Weapons Shop Sketch

(A customer walks in the door. There is a large radio in the corner, blaring Middle Eastern music).

Customer: Good Morning.

Owner: Good morning, Sir. Welcome to the Liberation of Frogistine Terrorist Arms Shop!

Customer: Ah, thank you, my good man.

Owner: What can I do for you, Sir?

Customer: Well, I was, uh, sitting in the refugee camp at grid S-33 just now, watching the children tease a dog with its own entrails and praising God for this fine day, when I suddenly came over all jihadishly feverent.

Owner: Excuse me, Sir?

Customer: Justifiably homicidal.

Owner: Eh?

Customer: Oppressed

Owner: Ah, oppressed!

Customer: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, “A little lethal violence against some unsuspecting and randomly chosen victims was just the ticket.”

Owner: Come again?

Customer: I want to blow some people up.

Owner: Oh, I thought you were complaining about the ghetto blaster!

Customer: Oh, heaven forbid…

Owner: Sorry?

Customer: That stuff just rocks.

Owner: So it can go on playing, can it?

Customer: Most certainly! Now then, some weapons please, my good man.

Owner: Certainly, sir. What would you like?

Customer: Well, eh, how about a little something in Semtex?

Owner: I’m afraid we’re fresh out of plastic explosives, sir.

Customer: Oh, never mind. How are you on RDX?

Owner: I’m afraid we never have that at the end of the week, we get it fresh on the Sabbath.

Customer: Tish. Well, my fellow in troubled times, three or four grenades will have to suffice, if you please.

Owner: They’ve been on order, sir, for weeks. Was expecting them this morning.

Customer: Not my lucky day, is it? Ahh, armor-piercing mortar rounds?

Owner: Sorry, sir.

Customer: Ah, antipersonnel mines?

Owner: Normally sir, yes. Caught at the inspection post today.

Customer: Knee-poppers? Bouncing Betties?

Owner: Sorry.

Customer: Bazookas?

Customer: No.

Customer: Limpet mines?

Owner: No.

Customer: Acid?

Owner: No.

Customer: Pungi stakes?

Owner: No.

Customer: Caltrops, piano wire, nun-chucks, throwing stars, tire-irons, brass knuckles?

Owner: No.

Customer: Amanita mushrooms, perhaps?

Owner: Ah! We have Amanita mushrooms, yessir.

Customer: (surprised) You do! Excellent.

Owner: Yessir. They’re, ah … they’re a bit dry.

Customer: Oh, I like them dry.

Owner: Well, they’re very dry, sir.

Customer: No matter. Fetch hither the deadly Amanita Mushrooms, the wonderous white Death Angels, ahhhh!

Owner: I … think they’re a bit drier than you’ll like them, sir.

Customer: I don’t care how fucking dry they are, hand them over with all due speed.

Owner: Ooooohhhhhhhhh!

Customer: What now?

Owner: The cat’s eaten them.

Customer: Has he.

Owner: She, sir.

(pause)

Customer: Teflon-coated armor-piercing rounds?

Owner: No.

Customer: Thermite?

Owner: No.

Customer: Phosgene gas?

Owner: No.

Customer: Anthrax?

Owner: No.

Customer: You … do *have* some weapons, don’t you?

Owner: (brightly) Of course sir. It’s a terrorist supply shop, sir. We’ve got —

Customer: No, no, don’t tell me. I’m keen to guess.

Owner: Fair enough.

Customer: Claymores?

Owner: Yes?

Customer: Ah, well, I’ll take a dozen!

Owner: Oh! I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mister Claymore, that’s my name.

(pause)

Customer: Computer viruses?

Owner: Uh, not as such.

Customer: Red mercury?

Owner: No.

Customer: Flight handbooks?

Owner: No.

Customer: Bayonettes?

Owner: No.

Customer: Greek fire?

Owner: No.

Customer: Venezuelan Beaver Cheese?

Owner: Not *today*, sir, no.

(pause)

Customer: Ah, how about nine millimeter full metal jacket rounds?

Owner: Well, we don’t get much call for it around here, sir.

C: Not much ca– it’s the single most popular cartridge in the world!

O: Not ’round here, sir.

C: And what IS the most popular ’round hyah?

O: Seven millimeter, sir.

C: IS it.

O: It’s our number-one best seller, sir!

C: Okay. Errr, seven, eh?

O: Definitely, sir.

C: All right. FINE. “Have you got any?” he asked, expecting the asnwer to be “no”.

O: Checking sir…. nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno.

C: It’s not much of a terrorist supply shop, is it?

O: Finest in the camp, sir!

C: Explain the logic behind that, please.

O: Well, it’s so clean!

C: It’s certainly devoid of any weapons.

O: You haven’t asked me about strap-on explosives, sir.

C: Would it be worth it?

O: Could be.

C: Have you — SHUT THAT DAMNED STEREO OFF!

O: Told you, sir.

C: Have you got any strap-on explosives?

O: No.

O: Figures. Predictable, really I suppose. Tell me, do you in fact have any weapons here at all?

O: Yes sir.

C: Really?

(pause)

O: No. Not really, sir.

C: You haven’t.

O: Nossir, not a scrap. I was deliberately buying time for the police to arrive.

C: Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to shoot you.

(shoots the owner)

C: What a senseless waste of human life.

(fade, police sirens in background)

Apologies to Monty Python, etc.

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