Screen Treatment for a Music Video:
A Western Wet Dream
'Long about sundown, GUY is standing at the end of the bar in a western saloon. His right cowboy-booted foot rests on the brass rail at the foot of the bar. This stance makes the butt of his Colt .44 stick out some, for easier access. Guy tips his Stetson to the nude woman in the painting behind the bar. Then he knocks back another shot of Redeye. Other COWBOYS are here, drinking and playing poker and talking with painted dance-hall FLOOZIES. But Guy is alone in this crowd.
A cowboy STRING-BAND begins to perform "A Western Wet Dream."
In sync with the song, Guy makes his break: He pushes through the swinging saloon doors. He hops into his mid-sixties Ford Mustang convertible, black as midnight with a blood red interior. Guy tromps it and roars down the street. Rooster-tails of dust are flung from the spinning tires.
Now, it's dusk.
Guy is in the bank. Behind him is the jagged opening that served as his entrance. (Perhaps he used a lariat and his trusty Mustang to pull out the iron grate that had barred the window.) A few early evening stars twinkle in the patch of sky framed by that hole in the wall.
Guy takes a toke from a home-rolled smoke, then touches the glowing end of his cigarette to a fuse. The fuse hisses like a side-winder, coiled and ready to strike. And the sparks climb dutifully to the end of a single stick of dynamite that protrudes from a hole drilled in the door of the bank's vault.
Ka-blooie! Thick clouds of smoke billow around Guy. Torrents of gold and silver coins rain down around him. Paper currency flutters and falls like a bushel of autumn leaves tossed into the air. Guy exhales smoke and he grins.
There is a straight dirt road that runs parallel to the horizon, through the desert and into an old ghost town. Tonight, a full moon is on the rise in the east. The moon is large and pale and silver, still touching the horizon. Now, Guy's black Mustang roars in from the desert. Rooster-tails stream behind the car.
The Mustang stops in front of the old hotel. Guy jumps out. He carries two canvas sacks of booty. He glances around warily, then pushes past the broken-down double-doors and enters the hotel.
Guy tip-toes up the hotel staircase. His Colt .44 is drawn and ready. The bags of loot hang from his other hand. Dusty, cobwebbed, life-sized portraits of 19th century cattle barons hang on the stairway wall. As Guy passes, their eyes seem to follow him.
At the top of the stair, there is a dark hallway where the doors to a dozen-or-so rooms are ajar. And it's blacker than pitch behind every door but one. From that door, the light from a kerosene lamp spills into the hall and falls on the floor. Guy approaches the door and pushes with his gunhand. The door opens smoothly.
A beautiful woman lies nude in the lamplight, on bright white sheets, on a big brass bed. She has been masturbating. She sees Guy and momentarily freezes. Then she melts and smiles. She is Guy's lover, GRETCHEN.
Guy cocks his hat back by pushing at the brim with the barrel of his gun. He smiles and says, "How do you do?"
Gretchen says, "I usually think of you, but my trigger finger's just the wrong size."
Dissolve. Now, in close-up, Guy looks like he might be riding a bucking bronco or Brahma bull. His movement is vigorous and rhythmic. He holds one hand above his head, as if in rodeo competition. He's wearing his Stetson and red neckerchief. But zooming-out reveals that Guy is bare-chested... Guy is bare-naked... Guy is engaged in energetic sex with Gretchen. Ride 'em, cowboy!
Dissolve. And now Gretchen leans back against the headboard and lights up a home-rolled cigarette. She takes a deep drag. She says, "You've been gone so long that now I'm feelin' sorta saddle-sore."
Then Guy rolls up a bedroll while Gretchen rolls several marijuana cigarettes.
Guy takes his repeating Winchester from its leather boot. He fills the rifle case with loot.
Guy is in the bed of Gretchen's Dodge pickup. He has his Winchester in hand. Gretchen is driving the vehicle at high-speed, swerving, zigzagging, dodging tumbleweeds and cacti, kicking up the desert dust.
Around high noon, the truck hits a prairie dog hole and bounces violently.
Now, the truck is still. One of its wheels is broken. Guy and Gretchen stand nearby and inspect the damage. No hope. Guy pats the poor truck on the hood, then pulls his pistol and fires one round into its radiator. "God!" A geyser of steam erupts, then sputters and dies. Well, it's the humane thing to do.
Guy and Gretchen walk a hot and dusty trail. They carry a bedroll, canteen, saddlebag, Winchester, and rifle boot full of booty.
A little before sunset, Guy checks the time on his gold pocket watch. It's getting late.
They decide to make camp beside an old raintree in a shallow canyon.
Gretchen spreads out the bedroll, lies down, and reaches up to touch Guy's crotch. She says, "If this thing's loaded, come on, boy, we'll carve another notch."
Guy watches as Gretchen massages herself with her other hand. He has an erection and a burning desire. But he also has the uneasy feeling that someone may be watching.
Suddenly, all hell breaks loose! A shower of bullets rains down around Guy and Gretchen! Guy is hit. His left hand grabs at his heart as he falls to the ground. His right hand goes for his gun.
Guy lands on his back. He rolls over and up onto one knee. He fires and turns, fires and turns. He sweeps 360 degrees and expends his six-shooter's full load.
Six BOUNTY HUNTERS pitch and die in rapid succession. They are dressed in western gear. Their faces are familiar, icons of evil. (Choice is optional. But how about, say, Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Saddam, Osama, and Carrot Top?)
All is safe now. Old debts are paid. The sun begins to set.
Guy stands. He blows the smoke from the barrel of his trusty Colt .44. He blows a kiss to Gretchen and says, "After this, do you still want some fun?"
Now, Guy lets his right arm hang, the revolver still clenched in that hand. He draws a deep breath and winces. Using his left hand, he reaches toward his chest. There's a large bullet hole in his shirt pocket. It's right where his heart is. But there is something about the size of a cigarette pack in the pocket. Guy removes a Bible. The butt of a bullet barely protrudes from the book's cover. Guy was saved by the Good Book. Hallelujah!
Guy kneels on the edge of the blanket and reloads his gun. (And perhaps, he whispers a prayer of thanks.)
Dissolve. And now, the red light of sunset washes over the naked bodies of Guy and Gretchen. They are making hot love. Their passion is fired by a new lust for life. They have cheated Death today. Who knows what tomorrow holds?
They make love. On the upper-right corner of the bedroll, Guy's loaded .44 is within easy reach. The rifle boot overlaps onto the lower-left corner of the bedding. Some gold and silver and paper currency has fallen out onto the blanket.
They bask in the afterglow of sunset and sex.
The dream fades. Guy is in his pajamas, in his bed, being shaken awake by his wife, JULIE. He is covered in sweat. His jammies are soaked.
Julie says, "Dammit, Guy, how's a body t' get any rest with you yelling 'Bang, bang, bang!' in your sleep!?"
Guy apologizes and explains, "I'm sorry, Dear, ...guess my dream seemed a little too violent." Then, as a ploy to circumvent further interaction with his testy spouse, Guy asks, "Do ya wanna make love?"
Julie rolls away without comment.
Guy escapes to the bathroom where he washes up and smokes a cigarette.
His thoughts return to the end of the dream where he and his lover lie entwined in the warm afterglow of love, beside a stash of cold hard cash.
SLOW FADE TO BLACK: