Pig farmer Earl Scrubs loves everything in his life: his family, his home and his animals. The only problem is it's in the center of the prestigious Palmetto Golf Country Club golf course where golfers must play through a pig wallow on the 16th hole.
Club receipts are down and something has to be done. The club's president kidnaps Scrubs' most prized possession, his famed prize-winning pig, and holds it hostage to force him to sell the land.
Disdaining the offer of a free lifetime club membership and preferring grilled pork chops to caviar and champagne, Earl challenges the club president to a winner-take-all match. A hilarious, comic sendup of high-status golf that places a pig farmer in a gentleman's game, the fate of the farm rest on its outcome.
Earl, who gets a crash course in the game from legendary mystical gold pro, thought he knew everything there was to know about golf but he's about to find out the game still has a thing or two to teach him about life.
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The Sixteenth Hole
By Jack Sholl
AuthorHouse LLCCopyright © 2014 Jack Sholl
All rights reserved.
EXT. PALMETTO GOLF COUNTRY CLUB—GOLF COURSE—DAY
Establishing—The sedate, serene, lush, green, manicured fairways of the Palmetto Golf Club course. Sprinklers spray a fine mist over the verdant and carefully tended grass.
THREE deeply tanned MEN in golf attire, Big Bertha drivers in hand, assess the fairway.
The FIRST stands at the tee and WHACKS the golf ball straight down the long fairway.
The ball soars high in the air into the distance and lands in the middle of the fairway.
The SECOND walks over and places his ball on a tee. He bends over the ball and WHACKS it straight down the fairway.
The ball lands in the middle of the fairway, ahead of the first golfer's shot.
The THIRD steps forward, places his ball on a tee and lines up the shot. The other two watch from the side.
The third golfer readies the golf club head behind the ball. He looks out into the distance.
An immense PIG comes out of a stand of trees to the side of the fairway and lumbers across it.
The third golfer looks down at the ball and then looks up again down the fairway.
THIRD GOLFER'S P.O.V.—
The pig is mid-way across the fairway. The third golfer's vision goes IN-AND-OUT of FOCUS.
The third golfer turns to the other two.
They're watching him.
He starts to speak. But is interrupted.
FIRST GOLFER (impatiently)
Come on, Brad. You going to take all day?
The pig disappears into another stand of trees on the fairway's other side.
The third golfer swings at the ball and neatly slices it left and high in the air.
The ball hangs motionless in the air before it starts its descent toward the trees on the left.
A big, ruddy-faced, white-haired, beer-barreled, sunburned man, EARL SCRUBS, sits in the shade of the farmhouse porch. He wears khakis held up by suspenders over a white T-shirt.
Close by, in a watery ditch, 165 mud-splattered pigs wallow, GRUNT, scratch and SQUEAL. Beside the mud ditch are wooden pens. Flies swarm about.
HAWAIIAN MUSIC plays from loudspeakers. The music mingles with the squeals.
Earl fans himself with a large hand fan.
Golf ball hangs in mid-air.
The ball plops into the muddy embankment of the pig wallow and sinks in.
Gosh darn. One of these days, they are going to take the head off of one of those hogs.
The THIRD GOLFER, club in hand, stands in the lawn with his golf bag behind him. He wears yellow trousers, a white golf shirt and white golf shoes.
Pardon me, but did you see a golf ball land here anywhere?
Sure did. It's over there, yonder, where most of them go.
Scrubs points to the pig ditch.
Do you mind if I play through?
Nope. Don't mind it at all. Isn't the first time, won't be the last.
CAMERA PANS as the golfer strides across the lawn over to the side of the muddy pig ditch. There he confronts a large, five hundred pound hog, its snout rooting around the ball.
The third golfer tries to shoo the hog away but it won't budge. The golfer swings at the ball under the hog's nose, missing the ball and splattering mud everywhere.
The hog shuffles away.
The golfer concentrates his club on the ball. Another HOG blindly stumbles from behind and snouts him into the ditch.
Golfer sits in muddy ditch, golf club in hand.
EXT. PALMETTO GOLF COUNTRY CLUB—CLUBHOUSE—DAY
Establishing—Large iron, ornate gates open to a circular driveway. A SIGN with gold lettering to the side of the gate READS: "PALMETTO GOLF CLUB. MEMBERS ONLY."
The Colonial-style clubhouse has large white columns at the front. Several sleek, lissome, tanned, YOUNG WOMEN in golf attire walk from the clubhouse to waiting golf carts.
INT. PALMETTO GOLF COUNTRY CLUB—CLUB MANAGER'S OFFICE—CONTINUING
The club's manager, JOHNNY TURPINSEED, sits behind a gray, metal desk. Behind it is a cork-board with many paper notes pinned to it. The club president, CLEMENT WHITWORTH III, paces in front of the desk.
Dag nab it! We've got to do something. We didn't sink all this money into this club to have it ruined by some pig farmer. People don't want to play on a course that stinks like a garbage pit, and play through a lot of hogs.
Well, you didn't have to build the course until you got ownership to all the land.
Time is money, son. And how the hell was I to know that some pig-headed pig farmer would be so obstinate and foolhardy?
Maybe we could put a detour around the farm or a bridge over it?
Look. Every dag nab country club from Tampa to Tallahassee are raking in the green fees. And all we're doing here is losing receipts. You do something about this or you'll be, pardon my French, shoveling shit with that farmer. Get my meaning!
Whitworth storms out as JEFF enters.
What's that all about, Dad?
He's all upset about the Scrubs Farm on the Sixteenth hole. I'm going to call SALLY THOMPSON, our attorney, and see what we can do. We've just got to run them out.
Lulu Mae Scrubs is in my class. I think she's awfully nice.
Nice! A pig farmer's daughter? Nice! Now, I've heard it all! You, boy, had best pay attention to some of the young socialites and debutantes around here at the club if you want to get ahead in life. Now get out of here and go practice that swing of yours.
Turpinseed picks up the phone on the desk.
Get me Sally Thompson!
Gathered around a large wooden dinner table covered with many dishes piled high with food are Earl, SKEETER, Earl's twenty-eight-year-old son, and LULU MAE, Earl's seventeen-year-old daughter. The SOUNDS of CICADAS filter through the open windows.
SKEETER (to Earl)
While you were out in the pens, a woman called, a Ms. Thompson, and said she'd be stopping by tomorrow if it would be OK.
It'll be OK. But it isn't going to do any good. I know who she is, she's the lawyer for the golf course. They're still trying to buy me out.
Maybe you should think about selling, Papa. You could retire and go live in one of those big condominiums by the ocean.
I was here first, way before the country club. When your late Momma, bless her soul, and I pulled up in our car here for the first time, we were trying to escape from all the noise and chaos. We're here because we like it here. A place to raise pigs, chicken and eggs. What could be more peaceful than those hogs? No one's going to chase us out of our blessed homestead.
Maybe times have changed. Skeeter and I could get jobs in town. We could get jobs in one of those fast-food restaurants.
These golfers are hypocrites. They don't want to know where their food comes from. Just busy complaining about me. And all the while stuffing their mouths with pork chops, and steaks and chicken and eggs.
A golf ball sails through the window.
The ball lands in a mound of mashed potatoes on a plate on the table. The Scrubs are startled.
Skeeter plucks the ball from the mound.
What brand is it?
Well, wipe it off and put it out in the barn with the others.
EXT. TOWN STORE—DAY
Jeff walks down the Main Street of the town, past shops. He bumps into Lulu Mae as she comes out of the door of a lumber yard.
Lulu Mae has two big bags of feed under her arms.
Hi, there, Lulu Mae. What are you doing?
Oh, getting some extra additives for Poppa's prize pig, the Prince of Palmetto. Poppa's determined to win the Fattest Pig Award again this year at the Agricultural Show.
Gee, Lulu Mae, you look so pretty. Can I help you carry that? I'll walk you over to your truck.
That would be real nice, Jeff.
I always wondered how it would be to live on a farm. With animals and all.
Why don't you come over some day? I'll show you around. You can have a look at the Prince. Poppa's real proud of him.
OK. It's a date.
INT. FARMHOUSE—LIVING ROOM—DAY
SALLY THOMPSON, a forty-year-old, spinsterish attorney dressed in a blue suit, sits in a chair across from Earl. Sally has a leather attaché on her lap and a sheaf of papers in her hand.
So you're prepared to sell the remaining acreage, then?
We're prepared to make you an excellent offer. You have to be reasonable.
Mr. Scrubs. I want to be sensitive to your lifestyle, but step back for a moment and look at it as we see it. We live in a tourist area. People come here to have a vacation, a good time, and golf is a great attraction. And it helps our economy. But what do they get for their vacation dollar? Stench. From the animals, the manure and from the heaps of rotting lettuce, tomatoes and other garbage utterly repulsive to the people who pass by the club, let alone to the people who play the Sixteenth hole. Not to mention the music; it distracts the golfers. It's a public nuisance.
These pigs have been listening to it for thirty years.
Could you change it to Bach or Beethoven?
Hawaiian music helps these pigs get along just fine. They're content. And they eat more. Just look at the Prince of Palmetto.
Well, Mr. Scrubs, I wish you could see it our way. I'm afraid we have no other recourse than to sue you and take this court. Sally gets up and exits.
The Sixteenth Hole
Skeeter's fixing a tractor. He's tanned and perspiring, and his muscles, encased in a white T-shirt, are striking in the glare of the afternoon sun. Sally approaches, daintily tip-toeing along the lawn.
It stinks to high heaven around here. How do you stand it?
I don't know what you mean, ma'am. But I guess it's what you're used to.
You were pretty hard on my Pop, ma'am.
Just doing my job. Clarence Whitworth and his crowd pays the bills. And they pay pretty well.
Haven't you ever thought of being your own person. No matter what?
No, I guess not. Law school. Big clients. Big money.
Well, that's what all of this is about. Independence. You people should be ashamed of yourselves.
Skeeter wipes the sweat from his brow. He smiles engagingly at Sally.
Hmmm. Tell me more.
EXT. PALMETTO COUNTY COURTHOUSE—DAY
Establishing—A gray, stone building overlooking a shaded square with green grass and park benches. In the center of the green is a flagpole with an American flag flapping gently in the light breeze.
Excerpted from The Sixteenth Hole by Jack Sholl. Copyright © 2014 Jack Sholl. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse LLC.
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