fiction

Dick Gritstone, Pistol-Packing Doctor

Dick Gritstone

Have Americans always been so enamored with guns? Maybe this long lost script for a once popular radio show will tell us.

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ANNOUNCER: Texaco Theater presents, in cooperation with Lucky Strikes Tobacco– (heavy drama voice) Dick Gritstone, Pistol Packing Doctor!

Cue theme music.

ANNOUNCER (over music): Last week we left Dick and his gorgeous companion, Brenda Dufois, in the chi-chi eatery, La Diner.

Cue general restaurant ambience.

BRENDA: My, Dick, the La Diner sure is a chi-chi eatery.

DICK: Yes Brenda, and you are a most gorgeous companion.

BRENDA: Never mind, you.  Mmmm!  This tuna chip casserole is fabulous.  I must get the recipe.  Waiter!

DINER: Help!  Help!  My husband, he’s choking on a chicken bone!

Dramatic music.

DICK: Those dastardly chicken bones!  Why must these devils always put them in the food? Where is he, ma’am?

DINER: He’s the blue gentleman on the floor clutching his throat!

BRENDA: Oh, Dick, never mind that.  Can’t we just have one quiet meal?

DICK: Sorry, Bren- no can do…. I’m a doctor.

Music as they walk across the restaurant.  Cue sound of a man choking.

DINER: There he is!  There’s my Irv! (A shot rings out. The lady screams.) You’ve shot my husband!

DICK: Yes, but look – he spit out this chicken bone.

DINER: Irv!? Irv?!  What have you done to him?  He’s bleeding!

DICK: No need for thanks, it’s what I do. I’m a doctor.

Applause.  Music takes us to commercial.

END ACT I

ACT II:

Cue traffic noises.

DICK: Boy, nothing like a taxi ride to work the old colon after a meal, eh Brenda?

BRENDA: You said a load there, Dick! Say, Dick?

DICK: Yeah, Bren?

BRENDA: Aren’t I your gorgeous companion?

DICK: Well, you bet!

BRENDA: How about the future, Dick? I mean you, me, and baby makes three.

The sound of a pistol being cocked.

DICK: Say, come on Brenda. You know how I feel about marriage.

BRENDA (hurt): Your work is your mistress, Dick. She is the only one for you, her and that infernal pistol! Well I can take it anymore! I can’t! I won’t!

A gun fires! Glass shatters.

DICK: Now keep your eyes on the road, driver, or next time it won’t be the rear view mirror.

DRIVER: Yes sir! On the road, sir!

DICK: You are the only gal for me, Brenda, and don’t you ever forget it.

BRENDA: Oh, Dick!

They kiss. Audience applauds. Cue squealing tires.

DICK: Driver! What has gotten into you, boy?

DRIVER: It’s that maniac in front of us, boss! He’s driving crazy, like he’s drunk. Yes sir, like he’s drunk!

DICK: Drunk? (Dramatic music.) Pull up alongside him, driver.

BRENDA: But Dick, I’m frightened!

DICK: Now, Bren, aren’t I your guy? Do you think Dick Gritstone, M.D. would let anything happen to his best gal?

More tires squealing.

DICK: That’s the ticket, driver, right alongside!

ANNOUNCER: Inside the other car, a gorgeous redhead reaches across the driver and rolls down his window. A blue man grasps the wheel with icy fingers.

DICK: Say, I think you  should pull over for a strong cup of joe, buddy, doctor’s orders!

REDHEAD: You don’t understand–My husband, he’s having a heart attack!

DICK: Heart attack? Say, who’s the doctor here?

Dramatic music.  The sound of a gun shot.

REDHEAD: You’ve shot him!

DICK: Yes, but my medical expertise tells me his palpitations have stopped. Look how much more relaxed he looks.  Why, he seems to be taking a nap.

REDHEAD: He’s dead, you idiot, and I don’t know how to drive!

ALL: WHOAAAAA!!!!!!

The squeal of tires, metal crunching.

ANNOUNCER: Is this the end of Dick and his gorgeous companion, Brenda? Will she ever get that recipe for tuna chip casserole? Tune in next week for another installment of (cue music) Dick Gritstone, Pistol Packing Doctor.

Music fades.

END

 

Categories: fiction

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