUN!

JEBEDIAH: DON’ YEW SASS ME YEW LONG-PIG-EATIN’ MESSICAN!

ABBOTT: Awright, boys, thet’s enough. [To the PRISONER] Mister Messican or Hay-ee-shun or whatever yew is, y’all got a ID?

PRISONER: [Reaching into his jacket] Why, yes, as a matter of –

[ABBOTT, YOKUM, BEAUREGARD and JEBEDIAH all draw pistols on the PRISONER, who freezes.]

ABBOTT: Nice and slow, put ‘er on mah desk raht here.

[PRISONER places ID on ABBOTT’s desk. ABBOTT examines it.]

Well, ah s’pose it could be a ruse, y’all never know with —

[ABBOTT looks at PRISONER, then at the ID, then at the PRISONER.]

Haw! Puhfessa Alvarez! I ‘member yew f’um that UT luncheon back in December! Wahl, mistakes was made, let’ jes’ let bygones be bygones, hey?

PRISONER: I will certainly be reporting this to the Chancellor.

ABBOTT: Well, nah, thass too bad.

[ABBOTT pulls his sidearm and plugs the PRISONER through the forehead. The PRISONER drops. Pause.]

Don’t just stand theah, yuh cow-eyed cow-punchers, haul this heah trash out mah office!

[ABBOTT hits a button on his desk.]

Maisie, send in a cleanup crew. Category One. Thanks.

[BEAUREGARD and JEBEDIAH haul out the body; YOKUM starts to follow them out.]

Sy! Jes’ a gol-durn minute!

[BEAUREGARD and JEBEDIAH keep going but YOKUM comes back to the desk.]

Y’all know what to espec’, nah, Sy, don’t’cha?

YOKUM: Goldurn it, Gov’ner, I coulda swore –

ABBOTT: Hush!

[ABBOTT points to the door. YOKUM steps up to JARVIS. JARVIS takes hold of the bucket, stands, and dumps its viscid contents onto YOKUM. YOKUM leaves. ABBOTT gets on his iPhone.]

Git me Pres’dint Trump. [Short pause; ABBOTT switches to a smoother mode of self-presentation] Mr. President!  So glad you could take my call! Sir, believe it or not we’ve been having difficulty with our Mexican capture efforts… I understand the importance, sir, and that’s why I hoped you could spare us Mr. James Woods and Mr. Hector Martinez this week — I know they could put together a show that would convince the media… ha ha, right, sir, not hard at all! Well, I won’t keep you; I await your call. My best to Mrs. Trump… oh, ha ha, well, I’m Texan, sir, we’re not used to that kind of talk, but I can get used to it! Bye now.

[ABBOTT disconnects, reaches down and fetches up a jug and some chaw, which he enjoys as a gaggle of uniformed CLEANING LADIES, apparently Central America, enter and go to work on the blood stains.]