A fork, a phobia and a photograph
Now that Scrippets are up and working, it’s time for the fourth-ever Scene Challenge. ![[Scene Challenge]](http://johnaugust.com/Assets/scene_challenge.png)
For the first one, Masturbating to Star Trek, you had to write an entire scene. For the second one, Make Your Introduction, you had to introduce one character. The third time involved derivatives, and frankly wasn’t that spectacular.
So this time, I’m casting the net wider. You can write a scene about anything, in any genre. The only catch: you have to incorporate three required elements. As you might have guessed from the headline, your entry must include all of the following:
- A fork
- A phobia, and
- A photograph.
You’re left to your own judgment how far you can bend these elements without breaking the spirit of the competition.
Here are the rules:
- Post your entry in the comments thread of this article. If you’re uncertain about how scrippets work, try it out first on the test blog.
- The comment editing feature is turned on again, but it’s a little shaky. So you’re better off proofreading twice than trying to fix errors later.
- All entries must be submitted by 8 a.m. PST on Wednesday, September 17th, 2008. Remember that comments are sometimes held in moderation. Don’t submit twice. It will show up. Promise.
- I’ll pick a winner later that day.
- Winner receives hearty congratulations and a brief moment in the spotlight.
And…begin.
Articles
September 15th, 2008 at 8:04 am
INT. INTEROGATION ROOM – DAY
LILLY, 40, sits alone, sullen. A DETECTIVE enters with two slices of pizza and sits across from her. He slides the pizza towards her.
LILLY
(quietly)
You have a fork?
DETECTIVE
I’m sorry?
LILLY
It’s how I eat it. It’s how my mother used to.
DETECTIVE
I’m sure we have one somewhere.
(slides a folder across the table)
If you could take a look at these pictures, I’ll see what I can find.
The detective leaves the room. Lilly looks at the pictures. They are of a teenage girl, no more than 14, laying on a linoleum floor. She is in some sort of work uniform. In some of the pictures there is a fallen ladder.
The detective comes back with a plastic fork and knife. He sits and gives the utencils to Lilly. He watches Lilly as she studies the photographs.
DETECTIVE
The ladder in the picture makes us think she was changing a lightbulb at the store. The power went out shortly before she would have fallen. We even found a broken light bulb nearby.
(cautiously)
That’s why we don’t have any reason to suspect foul play, Mrs. Tencil. I’m sorry.
(beat)
The corroner said she snapped her neck and died instantly. She didn’t suffer.
(beat)
I know this is hard. But, there’s really nothing for us to investigate. It was just a freak accident.
(beat)
I’ll give you a minute.
The detective gets up to leave her alone.
LILLY
My daughter wouldn’t have been on that ladder.
DETECTIVE
Mrs. Tencil...
LILLY
She would have quit her job before she let someone make her climb a ladder. She’s been terrified of heights since she was a child.
An awkward moment. Lilly notices something else in the picture:
LILLY
Her necklace is gone.
DETECTIVE
We found a necklace in her purse. Had a little horse pendant on it.
Lilly looks away -- that’s the necklace.
DETECTIVE
I’m sorry, Mrs. Tencil.
FADE OUT.
September 15th, 2008 at 8:09 am
INT. LUXURY CAR – DAY
The wind whips through his hair as he drives along contentedly.
The radio blares smooth jazz through its six speakers. Meet Jonathan Dawes, a pompous 30 year old with a love of all things Jonathan. The road is nearly empty this early morning. Ahead a FORK in the road. Jonathan takes the right side, the signs displaying Santa Monica. A voice interrupts the soft keys and trumpets.
RADIO ANNOUNCER
That was Chuck Mangione on your 102 Smooth. We’ll be right back after these commercial messages.
COMMERCIAL ANNOUNCER
Do you find yourself afraid to fly? Are you missing your vacation stuck on Greyhound? If so come see us at Face Your Fears. We specialize in curing all manners of phobia using safe, therapeutic methods. SO when you are ready to live in courage give us a call at two-one-three, six-zero-five, seven-one-three-nine. Open seven days a week.
Jonathan seems annoyed and as he reaches for the tuning knob, a PHOTOGRAPH catches his eye. Posted in the window of a van ahead of him, the picture shouts sensuality.
JONATHAN
Shit.
His hand stops and he is transfixed; his eyes glued to the 5×8 of his dreams. As he enters a crowded street, an abrupt bang awakes him from his thoughts. His head jerks and he sees a pickup nearly sitting on his hood.
JONATHAN (CONT’D)
Shit.
The PHOTOGRAPH fades into the distance, Jonathan’s fear of conflict causes his FORKED-tongue to go into overdrive as he attempts to calm the driver. No luck. He’s glad he became an insurance salesman, though.
September 15th, 2008 at 8:24 am
Do we have to use this scrippets thing? Is that a dealbreaker? For those of us who already know were not going to be able to figure it out… can we just write the scene without it?
September 15th, 2008 at 8:54 am
INT. RADIO STATION – STUDIO – NIGHT
Normally the station is glowing with light, but today’s a holiday: THANKSGIVING.
GABE and EMMA are the only one in the station besides the janitorial crew, but they are ALL the way UP on the THIRD floor. The two lowly assistants are filing sales reports.
EMMA
You got family, Gabe?
GABE
Sure, but they’re all living in New Mexico. I wanted to go, but --
EMMA
Can’t afford it?
GABE
Yeah. What about you?
EMMA
I don’t have much of a family. All we do is fight. Besides, we’re earning a few extra bucks doing this. Hey, are you hungry?
Gabe’s stomach GROWLS.
EMMA
Thought so. Be back.
A few more reports go into their proper place before...
GABE
Fuck this.
He sits down and looks out the window to the parking lot: snow as far as the eye can see.
A SHAPE is out in the far end of the parking lot. It heads for the window.
Snow CRUNCHES...crunch...crunch.
FASTER and FASTER.
Gabe can make out the shape. The hairs on his neck and arm stand.
CLOSER and CLOSER, the shape comes until we SEE it... it’s a...
Gabe lets out a SCREAM!
It’s a CLOWN.
The clown hits the class repeatedly, like a drunken frat boy, and laughs.
Gabe, shaking, gets into the fetal position and sobs.
The clown takes out his camera phone, still laughing, and takes a picture o f the disheveled Gabe.
Emma ENTERS the room with two ramen noodle cups and utensils.
EMMA
...I couldn’t find spoons, so forks will have to do...
Her eyes find Gabe, a broken man.
September 15th, 2008 at 8:55 am
Christian! Straight out the box. 2hrs 38 minutes.. ninja.
September 15th, 2008 at 10:40 am
ALEX
Don’t ask for a spoon.
BOB
What?
ALEX
When she brings you the ice-cream she’s going to bring you a fork but no spoon. Don’t ask for a spoon.
BOB
Why can’t I ask for a spoon?
ALEX
They don’t have any spoons here.
BOB
They don’t have any spoons? Why don’t they have any spoons?
ALEX
She’s afraid of them.
BOB
She’s afraid of spoons?
ALEX
What is this, an echo chamber?
BOB
Who hires a waitress who is afraid of spoons?
ALEX
No one hired her, it’s her diner.
BOB
Wouldn’t a person with a flatware phobia be disinclinded to open a diner?
ALEX
It’s not all flatware, just spoons, and it wasn’t a problem then.
BOB
What happened?
ALEX
What do I look like, her freakin therapist? All I know is last time she saw a spoon in here she was curled up in the corner crying for an hour.
BOB
I don’t believe it.
ALEX
It’s true.
BOB
Did you see it? Do you have a picture?
ALEX
What do you think, I pulled out my camera phone and snapped a few blurry shots off while this poor woman is breaking down?
BOB
I would.
ALEX
You’re sick.
September 15th, 2008 at 11:25 am
@Mike:
I almost guarantee that however you were going to write it is going to work with scrippets. So try it. Just put [scrippet] before it and [/scrippet] afterwards. If it’s a little messed up, don’t worry about it.
September 15th, 2008 at 11:44 am
INT. KEVIN’S HOME OFFICE – NIGHT (AUGUST 22, 2008)
KEVIN, a shy yet somewhat outspoken 29 year old man, sits at his computer reading a blog by JOHN AUGUST. The blog is asking for help regarding his SCRIPPETS program.
KEVIN opens a search engine and looks up this writer on IMDB.com. He browses through the profile, looking at photographs and reading the filmography, as his friend TARA enters the room.
TARA
Kev! What are you doing? We were supposed to be at the office party ten minutes ago!
Kevin spins in his chair and looks at the clock on the wall.
KEVIN
Oh, sorry. I’m just reading this well known writer’s blog about needing help making some kind of writing program thing.
TARA
He needs help writing? You just said he was a well known writer.
KEVIN
No, he’s just asking for help creating code. Not quite sure what he’s after.
Tara makes her way to where Kevin is sitting and begins reading the blog over his shoulder.
TARA
Well, you’re a computer freak. Why don’t you help him out?
KEVIN
(laughing)
I’m not about to start a project fork on this guy’s program. I’m afraid of getting sued!
September 15th, 2008 at 1:13 pm
INT. PSYCHIATRIST’S OFFICE – DAY
Not the most cozy place. The walls are made up of drab concrete blocks. The window has bars on it. The sunlight shining through the window shows as much dust as air. A small table sits in the middle of the room. It’s empty other than a small digital recorder and a few photographs. Two chairs are bolted to the floor.
A PSYCHIATRIST sits in one chair. The psychiatrist is wearing a short-sleeved polyester shirt and an extremely narrow twenty-year-old tie. Bad comb-over. He’s probably a civil servant.
The PATIENT sits in the other chair. She’s in her early twenties. Her head is shaved with a quarter-inch of blond stubble. Her skin is unnaturally pale. She’s wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and little bunny slippers.
The psychiatrist glances at his watch.
PSYCHIATRIST
You’re going to have to talk sooner or later.
PATIENT
I’ll talk if you stop the recorder.
PSYCHIATRIST
I can’t. I won’t be able to make notes later.
PATIENT
Write them now.
PSYCHIATRIST
We both know what happened the last time I brought a pencil in here.
The patient smiles.
PATIENT
I don’t know where to begin. I feel like this is an antagonistic relationship.
PSYCHIATRIST
Let’s not talk about our relationship. Let’s talk about the incident.
The patient SIGHS.
PATIENT
It’s not just me. There are plenty of cultures that don’t like pictures. In some cultures the literal translation of photograph is ’shadow catcher’ or ’soul taker’ or ‘face stealer’. Indians believed that their spirit would stay with the photograph when they died instead of going to the spirit land.
PSYCHIATRIST
Do you believe that?
PATIENT
Actually the opposite. Is that the inverse? Or the converse?
PSYCHIATRIST
Go on.
PATIENT
Even if you go all the way from tribal mysticism to the world of science, there are plenty of scientific theories that back it all up.
PSYCHIATRIST
Such as?
PATIENT
Quantum mechanics. The many worlds theory.
PSYCHIATRIST
Could you elaborate? I didn’t get much physics in school.
PATIENT
It all happens at the quantum level. A little hard to explain. Here’s an analogy. You come to a fork in the road. You take the left fork. In another reality you take the right. This isn’t just an Einsteinian thought experiment. The universe actually splits into two new universes. One where you went left, and one where you went right.
PSYCHIATRIST
I don’t see what all this has to do with the incident.
The patient pounds her fist on the table.
PATIENT
Everything. Everything. Every time someone takes a photograph, the universe forks. It forks into two new universes. I told him, and he wouldn’t listen. The mystics understand this. Physicists do to. But everyone in between doesn’t. Everyone else relies on common sense.
PSYCHIATRIST
Okay. So for now lets say that the universe forks. What’s the problem with that?
PATIENT
I know I’m insignificant. I know I’m not something special. I’m not destined for fame or fortune. But I could get by knowing that at least I was distinct. At least I was unique. For better or worse, there was no-one else exactly like me out there.
PSYCHIATRIST
But now?
PATIENT
The photographs. They fork the universe. There’s another copy of me out there. And in each of these two universes another photograph will get taken and split them. It’s diluted me. I’m not unique any more! I’m not distinct! And any time someone takes one of those damn pictures, we could have an infinite number of forks! An infinite number of copies! My essence is diluted infinitely each time!
The patient buries her head on the desk and wraps her arms around it.
PSYCHIATRIST
And that’s why you did what you did?
PATIENT
Yep. Here. In this universe. Maybe I did nothing in the other universe. Maybe I posed for another picture. Maybe he’s still alive.
September 15th, 2008 at 2:21 pm
INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY
As PAUL lands violently onto the floor, he holds the photograph in his left hand keeping it as far away from his aggressor as possible.
RANDALL makes a move towards the photograph but Paul rolls away out of his grasp. Now at a safe distance from Randall, Paul stands back up, clutching the photograph tightly against his body.
RANDALL
Fucking christ, will you just give me the damn picture already.
PAUL
Not a chance.
RANDALL
You are really going to make me kick your ass, aren’t you?
Paul takes step backwards.
PAUL
I took the picture, with my camera, at my house. It’s mine.
RANDALL
You’ve got to be kidding me. You are being such an asshole.
PAUL
Fork you.
RANDALL
(confused)
What did you say?
PAUL
Fork you.
RANDALL
Fork?
PAUL
Yes, fork. Fork you!
RANDALL
What the hell does that mean?
PAUL
It’s just my way of saying the f-word, without actually saying the f-word.
Randall just stares at Paul, dumbfounded. After a beat...
RANDALL
Why wouldn’t you just say fuck?
PAUL
I don’t swear.
RANDALL
You don’t swear? Why not?
PAUL
I have kuntasshitphobia.
RANDALL
What the fuck is that?
PAUL
It’s the fear of saying swear words. I break out in hives if I just think about swearing.
RANDALL
But others swearing doesn’t bother you?
PAUL
Nope.
RANDALL
We’ve been friends for seventeen years, how is it I’ve never known this about you?
PAUL
I don’t know.
(beat)
How is it that we’ve been friends for seventeen years and I just now found out that you enjoy giving BJ’s to pre-op trannies?
The anger returns to Randall’s face, he charges towards Paul.
RANDALL
Mother fucker, give me that picture now!
September 15th, 2008 at 2:29 pm
INT. LE TORD-BOYAUX RESTAURANT – NIGHT
A Swank French restaurant in Philly.
KARL, a middle-aged Gentile with a Jewish air, pulls a chair away from a table for his date. She takes the seat and scoots it forward as Karl makes his way to his seat. JULIA is nearing 30 and is a very average woman--except that she is 5′11″ with natural long blond hair, has an ample and perky chest, is not on a diet, and never has to watch what she eats.
This is Karl and Julia’s first date.
As Karl takes his seat he finds that several articles essential for dining are missing from the table.
KARL
Hmm. You don’t seem to have any forks.
He chances a glance to the other side of her plate.
KARL
And you’re missing one of your knives.
JULIA
It’s okay.
KARL
It certainly isn’t okay, this in unacceptable.
Karl moves to signal the garçon but Julia reaches across the table to stop him. Their eyes connect.
JULIA
Really, it’s okay.
KARL
Bu...
JULIA
My salad fork is on the floor.
KARL
How did it get there?
JULIA
I knocked it off the table with my knife.
KARL
And your regular food fork?
JULIA
On the floor as well.
KARL
And the knife?
Julia nods, embarrassed.
KARL
You have a problem with argenterie?
JULIA
Just forks.
KARL
Then why is the knife on the ground?
JULIA
Karl, it’s hard to explain, but I just can’t touch forks, or anything that I know forks have touched. It’s a phobia...I can’t help it. It’s hard to even look at them.
KARL
What about pictures of forks?
Mascara begins to roll down Julia’s cheeks.
Karl explodes from his seat to be by her side.
He takes her in his arms.
KARL
It’s okay, we’ll work through this.
The GARÇON approaches to take their order.
GARÇON
Est-ce que tout bien Monsieur?
Karl looks at him with disgust as Julia weeps.
KARL
Fuck you and your forks.
September 15th, 2008 at 3:18 pm
INT. ELEVATOR – DAY
People wait in uncomfortable silence inside the large, fully loaded elevator.
The ELEVATOR BELL rings. The elevator slightly shakes, then stops.
The door opens. People slowly exit as SARAH, an unnaturally redheaded young woman wearing a fitted T-shirt with a picture of a crazed Jack Nicholson from The Shining under an elegant black pant suit, forces her way in as she holds a cell phone to her ear.
SARAH
Mark,this is your fault. Give me better directions next time.
MARK
(filtered)
Why don’t you try to come up with a better excuse?
SARAH
Whatever.
Sarah makes it to the back of the elevator. She looks like she hasn’t slept for days.
MARK
(filtered)
Anyway, can you do me a favor? Be nice for once?
SARAH
No, but I can fake it!
MARK
(filtered)
You’re like a heretic’s fork. Come up quickly.
SARAH
Sure.
Sarah hangs up. The last person exits the elevator. Sarah pushes the button for the 15th floor.
Her eyes briefly fix on the 13th floor button. She takes a deep breath and leans against the back wall as the door closes.
Her eyes focus on the elevator floor display:
1st floor. 2nd floor. 3rd floor. Sarah nervously taps the floor with her right foot.
4th floor. 5th floor. Her palms sweat. Her hands tremble.
6th floor. 7th floor. 8th floor. Her breathing increases. She uncomfortably stretches her neck.
9th floor. 10th floor. She takes a step forward but looses her balance.
11th floor. 12th floor. She puts her hand on her chest. a drop of sweat rolls down her forehead.
13th floor. She desperately gasps for air. Her eyes tear up. She shuts her eyes and lowers her head.
14th floor. 15th floor. The elevator bell rings. The elevator slightly shakes, then stops. The door opens.
Sarah straightens up. She fixes her jacket, takes a few deep breaths, shakes her hands and exits the elevator.
September 15th, 2008 at 3:53 pm
EXT. RESTAURANT PATIO – DAY
A bustling restaurant patio shares the sidewalk with pedestrians.
INT. CAR -- CONTINUOUS
RICHARD, a thirtyish balding man, sits inside an old sedan parked across the street from the restaurant. His shabby clothes hang off his wiry frame. SAL sits in the passenger seat, his meticulous appearance masks his true age.
Sal grabs a manila envelope off the dashboard and pulls out some black and white photos. Different pictures of the same woman in various disguises. He stops on a close-up of her looking at the camera.
ON RESTAURANT PATIO
The same MYSTERY WOMAN is eating lunch.
SAL (O.S.)
That’s her.
INSIDE THE CAR
RICHARD
She really doesn’t know?
SAL
Not yet.
Sal looks at his cell phone. No new messages.
RICHARD
What the hell?
SAL
What?
RICHARD
Are you seeing this?
SAL
Seeing what?
RICHARD
She’s eating her peas...one at a time with a fork.
ON RESTAURANT PATIO
Mystery woman slowly attacks her peas with a fork.
INSIDE THE CAR
SAL
So?
RICHARD
It’s fucking weird. And a waste of time to boot.
SAL
To boot...really? I used to eat my peas that way.
RICHARD
You’re kidding me.
SAL
Doctor called it an acute fear of gaining weight. I call it the byproduct of a chubby childhood.
RICHARD
That’s disgusting.
SAL
Shut up and get ready.
They both grab black ski masks from their laps and pull them over their faces.
RICHARD
Never figured you for a fat kid.
Sal grabs two sawed-off shotguns from the backseat. He hands one to Richard.
SAL
Let’s go.
RICHARD
I thought you said to wait?
Sal pumps the shotgun and exits the vehicle.
RICHARD (CONT’D)
Mr. Fucking-Sensitive.
Richard pumps his shotgun once and gets out of the car.
September 15th, 2008 at 4:19 pm
INT. GARAGE -DAY
THWACK!
A fork thuds tines-first into a photograph of John August with a sketchy target painted on it.
The frustrated SCREENWRITER hefts another fork and takes aim.
GREG FRANCIS saunters in through the open garage door.
GREG FRANCIS
John August again?
SCREENWRITER
I hate that overachieving bastard.
GREG FRANCIS
Fork him, then.
THUD! Another fork bounces off John August’s eye and CLANKS to the floor.
GREG FRANCIS
You should really start using darts.
SCREENWRITER
I’m out of darts.
GREG FRANCIS
Dude ... you have aichmophobia. You never buy darts.
Long, sullen pause. The Screenwriter picks up another fork with a dark glance at Greg Francis.
SCREENWRITER
How is that different from what I said?
September 15th, 2008 at 4:25 pm
INT. DINING ROOM – DAY
A cavernous hall, decorated in high baroque fashion. An overlarge coat-of-arms hangs above an equally overlarge fireplace.
The room is filled with the screams of well-dressed children, shoveling down cake and ice cream. They sit around six small tables. Their correspondingly well-dressed parents congregate in the far corner.
LARRY, 43, peers around the doorway into the room. He scans: the coast is clear.
He saunters out into the room, making note of the few available exits.
CINDY, 41, Larry’s wife, flags him with an angry look from behind her glasses.
Larry strolls over in her direction. His daughter, JACKIE, 8, notices him pass.
JACKIE Hey daddy! Where’d you go?
Larry ignores her, and takes a seat next to his steaming wife. Cindy talks under her breath.
CINDY Lawrence Kosciusko! I cannot believe… you missed everything! And at the Earnshaw’s no less!
LARRY I’ll explain it all when we get home.
A servant hands Larry a plate of cake and ice cream.
CINDY How will we get our country club invitation now that you’ve… embarrassed us?
An ecstatic uproar emanates from the kids. Larry turns to see:
A CLOWN. An exceptionally ugly clown— with white face paint, a grotesquely huge smile, and drag queen makeup. He waves around a Polaroid camera.
CINDY Oh look! There’s that clown again.
Larry instantly ducks down under the table. He glances toward the door: A clean break.
Crouched over, he crawls out into the room. The adult guests watch him with confusion. Some start to snicker.
Cindy covers her red face with her hands.
The Clown walks to each table, snapping a Polaroid for each bunch of grinning kids. He hands the photo over to a half dozen greedy hands, who then hunker over and watch it develop.
Sweat pours down Larry’s face as he inches toward the door…
The Clown takes a few steps backward, cutting off Larry’s approach.
Larry panics and scurries over toward the nearest kid’s table. He squats underneath and covers his face.
The kids stare down at him in amazement.
Larry peeks through his fingers:
The Clown continues to take photographs. One table at a time. Getting closer to Larry’s table.
Larry’s face turns purple. A huge jolt of flight-or-fight fills his body— he jumps up into a chair and slams his fists on the table.
He yanks a fork out of a kid’s hands and starts violently mimicking the motions of eating.
The rest of the room has paused their conversations and is gawking at Larry. All except for the Clown, who continues to take pictures. Two tables away.
Larry “eats” with vigor. He starts to make growling noises. One table away.
Cindy slips out of the room with her head hung low.
The Clown walks to Larry’s table. He smiles a goofy grin, and jumps up and down while brandishing the camera.
Larry stops eating. He puts the fork down, and tilts his head up.
The Clown looks back at Larry, tossing his head back and forth.
Larry’s brow furrows. He glares at the Clown.
The Clown puts the viewfinder to his eye…
WHAM! Larry sucker-punches the Clown square on the jaw. The Clown topples back and collapses.
The camera goes flying out of his hands. It lands on the marble floor with a crack— and ejects the picture.
Offscreen are the noises of children screaming and general chaos. The image develops: Larry’s fist heading straight for the lens.
September 15th, 2008 at 4:45 pm
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
Dan watches tv. His Mother pokes her head in the door.
MOM
You’re missing the family stuff.
Dan shrugs, doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.
DAN
Gramma, family photo album, no thanks.
Mom stands in front of the tv.
MOM
Minute Man can wait. Gramma’s leaving.
DAN
It’s MIDDLEMan, mom. Not-
She turns the tv off.
MOM
Middleman, minuteman, bionic terminator super spy whatsit. Watch your cheese, later. Now, you kiss gramma good-
DAN
Know why you won’t watch my shows? You’re hedenophobic. You’re afraid you might enjoy them.
MOM
As Commander Rama would say, I don’t give a fork.
Mike slumps, shakes his head.
MIKE
Frakkin’ ADMIRAL Frakkin’ ADAMA wouldn’t give a FRACK!
MOM
Alrighty then.
(beat)
Get your frackin’ ass downstairs and kiss your gramma goodnight.
September 15th, 2008 at 4:45 pm
INT. RECORDING STUDIO – DAY
JOE BUFFER, middle aged with salt and pepper hair and faded good looks sits in a sound booth, adjacent to a large projector screen.
Over his shoulder, behind a glass screen is STEVE, a bored looking soundboard operator.
Joe glances down at a sheet of paper and then leans into the microphone.
JOE
Seriously? I thought this was an acting job, not a chance to destroy a classic.
STEVE (V.O)
Hey man, don’t look at me, it’s the networks with the phobia about swearing or some shit.
Joe sighs and puts on a bulky headset. He looks up at the screen and leans into the microphone.
JOE
Shine.
(beat)
Photo.
(beat)
Fork.
(beat)
Count.
Behind the glass, Steve gives Joe a thumbs up.
STEVE (V.O)
Boom, nice one JB, I’ll drop that in and lets play that back.
INSERT PROJECTED SCREEN
A bumper flashes up. “Glengarry Glenross, edited for network TV’.
RICKY ROMA
You stupid fork-ing count. You, Williamson, I’m talking to you, shine head. You just cost me six thousand dollars, and one Cadillac. That’s right. What are you going to do about it? What are you going to do about it, photo? You’re fork-ing shine. Where did you learn your trade, you stupid fork-ing count, you idiot? Who ever told you that you could work with men, you shine head?
September 15th, 2008 at 4:51 pm
INT. UNKNOWN -- 4:58 PM
Blackness.
A BURST of water.
A MAN coughs -- ADAM WOODS (30’s), the type of guy who spends his days under the sun so he can ogle himself in the mirror at night.
He feels around, grabs something, flicks a switch --
-- A flashlight. The pathetic beam of light reveals his location:
A claustrophobia inducing cement tomb. A black pipe juts out of the wall. A fresh gush of water pours in. The tomb is a quarter full.
Opposite side of the pipe -- a clock. 4:58.
Beneath the clock a fork pins three Polaroid photos to the wall.
More water -- the bursts come faster now.
Adam scrambles to the fork, pulls it out, drops it into the rising water. He shuffles through the three photos:
-- A body lying in front of a dented car, Adam kneeling beside the body. Next --
-- Adam’s car off in the distance, abandoning the body. Finally --
-- A black pipe, similar to the one in the tomb. The pipe is surrounded by sand... it’s at the beach. Written in sand: 5:00 PM. Beneath the number, an arrow points to --
-- The incoming tide.
Another spray of water -- this one lasts longer.
Adam drops the photos.
The flashlight falls out of his hands into --
-- More water. The tomb’s halfway full.
Adam claws into the clay.
Chunks fall into the water.
4:59.
Another burst.
Tick.
Fingers plunge into the clay.
Tick.
Gobs rip away from the wall.
Tick.
The flashlight flickers underwater.
5:00.
Water pours in through the pipe. Doesn’t stop.
The flashlight dies, water surrounds Adam’s neck.
Rises.
A last rasp for breath.
An underwater SCREAM.
A desperate struggle. Then...
Silence.
September 15th, 2008 at 4:53 pm
INT. THE BRIGHT SPOT DINER – EVENING
Dinner crowd. Hot and noisy. A wall mounted fan oscillates.
Angel sits at a booth with his notepad and a proof sheet. As he studies his notes he pokes a fork aimlessly at a dinner salad.
ANGLE ON NOTEPAD:
Meticulous sketches of an apartment interior. Footnotes: ‘Possible point of entry’ -- ‘No sign of struggle’, ‘Why take photos? -- souvenir?’
A WAITRESS approaches.
WAITRESS
You want to wait a little longer?
ANGEL
I just need the check.
As the waitress pulls the check, Angel spots someone heading over. It’s his father: FRANCISCO, mid 40’s, strong build, movie star handsome and knows it. He takes a seat across from Angel.
FRANCISCO
Hey little dude.
WAITRESS
Need a menu?
FRANCISCO
I know what I want. Lemme have a bran muffin – you have real butter or that whipped stuff?
WAITRESS
Whipped stuff.
FRANCISCO
Skip that – just coffee.
She walks away. Francisco looks at his son, smiles.
FRANCISCO
Okay, so you tell me you lost a girl, right?
ANGEL
Yeah.
FRANCISCO
Get a new one.
ANGEL
It’s not like that. I met this girl at the shop. She was supposed to meet me the next day but never showed. There were people after her. I even took pictures of this guy chasing her. Day later, these come in.
Angel slides the proofsheet to Francisco. He studies the images. Then:
FRANCISCO
So?
ANGEL
Well, see? She’s – she looks like --
Angel points to Reina’s shocked face.
FRANCISCO
Looks like what?
ANGEL
Well doesn’t she look like she’s --
FRANCISCO
You took these?
ANGEL
(surprised)
No. I said I took pictures of a guy chasing her.
FRANCISCO
Where are they?
Angel’s face goes flush.
ANGEL
I – I lost the film.
His father looks at him with impatience.
FRANCISCO
You wanna know what I see? Lemme show you somethin here...
Francisco grabs a newspaper from an empty booth. Thumbs through it. Angel has no idea where this is going.
Francisco stops on a page, folds away text so only a black and white photo shows: an older woman, hands clasped to her face, crying.
FRANCISCO
Okay, what do you see?
ANGEL
I dunno -- you’re hiding the headline.
FRANCISCO
Don’t be thick.
ANGEL
(hurt)
I’m not --
FRANCISCO
Forget headlines, what do you think is going on?
ANGEL
(reluctant to play)
... an old woman. She’s crying.
FRANCISCO
But WHY?
ANGEL
Maybe she lost her son.
FRANCISCO
She’s just been arrested for child porn.
Angel’s face drops.
FRANCISCO
I don’t know, it’s just a photo. That’s the point – unless you were there, you have no idea what’s going on. I learn one thing from my job: You can know their faces but you don’t know their hearts. Don’t trust what you see, that can get y’killed.
Francisco unfolds the headline, it reads:
‘Bakersfield Woman Wins Lottery’
Angel tries a new tact, pulls out his notebook.
ANGEL
(scanning notes)
There’s a broken window in her bathroom and the mirror’s broken too.
FRANCISCO
This dump? Big surprise.
ANGEL
They’re not broken --
Waitress brings Francisco’s coffee.
ANGEL
They’re not broken in the photos.
FRANCISCO
Broken after the photos were taken, and you know this how?
ANGEL
I checked it out.
FRANCISCO
You trespassed?
Angel shuts up.
FRANCISCO
(growing more impatient)
None of this means shit. Just cause some girl stands you up doesn’t mean she’s been abducted. Could be she’s just not into you.
Angel keeps his head down, that was a low-blow.
FRANCISCO
(chuckles)
You gotta get out more. Locked up in that house with your mother – you’re not seein the world.
Angel stays quiet, eyes down.
FRANCISCO
I’m not beatin on you. Just bein honest. You work all day in that tiny darkroom – go home to that tiny house... your life is gettin too small.
ANGEL
It’s not small – you’re just claustrophobic.
Francisco smiles.
FRANCISCO
(softening)
I can take the photos with me. Is that what you want? See if it’s a match with missing persons, Jane Doe’s. Don’t expect much.
Francisco checks his watch, stands.
FRANCISCO
I know a lot more about this stuff than you do kid. Girls come into your life and then they disappear. Come – go – come go. Planes at an airport. I wasn’t there but my best guess?
(Angel looks up)
Boyfriend took a picture of her, she’s surprised by the flash, that’s all.
Francisco grabs the proof. Tosses a crumpled ten on the table.
FRANCISCO
Why don’t you order some real food, you look too skinny.
He heads out. Angel sits alone in the booth.
September 15th, 2008 at 5:14 pm
INT. AIRPORT – DAY
ALAN, 38, stares at a photo booth with increasing agitation. He looks again at a form in his hand. The heading reads “Driver’s Licence Application”. Alan’s attention is on an empty square across which is written “Affix Photo Here”. Then Alan gazes down at one other heading. Under “Disabilities” he has written, “claustrophobia”. Alan stares at the small booth again.
A WOMAN finishes up, pulling the entrance curtain back again and stepping out. Alan walks up, but loses courage just a few feet from the entrance. He stands there frozen again. On the booth, the advertising proclaims “Your Photo In Just 45 seconds”.
At that exact moment, the woman’s photo pings out. The woman takes it up in her hand. She shakes her head a little, disappointed at what she sees and leaves.
Alan takes a deep breath. With a few coins already in his other hand, Alan backs himself slowly into the booth, until just his head is sticking out. Finally, he closes his eyes and sits in. Without looking, Alan grabs the curtain and pulls the curtain across so we can only see the lower half of his body sitting there. The coins are quickly inserted.
Alan’s hand quickly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fork. He holds it above his other hand. After a beat, he pricks his hand. The booth flashes. Alan pricks his hand again. The booth flashes. Alan repeats this two more times in rapid succession. Prick...Flash.
Alan whips the curtain back again. Eyes still closed, he stumbles out of the booth. Only when he is absolutely sure he is in the clear, does Alan open his eyes again. There’s a small queue of three people now. They stare. Alan stares back.
Ping! Alan’s photos are ready. Calmly he walks over and takes them up. A quick glance. Alan’s eyes are wide open in each photo, stung into effort, although his expression is more “ouch” than “cheese”.
Never the less, Alan walks away with a happier stride, as the booth contines to flash.
September 15th, 2008 at 5:29 pm
INT. KITCHEN DAY
RICKY, a forgettable twenty something, enters and is greeted by TERRY, a largish slightly older man whose obvious humility and practicality belie the arrogant nature exuded from his expensive black suit.
TERRY
You’re the newbie, right?
RICK
Yes, sir. Rick.
TERRY
Rick, that’s right. Well I’m Terry, and I kind of run the whole preparation for dinner part. Nice to meet you... that’s about enough for introductions. Help me set this ridiculously long table.
RICK
Sounds good.
TERRY
I’m glad you approve. Grab some silverware.
Terry enters the DINING ROOM. Behind him, Rick, holding silverware, pauses. He finally picks up a KNIFE and slips it into his suit pocket. He then follows Terry into:
INT. DINING ROOM -- DAY
An elaborately decorated TABLE is waiting, with PLATES, GLASSES, and NAPKINS, already in place. Terry and Rick begin to set the table.
TERRY
Now where was it you said you were from, Rick?
RICK
Oh, um... New York. City.
TERRY
That’s great. Only been there once myself, you know, cause of the job, but Betty, my wife, and I -- well we went up there in... let’s see it must have been 98, and anyways we went during Christmas. I got this great photograph of it -- Oh, Goddamnit.
Terry, having retrieved the PHOTOGRAPH from his wallet, drops it. He stoops to pick it up and sees something on the floor. Suddenly Terry STAMPS on something repeatedly. Rick looks up and sees that it was a small SPIDER.
TERRY
Goddamn spiders. Good thing I saw it now or all Hell would break loose.
(Sees Rick’s confusion)
The president is afraid of spiders.
Rick’s interest is suddenly piqued.
RICK
Wait -- what?
TERRY
Oh yeah, its ridiculous. You should see the way he acts around them. One time one of those little brown ones -- you know those? -- well it was climbing up his wall and he flipped a shit. Screamed. Like really screamed. Secret Service thought he had gotten shot.
RICK
Really?
TERRY
Do I sound like I’m lying? The white house was in complete pandemonium. I don’t even know what’s happening first, so I call Betty up and say, “honey, something’s happened, I think someone attacked the president.” Well, you can imagine how worried she got and of course she had to call her sister, and you don’t know her, but Rick, let me tell you that’s like opening Pandora’s box. So then I had to explain to all of them the next morning that no -- we weren’t under a terrorist attack -- there was goddamn spider on the president’s wall.
Rick is staring at the dead spider now, barely listening to Terry. He glances up at Terry and down again.
RICK
So it’s like a phobia?
TERRY
Well you can bet that’s what he claims. “Oh it’s a phobia!” “It’s a disease!” Sounds like an excuse to me...
As Terry monologues, Rick starts to step toward the spider when --
TERRY
...of course you get a real doctor in here -- What the hell are you doing?!
RICK
What?
TERRY
The salad fork goes farthest out!
Rick looks down at the plate he was setting up.
RICK
Oh, I’m sorry.
TERRY
Where’d you learn to set silverware like that?
RICK
Must have just been caught up in your story --
Terry accidentally knocks the SPOON he was about to place to the ground.
TERRY
Damnit. I got to get another one. Fix that and then you’d better get ready.
RICK
You got it.
Terry leaves. Rick glances around, then picks up the dead spider and wedges it underneath the plate at the head of the table. He leaves.
September 15th, 2008 at 5:31 pm
[scrippet] INT/EXT. WHITE SUV – KOO KOO ROO – PARKING LOT
ABBY WILSON, 20s, upset. Her SUV bucks up and down.
ABBY Get in the car!
Abby glares at ROBERTO WILSON, 40, his tan face is flushed as white as his wardrobe. He stands on running board, his hands clinging to the roof rack, nervously bouncing up and down.
ROBERTO Please no! It’s too small! The walls will close in on me! I can’t breathe in there!
ABBY You’ve beaten this before, Roberto. It’s all in your mind. I’ll talk you through—Oh, God… He’s back. Get in, god damn it! GET IN!
Roberto glances over his shoulder, panic fills his eyes as—
JOHN AUGUST exits Koo Koo Roo, staring intently at Abby and Roberto as he subconsciously fingers his potentially lethal-fork and napkin set.
ABBY What the hell does he want?! Why does he keep staring at us!
ROBERTO Abby, please just go! He looks like one of those crazy-ass parking attendant guys. I got a bad feeling! Please drive!
ABBY Get in the car!! Now!
John August stares, debating…His eyes narrow as he takes a hard step at them—
ROBERTO GO!! GO!!!
The SUV bolts out of the parking lot onto Beverly, running a red light – POP! A TRAFFIC CAMERA – snaps a photograph of the panicked couple fleeing… John August is left standing. Staring. His half-rotisserie chicken getting cold.
[scrippet]
September 15th, 2008 at 5:37 pm
FADE IN:
INT. DINING ROOM – NIGHT
A posh dining table in an luxurious dining room. A huge scenic PHOTOGRAPH hangs on the wall.
EDMOND (late 40’s) sits on one side of it. Fidgets with his apron. MARIA (mid 30’s, Edmond’s wife) sits right next to him, a sleeping TODDLER in her lap.
JONATHAN (30’s) sits on the far side. Sweats in the presence of an air-conditioner. Dons a forced smile.
JONATHAN
That’s a nice picture there, sir.
Edmond turns around to look at it, as if noticing it for the first time.
EDMOND
That one? Oh that’s just something I picked for my wife when she was pregnant. Apparently, the artist sat there and observed the beach for more than a week before he painted it. She likes these kind of things.
He smiles at Maria. She smiles back.
The food isn’t on the table yet. Only the silverware and a glass of water in front of each person. Jonathan notices a FORK among them.
His eyes go wide. As if the fork is smeared in blood. But he tries to look away. Closes his eyes as if in prayer.
The BUTLER arrives at the table. Smiles at everyone, and places a covered SILVER DISH in front of everyone. He disappears into the kitchen behind.
Jonathan reaches for the dish in front of him. Slowly lifts up the bowl on top of it. Murmurs something under his breath. He lifts up the bowl to reveal a PASTA.
Jonathan starts to hyperventilate as he eyes the fork, and then the plate full of pasta in front of him repeatedly. Breathing quickly.
Edmond and Maria notice this.
EDMOND
Jon? You OK?
Jonathan doesn’t respond. His breathing more intense.
MARIA
Jon?
Jonathan stops breathing. Takes a deep breath and stands up, now in full control of himself. Two very confused people stare back at him.
JONATHAN
Excuse me, sir. I should have told you before. I have a phobia for pointed objects. Namely forks and scissors. I hope that would not be a problem.
EDMOND
Of course it’s not a problem, Jon.
Edmond looks at his wife smiling. She is surprised too.
EDMOND (CONT’D)
Why would it be? I’m scared of heights. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Jonathan looks surprised, as if expecting something entirely different.
MARIA
Yes, Jon. Don’t be so tense. The interview stage is over. Sit down and relax.
Edmond signals the butler. He runs to Jonathan picks the dish and fork in front of him and signals someone inside the kitchen. A WAITER swiftly comes out and replaces it with another dish.
Jonathan breaks a smile. His once-rigid face now showing off an “It was that easy” loosened-up look. Jonathan, Edmond and Maria go back to eating their meal as the room’s formal aura fades away.
FADE OUT.
September 15th, 2008 at 6:13 pm
INT. WHITE SUV -- KOO KOO ROO -- PARKING LOT
ABBY WILSON, 20s, upset. Her SUV bucks up and down.
ABBY
Get in the car!
Abby glares at ROBERTO WILSON, 40, his tan face is flushed as white as his wardrobe. He stands on running board, his hands clinging to the roof rack, nervously bouncing up and down.
ROBERTO
Please no! It’s too small! The walls will close in on me! I can’t breathe in there!
ABBY
You’ve beaten this before, Roberto. It’s all in your mind. I’ll talk you through--Oh, God... He’s back. Get in, god damn it! GET IN!
Roberto glances over his shoulder, panic fills his eyes as--
JOHN AUGUST exits Koo Koo Roo, staring intently at Abby and Roberto as he subconsciously fingers his potentially lethal-fork and napkin set.
ABBY
What the hell does he want?! Why does he keep staring at us!
ROBERTO
Abby, please just go! He looks like one of those crazy-ass parking attendant guys. I got a bad feeling! Please drive!
ABBY
Get in the car!! Now!
John August stares, debating...His eyes narrow as he takes a hard step at them--
ROBERTO
GO!! GO!!!
The SUV bolts out of the parking lot onto Beverly, running a red light -- POP!
A TRAFFIC CAMERA -- snaps a photograph of the panicked couple fleeing... John August is left standing. Staring. His half-rotisserie chicken getting cold.
September 15th, 2008 at 6:44 pm
INT. KITCHEN -- DAY
CLOSE UP on a fork balanced on the tip of JERRY’s finger. Silence, until --
FRED (O.S.)
(loud)
JERRY!
Jerry grabs the fork in his hand and taps it against the edge of his glass of OJ. He is playing the funeral march.
PULL BACK to reveal Jerry’s half-finished breakfast, his undone robe, bleary eyes and bed hair.
JERRY
In the kitchen, dear...
He puts the fork down and stares at the empty open doorway. Moments later, FRED wanders in -- a photograph in each hand.
FRED
Where did these come from?
JERRY
What are they, Fred?
FRED
Photographs of you and some...
JERRY
Some what, Fred?
FRED
Some one else.
Fred throws the two photographs onto Jerry’s half-finished breakfast. One shows Jerry with his arms around a younger man; the other shows the younger man unbuckling Jerry’s belt.
JERRY
(calm)
Photoshop.
FRED
Oh, come on, Jerry! I’ve seen you with guys like that before. I’ve been to parties with you where they fall down on their knees...
JERRY
To worship me. Nothing more!
(beat)
I’m a good looking guy.
FRED
That’s the problem...
Fred sits down at the kitchen table across from Jerry.
FRED
Where did the photos come from?
JERRY
How should I know?
FRED
We live on the eleventh floor of a highly secure apartment building.
JERRY
You know how many people live in this building?
FRED
Only so many people have access to this floor.
JERRY
Mrs Silverstone next door? She never liked me.
FRED
She could never use Photoshop either!
JERRY
True.
Jerry pulls the photos out of his breakfast for a closer look.
JERRY
This party was two years ago anyway. This is Judy’s “I Got a Promotion, a Car to Go with It and You Can All Eat Me” celebration!
Fred does not look convinced.
FRED
Jerry?
JERRY
Yes, hon?
FRED
Did you leave these photos under our front door so I could find them?
JERRY
Why would I do that, Fred?
FRED
You’re afraid of commitment. We’ve been talking about leaving here. I’ve been insisting we do it sooner than later... Leave these photos for me to find and I might break up with you?
JERRY
Freddie. I’m not a commitment-phobe, sweetie. I’m an arachnophobe and slightly claustrophobic... which makes me a little nervous about --
Jerry points to something behind Fred’s head.
JERRY
And with this being a small room and everything...
Jerry scrambles up out of his chair and runs out of the kitchen. Fred turns to watch him run away.
FRED
Wow, you couldn’t even commit to this conversation.
FADE OUT.
September 15th, 2008 at 7:17 pm
INT. LOW-RENT CORPORATE WAITING ROOM
Plastic chairs, discrimination notices, NO SMOKING sign, ashtray.
WOODY ALLEN sits naked. Glasses askew, hair awry. Stick-on pads dangle wires from his upper right chest and lower left ribcage.
ALLEN
(cups throat in hand)
Ugh!
He reaches deep into his mouth, gags, extracts a small device like a plastic question mark. Examines it confusedly, places it in ashtray.
BODACIOUS BLONDE SHIKSA in red dress enters. Allen looks up, makes no move to cover himself.
SHIKSA
Mr. Konigsberg? Mr. Bubba will see you now. Come this way?
She beckons him to follow. He shuffles along. She leads him down a hallway past several identical doors. Knocks on one.
MR. BUBBA
(muffled baritone)
Mmm-mmm.
Door screeches open, revealing MR. BUBBA--an enormous unshaven good-ole-boy in flannel shirt and bib overalls--at his desk.
ALLEN
Who-what?
MR. BUBBA
Woodrow! Sit down, buddy-ro! We got a coupla ish-yoos to sort out, here. Won’t take half a second.
Allen, staring, does as he’s told.
MR. BUBBA
Chew?
He offers a tobacco-bag emblazoned with the Red Lion logo. Door slams.
ALLEN
(startled)
You shouldn’t--that stuff gives you-
Mr. Bubba shrugs, pinches a wad into his own cheek.
MR. BUBBA
(mumfing his chaw)
Son, what’m I gonna do with you?
Allen glances down at himself.
ALLEN
Well, you could let me finish putting on my-
MR. BUBBA
(waves hand)
Naw, naw. Now look. How it normally works is, say a fella’s afraid of cold and tight spaces. We crush him in a snowslide for a few thousand years. Everybody goes off happy. But you...
Mr. Bubba shakes head. Reaches under desk for a cardboard filing box. Rummages out a photo of Soon-Yi Previn. Shakes head again, resumes rummaging, finds correct file.
MR. BUBBA
Here we go. Fox News said this, so it’s true, ain’t it? “Insects, sunshine, dogs, deer, bright colors, children, heights, small rooms, crowds, cancer and anywhere except Manhattan.”
ALLEN
What about “being naked in a stranger’s office?”
MR. BUBBA
(chuckles)
You’re a funny bastard, y’know that? I always had a thing about fire extinguishers, myself. But that ain’t it. See, put yourself in my position. What do I do? Paint you yaller and stand you on a chair in a crowd of kids? In a Arizona petting zoo? With no sunscreen or deet? It’s goddam silly, that’s what.
ALLEN
Can I make a phone call? Because I have a limo coming at seven--there’s a reception for Jeff Koons at the Cantor Roof Garden, and-
As he speaks, Mr. Bubba leans back, crosses bare feet on desk, steeples fingers, gazes at ceiling.
MR. BUBBA
(absently)
Garden, hey?
Mr. Bubba spits into corner: pppt-DING! Allen finds himself standing in bright sunshine. He quickly moves under a tree. Blinks and sneezes.
ALLEN
Central Park?
The surroundings are pastoral, bucolic. Blue sky; butterflies and bees and flowers. Fruit trees, grapevines.
ALLEN
(loudly)
Is anyone--ow!
Allen, still naked, winces and clutches his side. The patches are gone. Now an eight-inch incision--neatly stitched--dots his lower left ribcage.
BODACIOUS BLONDE SHIKSA steps from behind a rock. Smiling, clad only in her glory.
SHIKSA
Mr. Konigsberg?
ALLEN
Stop calling me that! Why do you call me that?
SHIKSA
I know everything about you! I’m your biggest fan!
Allen smiles tentatively--we’re all friends here!--and bolts. Shortly he goes BOING! off an invisible rubber wall. He gets up--TRAPPED!--runs in another direction. BOING!
Mr. Bubba stands in the sky, watching, leaning on a hay fork. From below, serial BOINGing.
MR. BUBBA
(slapping knee)
Hyar-hyar-hyar!
September 15th, 2008 at 7:32 pm
Closeup- A thin hand pulls back from behind the lapel of a blood red suit. Securing a secret.
Closeup- Back pants pocket. The thin hand comes into view, reaching in with middle & index finger, pinching at the contents. Pulling out a platinum tuning fork, brilliant shine, even in the dark of night.
In full frame we are...
EXT. BABYLON – NIGHT
Our guy is NEVERIST. 27 & alone. He stands on the cobblestone streets amidst a maze of buildings made of red clay. His features barely seen, just a silhouette of dark matter. He brings the tuning fork square to his face. His left pinky is cocked & loaded, latched by his thumb. With a swift flick, the fork is struck. Silence. Not even a hum. He scans the area, nothing. Suddenly, piercing the air, an operatic voice calling back in coloratura tone. His eyebrows arch. He finally understands the meaning of the photograph. His legs unlock & journeys toward the voice. Through tunnels & turns he navigates the town. The high B note voice fades. He gives the fork another jolt. The silent echo calls out. Beckoning, the voice responds as before. He continues this routine until finally, one last flick & one last turn. He stares down that final street. A woman in lace leans against the red building. Her brown hair protects her face. He approaches her with no caution. With rehearsed hesitation...
NEVERIST
Occupo ut futurus?
She nods. Taking the tuning fork from him & with the touch of her fingertip, the fork turns black. She hands it back to him.
NEVERIST (CONT’D)
I don’t underst..
She reaches out & taps twice on the lapel of his jacket. A crinkle of noise gives way at her touch. He reaches into his jacket & pulls out the daguerreotype.
EXT. CLOUDS – DAY
Up in the clouds, nothing to see, nothing to hear. Two voices carry on as we push through clouds into nothingness.
UNKNOWN MAN (V.O.)
So you figured it out?
UNKNOWN MAN 2 (V.O.)
I’m here aren’t I? But why me? I’m not from here.
EXT. BABYLON – NIGHT – CONTINUOUS
Neverist’s POV – The image is of an opera stage. A large woman poses with mouth wide open. Mid-note. A man stands next to her, holding a black tuning fork skyward. The man is Neverist.
NEVERIST
Could it be that simple?
EXT. CLOUDS – DAY – CONTINUOUS
Swirling clouds block our view of the two men.
UNKNOWN MAN
That’s just it. You’re not from here, we are. You are the only one with a connection between these two worlds. You are born of that Earth.
EXT. BABYLON – NIGHT – CONTINUOUS
He looks up to find the woman no longer there. The streets are empty. With fork & daguerreotype in hand, he takes a deep breath. Everything has come to this. He drags the tongs back & forth, scratching the image. Revealing in the image, an entire choir surrounding the woman. He smiles.
NEVERIST
All this time.
EXT. CLOUDS – DAY – CONTINUOUS
The clouds begin to part before us as we see that one of the men is Neverist.
NEVERIST
Is that why I was chosen for this? Because of fear?
UNKNOWN MAN
The people down there are so infatuated with their lies & stories. This phobia of ours is a result of their own inclination of our existence. Were terrified of what they might do if they see us. That’s why we need you. To carry out these simple tasks that correct the world.
NEVERIST
Like restoring the voice of Her?
Neverist holds up the black tuning fork. A hard flick & the fork hums a dead tune. No longer silent.
UNKNOWN MAN
Exactly.
EXT. BABYLON – NIGHT – CONTINUOUS
Each messy stroke Neverist makes, he reveals intricate detail of more people. Until he touches his own body in the image. One swipe, his face smears. Another swipe his body is gone. Last swipe, he Never Existed.
September 15th, 2008 at 7:36 pm
EXT. TERRACE POINT CAFE -- DAY
A romantic garden brunch spot. JACK stares at the boughs above him, wishing he were somewhere else.
KATE (O.S.)
You just lied looking me in the eye.
JACK
I wasn’t looking into your eyes; I was looking at your breasts.
Jack shifts his gaze to: KATE, an absolute stunner who doesn’t know how to respond to his quip. Finally,
KATE
What’s wrong?
A CATERPILLAR falls from the tree above and lands next to Jack’s Eggs Benedict. Jack picks up his fork.
JACK
My friends...
He raises his fork.
JACK
My friends are convinced I’ll end up with a--
Brings his fork down – squish.
JACK
--bimbette.
The caterpillar gives a final death wriggle, then dies. Jack grins like the Cheshire Cat.
JACK
Sorry, I’m Entomophobic.
KATE
You seem so much more confident today, Jack.
JACK
I guess you make me want to be a better man, Kate.
KATE
Awww, really?
JACK
Yes. On our second date. So soon, so amazing.
KATE
You’re being sarcastic.
JACK
I’m being fantastic.
Silence. Kate looks down. Jack feels bad. Beat.
JACK
Oh God, I’m sorry, really. You don’t deserve this. I date like it’s going out of style tomorrow, but the truth is, the truth is I’ve been noncommittal ever since my ex--
Kate whips up a Polaroid camera and FLASH!
JACK
What?
KATE
Eric KNEW you couldn’t go three dates without talking about Jessica.
She stands, throws a twenty and the forlorn looking photograph of Jack on the table.
KATE
Heartbroken or not, wager with Eric or not, you’re still an arrogant asshole.
On Jack as Kate saunters away.
September 15th, 2008 at 8:02 pm
INT. RESTAURANT – AFTERNOON
Everything in seen from ALEX’s POV:
Alex holds a fork, which he stabs into a half-eaten cinnamon roll.
EMMA (O.C.)
She’s very excited. She loves the water...
Alex tears a chunk away from the roll.
EMMA (O.C.)
This is important to... Alex.
He plays with the piece of the roll.
EMMA (O.C.)
Alex.
Emma’s hand slides into view. She grabs Alex’s hand.
EMMA (O.C.)
Please.
He looks up.
Her arm.
Her blouse and jacket. Very corporate.
Her neck.
Mouth and nose.
Full stop.
EMMA
Please.
WAITER (O.C.)
How are you folks doing over here?
Alex studies their mouths while they talk.
EMMA
I’ll take the check.
WAITER
Do you want that to go?
EMMA
He’ll finish it here.
The waiter sets the check on the table.
EMMA
(still just her mouth and nose)
She misses you. I know you miss her too.
Emma takes her hand away.
EMMA
Think about it, OK?
She sets a picture of a six-year-old girl next to Alex’s plate.
EMMA
You’ve missed a lot. She’s missed a lot. Think about it.
Emma’s hand grabs the check.
Alex watches her get up and go.
He looks at the photo.
He presses a tine of the fork against the little girl’s left eye and scrapes at the photo until the eye is obliterated.
Then he starts on the right eye.
FADE OUT.
September 15th, 2008 at 8:29 pm
INT BEDROOM – NIGHT
LYLE WEXLER peacefully catches his Z’s until
HUSEHD VOICE (O.S.)
Lyle......Lyyyylllllle.....
Lyle turns over and rubs his eyes. His hand searches his sidetable for his spectacles. He speaks with a slight Southern lisp.
LYLE
Is someone there? Hello?
WHOOSH! A giant FLAME ERUPTS AND QUICKLY RETREATS back to reveal:
SATAN – pitckfork, horns and the whole enchilada.
SATAN
Lyle, I have come to ravage you from your existence and pull you-
LYLE
Wai-wai-wai-wait. Are you Lucifer?
SATAN
Well...I mean, I...
LYLE
Oh-my-GAWD. You are! Look at you with your cute little booty shorts, and your spikey horns.
SATAN
First off all, this is cloth was sewn from the skin of suicide victims that I PERSONALLY flayed myself. And secondly-
FLASH – Lyle snaps a polaroid.
SATAN
You will NOT take pictures of your dark lord! You have been punished for all eternity. Now come with me.
LYLE
Was it that child molested?
SATAN
No!
LYLE
Was it that liquor store I robbed, and then shot the owner anyway just because he was Puerto Rican?
SATAN
Uh...n-
LYLE
Maybe it was that family I incinerated and sprinkled in the cake at my sister’s wedding?
SATAN
Jesus! Man, that’s some- that’s just fucked up. But no. It’s because you’ve been a HOMOPHOBE!
LYLE
But – I...I thought god hates fags?
Satan waives his pitchfork with authority.
SATAN
WRONG! God loves them. But I don’t. That’s why where you’re going, you’ll be pounded in the ass like a homo for ETERNITY.
Satan laughs wickedly as FLAMES ERUPT AROUND HIM.
LYLE
Well, I’ve already been raped as a child.
Satan’s laughter continues, higher flames.
SATAN
Yes....
LYLE
I didn’t-well, I didn’t MIND it. Can’t say I loved it...but hey, everything deserves a second chance. At least that’s what my mammy always said.
No more laughter. No more flames.
LYLE
C’mon buddy, let’s do this!
SATAN
What? No! You can’t-
Lyle ropes his arm around Satan’s.
LYLE
And I just squeezed out the motherlode of turds; this couldn’t have been better timed!
SATAN
Yeah...I, uh...
Satan mimes picking up a cellphone.
SATAN
Oh um, hey grandma! Yeah, I’ll totally help you clean the garage.
LYLE
I don’t see a phone. Who are you talking to?
SATAN
Gotta go!
As flames encircle the dark lord, he disappears in an instant.
Lyle picks up the polaroid shot of Satan, red-eyed and embarrassed. He stares at it longingly. Pondering the eternity that could have been his.
FADE OUT.
September 15th, 2008 at 8:41 pm
INT. BUNKER – DAY
JOHN strolls across the dreary bunker to a desk, where KANE, hunched over some paperwork, quietly scribbles away.
JOHN
What’s the hit?
Kane stops and looks up. He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a single polaroid and tosses it across the desk.
KANE
She’s agoraphobic. The address is on the back.
JOHN
What’s the catch?
KANE
She’s armed to the teeth.
John studies the photograph. He sighs.
JOHN
I need new weapons.
KANE
Again? What the fuck happened to the knives I got you?!
JOHN
Hundreds of hits, Kane. They’re dull now.
KANE
Look, I feel for ya, but all I’ve got is forks now.
JOHN
Forks?! FORKS?!
KANE
Cutbacks, John. The economy is in the shitter and people want bargain hits. We’ll get half a dozen forks out to you by tonight.
John frisbees the photograph right at Kane’s face.
JOHN
No. No! This is insane! No! I’m done with this bullshit!
John swings around but is stopped dead in his tracks by a couple of brawny GUARDS, each of them wielding a shiny new fork. He raises his hands in surrender.
KANE
Nobody walks away from this business, John. Not even you.
John turns around, glaring.
KANE
I own all the forks in this town, sonny. There is no escape. Not for you. Not for anybody.
JOHN
Mark my words. I will take you down. If it’s the last thing I do, I will take – you – down.
Kane signals to his guards, who promptly drag John away.
September 15th, 2008 at 8:58 pm
FADE IN:
EXT. DIRT ROAD -- DAY
CU ON PHOTOGRAPH of a dirt road that splits in two. The left leads into a dark forest. The right disappears over a clear blue horizon.
EZEKIEL GAINES -- 26 and lovin it -- puts down the photograph to reveal the exact image laid out before him. The only difference being a slight gust of wind...
... and OPALWISE THE TROLL blocking his path.
OPALWISE
Your brother Todd took the road less traveled.
Ezekiel stares into the unfriendly woods. A LOON screeches from inside. Ezekiel gulps and turns to the other road.
EZEKIEL
What’s down that way?
OPALWISE
Women. Fast cars. And Peanut Butter.
Ezekiel perks his brows; takes a step toward the right.
EZEKIEL
Wait a sec – does the Peanut Butter stick to the roof of your mouth?
OPALWISE
Only your heart knows the answer.
A moment of contemplation. And then Ezekiel suddenly sprints down the left path...
... until he disappears into the dark forest.
FADE OUT
September 15th, 2008 at 9:02 pm
(Just wrote this tonight on a lark – and realized it fit into the competition – so what the hey?)
INT. BEDROOM – LATE AFTERNOON
Rain CLATTERS on the window of this eighth-floor Manhattan apartment. Afternoon sunlight through the window casts warm, dancing rain-shadows onto MOLLY – late twenties, upper class, beautiful and perfect like an ice sculpture.
She’s lying in bed, looking at a PHOTOGRAPH of herself, asleep, in the arms of a MAN. There’s a peace in the photo that Molly doesn’t have anymore.
A YAWN from under the sheets. It’s a MAN (TOM) and he’s not the “man” from the photograph. She sets down the picture gently and keeps her eyes away from him.
Tom is also late twenties, less polished than Molly. He’s got laughing eyes and a mongrel dog smile.
TOM
Good morning.
MOLLY
Hi.
Tom curls himself up to Molly. She half-smiles and pats his hand. He kisses the back of her neck and rolls out of bed.
TOM
Want to get breakfast? I know a place that serves steak and eggs, you can cut ‘em with a fork. The steak, obviously.
MOLLY
No, thanks. I’ve got a lot of work today, so --
Tom pulls on his pants, notices the picture.
TOM
Who’s this?
He looks injured.
TOM
You’re not married, are you?
MOLLY
No, he’s -- he died.
TOM
Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.
Tom is sincere; he has a very youthful, open-hearted way about him.
MOLLY
(all business)
Look, this has really been good, but I’m sure you’re very busy, and I need to get started.
She says it with a smile but there’s a soft trace of an “eviction notice” there.
He grins again, and dammit, if he isn’t charming. He pulls on his shirt.
TOM
Can I get your number?
Molly keeps the smile, but there’s a sigh in her voice.
MOLLY
Look. This isn’t my first time. It’s a lot easier for us both if we don’t stand on pretense. We just say we had a great time last night, we don’t overthink it, and we let it go at that.
TOM
I’m not “overthinking it”...I just want to call you.
Her smile turns forgiving.
MOLLY
You don’t have to ask for my number, and I don’t need to worry about if you’re going to call. Don’t overcomplicate it, Tom.
TOM
Can’t I just call you?
MOLLY
I’ll call you. Your shoes are over there.
Tom trudges to his shoes, sits on the floor to put them on, working this out in his head.
He looks up at Molly.
TOM
So let me get this: you’re saying ‘this is a one night stand’ and you want me to think you’re okay with it.
MOLLY
I AM okay with it.
TOM
But when I ask for your number, you don’t give me a fake one, or just say no. So I think you WANT me to call.
MOLLY
It doesn’t matter what I want.
TOM
It does to me.
Molly isn’t buying it.
MOLLY
You don’t know me.
(softens)
Really, it’s sweet. I appreciate it. But you’ve done enough. It’s okay.
TOM
Do you mind if I call somebody?
(grin)
It’s not you, don’t worry.
MOLLY
Okay --
-- Tom picks up her phone, dials a number fast --
MOLLY
-- wait, who are you calling?
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” starts playing somewhere. Tom hands Molly her own phone.
He pulls a cellphone from his pocket -- “Don’t worry, be happy now!” -- cracks it open.
TOM
(both in the room and on Molly’s phone)
Hi.
Molly laughs, not sure what to say but not sold.
He smiles back.
TOM
I’ll call you.
Hangs up. He kisses her on the forehead and walks out.
Molly hangs up the phone, disarmed and speechless. In her eyes, we see her run the whole thing back in her mind, still not accepting it. Laughs.
And finally: really smiles.
September 15th, 2008 at 9:13 pm
INT. CAFE – DAY
A trio of Nazi soldiers walk past the picture window. A newspaper vendor cowers as they pass by.
FRANZ, a quintessential Aryan in an SS uniform, sits alone at a table for two. He picks nervously at a plate of schnitzel and potatoes.
A MAN in a trenchcoat sits down with Franz. The two men bear a striking resemblance. The man smiles.
MAN
You’re hard to track down, even for the Gestapo.
FRANZ
Good morning, Heinrich. I hope you are well.
Heinrich chuckles.
HEINRICH
Quite. Spring in Paris, doesn’t it remind you of our place in Munich?
Franz grunts.
Heinrich notices Franz’s plate.
HEINRICH
Schnitzel? You hate schnitzel. Remember how Mother would force you to eat it?
FRANZ
(annoyed)
Oh yes. But you aren’t here to talk about schnitzel, are you?
Heinrich’s expression turns serious.
HEINRICH
The Gestapo know you plan to defect. Don’t think that because you’re my brother I won’t hesitate to kill you.
Franz narrows his eyes. Stares daggers into Heinrich’s.
FRANZ
The thought never occurred to me. You’ve always put the Fuhrer above your family.
Heinrich returns his brother’s gaze.
HEINRICH
Don’t be foolish, Franz! You’re turning your back on a great man, the Master Race, and an empire that will soon dominate the world! What are you afraid of?
FRANZ
You want to know what I’m afraid of?
Franz moves like a cat, striking Heinrich in the chest.
Heinrich’s eyes widen.
FRANZ
Schnitzel.
Heinrich’s body goes limp.
FRANZ
Forgive me, Mother.
Franz pulls a large envelope out of his breast pocket and opens it. A PHOTOGRAPH of rocket bombs under construction. Assorted official-looking documents. One ticket for the 11:50 to Lisbon.
Franz stands. Replaces the envelope. Throws a Deutschmark on the table.
He checks his watch. 10:45. Puts on his cap and hurries out the door.
A waiter approaches the table. Taps Heinrich on the shoulder.
Heinrich lulls back, dead. The handle of a FORK protrudes from his sternum.
September 15th, 2008 at 9:32 pm
INT: DR MORIARTY’S OFFICE – DAY
GLORIA, a larger lady in her early 50s, lies on the couch.
DR MORIARTY, an elderly physiatrist, sits in a chair facing Gloria. He has a BROWN FOLDER on his lap.
DR MORIARTY
Tell me how it started. In your own time.
GLORIA
When I was younger, maybe four or five, I just couldn’t bear to look at them. The stabbing. The scrapping. It’s all too much.
DR MORIARTY
Go on.
GLORIA
It’s just, I can’t do it I’m sorry Dr Moriarty.
A tear rolls down Gloria’s cheek.
DR MORIARTY
It’s ok Gloria just breath.
Dr Moriarty hands Gloria a TISSUE. She takes it and dries her eyes.
DR MORIARTY
Now remember I told you how important it is to face our fears?
GLORIA
Yes.
DR MORIARTY
I have something to show you.
Dr Moriarty opens the FOLDER.
GLORIA
No!
DR MORIARTY
Breath Gloria, remember our exercises. It’s only a photograph, I want you to look at it and tell me how you feel.
Dr Moriarty takes the PHOTOGRAPH and shows it to Gloria: It’s a fork.GLORIA
(sobbing)
Oh-no I can’t.
Gloria takes the PHOTOGRAPH in her trembling hand and stares at it.
DR MORIARTY
Very good. See it’s perfectly harmless.
Dr Moriarty reaches under his chair and picks up A SMALL BOX.
DR MORIARTY
Let’s have a look at the real thing shall we?
He opens the box and a MARVELLOUS SILVER FORK glistens in the sunlight.
DR MORIARTY
See perfectly harmless.
GLORIA
Harmless, you call this harmless?
Gloria grabs the fork. With a sharp jab she plunges it into Dr Moriarty’s jugular. Blood squirts out. His body slumps in the chair – dead, the fork lodged in his neck.
September 15th, 2008 at 11:23 pm
INT. CARAVAN KITCHEN -- NIGHT.
2 Sisters sit at a wobbly formica table. Bored REBECCA takes deliberate loud swigs from her beer.
Across from her, her older (and annoyingly more mature) sister, SARAH has escaped inside a thick book , ignoring her bowl of pasta.
Rebecca twirls up a gigantic forkful of pasta, and thrusts it into her mouth with maximum force, mess and noise.
She CHEWS with her mouth open -- watching, waiting for her sister’s reaction.
Nothing.
Rebecca sighs. Glancing at the wall, she instantly perks up.
POV – A peeling door frame, and a cracked wall bearing 3 bluetacked photos of the girls in happier, richer times.
One of a young, bright and clean Sarah in uniform.
CLOSE UP – A huge hairy huntsman* spider climbs the wall.
Rebecca watches as it comes to a halt and completely covers Sarah’s smiling photo.
She flicks back to Sarah, engrossed in her book – an idea!
REBECCA
(slyly)
Your face is really hairy.
SARAH
(distracted, runs fingers over lip)
No, it’s not...
Rebecca smiles, and gestures to the wall behind Sarah.
SARAH
Wha-
She turns.
And sees it.
And screams.
She knocks over the chair, and cowers against the opposite wall.
Rebecca calmly eats her pasta.
SARAH
Don’t just sit there, do something!
REBECCA
About what?
SARAH
That thing! On my face!
REBECCA
What’s in it for me?
SARAH
Whatever you want! Just get rid of it.
Rebecca raises her eyes at Sarah.
SARAH
(realisation dawning)
No, not that!
REBECCA
(shrugs)
Too bad.
She reaches for Sarah’s book, and nonchalantly begins to read.
SARAH
Fine! Fine! It’s yours!
REBECCA
Promise?
SARAH
Just get rid of it!!!!
Sarah wails, as the spider moves closer to the doorway.
SARAH (CONT’D)
PLEEEAASSSSE
Barely taking her eyes of the book, Rebecca flicks her fork.
In one clean motion, it sails through the air, and embeds itself in the huntsman -- severing the head from the abdomen, and leaving only a quaking body dripping spider goo down “Sarah’s neck”.
Rebecca eyes Sarah evenly.
REBECCA
Do you do that every time you look in a mirror?
Sarah begins to cry.
*P.S In case anyone couldn’t guess – a “huntsman” is a gigantic type of Australian spider – similar to a tarantula, but able to climb walls.(Flatter body). They are massive – up to about 30 centremetres in diametre and sometimes larger than dinner plates. I have had experiences where we’ve needed a bucket to catch them. (They are harmless, but very big, hairy and scary)
September 15th, 2008 at 11:30 pm
Sorry – not sure what happened with the syntax on that one – but you get the gist.
September 16th, 2008 at 3:38 am
INT. SPACESHIP – BRIDGE – DAY (MAYBE)
LIEUTENANT BISHOP, mid-20s, lose fitting uniform, sits in the captain’s chair. He holds a fork in his hand, examines it curiously and touches the tines with a finger.
BISHOP
Ouch!
CAPTAIN GUINESS, 40, always the best-looking guy in the room, comes in.
GUINESS
Bishop!
Bishop jumps up, drops the fork.
BISHOP
Sorry, Sir! I --
GUINESS
What’s that?
Guiness picks up the fork. He’s never seen one before.
BISHOP
I think it’s called a fork, Sir.
GUINESS
You think?
BISHOP
Well, Sir, I’m not quite sure, Sir! But if I remember correctly, it was used for ingestion. Before these amazingly tasting nutrition shots had been invented, I mean, Sir!
GUINESS
How in Darwin’s name could you use this for ingestion?
He carefully pushes the fork into his arm. Of course, nothing happens.
BISHOP
I believe it was a transportation device. They put the nutrition on a plate and used a fork to get it into the mouth and... eat, Sir.
GUINESS
(disgusted)
With the mouth? Like animals?
BISHOP
Yes! Excellent comparison, Sir!
GUINESS
So what you’re telling me is -- Animals use this spiky object to... Ugh!
Guiness drops the fork. That causes the HELMSMAN to turn around in his chair. He’s a... chimp.
HELMSMAN
Damnit, Guiness, what the black hole is your problem? Of course, we don’t eat with a fork. What are we? Primates?
GUINESS
I’ve never said --
HELMSMAN
Look at me! Don’t I look clean? Don’t I? Sure I do. I’m probably cleaner than you are.
CAPTAIN
Hey, I was just asking --
HELMSMAN
(imitates him)
I was just asking, I was just asking. Ask again and I’ll file another complaint with PETA against you and your ugly human ass.
That silences the captain, he doesn’t look happy. It’s pretty obvious that he’s zoophobic and can’t hide it. Bishop meanwhile has continued examining the fork.
CAPTAIN
Enough!
With a sad face, Bishop stops.
CAPTAIN
Where did you find that “fork” anyway?
Bishop takes something out of his pocket: A photograph of a beautiful woman, probably a couple of centuries old. The photograph, not the woman.
BISHOP
Next to this, Sir!
GUINESS
Oh, I know this one. That’s a, uhm... a photon... a photongraph?
The helmsman groans, but:
BISHOP
Very good!
Guiness takes a closer look at it.
GUINESS
Amazing, she’s really not moving at all. Must have been a lot of work...
BISHOP
... to keep her standing still for such a long time? Yeah, I know, right?!
The helmsman mumbles something inaudible.
GUINESS
Fascinating.
(beat)
Wait a second, you haven’t answered my question. Where did you find this stuff?
BISHOP
Uhm, uh...
(shyly)
... in a box, Sir.
GUINESS
What box?
BISHOP
The one we, uhm, weren’t supposed to open, Sir?
HELMSMAN
You are not talking about the time capsule, are you? The one that takes us back in time? Into a time in which animals were kept in zoos? A time in which idiots weren’t allowed to command space ships?
BISHOPS
Oh. So that’s what a time capsule does. I’ve always wondered...
CAPTAIN / HELMSMAN
Noooooooooo!
September 16th, 2008 at 5:03 am
INT. STAFF PSYCHOLOGIST OFFICE -- ARMY BASE (GEORGIA) -- DAY
Sterile, windowless, gray – standard government issue. Two wood-framed chairs sit on either side of a small end table with a tacky lamp. The walls are bare, except for the diplomas and a Successories poster on Leadership.
DR. BOOMER MIKELSON (40) sits across from his client. Tall, lean and balding, he’s dressed in a short sleeve dress shirt and high water pants. He sits cross-legged, leans back in his chair, strokes his goatee like a wannabe Freud.
Across from him is PVT. TEDDY SHEFFIELD (19), the client. He’s short and skinny, with a pockmarked complexion and ears like Dumbo’s. Exactly the kind of guy you’d love to run into -- if you’re the enemy. He sits nervously, wrings his hands, fidgets in his seat.
DR. MIKELSON
So, Teddy, we’ve been making good progress with the systematic desensitization. Let’s not throw all that away, okay? We have one more session and then you’ll be clear to apply for Ranger school again. You with me today?
TEDDY
Yeah, I guess. I’ve been thinking about today all week. Gave me the shits.
DR. MIKELSON
Okay, well, that’s understandable. It’s a big step. But you’re ready. Let’s get started.
Dr. Mikelson reaches into a folder and pulls out a photo of a large snake. He hands it to Teddy, who accepts with trembling hands.
DR. MIKELSON
Okay, Teddy. Look at the picture and tell me what you’re feeling.
Teddy takes a deep breath. His hands still shake. His face turns red.
DR. MIKELSON
Teddy, stay with me. This is review. We’ve done this already. Breathe. Tell me what you’re feeling.
TEDDY
Like I want to run away. Like I can’t get far enough away from this thing. My skin is crawling.
DR. MIKELSON
Okay, good. You want to run away but you’re not. Excellent. Anything else?
TEDDY
My stomach hurts. I may need to use the bathroom.
DR. MIKELSON
You be sure to let me know. Okay. Ready for the next step?
TEDDY
I don’t know. I think. Okay, okay.
Dr. Mikelson reaches into a bag. Pulls out a fork and knife and a small snake, which he puts on a plate. Teddy pushes his chair back as far as he can.
TEDDY
What the hell is that? Get it away! Get it away!
DR. MIKELSON
Do you want to be a Ranger, Teddy?
TEDDY
Yes.
DR. MIKELSON
Then you know can’t shit your pants every time you see a snake. You have to pass survival training. Snakes come with the territory. Now, you’ve been desensitized to talking about snakes, to a photo of a snake, to a rubber snake, and now the next step is a real snake.
TEDDY
I don’t want to do this.
DR. MIKELSON
It’s the only way.
TEDDY
What’s the fork for?
DR. MIKELSON
Ever hear of G. Gordon Liddy? The Watergate guy?
TEDDY
What’s Watergate?
Dr. Mikelson takes a deep breath.
DR. MIKELSON
Really? Nevermind. G. Gordon Liddy is a great American who, as a child, was deathly afraid of rats. So one day, in order to conquer his fear, he decided he would catch a rat, cook it, and eat it. No better way to show you’re not scared of something than to eat it.
TEDDY
You want me to eat that snake! Are you fucking crazy! No way! I can’t do it! You’re nuts!
DR. MIKELSON
Ranger school, Teddy.
He cuts a piece of the snake off, hands Teddy the empty fork. Teddy takes it, a look of absolute terror on his face.
DR. MIKELSON
Go ahead, you can do this. I have faith in you. You can do this.
Teddy trembles violently. He looks at Dr. Mikelson like a lost puppy, tears stream down his cheeks.
He tries to breathe. But it’s no use. Soon, his respiration is up and his eyes begin to twitch.
DR. MIKELSON
Teddy... You can do --
TEDDY
Noooooooo!
Without warning, Teddy hurls the fork at Dr. Mikelson, like a carnival knife thrower. Dr. Mikelson can’t react in time and the fork lodges in his forehead, as the blood trickles down his face.
DR. MIKELSON
Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!
Teddy curls up in fetal position in his chair, rocks back and forth as Dr. Mikelson’s screams fill the office.
INT. STAFF PSYCHOLOGIST OFFICE -- ARMY BASE (GEORGIA) -- DAY
SUPER: “One year later”
Sterile, gray – standard government issue, except there’s a window. Two wood-framed chairs sit on either side of a small end table with a tacky lamp. The walls are bare, except for the diplomas and a Successories poster on Commitment.
Dr. Mikelson sits across from DR. SMITH (50), an overweight, pasty man with oversized glasses and a lazy eye.
DR. SMITH
Okay, Boomer. You know how this goes. Let’s begin.
He pulls out a picture of a fork and shows it to Dr. Mikelson, who begins to tremble uncontrollably and then bursts into tears.
Just then, through the window, a platoon of Army Rangers jogs by -- including one Pvt. Teddy Sheffield.
DR. SMITH
Tell me what you’re feeling.
September 16th, 2008 at 5:08 am
INT. 1980’s BASEMENT – NIGHT
Def Leppard’s “Rock of Ages” blares through billowing clouds of smoke. SCOTT lays sprawled on top of a plaid sleeping blanket. He whisks his feathery bangs away from his eyes as he takes the last hit from a joint. Exhaling, he’s pissed.
SCOTT
This is the last time I buy shit from that douche.
The music scratches to a halt as JIM lifts the needle off the record player.
JIM
Shut it! My Dad’s upstairs.
SCOTT
Oh, so Reverend Bynes cares about swearing but not tokin’ up?
Jim points to the open window well, where the purple plumes of smoke exit. He begins placing the record back into its album sleeve.
SCOTT
Hey, put that shit back on. I wanna hear “Photograph”.
Jim stares daggers at Scott.
SCOTT
Jesus you’re a pussy. Your pops can’t hear us. Watch... “Shit, cock, fuck, bitch.”
JIM
I warned you.
Jim places another album on the turntable. Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” CUES UP. Scott darts up, reeling.
SCOTT
Don’t do it. Don’t fucking do it.
With a Cheshire Cat smirk, Jim uses his index finger and manually rotates the record counter-clockwise. A strange garble emanates from the speakers.
JIM
What? What’s wrong. It’s just playing backwards. There’s nothing else... oh wait... there is something else...
Soon the noise filters into an ethereal demonic voice spouting: “It’s fun to smoke marijuana.” Over and over.
JIM
Oooh, Scott’s gonna crap his pants. He’s scared of the crazy Satanic record.
SCOTT
You’re an asshole. I’m outta here.
Scott picks up his hoodie and heads upstairs. About to open the door, he’s confronted by REVEREND BYNES. The backwards music stops.
REVEREND BYNES
Oh, hi Scott. Just checking up on you two. Is something burning?
Scott turns to look at his friend who silently pleads not to say anything.
SCOTT
Ask your “fork-head” of a son. I gotta go.
September 16th, 2008 at 5:41 am
EXT. ROOFTOP – MORNING
The sun is rising. Beautiful golden rays of light spread gently over the sky, which is slowly turning from purple to a light blue.
Shania is standing on the rooftop looking down at the enormous patch of grass surrounding her house. She closes her eyes.
SHANIA (V.O.)
I’ll tell you something interesting.
(pause)
I have a fear. A damn good, ass-kickin’ one. All my life, I’ve been scared. I’ve been so, so damn scared. Scared of the world, scared of not succeeding, scared of risks. You might say I had a phobia of living.
(chuckles)
If that’s even possible, I have it. A living person who’s scared of life. Today, as I stand here, at the top of the house I’ve always wanted, I will announce finally get over my fear. I will finally announce to the world...
Shania opens her hands wide and we see her enormous grin.
SHANIA
(screams)
I’m free! I AM FREE!
INT. TERI’S HOUSE – NIGHT
Teri and her husband, James, opens up the packets of takeout they had bought at the Chinese restaurant two blocks away. What is noticeable about this dinner is that instead of the normal chopsticks, they’re using FORKS to eat their chow mein.
The TV is ON, and James is watching THE NEWS while eating.
TERI
How was work?
JAMES
Not much difference from yesterday.
TERI
Today Tom praised us, ‘cos we submitted our files on time.
JAMES
Shut up.
TERI
And I found an old photo album back when I was 17, you know, high school? Boy, those were good days...
James presses a button on the remote on the table next to his food. The VOLUME of the news turns up.
Teri, ignoring the increased volume, pokes one photograph in the album with her fork.
TERI
Look here, I had nearly forgotten about this bunch of people! The Tenacious Trio, they used to call us. Three girls, taking the world by storm...
JAMES
(stoutly)
You told me that one before.
TERI
No I haven’t.
As Teri raises her fork to put some food in her mouth, a voice interrupts.
VOICE
Girl, it don’t matter.
Teri turns around, abruptly. She sees who is standing behind her, and both her hands tremble. The fork and photo album fall to the ground in a clatter.
SHANIA
Girl, you need to listen to me hard. Listen up real well. You need to get out of the house NOW.
TERI
(shocked)
What are you doing – ? Shaney, is that you? What the hell are you –
SHANIA
(cuts)
I can’t explain right now. Just pack the stuff you’ll need for one week into a bag, a good light one, and get out of your house.
TERI
This is not happening.
SHANIA
Get over it, girl! You have to get out! You have no time, so listen up close!
TERI
(stands up)
Shania, how did you get here?
JAMES
(abruptly)
Are you fucking listening?
Teri turns around. She is standing, and now she looks completely stupid, staring back at her husband, dumbfounded.
JAMES
What the fuck are you standing up for?
TERI
No, I...I swear...I saw...
James opens his mouth to respond, but a sudden loud buzz of murmuring catches Teri’s attention. There is a live-area report on television, and it features the photo of a familiar face whom Teri has just seen.
REPORTER
The body of a 40-year-old woman was found dead in the middle of this field at 6.40 early today morning. A check with local authorities has revealed that this woman, whose name goes only by Shania, is from out-of-town, and she came here only two nights ago for unknown reasons. Murder has not been ruled out by local police, but it is a mystery as to how she could have died in, literally, in the middle of nowhere.
Teri’s hand flies to her mouth.
TERI
Oh, my God.
JAMES
What the fuck is wrong with you?
But Teri, this time, is completely speechless.
CUT TO NEXT SCENE:
Sorry for some of the odd formatting. My computer is seriously on the blink right now.
September 16th, 2008 at 6:08 am
INT. OPEN-PLAN OFFICE – DAY
BETH bursts through the door, frantically leafing through a newspaper. JULIAN falls in step with her --
JULIAN
With a pen?
BETH
(not again)
It’s a handwritten apology.
JULIAN
Can I quote you on that?
BETH
Parkes made an offer, the board rejected. Parkes backed out. Even on a Friday that’s a non-story.
JULIAN
Yeah, if I had to weigh a ghost apologising for a take-over bid against weekend low-carb recipes I knew where I’d stand.
BETH
Who let you in?
JULIAN
Nobody has seen the guy since the wall came down. Why would he risk negative press coverage on P&S now?
BETH
Maybe he’s afraid of our size.
(then)
Oh God.
In the newspaper: a PHOTOGRAPH of last night’s meeting – Beth, looking rather disadvantegous, is conversing with two BUSINESSWOMEN, looking rather stunning.
JULIAN
P&E employees feed on souls only.
They’ve reached Beth’s desk. Chinese food in a box and a fork on it. Beth sighs.
JULIAN (CONT’D)
Come on. Off the record. You have Parkes on toast. Why?
BETH
Let anything leak and you sleep on the couch.
JULIAN
Two could sleep on that couch.
She’s takes her time, then --
BETH
Al Parkes hasn’t left his office for nineteen years. Holds business meetings via conference call, no interviews, no visitors. You want to know why?
JULIAN
I don’t know. Do I?
BETH
He’s got vestiphobia.
(no answer)
Fear of clothing.
(utter silence)
The great Allister B. Parkes has spent the past two decades making the Forbes list, ripping off pension funds and getting involved in world politics. Naked. Afraid of underpants. We know. He knows we know. He backs off.
Julian takes the fork.
JULIAN (CONT’D)
Tell me I don’t have a story and I’ll disembowel myself.
BETH
That information is the only wall between eight hundred jobs and Parkes & Simmons.
JULIAN
I demand to be compensated for my discretion. Tonight.
She sits down. Looks at the photo in the paper again.
BETH
Keep the fork. I’m fat.
JULIAN
Forks don’t make you fat.
He grabs the Chinese food and leaves, smiling --
BETH
Couch. You.
Julian rounds a corner. Quick-dials a number on his cellphone. Drops the food, then his smile.
JULIAN
(into phone)
Linda? Make an appointment.
(then)
Allister B. Parkes. Tell him it’s about suits.
CUT TO:
September 16th, 2008 at 6:24 am
EXT – HILLSIDE – DAY
This might be what Heaven looks like:
Clear blue skies and a warm, gentle breeze ruffling the long, emerald-green grass on this scenic slope with a view to the distant roaring ocean.
CLOSE ON a young BOY, seated at a picnic table on the hillside, eating. His jaws work overtime, chewing and crunching each mouthful.
He finally swallows it down, then jabs his fork downward for more.
A SOUND like “yeek!” and a soft POP, then the Boy raises his fork...
...on which a live WOLF SPIDER has been impaled. Its legs spasm, writhing, as...
...a CAMERA FLASH momentarily blinds the boy...
...then the Boy pops the Spider in his mouth, pulls the fork back clean, and starts chewing and crunching another mouthful. Spider crunch-crunch-crunch.
WIDER ANGLE
A tall, imposing PSYCHIATRIST is standing off to one side, holding a Polaroid camera and the photo just taken. He flaps the developing photo in the breeze, looking slightly demented.
Behind him is a portable whiteboard, on which he has kept a SCOREBOARD: “BOY: 37. SPIDER: 0.”
PSYCHIATRIST
You’re a good boy, Gustav. Your mother’s going to be so proud of you. This picture proves your bravery. Nothing scares you anymore. You could even be the next President!
The Boy grins. Two INSECTILE LEGS protrude from between his teeth. FREEZE FRAME.
SUPER TITLE: “VOTE McCAIN/PALIN 2008...”
SUBTITLE: “For the pitter-patter of tiny feet.”
PSYCHIATRIST (O.S.)
Keep eating. Eat them all up...
FADE OUT.
September 16th, 2008 at 6:40 am
Long ass scene. It helps if you picture Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Joseph and Michael Caine as Dr. Philgs.
INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE – DAY
JOSEPH, a chubby, well-dressed man in his late 30’s is sitting on a couch in the middle of the room.
DR. PHILGS, early 60’s, british, is sitting on a leather armchair opposite to Joseph. He inspects a list.
JOSEPH
I decided that maybe it’d be more informative if it was organized in order of intensity. Just to make things easier. I guess.
DR. PHILGS
(confused beat)
Excellent.
Dr. Philgs keeps staring at the list.
DR. PHILGS (CONT’D)
Top to bottom or--
JOSEPH
Yeah, the top one is the worst and the bottom one is the most tolerable. Or least intolerable.
DR. PHILGS
Okay.
(checks list)
So the top one is Acrophobia.
JOSEPH
Yeah.
Joseph giggles nervously.
DR. PHILGS
That’s alright, it’s very common. I’m a bit afraid of heights myself.
JOSEPH
Yeah.
DR. PHILGS
Emetophobia. That’s vomiting, correct?
JOSEPH
Correct.
DR. PHILGS
Well, nobody likes to vomit.
JOSEPH
Yeah. I don’t care for it. I watch what I eat, I avoid drinking... diseases. Public pools.
DR. PHILGS
Right.
(checks list)
Forkophobia.
JOSEPH
Yeah.
DR. PHILGS
I’m not sure I’m familiar with this one.
JOSEPH
Well, it means you’re afraid of forks.
DR. PHILGS
Oh, really?
JOSEPH
Yeah.
Dr. Philgs checks the list again, somewhat dumbfounded.
DR. PHILGS
How does that work?
JOSEPH
I’d just rather avoid forks as much as I can. I don’t like them near me. Specially if there are two of them stuck together. That’s just...
(sighs)
I’m not a fan.
Joseph laughs nervously. Dr. Philgs smiles.
DR. PHILGS
Now, forkophobia, is that a real word?
JOSEPH
Yeah.
DR. PHILGS
(beat)
Cause I don’t think I’ve ever--
JOSEPH
Well, I made it up.
DR. PHILGS
Right. How intense is this fear?
JOSEPH
Uh, I don’t go to restaurants. Or most places that serve food. Which can be a problem if you wanna take someone out on a date. Japanese food works, but it’s not everyone that likes it, and there’s always some asshole who can’t handle chopsticks. So there’s still a risk.
Dr. Philgs rises from his armchair.
DR. PHILGS
May I perform an experiment?
He walks up to a desk on a corner of the room.
JOSEPH
Like what?
DR. PHILGS
Sometimes I eat lunch here...
He opens a drawer and pulls out a FORK.
DR. PHILGS (CONT’D)
And I--
JOSEPH
Oh fuck. Jesus fuck.
Joseph closes his eyes and rests his head on his knees. He starts to pant.
DR. PHILGS
Calm down.
JOSEPH
Take that shit out of here, for god’s sake.
DR. PHILGS
I won’t take it near you, relax.
JOSEPH
Please, please, please, take it away...
Dr. Philgs throws it back into the drawer.
DR. PHILGS
Look, it’s gone.
Joseph looks up. At the drawer.
JOSEPH
Not it’s not.
Dr. Philgs takes the fork, opens the door to his office and throws it outside.
INT. WAITING ROOM – DAY
The fork flies out of the office door and hits a wall. Dr. Philgs’ secretary and a couple of patients look at the fork, startled.
INT. THERAPISTS’ OFFICE – DAY
Joseph is starting to relax, but his head is still on his knees.
DR. PHILGS
This is remarkable.
JOSEPH
Thank you.
DR. PHILGS
When did it begin?
JOSEPH
Uh...
Joseph looks up.
JOSEPH (CONT’D)
God. I don’t know. High school.
Dr. Philgs walks back to his desk and opens a lower drawer.
DR. PHILGS
Did someone use a fork to torment you or--
JOSEPH
No. It just happened. Forks freak me out. They remind me of Satan.
Dr. Philgs takes out a POLAROID CAMERA.
DR. PHILGS
Satan? You mean pitchforks?
JOSEPH
Yeah.
DR. PHILGS
Do you believe in Satan?
JOSEPH
No, I believe in forks. I believe forks are horrifying. That’s why Satan used them. He didn’t use a spoon, that wouldn’t work.
Dr. Philgs walks to the door.
DR. PHILGS
Because spoons are not horrifying.
JOSEPH
Exactly.
DR. PHILGS
I’ll be back in a moment.
INT. WAITING ROOM – DAY
Dr. Philgs walks up to the fork on the ground and takes a picture of it. Both his secretary and his waiting patients observe, confused.
Dr. Philgs pulls out the polaroid picture and shakes it.
He acknowledges the waiting patients.
DR. PHILGS
How’s it going?
He heads back to the office.
INT. THERAPISTS’ OFFICE – DAY
Joseph looks at the picture in Philgs’ hand as he walks in.
JOSEPH
What’s that?
DR. PHILGS
It’s a picture of the fork.
JOSEPH
Oh boy.
Joseph looks away.
JOSEPH (CONT’D)
This whole list thing was a big mistake.
DR. PHILGS
Calm down, it’s not done yet. And you don’t have to look at it.
JOSEPH
I’m not gonna.
Dr. Philgs walks up to his desk and pulls out an envelope. He puts the picture inside.
DR. PHILGS
You don’t have to. I want you to take this envelope and keep it in your pocket till our next session.
JOSEPH
No, thanks.
DR. PHILGS
Joseph--
JOSEPH
No. You don’t understand. What if I asked you to, like, carry around a picture of a bear eating your mother’s head? Would you--
DR. PHILGS
Listen, you’re not gonna open it, you’re just gonna keep it with you. If you want to, you can. But you don’t have to.
JOSEPH
What if it opens accidentally?
DR. PHILGS
How is that possible?
JOSEPH
What if there’s a hurricane...
DR. PHILGS
C’mon.
Dr. Philgs hands it to Joseph. He takes it, hesitantly.
DR. PHILGS (CONT’D)
Now put it in your pocket.
JOSEPH
This is torture.
Joseph obeys.
DR. PHILGS
There you go. You’re free to go now. Keep that picture with you, then bring it to me thursday.
JOSEPH
I’ll give it a shot.
Joseph stands up.
JOSEPH (CONT’D)
That’s it?
DR. PHILGS
Yeah.
They shake hands.
JOSEPH
Thank you.
DR. PHILGS
Have a nice week. Don’t worry about it.
Joseph heads towards the door.
JOSEPH
Yeah.
DR. PHILGS
It’s just a kitchen utensil.
JOSEPH
Yeah, thanks.
Joseph walks out of the office.
We hear Joseph SCREAM. He walks back to the office and closes the door.
JOSEPH
Motherfucker.
September 16th, 2008 at 6:57 am
INT. POUND OF FLESH DINER – DAY
CLOSE UP:
JEAN HARLOW, a mongrel huskie-cross with a definite blonde streak, licks her lips.
We PULL BACK, revealing a mostly empty diner somewhere in rural Tennessee. Rundown and rickety, it’s the kind of place most people go out of their way to avoid.
A few truckers and rednecks sit at a bar at the back, but our main focus is the booth at which tired 40-year old ASTON sits opposite his dog. He huddles into his leather jacket, slurping thick black coffee from a dirty cup.
JEAN HARLOW licks a few grains of sugar off the table.
ASTON
Don’t do that. It ain’t becoming.
The dog gives a dissatisfied growl, but obeys.
A young pretty waitress approaches carrying a steaming plate of hot food, plus cutlery.
WAITRESS
Here you go, Mister. Steak and potatoes with country Southern gravy. Are you sure I can’t fix somethin’ for that adorable dog of yours?
ASTON
No thank-you, honey. We like to share.
As the waitress leaves, ASTON cuts off a bit of steak and offers it to his dog. She laps it up.
SUDDENLY the diner door bursts open. A crackle of walkie-talkie noise precedes intimidating, middle-aged SHERIFF BARROW, a man with the air of someone whose uniform is permanently restrictive. He surveys the room carefully, before making his way over to ASTON.
JEAN HARLOW quickly ducks beneath the table.
SHERIFF BARROW
Excuse me, sir. I hate to disturb a fella when he’s masticatin’, but have you seen this man?
The SHERIFF brandishes a Polaroid. It’s ASTON before he lost weight, dyed his hair and shaved off his black beard.
ASTON ignores the SHERIFF.
SHERIFF BARROW
Uh... you got a problem with your ears, stranger? I just asked, have you or have you not seen this here man?
Looking at the SHERIFF directly, ASTON cuts off another piece of steak and chews it slowly. He’s laughing with his eyes.
SHERIFF BARROW, visibly furious, grabs the steak fork out of ASTON’s hand and uses it to violently pin the photo to the wall.
SHERIFF BARROW
I ain’t gonna ask you again. Neglect to answer this time and I’ll put your dadgum head right through this cheap fuckin’ table. Understand?
ASTON wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, calm and collected.
ASTON
I ain’t afraid of you, Sheriff. I ain’t afraid of the system you represent, nor the violence you employ to enforce it. Christ, I ain’t even afraid of God, except maybe on Sundays. But tell me, do you know what astynomiaphobia is?
SHERIFF BARROW
I can’t comprehend a goddamn word you’re sayin’!
ASTON
Well I don’t suffer from it myself. But my bitch Jean Harlow there...
We see the dog cowering at ASTON’s feet. She lets out a little whine.
ASTON
She’s got it. She’s got it bad. And for your vocabulary-related future reference, astynomiaphobia means “fear of the police”. You can see with your own eyes she ain’t too thrilled by your being here. So I don’t mind alleviatin’ her sufferin’ by telling you how I did indeed see this man last night, crossing the Bristol border on his way through Virginia in some kind of black sedan. And no, I ain’t so observant as to remember the make. Now, would you possibly be kind enough to leave us two the hell alone?
SHERIFF BARROW
With great fuckin’ pleasure!
Without removing the steak fork the SHERIFF rips the photo off the wall, then heads back towards the exit.
SHERIFF BARROW
(mumbling to self)
Virginia ain’t my jurisdiction. Cracker coulda just said that in the first fuckin’ place...
ASTON pulls the steak fork out of the wall and launches himself off the seat of the booth. He brings the fork down through the back of the SHERIFF’s neck with such force that it penetrates his Adam’s apple.
Blood steadily seeps out, before the SHERIFF gargles and falls face forward.
Rushing towards the door, ASTON realizes JEAN HARLOW isn’t following. Looking back, he sees the dog licking at the dead SHERIFF’s wound.
TENSION: ASTON’s eyes narrow. Should he go back for JEAN HARLOW and risk being apprehended by the locals? He glances quickly at the bar, weighing up his options. But...
No need to worry. The other patrons seem weirdly unfazed. A trucker turns on his swivel stool to face ASTON.
TRUCKER
(shouting)
Thought I heard you say that there dawg was afraid of the police.
ASTON
(apprehensively)
She is. Affliction ain’t so bad when said police are dead is all.
TRUCKER
(nodding as if it makes perfect sense)
Ah.
ASTON runs to JEAN HARLOW, grabs her by the scruff of the neck, then makes a quick exit.
September 16th, 2008 at 7:02 am
INT. SMITH FAMILY’S DININGROOM – NIGHT
PAM, attractive well-dressed suburban housewife, and her two kids sit at the mahogany table, eyeing their dinner. Instead of silverware, next to each plate is a pair of safety scissors and a half-spoon/half-fork utencil.
PAM
Don’t worry, kids. I’m sure your dad will be here soon.
They hear the FRONT DOOR QUIETLY OPEN AND CLOSE and JACK walks in, looking at the floor. Standing there. Round bald head shiny with sweat.
PAM
Hi honey! How was your day at the ball factory?
JACK
(quietly, robotic)
My day was fine dear. What did you do today?
PAM
Um ... not much.
When he finally looks up his eyes are red and puffy.
JACK
Oh really? What about THIS!
He slaps a photo down on the table. A CLOSE-UP OF THE PHOTO reveals Pam eating strawberries off a naked man who looks similar to Jack.
PAM
Children, please go upstairs.
The kids scatter.
JACK
Yeah, my private eye took that today. How could you! And with my brother!
PAM
(stands)
Jack, look at this table. I can’t use kid scissors and sporks to eat anymore. There isn’t one sharp thing in this entire house. I need sharp things in my life!
JACK
So you had to mock my Aichmophobia by eating off my brother with a sharp beef fork? With extra-long tines? You always thought I was dull compared to him.
PAM
I didn’t want to hurt you Jack.
JACK
Yeah right, you wanted to get caught. And look what you’re eating off him!
He storms to the front door, opens it.
PAM
So?
JACK
I’m allergic to strawberries!
He SLAMS the door.
September 16th, 2008 at 7:06 am
INT. FANCY RESTAURANT -- DUSK
MARK, 30’s and handsome, gazes out the window as the sun fully sets. He checks his watch.
MARK
(to himself)
Stood up. Again.
A gorgeous redhead, HELENA, catches his attention as she enters the foyer and stops at the maitre d stand.
MARK
Oh, please. Please be her.
The maitre d leads her over to Mark’s small candle-lit table. Mark stands.
MARK
Helena?
HELENA
Mark?
MARK
I’m so glad you made it. You look lovely.
HELENA
Thank you.
They sit.
MARK
I was a little worried, where you didn’t post a picture, but boy...
HELENA
Thank you. You’re quite attractive yourself. It’s so hard to meet people.
MARK
I feel like I already know you.
HELENA
I’m embarrassed to say, IMing you every night you is what I most look forward to.
A PHOTOGRAPHER comes around to their table.
PHOTOGRAPHER
A picture of the lovely couple?
Mark smiles and moves over beside Helena.
HELENA
No! No pictures!
Mark and the Photographer are surprised. Helena regains her composure.
HELENA
I’m sorry. I hate having my picture taken.
MARK
That’s okay. Although I must say you look absolutely beautiful.
A server brings them salads. Helena lifts her fancy silver fork and picks at her salad, not really eating. Mark stares at his fancy silver fork. He smiles awkwardly.
HELENA
Dig in, Mark. It’s very good.
Mark stares at the fork. He picks up a piece of lettuce with his fingers and eats it.
MARK
Delicious. So, you said you had something you wanted to tell me in person?
HELENA
I do, and I hope it won’t change things between us.
MARK
I actually have something I wanted to say to you too.
HELENA
Okay. You first.
MARK
No, go ahead.
They blurt their secrets simultaneously.
HELENA
I’m a vampire.
MARK
I’m a werewolf.
September 16th, 2008 at 8:01 am
@ 45 (Luis Calil)
Maybe a bit too long, but totally hilarious. Very well done.
September 16th, 2008 at 8:03 am
INT. BUNK BEDROOM – DAY
Little eyes dart back and forth as 6-year-old MICHAEL peeks out his bedroom door, up and down the hall. Coast clear. He closes the door gently.
Behind him, a stubby, tubby 4-year-old, TIMMY, waits wide-eyed. Wrapped head-to-toe in tinfoil like a futuristic mummy, he clutches a fork.
MICHAEL
Okay. You ready?
Timmy nods confidently, and kneels down beside the wall plug socket. Then looks up at Michael, smiling.
Michael grins back. And giggles breathlessly.
MICHAEL
. . . Wait!
He grabs a Polaroid camera off his bed and takes aim, trembling with excitement.
TIMMY
Michael, will it hurt?
MICHAEL
Look. Do you want to be scared of snails you’re whole life?
Timmy shakes his head sadly, and pulls down his swimming goggles.
Michael re-aims the camera ... ready ... steady ...
MICHAEL
Make sure you lick it first.
Timmy licks the fork, and --
MICHAEL
-- GO!
Timmy stabs the fork into the socket and --
-- SNAP BOOM!!
Timmy cartwheels across the room, like a flung doll and whacks into the closet. Smouldering.
Michael stares, flabbergasted as the bedroom door bursts open. MOM surveys the chaos ---
MOM
What the hell happened!?
MICHAEL
It was an accident!
The Polaroid photo rolls out of the camera in Michael’s hands, as Timmy picks himself up -- teeth chattering, hair frizzing.
TIMMY
. . . Fuck.
September 16th, 2008 at 8:10 am
INT. MCCGINTY FAMILY HOME – NIGHT
Jim enters the living room, sheepishly. Looking worn out, Gary closes the front door behind him. Through the kitchen doorway Jim catches sight of an exhausted, Susan, standing with arms crossed, staring at him, her eyes filled with poison. Gary leans in with a hushed but stern tone.
GARY
You gotta go in there and set Stewie straight. He actually thinks you swallow them. First he’s obsessing over it. Can’t get the idea out of his mind. Then Susan’s out of the kitchen for one minute--
Gary looks off, eyes filled with pain.
SUSAN
He’s three years old Jim! What were you thinking?
JIM
How was I supposed to know he was gonna take it so serious, Susan?
Jim tries to reason with Gary, talking fast while Susan marches towards the living room.
JIM (CONT.)
Why’re you trying to pin this on me? The other night you were encouraging it. I’m not the one who raised that broccoli-fobic little monster. I was just trying to help. It’s not my fault.
SUSAN
Are you fucking kidding me, Jim? Not your fault? The Otolaryngologist said we were lucky he didn’t pierce his goddamn esophagus.
(to Gary)
Show him the picture.
Jim pulls a Polaroid from his back pocket. Jim looks at it with an anguished wince.
JIM
I mean... I’ll see what I can do.
SUSAN
You damn well better.
His head drooping, Jim ambles down the hall towards:
STEWIE’S BEDROOM
Jim enters the dimly lit room. Incarcerated by alphabet wallpaper, Jim takes an uneasy perch on the youngster’s zoo print duvet. Tucked in, Stewie stares up at Jim with a healthy dose of stink eye.
JIM
It’s not real Stewie. It’s a magic trick.
Compounding his usual lisp, Stewie’s throat is parched and raspy from the grueling day.
STEWIE
It’s not a twick!
JIM
You’re folks are pissed as hell. You gotta beleive me Stewie. It’s an illusion. You know what that word means? Illusion? I just turn my head a little bit...
Picking up a pencil from the nightstand, Jim turns his head slightly away from Stewie, he slides the pencil on the outside of his mouth. He then slowly turns his head to face Stewie to help him recognize the conceit.
STEWIE
That’s not twew. You lying. Mommy said you a liar.
JIM
Well, what do you want from me? Nothing I do is good enough for you people. I can’t win. Uncle Fuck-Up. From now on that’s what I want you to call me.
Jim takes a deep breath, overcome with bitter emotion.
JIM (CONT.)
You know what, Kid, I swallowed em. Every last one.
(sing-song)
Wooden spoons, wooden spoons, Mm Mm Mm, I love eating wooden spoons. You happy now, you little brat?
Stewie’s eyelids squeeze together into two little slits. He pulls his hand out from underneath the covers and holds up a tiny metal shellfish fork.
STEWIE
Prove it.
September 16th, 2008 at 8:17 am
INT. DR. GREEN’S OFFICE – DAY
We find BAILEY WRIGHT, black, mid-twenties and built like a Greek god, seated opposite DR. GREEN. Dr. Green regards an open file on his desk.
DR. GREEN
Says here you’re a professional football player Mr. Wright.
BAILEY
Just got traded down here from New York. Not much of a football fan are you Dr. Green?
DR. GREEN
Admittedly I don’t follow football.
BAILEY
Well it was the biggest trade of the off-season. The Jets and Dolphins are big rivals.
DR. GREEN
Well I’ll see to it that you’re in fine form. Now you were referred to me by Dr. Lin?
BAILEY
Dr. Lin thought I should look into your treatment. See I don’t like needles.
DR. GREEN
It seems my treatment always attracts aichmophobics.
BAILEY
Aichmophobic?
DR. GREEN
A fear of needles.
BAILEY
I don’t fear needles. I just don’t like them.
DR. GREEN
Well you’ll nonetheless find my sonopuncture treatment is less invasive than acupuncture. Instead of needles I target those same acupuncture points with sound waves. And by properly stimulating the body’s natural frequencies I can inspire both healing and inner harmony in my patients. Body harmonization if you will.
BAILEY
And what happens if you hit the wrong note?
DR. GREEN
Misuse of sonopuncture can have adverse effects more discordant than harmonic. But Mr. Wright, I intend to conduct a symphony that will keep you both a healed and promptly paid patient of mine.
Bailey smiles, reassured.
INT. DR. GREEN’S OPERATING ROOM – DAY
Bailey lies on a operating table shirtless as Dr. Green coats an area between his shoulder blades with a blue gel. He then takes a vibrating, resonating tuning fork and presses it against Bailey’s gelled back.
DR. GREEN
Now this is one of many access points to the body’s Meridian and Chakra energy systems. Shall we continue Mr. Wright?
Wedged in the cushioned head-brace, Bailey’s face begins to relax.
BAILEY
We shall.
INT. DR. GREEN’S OFFICE – LATER
Bailey and Dr. Green are once again seated in the office.
BAILEY
I feel good Dr. Green. I gotta say I feel really good.
DR. GREEN
You’re body is responding...
Dr. Green is interrupted as his phone rings.
DR. GREEN (CONT’D)
Excuse me.
(picks up the phone)
Yes. I’m with a patient at the moment. Alright fine. Just wait.
(hangs up the phone)
Would you excuse me for just one moment Mr. Wright?
BAILEY
By all means Dr. Green.
Dr. Green exits. A moment passes and Bailey shoots up from his seat, running to the window behind Dr. Green’s desk to catch a fleeting glimpse of a passing WOMAN with more curves than a backroad. Bailey smiles to himself, turns back to his seat but stops when he notices something on Dr. Green’s desk.
Amongst framed photos of his family, there’s one photo of Dr. Green and three friends, posing shirtless at a football stadium with the letters J-E-T-S spray-painted on their stomachs in green and white.
Bailey’s face bleeds of color.
September 16th, 2008 at 8:38 am
C/U ON: A PHOTOGRAPH OF A SHIP
Taken in profile, she’s a container ship – ‘THE XIN LOS ANGELES’.
The photograph sways out of view, its gilt frame bolted securely to the wall at each corner.
It sways into view, then out again. We pull back to reveal...
INT. CANTEEN. THE XIN LOS ANGELES – DAY
Chaos. The entire room lurches with the rhythm of the high sea. Cutlery clatters. A door SLAMS opens. Muffled SHOUTS and the CRY of the gale, raging outside, before the door slams shut again.
As the ship tilts, a glass slides across a table, past an ashen faced man – FRANK ETCHING (55) – dressed in brand new wet weather gear. Totally out of place, he’d get sea sick fishing from the shore. He’s so ill throughout the scene he’s barely able to speak. He stares intently at the photo, trying to focus on something.
Several SEAMEN, dressed in slickers and boots, collect their food, and stare at Frank suspiciously, muttering amongst themselves.
One approaches, carrying his tray of food. This is SHAUN (28). Tanned, weathered face, no knowledge of fear, or subtlety. He drops his tray on the table opposite Frank, speaks in a THICK AUSTRALIAN BROGUE.
SHAUN
They fix ‘em to the wall.
Frank looks up at the giant Antipodean, who gestures at the photo.
SHAUN
Otherwise they could just... fall in. Y’know?
Frank frowns. Was that a threat? Shaun plops himself in the seat opposite Frank, regards him suspiciously.
SHAUN
So. You like sailing or what?
Frank wretches, manages to hold it.
SHAUN
Less and less, eh?
Shaun nods to himself.
SHAUN
Then why you on a bloody boat?
(leans in)
A bloody boat that won’t be within a bloody cooee of land for another six weeks?
He considers Frank.
SHAUN
You’re not customs. That stands out like a dog’s balls.
Frank hastily shakes his head.
SHAUN
So?
(beat)
What are you? Why you here?
Frank swallows.
SHAUN
Listen mate. I’ve heard your story. Right? There’s only twenty blokes on this ship, and we run out of things to talk about pretty bloody fast.
(lowers his voice)
Thing is. I don’t believe it.
He stares hard at Frank, daring him to answer. It takes a great effort.
FRANK
S’true.
SHAUN
No. It’s not.
Frank nods. It is.
Shaun stares at him for a beat, his features hardening with suspicion.
SHAUN
No way.
Frank nods. Shaun narrows his eyes.
SHAUN
No way.
Frank nods.
Suddenly Shaun bursts out laughing.
SHAUN
You’re in the back of bourke on a bloody box boat... cause you’re afraid of flying?
(beat, can’t believe it)
Flying? But... But it’s the safest bloody form of travel! I mean, it’s statistically bloody proven that--
FRANK
--it’s complicated.
SHAUN
I’d say it is, mate. How far you going?
FRANK
New Zealand.
SHAUN
New Zealand? Is this some mid life thing? Come to some bloody fork--
Frank frowns, picks up a FORK, gestures: a fork?
SHAUN
In the road, you donger. In life! You make some big life changing decision, like it’ll--
Frank points at him – yes. Exactly. Shaun shakes his head.
SHAUN
You’re chasing a Sheila, aren’t you? To the other side of the bloody planet.
Frank smiles, coyly. Shaun leans back in his chair, philosophically, considers Frank.
SHAUN
Sounds like you’re afraid of something else, mate.
Frank blinks, questioningly.
SHAUN
Making the same mistake twice.
Slowly, Frank smiles, struck by this rudimentary wisdom. The room seems to still around him, only for a moment.
SHAUN
Don’t worry, mate. She’ll be apples, eh?
Shaun winks, then stands, claps Frank on the arm.
SHAUN
Tell you what you should be afraid of though. Not bloody Sheilas.
Frank smiles, now all ears.
SHAUN
Pirates.
Frank’s face falls as Shaun lumbers off. Frank vomits. Everywhere.
September 16th, 2008 at 8:53 am
EXT. SKYSCRAPER ROOF – DAY
JAMES stands on the lip of the roof. Early 30s, dressed with knife-edge creases and golden cuff-links, you can guess he’s an investment banker from the dusting of powder on his nose. A little confidence builder.
OFFICER SCOTT stands a few feet back. Late 40s, not the finest of New York’s finest, with a uniform more lived in than cared for.
JAMES
Just... please, just don’t come any closer.
He risks a glance back, before returning his stare to the ground – way, way below him.
OFFICER SCOTT
Oh, I’d likely collapse over the edge if I had that nice view of yours.
JAMES
Heights?
OFFICER SCOTT
Everyone’s scared of something.
The OFFICER pauses to shield his eyes from the glare of the glass-fronted towers surrounding them.
OFFICER SCOTT
What are you scared of, James?
JAMES
Living. Dying.
(beat)
It’s not the money. Losing it, I mean.
OFFICER SCOTT
Can’t say I understand how you boys make it in the first place.
JAMES
Not sure I understand how we lost it, either.
OFFICER SCOTT shuffles forward carefully with his hand outstretched, holding a photograph.
OFFICER SCOTT
Here... It was on your desk.
JAMES sees it out of the corner of his eye and grabs it without looking back
OFFICER SCOTT
Cute kid.
JAMES
She’s better off without me.
OFFICER SCOTT
I gotta disagree there, James.
JAMES
Better the memory of me as a decent man, than the reality of my wreckage now.
OFFICER SCOTT
Memories... funny things. They don’t teach you wisdom or comfort your tears or protect you from scum.
JAMES leans forwards a little more, staring at the photograph and sobbing quietly.
OFFICER SCOTT
It’s a fork.
JAMES
A fork?
OFFICER SCOTT
My wife, got me this book on quantum thingy. Didn’t understand much, but this -- Sometimes you make a decision and the worlds split in two. Step forwards or step back.
JAMES
(muttering to himself)
Step forwards, step back.
OFFICER SCOTT
A fork in the trousers of time. One leg gives your daughter the memory of a good man, a coward.
(beat)
The other gives her a life with the guidance of a flawed man.
JAMES
Step forwards. Step back.
OFFICER SCOTT
It’s up to you.
JAMES takes a step.
September 16th, 2008 at 9:53 am
INT. BOARDROOM – NIGHT
An emergency meeting is in progress. People with frazzled hair, and sleepless eyes, rush about a BOARDROOM with TV screens on the wall, showing images of destruction and chaos.
They discuss urgently with each other, and look at various documents and photos except for ONE WOMAN.
KELLY,(early thirties), is staring blankly at the PHOTOS lying on the table before her.
The boardroom door slams open, and GENERAL LOGAN enters. Everyone immediately stops talking, and looks to him. Kelly’s eyes remain on the photos.
Logan places a TAKE-OUT SALAD on the table next to Kelly.
LOGAN
Eat this. I can’t have you passing out on me now. Understand?
Kelly takes her eyes off the photos and looks up at Logan. She nods. Opens the salad container.
Logan clears his throat and addresses the people.
LOGAN
Now I’m sure all of you understand the dire situation we’re now in.
They pay close attention. Waiting for his orders. Kelly slowly eats.
LOGAN
(cont.) We have reason to believe Terrorists were involved, but no organization has stepped forward to claim anything yet. We also just received word of another attack.
Logan points to one of the TV monitors. On screen, a body of water next to a city, suddenly vaporizes. The air turns a sickly green.
Kelly quickly swallows, and fights to urge to heave her meal back up.
LOGAN
(cont.) Chicago is still covered in smoke, and we haven’t been able to make contact with anyone in New York yet. Reports from China and Iran are the same. Now back to your positions people. See if you can find any planes, or satellites, or rockets, or anything!
The people quickly file out. Kelly and Logan remain, alone.
Logan leans against the table next to Kelly, and sighs.
LOGAN
Kelly, this is not the time to freak out on me.
KELLY
I am not freaking out. I’m telling you, this is...
LOGAN
This is some kind of biological warfare, Kelly! Not Star Trek! The Klingons do not exist!
Kelly stands up and slams her salad fork into one of the photos laying on the table.
KELLY
Then how do you explain that!
Logan pries the fork out of the picture and studies it. A confused look passes across his face. It quickly turns into annoyance. He stares into Kelly’s eyes.
LOGAN
Your alien phobia giving you a lack of judgment. It always has. Now, I need you to use your brains, and get back to work!
Logan throws the picture down. Leaves in a huff.
Kelly picks up the picture again.
KELLY
No human could have done this.
September 16th, 2008 at 10:24 am
INT. BEDROOM – DAY
ROBIN, 30, attractive, but looking a bit worse for wear, sits on a bed surrounded by self-help books -- The Rules, How Not to Follow the Rules, Men Who Are Jerks and the Women Who Love Them.
A phone sits in front of her. Robin picks it up, but then the door swings open and she immediately hangs up.
DENA, 30, attractive, with a stern look on her face, enters the room.
DENA
Don’t do it.
ROBIN
Do what?
DENA
You know what. Give me the phone.
Dena tries to grab the phone, but Robin takes a fork from her nightstand and wields it near Dena’s hand.
ROBIN
I have a fork and I’m not afraid to use it.
Robin takes out an antibacterial wipe and cleans off the phone.
DENA
Nice. Your Germaphobia is rearing it’s ugly head again and it’s because of a stupid man. Do not call him.
ROBIN
But why. Maybe it wasn’t him I saw kissing that girl. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe he is overwhelmed by his feelings. Maybe...
DENA
You know it was him.
ROBIN
We have no proof.
DENA
I hate to do this, but I knew I was going to need evidence. Someone took a photograph of them.
Dena hands her the photo. Robin stares at it.
ROBIN
Fine. I won’t call. Can you get me some tea so I can try to relax?
DENA
Sure. I’m really proud of you.
As Dena walks away, Robin hits her on the head with the phone and knocks her out cold.
She drags her to her closet and lays her near another friend knocked out cold already lying in there and shuts the door.
She goes back to her bed and picks up the phone.
ROBIN
Hi. Can you come over and talk for a bit? I’m trying to decide if I should call John and forgive him or not and I just can’t figure out what to do.
September 16th, 2008 at 11:18 am
INT. BASEMENT DAY
In the center of a dark room, at a table dimly light by a single light bulb, sits a woman in her late 20s, attractive yet approachable. This is SUSAN.
A hand with a fork quickly darts out the dark and stabs the photograph sitting on the table in front of Susan. The hand belongs to DAN; we don’t see Dan just his shadow at the edge of the light.
DAN
Turn off the light.
SUSAN
No, come out of the dark.
DAN
After you turn off the light.
SUSAN
And if I don’t?
DAN
Then I wait.
SUSAN
Really.
DAN
Yes.
SUSAN
So, what happened? Why so afraid of the light?
DAN
You wouldn’t understand.
SUSAN
Try me.
DAN
No. Go away.
SUSAN
No, come in to the light.
Silence engulfs the room.
The buzzing of a vibrating cell phone in Susan’s purse breaks the silence of the room.
DAN
You gon’a get that.
SUSAN
No, They can wait.
DAN
(Sarcastic)Ah, isn’t that nice. You’re here for me.
SUSAN
Yes, why is it so hard for you to believe?
DAN
Spare me your fake concern, jus, just leave me alone. I’m not coming out. Tell your boss you tried and leave it at that.
SUSAN
It’s not that simple
DAN
It never is.
September 16th, 2008 at 11:24 am
INT. CHILDREN’S BIRTHDAY PARTY – DAY
Loud music, children’s laughter. Kids run like roaches all over the grass in some exhausted lady’s backyard, surrounded by parents who have given up trying to corral them. A CLOWN bends some balloon animals for a small CHILD.
A 30-something man dressed in black and and out of breath, ROGER, appears at the entrance to the street. He pauses, looks around, then slips unnoticed into the party.
A woman in her twenties, SANDY, appears in the same street entrance, also out of breath. She scans the party.
She see the Clown.
She flattens herself against the wall and breathes deeply, eyes closed.
The Child comes up to her, waving around his balloon donkey.
CHILD
Hi.
SANDY
Nice... what the hell is that?
CHILD
It’s a donkey.
SANDY
An ass? He made you an ass?
She looks up, steadily breathing at the clown.
SANDY
I fucking hate clowns.
She steels herself, then creeps into the party. She grabs a FORK from a table full of cake.
She walks around the Clown, careful not to get too close. She scans the rest of the party, looking carefully through each adult she encounters.
Then she sees Roger. They make eye contact.
Roger backs away slowly, looking around for a way to make a break for it.
Sandy gets closer.
Roger rushes over to the Clown and hides behind him.
SANDY
Fucking clowns.
She takes several deep breaths as Roger looks to the street exit and back to Sandy, who is up on her toes, ready to give chase. She dares not go near the Clown.
The Clown turns to Roger.
CLOWN
Would you like a donkey?
ROGER
Fuck off, loser.
CLOWN
Well, I... I don’t...
ROGER
Shut up.
He pushes the clown at Sandy, who screams. The children scream. Roger runs to the street. Sandy stabs at the Clown with her fork. The Clown screams. Everybody screams.
Sandy pushes the Clown and chases after Roger. Right as he’s about to get to the exit she catches him and knocks him to the ground.
SANDY
Where is it, Roger? Give it!
He tries to push her off. She clocks him in the head.
SANDY
GIVE IT!
She digs in his pockets.
ROGER
Help! Help!
The parents watch, drinking margaritas in plastic cups.
Sandy pulls a POLAROID out of Roger’s pocket. She looks at it. In the photo, Lindsey Lohan sunbathes naked in her backyard. Boobies are present.
SANDY
If you come near Lindsey again I will fucking kill you, you giant piece of crap!
She leaps up and runs out of the party.
The Child comes up to Roger.
CHILD
Did you see my balloon?
September 16th, 2008 at 11:54 am
INT. TODDLER’S BIRTHDAY PARTY
It is the typical child’s birthday party. CRYING, SCREAMING, LAUGHTER. Young children are running around. Some sit keeping to themselves, others wait in lines for various activities.
MARK, THE CLEANEST CUT MAN EVER SEEN, dilly-dallies, concealing his average face with a Polaroid camera.
SNAP! He takes a picture of a crying child, shakes it, and nonchalantly hands it to him.WOMAN
CAKE TIME!
The children instantly halt their actions as their heads jolt in unison toward the direction of the cake room.RANDOM CHILDREN
CAKE!!!!!! CAKE!!!!!!!!
A stampede of children engulf Mark as he stands awkwardly, holding the camera to his face.INT. TODDLER’S BIRTHDAY PARTY, CAKE ROOM
Twenty-five or so children sit around a long rectangular table with a giant PRINCESS CAKE situated in the middle. Each chair is attached to a balloon. The BIRTHDAY GIRL leans over the cake, overwhelmed by its greatness. SNAP! Mark keeps his distance, leaning on the door to the room.
The lights go out. A woman lights the candles and THE MOST HORRIFIC RENDITION of “Happy Birthday” ensues. Neither the parents nor the children hit one right note.
The lights turn on. Mark stumbles as the door to the room opens. In walks a woman holding a GIANT KITCHEN KNIFE. Terrified, Mark hugs the corner.
The cake is cut and distributed to the children, each receiving a fork and plate. The children devour the cake like ravenous piranhas.
Mark is paralyzed in fear, gazing into the pink wall. A fork and plate are shoved in his face.RANDOM WOMAN
Cake?MARK
(startled)
AH!
Mark smacks the random woman’s wrist, knocking the fork away.MARK (CONT’D)
I apologize. Are there spoons?
Disgusted, she dismisses his question and walks away.
POP! Bored, the children begin to pop the balloons with their forks. With every pop Mark contorts his body.
He slowly falls to the ground in the fetal position, trying to catch his breath.
The parents are oblivious of Mark and try to quash the balloon popping.
Some children become aware of the connection between the popping and Mark’s body movements and slowly make their way over to him.
POP! POP! POP! Mark’s fearful shrieks are disturbing, but oddly comedic. The shrieks blend with the children’s laughter and balloon popping to create a choir of insanity. Mark closes his eyes.SHOOT TO BLACK.
SILENCE. Mark’s eyes open.
The parents and children are standing over Mark staring at him. The children are blatantly amused whereas the parents are bewildered and disappointed.
Mark slowly stands up and brushes himself off, not making eye contact with anyone. He moves toward the door. He is blocked by an adorable LITTLE GIRL smiling at him with her arms folded behind her back.
The Little Girl moves her arms revealing a balloon in one hand and a fork in the other.
Mark is horrified aware of the inevitable.
POP! The Little Girl stabs the balloon with the fork and begins to laugh. She continues to force the fork toward his face in a stabbing motion.
Mark backs away, trips over a chair, and face plants into the remaining cake on the table. Burst of Laughter.FADE OUT.
September 16th, 2008 at 2:36 pm
INT.CHEZ JAQUES-NIGHT
The restaurant is in full swing. All tables are crowded with posh and snobbish looking people dressed to the nines. White gloved waiters run around taking orders, serving dishes and pouring wine.
DIANE (31) sits alone at a table set for three. Her face has a sad quality to it, her mouth seems in a state of permanent frown. She looks at the next table where a bejeweled, designer-clad woman is looking for something in her Fendi bag. With her leg, DIANE pushes her “once brown now crusty” leather handbag a bit further under the table.
She looks at her watch and sighs.
Finally a waiter brings over two men, STEVE (42) and FERNANDO (38). Both of them are wearing handmade suits and look as if their whole day has been spent at a hair saloon. STEVE is a heavyset lounge lizard, a smug grin glued to his face. FERNANDO is taller, Hispanic looking and much more handsome, although it seems impossible he looks even more pleased with himself than STEVE. The two of them not only look as if they belong at this establishment, they look like they could own it.
DIANE stands up to greet the men.
STEVE
(With mock care)
I´m very sorry we´re late, traffic in this town....is a bitch.
DIANE
Quite alright, this is a charming place. Thank you for insisting on us meeting here.
STEVE
(Smirking)
This is the best of places, as long as I´m not paying.
FERNANDO grabs DIANES hand and kisses it.´
FERNANDO
Senjora Diane.
DIANE pulls her hand back firmly but politely. Her teeth are clenched as she looks at the waiter.
DIANE
Could you please remove the spoons, no soup for us.
The trio sits down.
DIANE
(at STEVE)
Let me cut to the chase, my boss is very disappointed with your clients work.
The men both smile like there’s no tomorrow.
DIANE
This is a very difficult situation for me as I was the one who chose Fernando for this shoot.
She pulls up a manila envelope and from it produces a bunch of photographs.
The photographs show Eiður Smári Gudjohnsen, a soccer player, holding a beverage of some sort. He is dramatically lit, dark and looks a bit like a villain from a sixties Nazi flick.
STEVE and FERNANDO are trying hard to repress chuckles.
DIANE
I take my pride in research. I looked over your clients career thoroughly and quite frankly he seemed perfect for the job. Punctual, professional and his work for both Nike and Coca Cola is exactly what we were looking for. This...
She holds up one of the photographs.
DIANE
...we can not use.
DIANE looks at the photograph
DIANE
Children aged 10 to 16 are our target group. We asked for, happy, healthy, fresh, kind but confident.....this looks like propaganda for supremacy.(Beat)
The entire campaign must be redone and I want your client to do it. For free.
STEVE leans over to FERNANDO and whispers to him in Spanish. FERNANDO laughs and shakes his head smirking.
STEVE
I´m afraid we won´t be doing that. There are travel expenses, per diems, my clients rate. I take my percentage....there is no such thing as a free lunch.´
The men look at DIANE , nothing but smiles.
DIANE waves to a waiter standing close by. He quickly picks up three dishes and hurries to their table.
DIANE
I took the liberty of ordering a starter.
The waiter bows slightly as he puts the plates in front of everyone, golden brown, crispy-looking duck drumsticks.
FERNANDO
Aaaah!
FERNANDO licks his lips.
DIANE
Then I´m afraid we shall have to bring in another photographer.
STEVE
As is your right.
DIANE
My boss will be furious at the extra expense, I´m responsible. I just hope I´ll keep my job.
DIANES eyes are shooting daggers across the table, again nothing but smiles
DIANE
You know I was very surprised with the result from the shoot. As I said, I did my research and FERNANDO should have been perfect for the project.
STEVE takes a bite from the scrumptious looking duck and chews happily.
STEVE
(chewing)
Well, he did great work, I´m sorry you don´t like it.
DIANE
Yes I was very surprised. So I did a little more research on FERNANDO and I found out that he is a lifelong supporter of Real Madrid.
FERNANDO is about to take his first bite from the duck.
FERNANDO
Forca Real Madrid!
DIANE
Yes, Real Madrid. The archrivals of Barcelona, Gudjohnsens team. Suddenly I was not so surprised you made him look like a member of the Hitler Jugend.
FERNANDO takes a huge bite of duck, smirking while he chews.
DIANE
Do you like the food Fernando?
FERNANDO nods approvingly.
DIANE
Apparently it´s their speciality.....peanut butter glazed duck.
FERNANDOS Mouth drops open. He stares at DIANE, his face petrified.
STEVE grabs FERNANDOS shoulders.
STEVE
No, no, it´s okay, it´s okay Fernando. Go to a happy place, go to a happy place!
But FERNANDO is not in a happy place, he starts to moan and breathe heavily.
DIANE
Whats´wrong?
STEVE looks angrily at DIANE
STEVE
He´s arachibutyrophobic!
DIANE
Oh? What on earth is that?
STEVE
He is terrified of peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth!!!
FERNANDO´S eyes look as if they are about to pop from their sockets. He looks franticly around the table and grabs a fork.
STEVE
Nooooooooo Fernando, put it down!
FERNANDO jabs the fork to the roof of his mouth and starts scraping ferociously.
People all over the restaurant have stopped talking and all eyes are turned to FERNANDO as blood flows from the corners of his mouth.
STEVE tries to grab the fork away from FERNANDO, wrestling him hard. Fernando is gargling blood all over the white cloth covering the table.
DIANE
I´m so sorry, I wish I´d known.´
A big smile lights up DIANES face.
September 16th, 2008 at 3:03 pm
What are the chances that I encountered a fork, a photograph and a phobia in my real true life for a moment last week? This ISN’T how it happened:
FADE IN:
INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY
RICHARD, mid-40s, splays out on a white, wide, low Italian leather chaise. His dingy brown hair looks a combination of day-old hair product plus week-old body grease due to lack of bathing. The thin yellow sweat-band doesn’t help.
He squints to protect his face from the morning light glinting through the windows. There is a staircase at the far end of the room.
In a moment, a drowsy RAVEN, late 30s, descends the stairs. She matches her house -- white PJs, white robe, sparkly diamond pendant. Before she sees him, Richard pops up like a jack-in-the-box.
RICHARD
Fork it over, baby.
Startled, Raven shrieks.
Richard cringes at the noise, cranking his thick fingers as far into his ear as possible.
RICHARD
Jesus.
RAVEN
You gross sack of shit.
Satisfied by her remark, he kicks back on the chaise.
RICHARD
... says the whore in dire need of a douche bag.
He eases his hands behind his head to reveal his white shirt’s yellowed pit stains, freshly wet.
RICHARD
So where is it?
RAVEN
Yer high.
RICHARD
Thought you’d say something like that, so...
RICHARD
(rifling through pockets)
... I decided to find it myself.
He holds up a photograph.
Raven plunges down the remaining steps, lunging at him.
RAVEN
Asshole!
She uses her limbs like an octopus working a car wash, doing anything she can to pry the photo from his hands. All the while, he laughs maniacally at her...
... until she lands a firm whack to his face.
RICHARD
You fuckin’--
Grabbing her by the shoulders, he easily pries her from him and throws her on the floor.
RICHARD
(shoving photo at her)
Want this?
She’s too hurt to respond.
RICHARD
Answer me! Do you want it?
She fails at swiping it from him. He laughs.
RICHARD
Look. I tagged it.
He turns the picture around. The word HIPPOPOTOMONSTROSESQUIPEDALIOPHOBIA is written in big letters on the back.
She shrieks again, racing toward the bottom of the stairs.
RICHARD
(cringing)
Damn, girl.
He licks the front of the photo and adheres it to his forehead, approaching her like Frankenstein.
RAVEN
Please. Please stop it.
Falling into a puddle, she hides her face in her robe.
Richard quietly crouches millimeters away, waiting for her to emerge.
RICHARD
Boo!
Screaming, she darts up the stairs.
RICHARD
So we square, then?
An upstairs door SLAMS.
RICHARD
Guess so.
FADE OUT.
September 16th, 2008 at 4:18 pm
INT. KITCHEN – DAY
A well appointed workspace. Immaculate in its cleanliness. FRAN (40), British, prim and proper domestic goddess. She tends to another culinary masterpiece. She wears sanitary equipment – gloves, hair net, apron.
ANTOINE (42), her French husband, elegant and graceful, saunters into the room. Surveys the spotless decor. Bottles of hand sanitizer and disinfectant spray littered throughout.
ANTOINE (V.O.)
It all started with my wife’s germaphobia...
Antoine spies a cherry pie cooling on the counter. He strides to it.
FRAN
Don’t disturb anything. Company’s coming.
Antoine glares at the pie. He opens a nearby utensil drawer. Procures a magnificent fork encased in a protective covering. He takes the fork out of the covering.
ANTOINE (V.O.)
A fork...
Antoine studies the fork. Light bounces off it. Union Jack on its ivory handle.
ANTOINE
Is our dear American friend, Bob, amongst the honored guests?
Fran doesn’t answer. Antoine raises the fork high... About to plunge it into the pie...
FRAN
Have you gone mad?
She grabs the fork from Antoine.
FRAN
Where’s your gloves?
Annoyed, Fran takes the fork to the sink. Pours antibacterial soap over it. Rinses it with hot water. Places it on the counter on a piece of paper towel.
ANTOINE
I’m not allowed any of your pie?
FRAN
Therapy has done me wonders. But. No one lays a hand on my special royal fork quite yet.
ANTOINE
I suppose Bob is no one?
FRAN
What’s gotten into you? Don’t be such a boor.
ANTOINE
Wrong choice of word. I must be a bore for you to take on adultery as a leisure activity.
Antoine slaps a photograph on the counter, so Fran can see it.
ANTOINE (V.0.)
And a photograph.
The photograph is of Fran and BOB, American, cheek-to-cheek. Clearly taken in this same kitchen. A self-photograph by Bob in the nauseating modern method popularized by cell phone cameras.
In it, Fran feeds Bob cherry pie with her special royal fork.
FRAN
Oh, Antoine. I’m sorry--
ANTOINE
It is I who is sorry for you. It’s quite... incroyable that you prefer Le Big Mac over coq au vin.
FRAN
Let’s be civil about this.
ANTOINE
Let’s not.
Antoine snatches the special royal fork from the counter.
ANTOINE
Historians say that we French lack the balls to win a war.
Antoine shoves the fork down the front of his pants.
ANTOINE
I want to change that perception.
He rubs the fork around his nether region. His entire nether region.
ANTOINE
Time to take our gloves off, d’accord?
He produces a pair of gloves from his pocket and flings it at Fran.
ANTOINE
Let’s get our hands – and everything else – dirty.
He takes the fork out of his pants. Coughs on it for added emphasis. Stabs it into the cherry pie.
Fran. Like she’s posing for Munch’s “The Scream.”
September 16th, 2008 at 4:35 pm
VOICE 1
Did you hear?VOICE 2
‘Bout what?VOICE 1
That loser. Hung himself.VOICE 2
We’re sitting in a field of losers.VOICE 1
Mckenzie, the actor.VOICE 2
I would’ve seen him. I’ve been here for, like, three days.VOICE 1
It happened four days ago, man.VOICE 2
Who was it again?VOICE 1
That loser. That actor.VOICE 2
Really?VOICE 1
A fact, man. A serious fucking fact. He jumped from the top branches. Ripped his neck good. Philip’s got photos.VOICE 2
Of the whole thing?VOICE 1
Just the aftermath.VOICE 2
Who’s Philip again?VOICE 1
Short guy. Grey hair. Gorbachev-face-splat.VOICE 2
You could be describing me or you or anyone of these guys.VOICE 1
He’s short, grey, and discolored. Facts are facts.VOICE 2
Damn. Was he good?VOICE 1
That’s why he hung himself. He was too good.VOICE 2
Can you be too good or can you just be good?VOICE 1
Depends.VOICE 2
On what?VOICE 1
On whether or not you’re bad?VOICE 2
You’re losing me.VOICE 1
Good is relative, right. So if you’re bad you can be better than bad. You can be good.VOICE 2
Not answering the question.VOICE 1
You have to be bad to be good or at least know bad to be good. If you never know bad and you only know good, then, well, you can be too good. You’re gooder than good. Mckenzie there. He was gooder than good. He was too good.VOICE 2
And that’s why he hung himself?VOICE 1
I figure.VOICE 2
That doesn’t make sense.VOICE 1
Life don’t make sense, man. We make it make sense. Like that tree. It’s split down the middle.VOICE 2
By lightning.VOICE 1
By fork lightning.VOICE 2
Okay. Fork lightning.VOICE 1
Exactly.VOICE 2
You’re floating away again....VOICE 1
It’s not a fork, man. It’s lightning that looks like a fork. We make it make sense.VOICE 2
You leaving?VOICE 1
I got mad tummy rumbles. You can come. My apartment’s just around the corner.VOICE 2
No. No. Can’t do that.VOICE 1
What’s wrong?VOICE 2
Closed spaces.VOICE 1
You’re kidding?VOICE 2
I’m not.VOICE 1
Closed spaces are mankind’s shell. An evolutionary necessity for our fleshy-blob-like selves. Sometimes it’s good to be a turtle, man.VOICE 2
I’d rather be a slug.
September 16th, 2008 at 4:44 pm
That was fun. I like little exercises like this to keep sharp. I do this a lot at Rouge Wave. I never win but who cares. The love of images is the point.
September 16th, 2008 at 5:05 pm
INT. A LARGE DARK OFFICE – NIGHT
JAMES (in a second-rate suit) and JOHN (in a t-shirt and blue jeans) are sitting around a table eating take-out.
JAMES
I want to protect our children. I want to ensure they receive the best society has to offer. And I want to uphold the decision of the overwhelming majority of California voters.
JOHN
(puts down his fork)
What about rights of minorities?
JAMES
Gays can get married; they just have to marry someone of the opposite sex.
JOHN
Well, I didn’t want to do this, but you’re obviously a homophobe.
John pulls out a Polaroid of a bathroom stall.
JOHN
(cont’d)
Recognize this?
September 16th, 2008 at 5:49 pm
INT. LUXURY CONDO – DAY
FOSTER (39) and COLE (35), a pair of United States Secret Service agents, stand at the threshold of a flooded sunken kitchen. Water flows from the faucet into the sink which overflows onto the floor. An ELDERLY MAN’s corpse lies between two counters. He wears a bathrobe and slippers. His left arm stretches up the counter, its death grip clutching onto a singed fork that’s stuck inside a toaster that dangles from the edge of the counter, its cord still plugged into the socket.
COLE
What do you think?
CUT TO:
INT. LUXURY CONDO -- MOMENTS LATER
Cole now wears rubber boots and gloves. He hesitates stepping down into the kitchen. Then, he fearfully turns away and nervously paces back and forth.
COLE
I can’t do this.
FOSTER
It’s your turn.
COLE
I just can’t.
FOSTER
Why not?
COLE
Electro-phobia.
FOSTER
You’re making that up.
COLE
It’s a medical condition and you can’t make me do this.
FOSTER
The fuse is blown. There’s no electricity.
COLE
Then, why am I wearing rubber boots?
FOSTER
(impatiently) There’s water all over the floor.
COLE
And the gloves?
FOSTER
Well, in case...
COLE
Of?
FOSTER
The fear of electrocution is not a phobia. It’s a natural instinct towards self-preservation. Unless you have a doctor’s note --
Cole vomits on his own rubber boots.
CUT TO:
INT. LUXURY CONDO -- MOMENTS LATER
Foster now wears the rubber gloves and boots, which still have a bit of vomit on them. He stares down at his feet.
FOSTER
They’re tight.
Foster then looks up and stares at the toaster a moment.
FOSTER
You double-checked the fuse, right?
COLE
Yeah.
Foster nervously steps down towards the kitchen but hesitates stepping into the water. Instead, he climbs the banister and by way of a wooden chair in between, he awkwardly crawls onto the kitchen counter. He glances around, figuring out his next move.
FOSTER
Toaster or water?
Cole contemplates the situation.
COLE
Water... no, toaster.
Foster stretches from one counter to the other, trying to grab the toaster’s cord without touching any water, while Cole nervously watches from the upper level.
COLE
Careful.
Foster almost has the cord when the vomit covered sole of his boot slips on the counter. He loses grip falls off the counter and lands on top of the corpse.
Cole vomits again.
Panicked, Foster flails in the water until he realizes he’s not being electrocuted.
FOSTER
I’m okay.
Soaked, Foster pushes himself up and kneels in front of the corpse. He removes a photograph that sticks out from bathrobe’s front pocket.
COLE
What is it?
FOSTER
A picture of a woman in lingerie.
COLE
(disgusted) His wife?
FOSTER
No.
Foster stands up, turns off the faucet and reaches into the sink. He pulls a woman’s wig out of the sink and the water drains away.
COLE
Is that...?
Foster examines the wig, then the picture, then the corpse. Stunned, he glances up at Cole.
COLE
Really...?
Foster nods. He walks back to Cole with the photo and wig in hand. Cole takes the photo from him.
COLE
Congressman Welland looked good in lace. What now?
FOSTER
We cover it up, like the other 17 congressional toaster deaths this year. There was a short in the hot tub; he was accidentally electrocuted.
COLE
Can that happen?
FOSTER
Sure.
Cole appears nauseous.
FOSTER
What?
COLE
My wife just had our bathroom redone.
FOSTER
Jacuzzi?
COLE
(nodding) Jacuzzi.
CUT TO BLACK.
September 16th, 2008 at 5:53 pm
EXT. TROPICAL BEACH -- DAY
The sun dances through palm branches that don’t appear to be moving.
A single set of footprints leads through unspoiled sand, like one of those inspirational posters with a poem on it...
... except that these footprints lead to a MAN who looks like homeless on a bad day.
He reclines against the base of the palm tree, wearing what appears to be a shredded brown UPS uniform.
He grooms his impossibly matted hair and overgrown beard with a dull ROCK, then looks the rock in the “eye” and speaks to it.
MAN
I wish you were a fork.
ROCK
...
MAN
No, no... That’d be nice, don’t get me wrong, but a fork could do the job of a comb and at least eleven other useful things too. Wait, maybe twelve... yup, at least TWELVE useful things!
ROCK
...
MAN
Well sorry... I didn’t mean to offend you.
ROCK
...
MAN
Look, I said I’m sorry, okay? You really need to start trusting me more. When I told you I would never leave you alone again, I meant it.
ROCK
...
MAN
Yes, even if a fork washes up someday.
A small crab emerges from the sand and skitters past the man’s feet, which are bandaged with his missing brown sleeves.
Wham! The rock pulverizes the crab.
MAN
See? We need each other, Milo.
September 16th, 2008 at 6:21 pm
INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY
The linen curtains blow in the breeze and bounce off hands handcuffed to the back of a chair. EDDIE, naked except for baby blue speedos, wiggles his hands.EDDIE
I feel kind of vulnerable.
JOYCE, glamour doll with an attitude, drops a fork next to a cupcake on the table.JOYCE
That’s how I felt yesterday.EDDIE
Honey, yesterday was beautiful. You were right about us taking this sex thing slow.
Joyce yanks a chair out and sits at the table.EDDIE
Today, we seem to be moving fast and going in a direction I couldn’t have even imagined.
Eddie wiggles his hands again.EDDIE
Did I do something wrong?JOYCE
You don’t have a clue?EDDIE
A clue that I love you. Why else would I let you cuff me up?JOYCE
Who is she?EDDIE
There is no one else.JOYCE
Last night you screamed her name. Just as you let loose, you scum.EDDIE
Joyce. I must have yelled Joyce.JOYCE
Who the hell is Teddi?EDDIE
There is no.
Joyce picks up the fork, jabs it into Eddie’s shoulder and draws blood.EDDIE
Owwh. Owwh. Oh, let’s not do that again.
Joyce pulls back the fork and looks at the blood tipped tines. She cuts into the cupcake with the fork and raises a large mouthful sized piece.EDDIE
I know I’m STD free. But as a habit you shouldn’t be mixing blood borne pathogens and your food. It’s also not very sexy.JOYCE
Open wide.
Eddie shakes his head violently. Joyce grabs Eddie by the jaw and rams the fork into his upper lip.EDDIE
Owwh.
Joyce stuffs the cupcake into his mouth. Eddie quickly swallows.EDDIE
Tasty. Carrot cake cupcake. Good presentation, the delivery could have been better though.JOYCE
Who’s Teddi?EDDIE
There is no.
Joyce thrusts the fork into the cupcake.EDDIE
My wallet. You’ll see. There’s nothing to worry about.
Joyce grabs the wallet from the counter.EDDIE
Third picture in.
Joyce smiles and pulls the photograph from the wallet.
Eddie bounces the chair up and down.EDDIE
Don’t take her out.
Joyce SLAMS the ragged and creased photo of a TEDDY BEAR on the table.JOYCE
In the heat of sexual passion you call out for a teddy bear?EDDIE
I only have the picture. She’s gone.
Joyce jumps back from the table.EDDIE
You don’t understand. She was taken from me prematurely.
Eddie hops the chair up and down again.EDDIE
I get anxious when I’m alone. I look at Teddi and it goes away. With Teddi near, I’m never alone.
Joyce SLAMS her hand on the table. The fork smeared with icing flings into the air. She catches the fork in mid air and raises her arm, fork poised to stab the photo.EDDIE
No! Leave her alone!
Eddie SLAMS his head onto the table and covers the photo of Teddi as Joyce crashes her arm down. The fork cuts into Eddie’s ear and hangs from his ear lobe.JOYCE
Have a long and happy relationship.
Joyce grabs her purse.
Eddie puts his chin on the photo of Teddi and moves it closer. Eddie SNIFFLES.EDDIE
Teddi.
Joyce swings the front door open and looks back.JOYCE
Asshole.
Eddie tries to blow frosting off the photo. Joyce SLAMS the door and STOMPS down the stairs.
A whirlwind from the slammed door heads towards Eddie and the photo just as Eddie blows one more time. The photo lifts into the air and whips higher towards the ceiling.EDDIE
Teddi.
Eddie tries to stand. He falls and SMASHES the chair.
He scrambles to his feet. The shattered chair hangs from the cuffs at his backside. He watches the photo sail out the window. He leans out the window as the linen curtains dance around him.EDDIE
Teddi!!
September 16th, 2008 at 6:51 pm
INT. BEDROOM – DAY
Brock sighs loudly and closes a book entitled “Dear In Headlights: Overcoming Your Fear of Commitment.”
He sighs again, even louder, and looks over at Leah...
... who sits on the opposite edge of the bed scraping every last bit of taco salad off her plate.
She pauses to pluck a piece of stray lettuce off the Green Bay Packers comforter, then blows on it and pops it in her mouth.
Yet another sigh from Brock stops her in the middle of her next bite. She glances his way with the fork still in her mouth, trying to look as innocent and oblivious as possible.
BROCK
Look, like I said, I’m flattered by the proposal... and I love you very, very much... but when you said you’d meet me in bed on our lunch-hour to convince me, I just thought...
Leah points the fork at him accusingly.
LEAH
You thought you were gonna get a sneak preview?
BROCK
No, well yeah... like “coming soon to a bedroom near you,” y’know?
(pause)
I know it sounds crude, but you wouldn’t buy a car without, you know...
It’s Leah’s turn to sigh.
BROCK
What?
LEAH
I hate this part.
Brock looks confused, possibly afraid.
LEAH
Goodbye Brock. You can keep the book, but give me my ring back.
(pause)
And my autographed picture of Brett Favre.
September 16th, 2008 at 7:10 pm
EXT. GARDEN – DAY
A forked tongue licks a mysterious fruit that looks about to burst with juicy goodness.
SNAKE
Picture it, sweetie. Me... you... a romantic picnic under the tree.
INSERT – Polaroid of Eve and the Snake entwined on a picnic blanket surrounded by the strange fruit.
EVE
But what about...
SNAKE
Adam? Oh, what the hell, invite him too. The tree’s loaded with these things.
EVE
I don’t know...
SNAKE
What’s the matter... you afraid?
September 16th, 2008 at 7:28 pm
EXT. FORK IN THE ROAD – NIGHT
A car is stopped, its headlights illuminating the sign at the intersection.
The sign points one way to “The Satis Factory” and the other to “The Unknown”.
Leaning against the hood of the car, a WOMAN folds a map, looks up at the sign, and removes a weathered photograph from her back pocket.
She kisses the photo and throws it to the ground...
... then decidedly enters the car, restarts the engine, and steers the creaky vehicle toward The Unknown.
September 16th, 2008 at 7:46 pm
EXT. DESERT – DAY
A vast expanse of rock, sand, and brush extends to hazy mountains on the horizon. A cracked, paved ROAD leads ahead about a dozen yards and forks in two at a small pile of BOULDERS.
The entire scene is a PHOTOGRAPH, and it drops away revealing: The exact same scene behind it. But this time for real.
ARMUND GALLO wags the photograph at KYLE KEEBLER.
ARMUND
This is it.
Carrying SHOVELS, the dusty pair circle around the pile of boulders and begin digging in silence.
The SUN climbs in the sky as the HOLE deepens. The two are now chest deep in the hole.
KYLE
It’s not here.
ARMUND
It’s here. Keep digging. I’ll get us some water.
Armund climbs out of the hole, taking his shovel with him. Kyle digs for a few more strokes and ...
Pauses. Slowly turns and looks up.
Armund stands on the rim of the hole with a large rock held high above his head.
KYLE
How did you figure it out?
ARMUND
The slot canyon. Anna would never have gone in there with you.
Kyle looks puzzled – but only for a moment.
ARMUND
She was claustrophobic, you bastard.
Armund hurls the rock down at Kyle.
September 16th, 2008 at 7:55 pm
INT. WENDY’S RESTAURANT – NIGHT
At the register is GARY HART in a greasy Wendy’s uniform. A photo on the wall shows CLARA PELLER holding a fork with two hamburger buns on it. It reads: “Where’s the beef?”
GARY HART
You want fries with that?
CUSTOMER
Umm, no thanks, I’m potato-phobic... it’s those sprouty things... even one fry... just can’t shake the image.
(pause)
Say, aren’t you...
GARY HART
NEXT!
September 16th, 2008 at 7:57 pm
INT. TRUCK STOP CAFETERIA – NIGHT
Grizzled TRUCKERS drink their coffee. JD, 25, a fresh faced trucker, eats alone. The others eye his unfamiliarness. His shirt is not flannel, and has no stains. This confuses them. Perhaps it scares them.
DARRYL, 50, slides into the seat across from JD. He wears Marty McFly’s life jacket vest, a twenty year old brown knit hat, and those creepy eye glasses that dim in the light.
DARRYL
I’m gonna sit here.
JD
Okay.
DARRYL
It’s hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock out there.
JD manges a smirk between sips of coffee.
DARRYL
You all alone out here?
JD
Aren’t we all?
DARRYL
Not me. I got my images.
Darryl presents a stack of polaroids form his vest.
DARRYL
My images go everywhere I gone.
JD
Okay.
DARRYL
New things scare me. My images familiarize me.
Darryl shows JD a picture of a fork truck on a loading dock.
DARRYL
I look at this one before I deliver at the warehouse.
JD
I gotta get going.
DARRYL
They do run us hard these days.
JD
Yeah, I’m a little behind, actually.
DARRYL
That your rig?
JD
Yeah.
DARRYL
Mine’s that one, over there.
JD
Nice.
DARRYL
Have a safe ride.
JD
You too.
JD exits in a state of confusion. Darryl flips through his pictures. We see the bottom polaroid is a shot of JD climbing out of his truck.
September 16th, 2008 at 8:07 pm
INT. PSYCHIATRIC WARD – DAY
A MAN lies on his cot next to a publicity photo of the local weather-lady. He’s staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Hanging from the ceiling are the objects of his attention... forks, spoons, bells, chains... a virtual mobile of clang-able things that cover the entire ceiling. But they aren’t clanging. They’re not even moving.
MAN
NURSE! I think I felt a draft!
September 16th, 2008 at 8:16 pm
INT. INSTANT PHOTO BOOTH – DAY
The Claustrophic Man cautiously enters this terrifyingly small space and tries to jimmy the key hole to the coin receptacle with a bent fork, but the fork breaks off inside causing sparks to fly and the lights to go out.
CLAUSTROPHIC MAN
Uh, help?
September 16th, 2008 at 8:19 pm
Okay, I’m done. That was fun. I challenged myself to make each one shorter, but I don’t think they became any better. Good brain-teaser though.
September 16th, 2008 at 9:29 pm
EXT. STORE – DAY
A nondescript strip mall store. A sign reads: “RICARDO’S CORN DOG CABANA AND FORK MART.”
INT. STORE – DAY
In a dark suit and shades, CALVIN, 36, stands at the counter along side an unseen person.
CALVIN
(to unseen person)
Don’t take that fucking thing off. Remember how fucked you were last time? You wouldn’t even leave the house to visit Aunt Mindy when she had that wisdom tooth complication.
RICARDO, 68, slinks in carrying a slight Spanish accent.
CALVIN
I need a seven-pronged fork.
RICARDO
Come again?
CALVIN
You heard me. I need a fork with seven prongs.
RICARDO
Sir...the state of New Mexico outlawed all forks with more than four prongs after Bobby Flay --
CALVIN
It’s okay, chief. Benny Big Toe sent me.
RICARDO
Benny Big sends you?
CALVIN
Yeah, that’s right. Benny fucking Big Toe.
RICARDO
Well, if that is indeed the case, then you know what I must ask of you.
Calvin draws a blank.
RICARDO
Okay. What is his favorite episode of --
CALVIN
The one, uh, the one where Heidi starts her Bolthouse internship.
RICARDO
Alicia. Alicia! Come take this man.
Ricardo now points at the unseen person.
It’s PETER, 25 and dressed exactly like Calvin, except instead of sunglasses he wears a sleep mask.
RICARDO (O.S.)
What is...
CALVIN
Jesus christ, he’s a fucking lachanophobe. Have a little sympathy.
Ricardo needs more.
CALVIN
A fucking lachanophobe. He’s afraid of vegetables.
Ricardo still needs more.
CALVIN
If he sees any of the corn going into these corn dogs, he might lose it.
ALICIA, pretty, 31, struts up to Calvin and begins to escort him away. Ricardo gazes at Peter.
CALVIN
Make sure he keeps that goddamn mask on! Last time, he saw a radish and went absolutely ape shit.
In the back of the store, Calvin spots a plaque next to a steel door.
It holds a photograph of Ricardo raising a cake-shaped trophy. The inscription reads: “RICARDO. 2003 GREATER ALBUQUERQUE DESSERT FORK SALESMAN OF THE YEAR.”
Alicia leads Calvin inside the door.
September 16th, 2008 at 9:38 pm
EXT. IRISH COUNTRYSIDE -- LATE AFTERNOON
A small car is visible in the distance, as an older man and a middle aged woman slowly make their way towards a semicircle of small stones.
CAROL
Remind me why I’m here, halfway across the world?
The older man isn’t listening, only silently studying a worn photograph in his hands.
CAROL
Howard!
HOWARD
What... oh...You’re my therapist. If I have another attack, I need someone who can deal with it... besides, my son won’t answer my calls, not after that letter showed up.
CAROL
Well we’ve managed to cross the Atlantic, and there’s no one else here. Your agoraphobia seems to be under control. And what letter, you told me this was some emergency?
They reach the edge of the semicircle, Howard sits down, and grabs a brown envelope from his messenger bag.
He pulls out a picture of the area they’re in, and hands it to Carol, then begins to read some documents.
HOWARD
Dear Estelle, if you’re reading this, then Uncle Roger has died. He was holding onto something we wanted to give you, but we were to afraid to --
CAROL
Your wife’s parents?
Howard nods and continues.
HOWARD
I’d rather not have Howard know about this, but I suppose it’s inevitable. This heirloom is seven generations old, and as the sole member of our bloodline, it passes to you. Take care, and remember “The thief is no danger to the beggar.”
CAROL
Old family saying? Seems kind of odd.
HOWARD
My wife used to say it was the family motto, to know the difference between a real problem and a worry. If she were here, we wouldn’t have waited a year after receiving the letter to find this place.
Silence fills the air as Howard slumps back down and lets out a sigh.
CAROL
So that’s it? A map of this place and a letter?
Howard stands up and starts walking around to the middle of the stones, Carol follows. He stops as something catches his eye.
HOWARD
One more thing.
He pulls out a shiny object that shines bright red and orange as the setting sun hits it.
CAROL
A fork... The prized possession is a fork. An admittedly well polished and preserved fork, but a fork none the less.
Howard Shrugs and admires the fork.
HOWARD
They always did love their food. It is rather nice, and these three curved lines on the handle seem like sound waves. They did love their music AND their food, even if they found me bitter and out of tune. A Yuk Yuk Yuk.
Carol just stares as Howard bends down with fork in hand.
HOWARD
That same symbol is carved into this rock, above a small inlay.
Howard breathes heavily as he kneels to put the fork into the stone. It clicks in and a low pounding noise begins in the distance.
The sounds of bass drums and a high pitched whining begin to fill the air and shake the ground.
Howard and Carol stare at each other and then everything flashes white, blinding them both.
September 16th, 2008 at 9:39 pm
INT. BAR – NIGHT
An orange glow fills the ceiling. The carbon incandescent’s and the cloud of smoke nearly twenty years old light the bar.
JASON STILWELL sits on a stool in the dark side of the room. In his mid-thirties, Jason’s size and build still make him nearly unapproachable. He sits with a “Daily Dollar Po’ Boy” in front of him and a tower of wet wipes to the side.
Jason is in a rhythmic pattern. Takes a bite of his greasy sandwich, wipes his hands thoroughly, then picks up a Polaroid of a young girl – studies her face.
She is seventeen and attractive but her face is sad. Below the photo CARLA is written hastily in blue ink.
BARTENDER
(soft)
Only one person here who knows anyone from those parts. Stilwell.
Jason glances over as the bartender points a tall, skiny man in a suit towards his direction.
MAN
Thank you my good sir.
Jason takes his last bite, another wipe and casually pockets the picture.
MAN
Excuse me. Do I have the present pleasure of speaking with a Mister Jason Mad Dog Stilwell?
JASON
You don’t know much, but you speak more than you should about things.
MAN
I don’t mean to offend, but I have come a long way to speak with you. I was wondering if you could shed some light on a missing persons case I am looking into.
Jason neatly stacks exact change for his sandwich on the counter. The bills are crisp and the coins are shiny. He takes another wipe and cleans his hands.
JASON
What you should know is not to approach person’s like me with accusations like that.
MAN
I think I may be giving the wrong impression. The manager said you might know a Carla Singer?
JASON
And I ain’t talking to some dressed up New York prick P.I.
MAN
Ah, well you might be surprised to hear that I am in fact a detective with the Newark P.D. I would be truly grateful if you could look at some photos for me.
JASON
I’m not under arrest. I won’t look at any photos.
MAN
I understand. I was just hoping for some cooperation. Would you be willing to talk about Carla?
Jason is furiously wiping his hands, his face and his neck with the dwindling stack of wipes.
JASON
I’m not fuckin’ telling you anything. Now get yourself the fuck out of here. It’s tresspassin’
BARTENDER
(calm – from across the bar)
Not trespassin’ if it’s in my bar Mad Dog.
JASON
You got no business askin’ me about some girls.
MAN
Well it is just the one I was asking about sir.
(a beat)
Was there another on your mind?
JASON
(using his last wipe)
I got nothin’ more to say to you.
Jason moves to get out of his seat, but the Polaroid of Carla along with seven other pictures of young women fall out of his coat.
MAN
Please, allow me.
The detective beds over to pick up the photos. Jason is frozen. His body naked without any cleansing wipes.
The man picks up two sort-of before and after photos of Carla. He goes pale immediately.
MAN (CONT’D)
So it is you. All the crime scenes were so
(glancing at the wipes)
Clean.
JASON
(quiet)
Please don’t put me somewhere diseased.
(then, desperate)
I’m not a bad man, I’ll go quietly as long as you don’t put those infected handcuffs on me. I;m sick I don’t know what I would do if those were forced on me.
The man looks around the bar. He has no allies here. He chooses the lesser of two evils and pockets the cuffs.
They quietly exit the bar together. Jason veers near the bartender across the bar.
JASON (CONT’D)
I left you a good tip. Find someone to take care of my dog.
As he finishes his sentence Jason stealthily slides his hand over the bar and picks up a rusty fork.
They exit. Jason smiles.
September 16th, 2008 at 10:17 pm
INT – DINER – DAY
MAN sits alone in booth.
WAITRESS
Anything else, Mr. Man?
MAN
A spork please
WAITRESS
A spork?
MAN
Yup. A spoon and a fork together you know.
WAITRESS
What’s wrong with the spoon?
MAN
The fork that I worry about.
He slaps a photograph on the table.
MAN
Take a look at my family.
The waitress leans in and sees four somewhat healthy bodies, two missing legs, one bold head with fork marks all over, and a pair of crossed eyes that seem to stare at her at any angle.
MAN
Any deficiency there is manmade by forks. We’re afraid of fork. Fork in our hands will turn into weapon. Give me a fork and you’ll better pay attention to your eye balls.
September 16th, 2008 at 10:27 pm
OLD LADY (V.O.)
FORK is a man living on the edge... The edge of your cutlery drawer.
INT. KITCHEN – NIGHT
Darkness. A small, red light illuminates the kettle and a few dirty mugs.
RUSTLING, much like that of a mouse.
OLD LADY (CONT’D)
Of course, you’ve never seen him... He’s barely the size of your pinky.
MUTTERING and RUMMAGING
OLD LADY (CONT’D)
He lives at the back of your cutlery drawer, the part where no one looks, and crumbs gather...
CHINK. Something metallic falls.
OLD LADY (CONT’D)
Only to venture out when all is still...
A miniature silhouette crosses the red light. It appears to be carrying something huge and rectangular.
OLD LADY (CONT’D)
When he was born, he saw his reflection in a Viners fork and smiled...
A crack of light.
The microwave door opens, revealing the tiny, smiling Fork; A tuft of hair, and trousers made of dishcloth.
He clutches a photograph of the ocean... which he holds up to the light.
OLD LADY (CONT’D)
So his mother felt Fork to be just the perfect name.
Determined, he turns, stepping toward a slightly opened drawer.
He pushes the photograph inside, sits down carefully on the drawer’s edge, and dangles his legs.
GULP. His little hands grasp the ledge tightly.
He looks down at the floor -- petrified.
OLD LADY (CONT’D)
Fork is a lonely, little man... For his family are long gone, and he can only dream of what lies beyond your worktop...
FOOTSTEPS. Fork scrambles into the crack of the open drawer... and vanishes.
FLICK. A flood of light.
The sound of a fridge being opened and shut.
FLICK. Darkness, penetrated by the microwave’s glow.
MAN (O.S.)
Bloody kids wasting electricity.
SHUFFLE. A giant hand closes the microwave door.
MAN (O.S.)
Messy buggers...
The giant hand lifts a spoon from the floor and places it on the worktop.
FOOTSTEPS fade away to SILENCE.
The small, red light illuminates the kettle and a few dirty mugs.
Fork’s little hands grasp the edge of the drawer. He pulls his nose up to peek out.
OLD LADY (V.O.)
But as you, and he are about to discover... small hands, can do big things.
September 16th, 2008 at 10:34 pm
INT. RESTAURANT – EVENING
Three college buddies enter, talking and joking animatedly.
ADAM
Really, guys, I know it’s my birthday, but I don’t want a big deal and everything...
BEN
Yeah, okay. But you are going to try some cheesecake!
CHARLIE
It’s about time, man!
ADAM
Yeah, but it’s, like...weird and stuff. I mean...cheese...and...cake...”Oh, that’s not right...”
BEN
Cheese is nice...
ADAM
Yeah...
CHARLIE
And cake is nice.
ADAM
Yeahhh...but...together...? That’s absurd! That’s crazy! That’s insane! That’s absurdly crazily insane! It’s like...
BEN
Singing ninjas!
Adam blinks in surprise.
BEN
Come on, admit it, ninjas are cool...
ADAM
Yeah...
CHARLIE
And singing is cool...well, sonorous...
ADAM
Yeah, but singing ninjas?
BEN and CHARLIE
(simultaneously)
“Awesome!”
(air guitar)
The WAITER walks past and looks at them strangely.
BEN
Three singing ninja cheesecakes, my man!
The three of them smile as the waiter turns away snootishly, barely acknowledging their request.
ADAM
Why don’t we just have something else?
CHARLIE
(shocked)
“Entirely without cheesecake?”
BEN
(firmly)
“No. Not without cheesecake.”
ADAM
I don’t know...I mean, there are many other desserts which are nice. Why do we need to have cheesecake?
BEN
“Cheesecake. Because you’ve never tasted it, you can never know it, but it’s as vital as breath.”
CHARLIE
“Without cheesecake, without...uh...”
The waiter returns, carrying three slices of New York cheesecake, and places them on the table.
WAITER
(haughtily)
Three cheesecakes.
(sweeps off)
ADAM
I must admit, I am kinda curious...but the idea of...ugh...BEN
You can’t have your cake and eat it.
CHARLIE
(pushing plate of cheesecake toward Adam)
Actually, you can.
Adam tentatively moves his fork towards the cheesecake, trepidation evident on his face. Ben whips out a camera and snaps a photograph. He glances at it on the camera screen and laughs.
ADAM
Hey, delete that!
BEN
(pulling the camera out of reach)
Blackmail...
The three of them chuckle.
Adam reaches towards the cheesecake, slices a piece off with his fork, tentatively brings the cheesecake towards his mouth, and tastes it. Ben and Charlie look on in eager anticipation. An expression of surprised delight lights up Adam’s face as he reaches forward, his fork held out, returning to the plate of cheesecake on the table. Ben snaps another shot.
CHARLIE
Hey, you wanna go catch that musical about ninjas?
September 16th, 2008 at 10:42 pm
INT. DINER – DAY
NORTH and ALEX enter a scarcely populated diner and sit down at a booth. A waitress glides over.
WAITRESS
Good morning, what’ll it be?
ALEX
Two coffees, black, and -
Alex looks over at North, who is concentrating on the menu.
NORTH
Um... a cheese omelet, please.
WAITRESS
Wheat, white, or rye toast?
NORTH
Wheat.
WAITRESS
Alright, it will be right out. I’ll bring your coffee right away.
North and Alex are engaged in small talk when GREG enters the diner and starts to walk to their table. The waitress arrives with their coffee.
WAITRESS
(looking at Greg)
Would you like anything?
GREG
I’m fine.
WAITRESS
Call if you need anything.
The waitress walks away.
ALEX
(looking over at Greg)
How’d it go?
Greg sits down next to Alex. Pulling out a cluster of photographs, he sets them on the table.
GREG
(pointing at a photograph)
Old mansion. The easiest way seems through the attic window, we’ll have to climb. Seems simple enough?
NORTH
(becoming suddenly aware)
Wait, wait -- what?
The waitress arrives with North’s omelet, distracting him for a few seconds. Alex leans over to Greg.
ALEX
(in a whisper)
He’s afraid of heights.
North opens up his wrapped-in-a-napkin utensils.
NORTH
Damn, do you have a fork? I don’t have one in here.
Alex hands North his wrapped up utensils, leaning back over to Greg.
ALEX
(whispering)
We’ll figure something out, but I doubt he will want to be climbing up the side of the house.
NORTH
Mother of -
ALEX
What?
NORTH
No fork.
North takes his toast and makes his omelet into a sandwich.
ALEX
(to Greg)
We’ll need that van. Is it here?
GREG
Right outside.
September 16th, 2008 at 10:50 pm
FADE IN:
INT. BARN -- DAY
LEROY BURNS, fifties, farmer, stands in front of a cow stall as DR. BERRY DICKIES approaches.
LEROY
Doctor, I’m sure you’re very busy doing -- doctor stuff, but I had to call you.
Dr. Dickies smears a half smile on his face.
LEROY
I promise you this will be the last call. I just need you to look at ol’ Bessie.
A heifer of a cow stands inside the stall.
DR. DICKIES
Leroy, you told me this was an emergency --
(then)
Bessie?
LEROY
Yeah...the cow.
DR. DICKIES
Cow?
LEROY
(pleading)
Doc, Bessie just ain’t looking right, and...
DR. DICKIES
Leroy I’m a doctor not a veterinarian.
LEROY
Just look at her belly, right side. I touched it earlier, please, for an old man.
Dr. Dickies unwillingly muscles himself close enough to examine Bessie’s right side.
LEROY
I think she’s knocked up er’ somethn’ but there ain’t no bulls around to... you know...
DR. DICKIES
Yes I know. Lets just get this over with.
Dr. Dickies steps into the stall, Bessie shuffles around, grunts and moos.
LEROY
I’m thinkn’ she don’t like you.
DR. DICKIES
I can see that.
(then)
Let’s get her in.
The guys slide Bessie’s head into a chute and fold down side bars to hold her in place. Bessie moos in protest as Dr. Dickies rolls up his sleeve, puts on a long latex glove that covers his whole arm, then Leroy slathers a clear gel up and down the doctor’s arm, under--
DR. DICKIES
I can’t be coming out here like this Leroy. You need to find a vet.
LEROY
Truth be doctor, I trust nobody but you. When you fixed my arm up real good after my tree accident...I... I trust only you with Bessie.
Dr. Dickies lifts up Bessie’s tail, inserts his hand, pulls out some manure...then his arm slips in until it disappears inside ol’ Bessie.
DR. DICKIES
Well, she’s definitely carrying, but...
Dr. Dickies face contorts to confusion.
LEROY
What?
DR. DICKIES
Something’s not right here.
The doctor slowly pulls his arm out -- in his hand is a plastic bag covered in cow shit.
LEROY
What in sam hell is that?
DR. DICKIES
It’s your cow...you tell me.
The guys step out of the stall, place the bag on the ground. Dr. Dickies slides off his arm condom, then slowly opens the bag. He pulls out a fork with a wooden handle.
DR. DICKIES
What the heck is going on here...
Then he pulls out an envelope.
LEROY
How’d that stuff get in her?
The doctor slowly opens the envelope, he pulls out a photo. Pictured is a close up of the doctor sitting at a fancy restaurant eating a giant steak with the same WOODEN SPOON.
Inscribed on the back it reads: Bovinophobia You Will Have
FADE OUT:
September 16th, 2008 at 11:09 pm
INT. WINDOWLESS ROOM- DAY
A harshly lit place, empty save for a cold, metal table. Seated at the table is JOHN, mid-thirties and very fit; his five o’clock shadow is three days old. John’s hands are folded in front of him.
The only door opens. A three-foot high metal box sits in the dark hallway, flanked by two GUARDS, both outfitted in black uniforms. They stand rigidly as REGINA passes by them into the room, and they seal the door behind her.
Regina is in her late twenties; her blouse is unbuttoned too low, and her skirt comes up too high. Both articles reveal that Regina’s good skin is not limited to her face. She carries a tray holding a chicken breast, French fries, and a fork and knife.
REGINA Figured you must be starved.
She places her ass on the table and sets the tray down in front of him. John pushes it away gently.
JOHN Vegetarian.
Regina gestures toward a surveillance camera. The door opens, and a young male ATTENDANT enters. She slips the fork off, and he leaves with the tray. Regina crosses her legs slowly and smiles at John.
REGINA So. Nothing today? This isn’t what we want, you know.
John is implacable. Regina leans forward, giving him a clear view down her shirt. His eyes barely move.
REGINA (CONT.) Not that I haven’t enjoyed our talks. But my wish for you? You take a shower while we fuel the plane, and we send you to a quiet town in Asia Minor with cash in your pocket. And you eat all the hummus you want for a long time. It’d be a lot less expensive for all of us.
His face is calm as he looks up to the camera. Regina sits back.
REGINA (CONT.) But time is a factor.
John’s eyes flash toward her, then he blinks slowly. Regina sighs, then stands and produces a photograph from her pocket. She lays it face down on the table, and his interest is piqued.
REGINA (CONT.) John, I know a lot about you, lots of what’s in your head. I know where you were born, your high school homeroom teacher, that you’re a veggie-saurus. I know other things, too. I’m just missing that one bit.
John stretches his right arm, flexing his bicep, and yawns. Regina tries to look him in the eye, but his gaze does not meet hers. She plays with the fork, spinning it on the table and grinning at the grating sound it makes.
REGINA (CONT.) Did you see what was in the hallway? I don’t wish this on you.
She points to a sliding panel at the bottom of the door.
REGINA (CONT.) That box fits on perfectly. You don’t want that panel to rise.
She fingers the photo, then spins the fork some more. Regina peels up the photo, shudders, then shows it to John.
John’s face stays rigid, but his adam’s apple bobs slightly. She keeps the picture facing him, waiting for a response, but he remains silent.
She retracts the photo, gives the fork a last wild spin, and rises to leave with a nod to the surveillance camera.
JOHN Wait.
Regina pivots lightly to face him and raises an eyebrow.
JOHN (CONT.) La Guardia.
REGINA We already know that. Help me out here, give me the last part.
John licks his quivering lips, then holds his mouth shut. Regina moves to the door.
JOHN What time is it?
REGINA One thirty.
He shows the glimmer of a smile.
REGINA (CONT.) Then this course was predetermined.
John nods.
JOHN I’ve read “1984″. This won’t end the same way.
REGINA No. It won’t.
The door opens. The two guards have a secure hold on the box.
REGINA (CONT.) Try and smile for the camera, will ya?
She smiles, and the door slams shut. The blood drains from John’s face as he hears a loud ruckus, the clanging of metal on metal, then it stops. The only sound is John’s breathing.
John hears the panel slide open, and his eyes dart to the space. His stoic eyes release a pair of tears as a terrible clattering, like a mass of pins dropped on a cookie sheet, fills the room. He closes his eyes and locks his jaws shut.
September 16th, 2008 at 11:21 pm
I don’t know what’s up with the parts that are in different font and size…
INT. SHED – NIGHT
From somewhere in the dark-
HOLLY- a former Miss Alabama- bursts in, heaving breaths. Panicked, she latches the door behind her.HOLLY
OhmyGod-ohmyGod!
Between the slats of the decrepit wood door Holly spies:EXT. SHED
The mammoth MAN/THING- the ugliest weightlifter gone wrong- slumps towards the shed.
His deformed face is covered with blood and puss. Through patches of hair, his eyes scan for Holly.INT. SHED
Holly takes a deep shuddering breath. Kisses a pendant on her necklace- a photo of her family.
An unconscious whine ekes out of her.EXT. SHED
His eyes lock on the shed.INT. SHED
HOLLY
NOOOOO! God! NO!
She tears at a shelving unit, trying to block the door.
THUMP! He’s already there.MAN/THING (O.S.)
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Cautiously, Holly looks out the slat. She has to say it:HOLLY
(Through her tears)
Who’s there?
A FORK plunges into the wood- inches from her eye.
Holly SHRIEKS. Turns, running further into the shed.
The Man/Thing splinters the door, climbs over the shelves.MAN/THING
Orange.
He pulls an ORANGE from his overalls.
Holly trips over a child’s bicycle, her ankle caught up in the chain. Lands hard.
He hurls the orange at her. SPLUMP!HOLLY
No! I won’t say it!
Holly scans the room for a weapon, anything--
--A rake in the corner -- A chainsaw hangs on the wall -- A trunk overflowing with children’s toys--
On top of the trunk -- A jack-in-the-box.INT. BEDROOM – EARLIER THAT NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
Holly watches hidden in the closet as:MAN/THING
Tennis-see!
With a tennis racket, he pounds an unseen person, laughing all the while.
A man’s CORPSE slumps to the floor. An arm landing on-- The crank of a jack-in-the-box. The eerie tinkering music wafts through the air.MAN/THING (CONT’D)
NO! BAD!
Fearfully, he pounds at the jack-in-the-box, only the song continues.MAN/THING (CONT’D)
STOP! PLEASE!
The room spins. He begins shaking. He takes an unsteady step and hits the ground like a ton of bricks.
He curls up in a ball, paralyzed. Incapacitated.INT. – SHED – PRESENT
Holly painfully wrests her ankle from the bike. Lunges for the jack-in-the-box.
An orange pelts her.MAN/THING (CONT’D)
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOORANGE!
She tumbles – her fingers just grasping the crank.HOLLY
Orange you glad I remembered your biggest fear?
September 17th, 2008 at 12:22 am
INT. KATE’S HOUSE – DAY
LEOLIN bursts in the door and slams it behind him. He throws a photograph on the floor.
LEOLIN
That is the last thing my grandfather gave to me before he was murdered.
KATE drops her fork on the plate she was eating off of with a loud rattle.
KATE
Murdered?
Leolin picks up the photograph of his grandfather smiling in a spaceship, behind him is a small porthole showing earth from space.
LEOLIN
By your father
KATE
What are you talking about I was just with him?
LEOLIN
Don’t be so naive.
Kate stands truly confused, Leolin not letting her rebuttal.
LEOLIN (CONT’D)
I’m leaving and going home.
KATE
You were born here?
LEOLIN
Earth.
Kate moving closer.
KATE
But you can’t
(Beat)
I mean they won’t
(Beat)
He won’t let you.
Leolin hands her the photograph and reaches for her.
LEOLIN
You can come with me, I can’t do this without you.
KATE
I can’t
Leolin moves away, that was the last straw. Kate stands their holding the photograph.
LEOLIN
Then goodbye.
Leolin turns and starts to leave. He pauses.
LEOLIN (CONT’D)
Tell your dad his Astrophobia just cut his life short
Out on the photograph of Leolin’s grandfather. A tear drops on the picture, directly on Earth.
September 17th, 2008 at 12:27 am
INT. CASTLE DUNGEON – NIGHT
Two burly GUARDS drag SOPHIE, 30s, fit under filthy rags, lank hair hanging in front of her bruised face, into the light.
GERHARDT, 40s, fine suit, athletic build, expensive watch, dines on a magnificent repast. Roast prime rib, fresh fruit, fine wines, breads, cheeses, salads, desserts of all kinds.
SOPHIE
Gerhardt, you bastard.
Her mouth waters.
GERHARDT
Now, now, Sophie. You must only stop being so stubborn and you will be welcome to join me.
He lays an 8×10 photo of a politician on the table.
GERHARDT
Simply agree to kill this man. Surely that presents no difficulty for an assassin as talented as yourself.
Sophie’s eyes dart to a three-tined salad fork next to the photo.
SOPHIE
Go to hell.
Gerhardt sighs. He motions to the guards. Sophie resists.
SOPHIE
There are rats in my cell, Gerhardt.
GERHARDT
Rats? What is this talk of rats while I am dining? Remove her.
Her eyes are feral.
SOPHIE
I hate rats.
Sophie elbows one guard in the face, then spins and kicks the second in the groin. Gerhardt pushes back from the table, but Sophie leaps at him, snatching the salad fork from the table.
She jams the fork into Gerhardt’s right eye. He SCREAMS and rolls on the floor as Sophie bolts to the door.
Sophie stops. Turns.
SOPHIE
Really, Gerhardt. You should have seen that one coming.
Gerhardt SCREAMS incoherently. Sophie strides away.
September 17th, 2008 at 12:55 am
EXT. LAKESHORE – DAY
TIN WHISTLE MUSIC and WAR DRUMS sound amongst Angellan Clover and SPLASHING waves. But all for naught, as...
EDDIE’S PoV
is a slightly less breathtaking panorama... of GILLY THE CHUB.
THE CHUB
Look. In like-- less than a minute, this place is gonna be swarming with police. The newspapers are gonna come... and we’re just a couple-a kids. There is NO way they’re gonna let this be our discovery! They’re gonna take everything from us... and you KNOW it-- But there’s one thing they can’t take away. Because in the next thirty seconds... you’re gonna make a decision that’s gonna stay with you for the rest of your life.
Something SPLASHES and SQUAKS with a GARGLING WRETCH OS.
THE CHUB (CONT’D)
And I hope you can appreciate, that we’re in a unique situation right now... that we’re never gonna be in again. So ALL I’m sayin’ is: Dude... we could be the only two guys, ever... to have a juicy bite of Loch Ness Monster.
MONSTER (OS)
Ooaaaaaangh...
THE CHUB (CONT’D)
I know you got that whole... fucking terrified of sea food thing... but that doesn’t matter right now. Because I’m tellin ya’... if we do this! Science Guys ‘ll come pump our stomachs in like, not even 30 minutes, I swear to fuck.
Panicked FLIPPER SOUNDS.
THE CHUB (CONT’D)
And I know I said I’d give you five bucks... and it sucks about my dad dying in the boat and the bubbles and all. No doubt. I acknowledge... that was real fucked up! But right now... its not even about that. Its about something bigger.
He pulls out the Loch Ness photo and holds it out.
THE CHUB (CONT’D)
We had a dream dude. You remember that? We sat in my step mom’s shitty apartment and we stared at this picture in Weekly World News and we said: We are gonna put that mutherfucker in our mouth! And now three months and six thousand miles later the ONLY thing that survives my dad’s fucked up idea of a lake picnic is THIS FORK...
He raises the fork.
THE CHUB (CONT’D)
Fuck that dude... this shit is destiny. (beat) So I’m gonna ask you one more time. -- What’s it gonna be? Lets eat us some fuckin monster.
September 17th, 2008 at 12:59 am
INT. PUGLIESE’S MANSION – PARLOR – NIGHT
GIORGIO PUGLIESE reminisces over a photograph of himself, composing an orchestra, as Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” PLAYS.
A SUITED GOON knocks on the already-open door. Pugliese stops the record, looks at the photograph, and SIGHS.
INT. PUGLIESE’S MANSION – BASEMENT – MOMENTS LATER
A door CREAKS; light spills over OFFICER BARNES – bound, naked and bloody, to a rusted metal chair.
Pugliese and his goon, suitcase in tow, stride over. The cop SPITS BLOOD at them. Pugliese smiles.
PUGLIESE
Music soothes even the savage beast.
He squats in front of Barnes.
PUGLIESE
So, soothe me. One more chance. I want you to sing. About the mole.
He won’t. Pugliese smiles again, and holds up a pristine tuning fork.
PUGLIESE
Do you know what my favorite sound is? The sound of fear.
He RINGS the fork. Barnes glares, but is silent, still.
PUGLIESE
You don’t think so? Was I off-key?
The strongman places the suitcase at Barnes’ feet.
PUGLIESE
Any suggestions, then?
The goon opens the suitcase – and a CARPET OF SPIDERS pours out. Barnes SCREAMS and THRASHES.
He FALLS BACK in the thrashing – arachnids now SWARM over his face, his bloodshot eyes – SCREAMING his throat raw.
PUGLIESE
You’re right. That’s MUCH better.
September 17th, 2008 at 2:02 am
INT. APARTMENT -- DAY
The front door swings open.
It’s a small two bedroom apartment. ROBERT and SHEILA enter. Robert is holding a plastic bag of left-overs. They’re in mid-conversation.
ROBERT
...and the guy found a goddamn wildebeest in the trunk of his car.
SHEILA
Was it his wildebeest?
ROBERT
Oddly enough, it was not his wildebeest.
Robert reaches for his refrigerator door, but finds nothing but empty space. He stares at the blank wall, where his refrigerator used to live.
ROBERT
What the hell?
SHEILA
Where’s your refrigerator?
Robert winces, angry. He tossed the bag onto the counter.
ROBERT
(calling out)
Mikey?
MIKEY strolls out of his bedroom.
MIKEY
Yeah?
ROBERT
Where’s my refrigerator?
MIKEY
I traded it.
ROBERT
What?
MIKEY
(excited)
Yeah, I traded it for this...
Mikey reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old FORK.
ROBERT
You traded my refrigerator for a fork?
Mikey leans in and whispers.
MIKEY
For a magic fork.
SHEILA
(laughs)
This’ll be good.
MIKEY
It’s a holy fork. It’s got powers.
ROBERT
Powers?
MIKEY
Magic powers.
ROBERT
Mikey, who has my refrigerator?
MIKEY
Well, you see, I went down this morning to get the mail, and I noticed the Shaman on the third floor was moving out. He said he needed a refrigerator for his new apartment, so I traded him for this holy magic fork.
ROBERT
The guy on the third floor isn’t a Shaman, he’s Filipino.
MIKEY
Same difference. Anyway, he’s gone now, and we’ve got the fork.
ROBERT
And no refrigerator.
Mikey grabs Robert’s shoulders.
MIKEY
Robert, our lives have led us to this fork. The fork is our destiny.
ROBERT
No.
MIKEY
It is. I’ll prove it. It’s in the photograph.
Mikey lets go of Robert and heads back to his bedroom.
ROBERT
No, Mikey, not the photograph again. Crap.
Mikey’s not listening. He goes into his bedroom, out of sight.
SHEILA
Photograph?
ROBERT
It’s this picture of us at a summer camp when we were kids. Someone snapped the photo after we went swimming in some lake.
MIKEY (O.S.)
We were naked!
Sheila is confused, but intrigued.
ROBERT
A bunch of us went skinny dipping. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but there were eels in the lake, and they would brush up against our junk... it was weird.
SHEILA
I want to see this photo.
Mikey returns with a PHOTOGRAPH in his hand. He shows it to Robert and Sheila.
MIKEY
You see up here in the sky, that cloud looks exactly like this fork... if the fork was stabbing a meatball.
ROBERT
I don’t see that.
SHEILA
(to Robert)
I see your penis.
(to Mikey)
Your’s too.
(she takes a second look)
Not bad, Mikey.
MIKEY
Thanks.
Out of Mikey’s bedroom crawls a little green TURTLE. Robert sees it crawling out into the living room.
ROBERT
Where did that thing come from?
MIKEY
He came with the fork.
Sheila sees the turtle and GOES BANANAS. She jumps up on the kitchen counter and screams, insanely.
SHEILA
OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!
She jumps down from the counter, runs over to the turtle, and then KICKS IT across the room into a closed window. The window shatters on impact.
MIKEY
MR. SHELLINGTON!
Mikey runs to the window.
Robert goes to Sheila, who is still visible rattled by the ordeal.
ROBERT
What was that about?
SHEILA
Fight or flight. I was just running on instincts.
ROBERT
You sure you weren’t running on crazy? You just broke my window.
SHEILA
I’ll buy you a new one.
Mikey looks out the window.
MIKEY
It’s all right. He landed on the ledge of the building. I think I can reach him.
Mikey crawls up onto the windowsill, reaching out for his turtle.
Sheila has calmed down.
ROBERT
I thought you were a member of PETA. Aren’t you supposed to be nice to animals?
SHEILA
That wasn’t an animal. That was an abomination.
She squirms at the thought.
SHEILA
Those beady little eyes, those gimpy little arms, that weird retractable neck... that doesn’t terrify you?
ROBERT
No.
SHEILA
What about those noises they make?
(imitating a turtle)
Meep. Meep. MEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Beat.
ROBERT
This is why you’re single.
SHEILA
I know.
Mikey’s still trying to get the turtle.
MIKEY
I almost have him.
Robert looks at the broken window, and then over to the empty space in his kitchen where his refrigerator used to be.
He sighs.
ROBERT
(to Sheila)
You want to go refrigerator shopping with me?
SHEILA
Sure. You should probably get some plastic for that window, while you’re at it.
Robert and Sheila head back to the front door.
ROBERT
(calling to Mikey)
I’m going out for a couple hours. I’ll bring pizza for dinner.
Mikey’s still hanging out the window.
MIKEY
(to the turtle)
No, Mr. Shellington, use your little legs to crawl towards me, not away. Daddy loves you!
The front door slams shut.
September 17th, 2008 at 2:39 am
EXT. RAINFOREST – DAY
Two bodies lie in red camping outfits, they are in the middle of a valley at the only point devoid of trees.
JONATHAN, young 30s & skinny, holds a snail shell, he pokes it with a plastic fork. The snail retracts into its shell. MAT, older 20s & muscular, looks deep into the sky. Jonathan tries to fork the snail out. Doesn’t work, he taps Mat’s shoulder.
Mat continues to look up.
JONATHAN
Mat.
MAT
Ssh.
Jonathan tries to see something where Mat is looking. There’s nothing.
JONATHAN
Mat.
Mat bursts into a vigourous rendition of starshapes. Jonathan stares, not sure what to do.
MAT
We’re saved. Grab the bags
Mat stands up and repeats a waving motion of his arms.
Jonathan returns with two massive camper bags. Mat puts his on and stretches a little. A rope descends into view, it has knots tied every five metres.
MAT
Go.
Jonathan shakes his head. Mat walks underneath the rope, it passes his hands.
JONATHAN
Um.
Mat waits, the first knot passes his hands. He grabs the second knot.
Mat slowly climbs, focusing on the helicopter.
MAT
You right?
JONATHAN
Yeh.
Jonathan tries to lift himself with one arm, fuck. Mat gives a thumps up to the pilot, the rope swags as they start to move. Jonathan grabs the bottom of Mat’s bag.
JONATHAN
Shit, shit, shit.
MAT
I forgot how heavy these bags are.
Mat inches up, Jonathan climbs Mat’s bag, terrified. Mat plonks his feet on to the knot, he’s parched. Jonathan slips, he’s has a hand on Mat’s bag. Mat tightens his grip on the rope. He sees Jonathan.
MAT
Grab the rope!
JONATHAN
I can’t.
MAT
Just grab it.
Mat tries to climb the rope but his hands slide down.
MAT
I’m getting all clammy, grab on.
Jonathan has both hands on Mat’s bag, he’s looking at how very, very far he can fall. Mat is focusing intently on the helicopter.
MAT
Just don’t look down. Grab it.
Jonathan’s frozen.
MAT
Yeh!?
Nothing, Mat shakes his bag. Jonathan freaks & looks up, Mat’s waiting for an answer.
JONATHAN
Yeah, yeah.
Jonathan looks down.
JONATHAN
(to himself)
Don’t look down.
Mat wriggles an arm through his bag. The bag falls. Jonathan looks up, Mat threads his other arm through.
Jonathan catches the rope before he realises he’s falling. His other hand grabs on. He watches Mat’s bag fall. Mat climbs the rope.
Jonathan tries to remove his bag, he’s can’t, it’s caught on his arm. Thump! Mat’s bag lands. Jonathan inches up the rope.
MAT
Told you, it’s not that hard.
JONATHAN
You burnt my hand!
Jonathan climbs past a knot.
JONATHAN
Not as hard as it looks.
Jonathan is breathing deeply. He reaches for the knot above him.
JONATHAN
Shit.
He’s back on. Tight grip. He climbs, wiping his hand on the rope.
MAT
How you doin’ down there!?
JONATHAN
This is like that photo of Mum & Dad in the paper.
Mat for the first time, looks down, perplexed.
JONATHAN
...with the Guerillas in Peru.
Mat’s almost in the helicopter.
MAT
Not yet, you’ve still got a bit to go.
September 17th, 2008 at 2:45 am
INT. PRISON
Rats scurry under the feet of Russian Soldiers as they pace the halls of the dilapidated prison. The term “gulag” comes to mind.
SUPER: 1984... Somewhere in Siberia...
INT. CELL
We see a photo of AVA, late 20’s, the kind of woman who only gets prettier with time.
A thumb rubs across the picture. It belongs to BARNES. He’s dressed in a U.S. Air Force jumpsuit that has seen better days.
ROGER, British Royal Air Force, and WILSON, U.S. Army Captain, chow on some pork and beans.
ROGER
Puerto Rico.
WILSON
Puerto Rico? I’m going to Hawaii. Pull a little R&R duty in Schofield. Find me a little Hawaiian girl and show her how to do the horizontal hula.
ROGER
Have you seen Hawaiian girls? They only come in one size. Fat. Puerto Rican girls are the finest women in the world. They all look like swimsuit models and they have bums large enough to sit your mojito on.
WILSON
Maybe I’ll pay you a visit in Puerto Rico. What about you, Barnes? Where are you going when we get out this place?
A loud bang on the door doesn’t give Barnes a chance to answer.
ROGER
It’s about time.
The door opens and it’s KIRBY, a corporal in the U.S. Army. He’s carrying a small box.
WILSON
Did you get them?
KIRBY
I got something better.
Everyone roll their eyes. Wilson snatches the box out of Kirby’s hands and rips it open. It’s filled with forks.
WILSON
Forks?
ROGER
Bloody hell.
WILSON
What are we going to do with a box of forks?
KIRBY
This was a lot cheaper and...
ROGER
And they’re forks.
WILSON
You were supposed to get combs.
ROGER
Bloody forks...
WILSON
Barnes, your buddy here made a small snafu.
ROGER
A snafu? He bloody soused the job.
Wilson and Barnes share confused looks.
BARNES
I’m sure these will do just fine.
WILSON
You ready to blow ths joint?
Kirby and Roger fish makeshift flashlights out from under their beds. They move the bunk revealing a tunnel.
BARNES
I don’t think I’m going.
WILSON
What? Why?
BARNES
I just don’t think I can make it.
WILSON
I understand.
BARNES
You do?
WILSON
Happens all the time, Barney.
BARNES
It does?
WILSON
All the time. You get used to the environment, the routine...
BARNES
The routine of brutal interrogations and random acts of torture?
WILSON
Exactly. You get institutionalized. You’re worried about assimilating back into society. Let me tell you, I’ll take my chances out there than in here any day.
BARNES
I’m not institutionalized.
WILSON
You’re not?
BARNES
No, I’m claustrophobic.
WILSON
Claustrophobic?
BARNES
Yes.
WILSON
For five years, you’ve been in a ten by eight cell with three other guys and dozens of rats. You telling me that you can’t share a shoulder-tight tunnel for thirty minutes with the promise of tequila, mojitos and other various mixed drinks?
BARNES
I’m sorry.
WILSON
Me too, pal. Me too.
Barnes looks at his picture of Ava. He rubs his thumb across the picture.
WILSON
You know, if Ava doesn’t get you to go, then nothing will.
Roger and Kirby are combing their hair with the forks.
KIRBY
By this tomorrow we’re going to be sipping mai tais in Tahiti.
ROGER
By this time tomorrow we’re going to be throwing back vodka shots in a dive bar in the middle of the Siberian wasteland, but it will be markedly better than the gruel we’d normally be sipping with our forks.
Wilson grabs his flashlight and joins Kirby and Roger.
WILSON
Let’s roll.
ROGER
Where’s Barnes?
WILSON
He’s not coming.
Roger points behind Wilson. It’s Barnes. He’s got his flashlight and is ready to go.
BARNES
Not coming, my ass. First round of drinks is on me.
September 17th, 2008 at 3:03 am
[scrippet]
EXT. SMALL-TOWN CARNIVAL – NIGHT
TINA, young, accomplished, walks non-commitally with SHANE. Shane, 40’s is a friendly and easy-going guy with a ketchup-stained Microsoft shirt.
They’re passing a carousel when Shane fishes for a pack of Camels. As he begins to light up–
TINA I didn’t know you smoked.
Shane is taken back.
SHANE What you don’t mind, do you? I mean, I can…
TINA No, no, no, not at all. Your profile just said you were a non-smoker, that’s all.
Tina sips on her venti latte. Shane flicks his cigarette, looks aimlessly.
Breaking the silence…
TINA Dinner was nice. I can’t remember the last time I had Burger King. Thank you.
SHANE Definitely. Say, you wanna give that big ass tentacle ride a shot?
TINA Okay. (pause, walking) So tell me, your favorite author’s Sartre?
SHANE Who? Oh, I mean… he’s okay and everything. I’m a Clancy man myself. Oh my God have you read his latest? Well, I’m not sure if it’s his latest, he writes a lot of books. It’s hardcover, though. It’s called um… I think it has the word lockdown in the title? Operation Lockdown? Lockdown Express? Well, it’s about…
As Shane runs the gamut on his book, in the distance, Tina catches a smoking CLOWN at an offglance. She panics.
TINA Follow me.
SHANE …And this big fucking explo- what? Where are you going?
INT. PHOTO BOOTH – NIGHT
Tina shuts the curtain.
TINA I spot three of them. I think they’ve been following us since Dairy Queen. Keep your mouth shut. Here…
She rummages through her purse. Takes out plastic utensils, rips it open, hands the fork to Shane.
TINA (CONT’D) You take this. I’ll keep the knife.
SHANE Oh shit. Should we call the the cops?
Shane takes out an over-sized, 90’s phone, dials.
Tina’s eyes widen, points at Shane a thousand times in a you’re-one-of-them fashion. She bolts out.
September 17th, 2008 at 3:59 am
INT.BEDROOM – NIGHT
CLOSE ON:
A TV SCREEN. Bright. Glowing. The rest of the room is dark.
SETH, 9 years old, bookish, sits opposite in his bed wrapped tightly in covers, eyes glued to the burning screen. He’s terrified but can’t look away. In his hands is a bowl of cereal that he’s been eating with a fork.
MAN ON SCREEN That's because these people are my creation. They had no life until I gave it to them. They're PERFECT.
The character on the screen eyes BULGE. Suspense chords swell.
The titles come up – it’s the TV show THE TWILIGHT ZONE.
The music gets louder.
Seth fumbles for the remote and lowers the volume. He pauses for a second.
Footsteps.
Shit.
He turns off the TV and removes his glasses, throwing them on the floor, then burrows his head underneath the covers.
The door opens. It’s his MOTHER.
No movement.
She walks over to the bed and picks up his glasses.
Still no movement
She puts them on top of the dresser and gives him one more long look before walking out. We HOLD on a wide shot of the room as the door closes and the sound of her footsteps fade.
Seth sits up.
He gropes underneath the bed for a second then comes up with a FLASHLIGHT. He pulls a book out from under his pillow – starts reading.
Footsteps again.
Something’s different this time though. Slower. Heavier.
Seth clicks off the flashlight.
They’re getting closer.
Seth sinks under the covers again.
The footsteps stop.
Seth strains to hear something. Anything. The door slowly opens and a figure stands there, wrapped in blackness. It’s hard to make out who it is.
Seth remains quiet.
The voice is vaguely reminiscent of a woman’s but sounds flat and detached.
Seth is scared now. He slowly peeks over the covers to see who it is.
CUT TO:
Outside in the HALLWAY. CAMERA slowly moving down it. Silence.
Then — SCREAMS.
A flurry as a door opens from behind us as mom and dad come rushing out. They bang on Seth’s door furiously.
The doors locked. The father cocks back then rams his shoulder through the door. He stumbles through then looks up.
ANGLE ON:
His face. Shocked.
The Mother SCREAMS and the camera zooms into her eye as we MORPH into the TITLE SEQUENCE– THE FRIGHTENING.
September 17th, 2008 at 4:00 am
EXT. WET MARKET SOUTHERN CHINA -- DAY
Live animals are being sold out in the open. Caged chickens and reptiles are stacked alongside crates of fresh fruit and vegetables. Fish flop around in bins with barely enough water to breathe. Throngs of customers jostle back and forth, HAGGLING NOISILY over every cent.
FRANK, a bespectacled white man in his forties, moves through the crowd snapping photos. He tries to avoid touching or being touched by anything. His Chinese driver cum translator, LAO MIAO, leads the way to a small noodle stand and orders something. He stakes a claim on a pair of plastic seats at a folding table.
Frank eyes the chair warily before sitting. He produces a wetnap and scrubs the table surface in front of him. The noodle vendor slaps down two steaming bowls of noodles. Lao Miao picks up a pair of chopsticks from the unclean table and begins slurping down the food. Frank considers this very carefully.
From his inside pocket he removes a ziplock bag with western eating utensils. He takes out a fork. Using a fresh wetnap he wipes it down. Still not sure, he dangles the fork over the bowl and considers whether or not to begin.
A sudden commotion distracts him. TWO ROUGH LOOKING MEN are shaking down an OLD WOMAN selling produce. Frank whips up his camera. No sooner does he snap a photo than one of the men looks directly at him. The pair of ruffians immediately switch targets and barge through the crowd toward him, spilling anything in their path.
The driver stands up to get out of the way. For a moment it looks like he is trying to stop the attackers. The bigger of the two men YELLS something at him in CANTONESE and pushes him out of the way. He turns on Frank and reaches for the camera. Frank backs away with an arm extended in front of him.
FRANK
No. Wait -
He falls back over a chair and hits the ground with a SMACK. Instead of getting up he swoons.
FADE TO BLACK.
September 17th, 2008 at 4:21 am
INT. BEDROOM – DAY
An OLD MAN with liver spots sits at a desk, his back to us.
A KNOCK at the door.
It opens and BILLY, 16, walks in. He sports a James Taylor mane and a private school uniform.
BILLY
Hey Grandpa.
No answer.
Billy curiously looks over Grandpa’s shoulder. A disturbed look comes across his face as he watches his grandfather...
Use a knife and fork to cut into a photograph of an old woman. He slices off an arm and pops it in his mouth.
BILLY
Why are you eating that picture of Grandma?
GRANDPA
I ate all the others. I saved your grandmother for last.
BILLY
Why don’t you just go to the kitchen? We have food.
GRANDPA
You know I’m afraid of dogs. And yours scares the shit out of me. He won’t let me down the hall.
BILLY
We don’t have a dog.
Grandpa looks to Billy, realizing.
GRANDPA
You’re right. You don’t.
BILLY
Did you get into my acid again?
Grandpa nods, “Yes.”
BILLY
Come on.
He helps his grandfather up.
BILLY
Let’s go get you a whopper.
GRANDPA
Can I get chicken fries too?
BILLY
Sure.
As they exit.
BILLY
You smell like piss, Grandpa.
GRANDPA
What do think I’ve been drinking?
September 17th, 2008 at 4:22 am
EXT. FOREST PATH – DAY
The sun is low in the sky. ROD, JANE and FREDDY, three members of the South Carolina new age baptists forest walkers club, huddle together with big stupid grins on their faces.
JEFFERY (O.S.)
Okay, we’re ready.
JEFFERY, the fourth and final member of the group, runs into view and joins the huddle.
The four stand with their arms around each other, framed by the thick forest. A CAMERA FLASH captures the happy moment perfectly.
ROD
Thanks Christ that is over--
JANE
Rod!
ROD
What? C’mon don’t tell me you are not miserable too?
JANE
We’re having fun Rod, you could try and join in.
JEFFERY
(reading a map)
C’mon gang, this way. We need to get to the car before night.
The little group of walkers trudge along the path and round a bend. The forest is lush, tall trees with thick green leaves. Nothing makes a sound, not even birds seem to be present in this part of the forest.
The party stop dead in their tracks. Right ahead of them is a FORK in the path.
JANE
Which way Jeffery?
JEFFERY
(again consulting the map)
That’s odd.
FREDDY
What is?
JEFFERY
It’s not on the map.
ROD
Here we go.
JANE
What? The fork?
JEFFERY
It is not here.
JANE
So I guess we just pick a way.
Rod wanders over to a large tree that stands in-between the two paths and climbs up onto a branch.
JANE
Why do boys always want to climb trees?
JEFFERY
Because we have ambition.
JANE
And women don’t have ambition.
JEFFERY
You see a tree and you want to take it’s photograph. We see a tree and we have to climb it, conquer it, tame it.
JANE
Of course, I forgot you were all such real men. Makes me wish I had remembered to bring my knitting needles along with me.
FREDDY
Rod what are you doing?
Rod pulls branches and leaves from the tree and reveals a sign that is nailed to the tree.
LEFT FOR SPIDERS AND THE QUICK WAY HOME
RIGHT FOR A LONG JOURNEY THROUGH THE UNKNOWN
JEFFERY
So that was an easy decision then, left it is.
Jeffery leads the way, walks towards the left path.
JANE
Not a chance, we take the right.
Rod jumps down from the tree.
ROD
What are you talking about? We take the left.
JANE
I am scared stiff of spiders, there is no way we are going down there.
FREDDY
Jane, as much as I hate to disagree with you we need to take the left path. It will be dark soon and we need to get to the car.
JANE
You guys do not understand. I am not just a little bit scared. If there really is spiders down there I will freak out. I might end up killing someone.
ROD
If I have to spend a night out here with you three then I will be killing someone. There is no might in that sentence.
JANE
I have no idea why you joined a walking club if you hate it so much.
ROD
The fact that you don’t know makes me wonder why I bothered in the first place.
JANE
I don’t understand.
FREDDY
Jane, please! Rod, just let us think for a minute.
Rod stares in Jane’s direction.
ROD
Oh my god.
JANE
What are you looking at?
Rod keeps staring. He is looking past Jane, over her shoulder.
ROD
We better get out of here now.
Everybody turns to look, to see what it is.
With Jane distracted Rod rushes towards her, grabs her by the waist and throws her over his shoulder.
JANE
(screaming)
Put me down!
Rod
(to Freddy and Jeffery)
C’mon then.
Rod starts to jog down the LEFT path with Jane over his shoulder. She struggles to get off but Rod is too strong.
JANE
Guys, don’t let him get away with this. Rod put me down now!
Freddy and Jeffery look at each other, shrug their shoulders and follow Rod down the path.
The four intrepid explorers disappear down the path and around a bend.
Silence.
A SCREAM echos around the forest. A female’s SCREAM.
More SCREAMS, this time it is male voices.
BLOOD CURDLING SCREAMS this time.
Then silence.
September 17th, 2008 at 4:40 am
INT. MANAGER’S OFFICE – DAY.
MARGARET NESS, a stern-faced professional woman with cold eyes and an appetite for discipline, sits behind the manager’s desk. Next to her is FRANK BRYANT, a 40-something who’s thrown in the towel and settled for a career in middle-management, and as such has lost the will to shave accurately.
ALISTAIR, a mischievous young man with no real desire to keep his job, sits opposite them and does his best to appear serious.
MARGARET
Okay, Alistair. Thanks for joining us. We’re conducting an investigation into a recent incident in the canteen; you’ll probably have heard about it?
Alistair indicates he hasn’t.
MARGARET (CONT’D)
Frank here was on his lunch break, he was confronted by a person dressed as a giant anthropomorphic rabbit... doesn’t ring a bell?
ALISTAIR
Does not.
MARGARET
You are aware of Frank’s well-documented masklophobia?
ALISTAIR
(very confused)
Masklo- nope, can’t say that I am.
Margaret now picks up a piece of paper from the desk.
MARGARET
Right. Just – you make repeated reference to it in your staff newsletter last month, in an article entitled ‘Masked Aggressors – Why Frank Bryant Won’t Visit Disneyland’.
ALISTAIR
I’ve misspoke. I am aware of it, in terms of it’s existence, but it’s not like I consider it a source of great amusement, or anything.
Margaret consults the newsletter again.
MARGARET
(reading aloud)
‘I make no bones about the fact that I consider this a source of great amusement’.
ALISTAIR
(mock-outrage)
Okay, well you know what? You can use people’s staff newsletter articles to prove anything, really.
Margaret is beginning to lose patience. She SIGHS.
MARGARET
Alistair, it’s starting to sound like you’re not taking this too seriously.
ALISTAIR
...should I be taking this seriously?
MARGARET
You should, yes. Frank has taken this very badly. He was startled. According to him, he hasn’t actually been able to speak since the incident.
ALISTAIR
Right. Just – well, he must have told you that.
This plot-hole briefly silences Margaret.
Frank comes to her rescue: he LEANS OVER and very clearly WHISPERS in Margaret’s ear.
MARGARET
(uncertain)
He wrote that down on a piece of paper.
Frank again LEANS IN AND WHISPERS into Margaret’s ear, with similar lack of subtlety.
MARGARET (CONT’D)
...also, he can still whisper.
ALISTAIR
Airtight.
Frank now startles Margaret as he bursts into an animated rant:
FRANK
Look – don’t get mouthy. Okay?
ALISTAIR
Glad to have you back, Frank.
FRANK
We want to know who did this, and I think you know.
ALISTAIR
I can tell you it certainly wasn’t me. I was in Australia at the time. In fact, I have a photograph here to prove it.
Alistair reaches into his pocket and withdraws a polaroid.
ALISTAIR (CONT’D)
This is me outside Sydney Opera House, with a copy of that day’s newspaper, which should clear up the confusion.
He hands it over to Frank, who SHRIEKS and throws it down on the table. Margaret takes a look.
MARGARET
This is a photograph of Barney the Dinosaur.
ALISTAIR
(excited)
...is that my photo of Barney? I’ve been wondering where that was!
(now puzzled)
What did I do with that exonerating photograph...
FRANK
I want to see your right thigh.
This has the effect of silencing and confusing everybody.
ALISTAIR
I’m flattered-
FRANK
I was able to stab my costumed assailant on the thigh with my fork during Monday’s attack.
ALISTAIR
A true underdog victory. I’m not giving you a free glimpse of my thigh, though. And I don’t have time for this, okay? My shift is over and I need to get to the costume shop before five. Unrelated.
Alistair stands up.
ALISTAIR (CONT’D)
I must say Margaret, that is an uncharacteristically long skirt you’re wearing today. What’s the occasion?
Margaret doesn’t react straight away.
MARGARET
It’s cold.
Alistair smirks and leaves the office. Frank looks at Margaret, pondering.
September 17th, 2008 at 5:00 am
INT. COLLEGE LECTURE THEATRE, there are students dotted about the seats disinterestedly listening to a LECTURER discuss photography in the 1920’s. The LECTURER clicks the slide to reveal a black and white image of a fork balanced delicately on the lip of a plate.
LECTURER
Here we have The Fork by André Kertész or as it is better known as, La Fourchette. This is one of his best known works and in my opinion a masterpiece. Like many great photographs it can also be described as a comment on photography itself, the shadow is an indexical representation of the fork, just as the photograph is an indexical representation of reality, the... (bell rings indicating the end of class)...thank you class, next time we will be looking at The Decisive Moment
The students gather their things and leave, the camera follows two 18 year old students PATRICK and MICHAEL.
MICHAEL
That was fun; I think I’ve lost the will to live
PATRICK
It wasn’t so bad, there were some cool pictures, what are you doing now?
MICHAEL
I’ve got English, we’re doing Dubliners
PATRICK
Lucky them, is Stan in your class?
MICHAEL
Yes, but I haven’t seen in him for a while.
PATRICK
Me neither; is it true what I heard? That he ran out of a life drawing class because he has a fear of nudity?
MICHAEL
He wishes, he got an erection, the model saw it and burst out laughing, he got embarrassed and pegged it.
PATRICK
Poor bastard, I’m sure he’ll find it funny in a hundred years or so. See you later.
September 17th, 2008 at 5:13 am
INT. DINING ROOM -- NIGHT
The Dining Room is sleek and simple. A dark wooden table dominates the room; the walls are covered of photos of TOBIAS who sits in the most comfortable chair at the table. His wife, FIONA sets down a bowl of noodles in front of him before taking her seat at the other end of the table to eat. Tobias has no fork and so begins eating his noodles with a knife.
FIONA
Would you like a fork honey?
Tobias can barely contain his giggles.
TOBIAS
Woman. Look. I’m the greatest Yahtzee player that has ever lived. Eleven time world champion. Twenty time New Zealand champion and winner of the Dunedin Annual Yahtzee-Off for the last 27 years in a row. I don’t think I need a fork.
He sets back into his meal and continues his attempt to eat his noodles with a knife.
FIONA
I fucked your best friend today.
The only noise is that of Tobias eating his food. He makes a sudden look up.
TOBIAS
I’m sorry, you were saying something about me?
The doorbell rings.
TOBIAS
Must be some fans. Can you get the door and I’ll get into my jacket that I especially wear for meeting fans.
Tobias leaves the room to the right while Fiona goes to answer the door where CALLIE is waiting.
FIONA
Callie! Oh my!
The two of them hug before they move into the dining room.
CALLIE
It’s been so long. How are you?
FIONA
Great! How was Hong Kong? How’s the baby?
CALLIE
So adorable. So evil. Frank’s looking after it right now. I got photos. Want to take a look?
Callie takes out the photos out of her bag as Tobias walks into the room wearing a traffic cone coloured orange jacket that is incredibly tight. Every single move he makes elicits a squeak.
TOBIAS
Why, hello there stranger. I’m Tobias Sharps but I’m sure you know that already. Eleven time World Yahtzee champion.
FIONA
It’s my sister, Callie. You met her before. Several times.
TOBIAS
Sisters. Okay, after careful consideration, the answer is yes, I will have a threesome with you.
There is a pause. Callie ignores Tobias and starts talking to Fiona again bringing out the photos. Tobias sees them and steps in to take a look.
TOBIAS
Why what do we have here?
He grabs the photo, flips through them, drops them and jumps onto the dining table before he starts to whimper.
TOBIAS
Yahtzee! Yahtzee! Yahtzee!
CALLIE
What’s he doing?
FIONA
He has a phobia of photos.
CALLIE
What are all these?
She points to the photos of Tobias that cover the wall. We see Tobias in his various states: wonderful, awesome, breath-taking, amazing.
FIONA
Sorry. He has a phobia of photos not of himself.
TOBIAS
You dare bring that into my fortress of excellence? What’s wrong with you? You will definitely not feel the joy of the ultimate Yahtzee now.
CALLIE
What’s he talking about?
FIONA
His penis.
CALLIE
Can we go to the kitchen?
FIONA
Yeah.
They leave. Tobias lies face down, crying on the table.
September 17th, 2008 at 5:38 am
INT. OFFICE BUILDING CAFETERIA
ROBIN eyes the photo of a PUNK KID on the table, then scans the bustling room, turning her head every direction. Her partner, CONROY sits across from her, snacking on some spaghetti.
CONROY
Robin, eyes, here. You’re too obvious.
He points back at his own face. She shifts her focus back to him, and his goofy smile. He twists his fork in circles.
CONROY (CONT’D)
Ask me something. Like why do I use a plastic fork?
She scans again.
ROBIN
Why do you use a plastic fork Tiger?
CONROY
Because metal forks might have been washed. Now, plastic forks are always clean.
She sees him. Eye contact. The Punk Kid thrusts a stash of papers into his bag.
CONROY (CONT’D)
That’s--
ROBIN
One of your rules. I see him Tiger, ready those fangs.
They both stand and slide through tables and other people. Conroy sticks his hand inside his jacket, reaching for something.
The Punk Kid jumps up knocking his chair over and dashes for the exit. They chase.
ROBIN (CONT’D)
(yells)
Stop. Police!
CONROY
But aren’t we technically not--
ROBIN
Not now Tiger!
They follow the Punk Kid to the elevators, just in time to see him jump into a closing elevator. They’re too late.
ROBIN (CONT’D)
Tiger call the next elevator time’s...
Conroy runs past the elevator door and opens the door to the stairwell.
ROBIN (CONT’D)
What are you doing? No please don’t tell you’re taking the stairs AGAIN?
CONROY
Never turn down a chance for exercise, remember? That’s one of my rules.
ROBIN
Are you kidding me Tiger? It’s thirty floors we NEED to catch--
Conroy’s already gone.
INT. STAIRWELL
There’s thud after thud as they fly down one flight of stairs, and another, and another.
ROBIN
Tiger if we miss the kid I will--
CONROY
Well...it’s better than sharing ten square feet with twenty other office goonies. And the stuffy air.
Robin comes to a halt. Conroy nearly runs into her.
CONROY (CONT’D)
What?
ROBIN
Conroy...are you...you’re scared of elevators? You’re claustr--
He dashes off. She stares in disbelief.
CONROY
Never turn down a chance for exercise--
ROBIN
Oh...my...gosh Conroy!
INT. LOBBY
The stairwell door flings open with Robin and Conroy pouring out. The elevator’s already going back up, and no one but the Guard is in the building.
CONROY
Don’t, say it--
ROBIN
Greeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaattttttt! Going!...Tiger. Could have told me sooner...it explains everything.
She glares at him.
September 17th, 2008 at 5:38 am
INT. FANCY RESTAURANT – CANDLE-LIT NIGHT
A KNIFE cuts into a cheese ravioli pinned down by a fork. The cheese slides out onto the chinaware plate.
MONROE, a suave investment banker-like 30 year-old, sets his fork down and looks across at the woman sitting across the table from him. He dabs his mouth with his napkin and sets it in his lap. He nervously glances around the room as he clears his throat.
MONROE
So... I got you something.
He wipes his sweaty hand on his pant leg before reaching into his pocket.
MONROE (CONT’D)
It’s not much, but I... Well, just tell me what you think...
Monroe pulls an engagement ring box from his pocket and sets it gently on the table.
The woman’s hand reaches over and picks it up.
MONROE
Y-You don’t have to say anything – I mean, not right away. I... I just want you to know...
(pause)
I’m always yours...
Monroe reaches across the table to take the woman’s hand.
GIRL (O.S.)
Dad, who’re you talking to?
CUT TO:
INT. MOBILE HOME, KITCHEN
Monroe turns around toward the voice – but we’re no longer in the restaurant – we’re sitting in the dingy, dark kitchen of a single-wide. Monroe, now scruffy and clad in plaid, sits at a rickety card table, a plate of SpaghettiO’s in front of him. In his hand is the engagement ring box.
Standing behind him is a young teenage girl, clinging to the straps on her overalls. This is JANEY.
JANEY
Who’re you talking to?
Monroe lets go of the box and clears his throat, shuffling old newspapers lying on the table.
MONROE
Umm, nothing. Nothing at all.
Janey sighs and looks down at the peeling linoleum floor.
JANEY
Say it, Dad.
Monroe bites his lip.
JANEY
Say. It.
Monroe sighs heavily.
MONROE
Philophobia.
JANEY
That’s right. I... look, I know you’re scared – what might happen – but you need to go.
Monroe turns and looks at the empty place set across the card table from him.
JANEY
She’ll never know if you don’t try.
Sitting on the plate, propped up by a matchbox, is a faded picture of a woman. The woman is young and beautiful. She’s smiling.
Monroe sighs and takes a bite of his SpaghettiO’s.
MONROE
I know.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:01 am
INT. SILVERWARE DRAWER – NIGHT
A SPOON creeps toward an empty slot in a cutlery caddy.
A lamp flickers on.
The Spoon GASPS.
The FORK scowls at the Spoon, his tines shaking in anger.
FORK
Where have you been?
SPOON
Um ... I was taking a midnight dip ... in the sink.
FORK
Alone?
SPOON
I suppose you’re going to accuse me of sneaking off with one of the knives from the butcher block again. And that you imagined that you heard us clinking together in the dark.
The Fork hands the Spoon a manila file folder.
FORK
I hired the spatula to follow you. He took these pictures.
The Spoon slowly opens the folder. She finds photographs of herself frolicking with a dish on the dish rack.
FORK
Is it true? Are you diddlin’ the Dish?
SPOON
Forky ...
FORK
(turning away)
Oh god ...
SPOON
I didn’t plan it. I was just lying in the spoon rest, and the next thing I knew, I found myself plunged into his hot, sticky --
FORK
You can tell me he dipped you. You can tell me he’s stirred you, but please, please, tell me he didn’t ...
SPOON
Spoon me?
The Forks looks directly at her, but now the Spoon turns away.
FORK
We were happy once. Remember the night when you first ran your fingers through my tines ... What happened?
SPOON
I could say it’s not you. I could say it’s me, but it’d be a lie.
FORK
It’s my agoraphobia, isn’t it?
SPOON
I can’t spend the rest of my life shut away in this drawer, Forky. I want to see the world before I’m too tarnished to go anywhere.
FORK
I’ll change. I’ll ... I’ll ...
The Spoon smiles sadly, her oval head drooping.
SPOON
I’d better go.
The Spoon pushes the drawer open and hops out.
The Fork crawls after her.
FORK
Spoonie! Spoonie, come back!
The Fork tries to follow her, but freezes at the edge of the drawer. He folds over as if touched by the invisible hands of Uri Geller, collapsing into a sobbing heap of metal and tines.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:09 am
INT. PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL – RECREATION ROOM – DAY
BREE CAIN, early 30’s, sits at a checkers table playing against an empty seat. Her hair is in bad need of a “What Not To Wear” makeover. Her hospital gown drapes off one shoulder exposing her collarbone and has a permanently stained and faded. Her nails are bitten down a little too far but despite all this, she’s still attractive.
In the background an elderly man runs past her with both hands on a walker, with only the wheels touching the ground, clearly not needing it.
Orderlies and gaurds attend the patients, trying to get them to stop or start doing someting they have no interest in.
A HAND reaches from behind Bree and moves one of her checker pieces, jumping three black checkers -MAN’S VOICE (O.S.)
King me.
The Man, DET. GERRITSEN, early 40’s, sits in the empty seat.
Bree looks up at him, then back at the board. She kings him.DET. GERRITSEN
It’s nice to see you’ve assimilated yourself to the craziness of this.BREE
It’s contagious, I think you should leave before you catch it.DET. GERRITSEN
You don’t have to be here, you know.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a photograph placing it on the checker board, disrupting the game.DET. GERRITSEN (CONT’D)
Now, let’s stop with the fake psycho racket. You’re only here for protection, you don’t have to act as if. Tell me everything you know about this photograph so I can move on with my case and you can return to your normal life.
Bree picks up the photograph, stares.
Det. Gerritsen reached across the table and grabs the photograph out of her hand, slamming it back down on the table. Checkers fly everywhere.DET. GERRITSEN (CONT’D)
You’ve seen it enough times, you know what it is, now tell me!
Heads turn looking at the commotion, two guards step closer heading towards their direction but stop before reaching.
All the patients in the room erupt in laughter/yells. The orderlies and guards try to calm the room.BREE
You know what I miss the most?DET. GERRITSEN
I don’t give a shit. Tell me what the photo means.BREE
The normal things. Like eating with a sterling silver fork and not the plastic shit they give you here. a shape knife, my own clothes...DET. GERRITSEN
You can have all that, just cooperate. You being in this nut factory does nothing for either of us. I hate coming here as much as you hate being here.BREE
I don’t mind it, it’s better than the alternative.DET. GERRITSEN
How could you not? I think we’ve done a great job of protecting you up until this point. Why don’t you trust me?BREE
It’s not that I don’t trust you. I have a huge case of Ballistophobia which doesn’t help my Necrophobia.
Det. Gerritsen blanks. Clueless.BREE (CONT’D)
My fear of bullets and death. Look officer...DET. GERRITSEN
Detective.BREE
...I’m not going to tell you while I know the man who gave you that is alive. I’d rather stay here.DET. GERRITSEN
Fine.
Det. Gerritsen stands upDET. GERRITSEN (CONT’D)
Guards!
Three guards run over, grab Bree from her chair and slam her on the ground.DET. GERRITSEN (CONT’D)
You want to stay here? Then you will get treated like the kooks.
One of the guards pulls a needle out, while the other two try to hold Bree still. She struggle as much as she can, but it’s hopeless.BREE
What the hell are you doing? What is that?
The guard sticks the needle in her hard as she violently tries to stop them.
Her movement starts to slow. She losing what little power she has until she’s still and weFADE TO BLACK.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:09 am
When I posted my Scrippets code, it previewed correctly, but now the formatting is gone. What happened? It displays correctly on my own blog.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:11 am
EXT. CITY STREET – DAY
MARILEE POPOVICH, 23, thick eyeliner and bushy hair, stands outside a restaurant smoking a cigarette. She peers inside, watching the patrons eat. She eyes the silverware on the table, reaching into her own pocket and pulling out a worn, rusted FORK, covered in crusted blood and pus.
MARILEE
(to herself)
Mine’s still better.
Marilee watches the people pass by on the streets. A MOTHER (35) gives her SON (6) an ice cream cone, who cries, displeased with it. A MAN (50s) and a WOMAN (too young for him) fight, though their muted gestures indicate they think they cannot be seen. A MAN (30s), in sunglasses and a trenchcoat, looks toward Marilee, waving a photograph at her and dropping it in a cast iron trash bin. She takes a final drag from her cigarette and stamps it out on the ground.
Putting on her own sunglasses, Marilee crosses the street and stands by the trash can. Lighting a new cigarette, she accidentally throws the lit match in the trash can, and reaches inside, patting out the small fire.
MARILEE
Oh, shoot.
Once inside, she digs out the photograph. In the photo is her next target: an OVERWEIGHT WOMAN (40s), wearing an oxygen mask and holding a flyswatter. Her hair is an anachronistic beehive, her mumu is purple, covered in white lotus flowers. Marilee flips over the photo. On the back, it reads: “JANET HAROWICZ, 45, 338 S. Jackson St. Paranoid schizophrenic convinced a giant army of insects has already infected our atmosphere with mind-controlling agents. Obviously a threat to our work. Do it fast. Leave no evidence. You know the drill.”
The photo is signed with an infinity symbol.
MARILEE
(sighing, stamps out new cigarette)
They promised me challenges, not errands.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:15 am
INT. UPSCALE HOME – LATE AFTERNOON
A long, spacious hallway. Sculptures on pedestals mark doorways. No lights on – only the remnants of the day’s sunlight casting a thin beam here and there. In this light, the color of the wall paint looks like brown dried blood.
We approach Lorena and Myra, in their Wal Mart best, as they fidget with the wall at the very end of the hallway.
LORENA
It’s got to be here.
MYRA
Hack. What the hell is an “Inspiration Room” anyway?
LORENA
Some place he would call me crying from.
MYRA
God. I won’t miss that.
Lorena leans her body up against the wall near the right corner. Myra feels around with her hands; tapping, knocking. She decides to lean her body weight up against the wall too – near the left corner.
CLICK! Something unhitches. They look at each other like lionesses ready for a kill – practically salivating.
The two women pull on the corner moulding of the wall. POP. The whole wall opens from Myra’s side on unseen hinges. They slowly force the wall open a couple feet more.
Just past the false wall, a black metal door resembling a bank vault. This inner door is slightly open. Artificial light from inside reflects on the women’s uncertain yet determined looks.
The two wedge their way in. They whisper (as if anyone were around). --
LORENA
Like a bank safe.
MYRA
Some kind of panic room. Paranoid little freak.
LORENA
(Diagnosing)
Fear of people – Autoasphyxia.
IN THE SECRET ROOM,
Not dark or cold. No windows, but dim recessed lighting shining down from above. A clean, simple fifteen by twelve room; with one jarring peculiarity. --
LORENA
Oh my god. Did his scrapbook throw up?
The main wall is an unsettling accent wall. Top to bottom, one end of the room to the other – wallpapered with family snapshots. Mementos from more than one decade.
MYRA
Like I’ve told you Lorena, off his trolley. He would have done himsel...
(Voice trails off)
Lorena is momentarily transfixed by this photo wall, when Myra, transfixed by something else, gently touches her sister’s shoulder. Lorena joins Myra’s attention on --
Several large framed art pieces leaning neatly in a row up against the right wall. All various takes on the same, somewhat abstract rendering. --
A raised fist clenching a large, two-pronged serving fork. The colors of each piece unique, the disturbing effect the same.
The two women gravitate toward the framed art – a score that trumps even a winning scratch-off.
MYRA
(With reverence, yet still somehow sneering)
Some rich assholes will pay us ten times what these were worth a week ago.
LORENA
(Crazy eyed)
I’ll take this one.
Lorena starts to pick up the biggest piece. Myra calmly takes hold of it with both hands.
MYRA
You just happen to eye... what will most likely be... the priciest piece. Recall who’s idea this was.
LORENA
(Tugging slightly at the picture)
“Suicidal overdose”. That’s so subtle.
MYRA
That is what “artistes” do.
(Beat)
I don’t have to fucking impress you.
Myra gives a “sucker yank”. The heavy frame snaps out of Lorena’s hands – and out of Myra’s as well. --
CRASH! Onto the floor.
MYRA
Okay. You can have that one.
The two are so entranced by the art pieces, or rather the potential price tags, they fail to notice the door behind them. Slowly... slowly... and – KA-LOCK!
With that sound, their greed becomes panic.
They rush to the monolithic black iron door, clawing grabbing, pounding.
MYRA
No key?!
LORENA
Oh my God!
Myra beelines to the artwork. Searches behind it. Nothing.
Lorena remaining near the door, eyes darting frantically about the otherwise empty room, just begins to hyperventilate when she notices --
A small hinged panel set into the far left wall.
LORENA
Myra!
Lorena rushes to the panel. Myra close behind.
Lorena opens it. A telephone inside a small built-in box.
They grab at the phone like rabid squirrels. Lorena’s got it.
LORENA
What the hell?!!
The phone has just one lighted button near the earpiece.
MYRA
It’s like those elevator phones! Push it! Push it!
Lorena pushes the button.
LORENA
It’s ringing!
Myra presses up to the phone with Lorena. A woman’s voice picks up. --
WOMAN’S VOICE
(Filtered)
Hell --
MYRA
Help!
LORENA
Help! We’re trapped! Hel...
MYRA
(To Lorena)
Wait!
The voice on the phone is Myra’s.
MYRA’S VOICE
(Filtered)
-- Lorena and I will be in Switzerland for the next month. So, please leave us a message, and we will --
Their mouths drop. They look at the phone, then each other.
LORENA
It’s our...
MYRA
That creepy motherf...
LORENA
(Exploding)
What was so wrong with just stealing his crappy art!
MYRA
(Overlapping)
Art Schmart. It ain’t worth the trouble unless the fucker is...
LORENA
(Overlapping)
I never gave a shit whether he was alive or...
BOTH
-- Dead!
Beat.
BEEP. The completed message sound rings loud and clear.
Their faces go ashen.
Lorena resigns the phone back to it’s home.
Sickened, they drift to the center of the room. Both pair of eyes to the collage wall. Their heads tilt slightly at --
A faded snapshot from a Thanksgiving dinner with a younger Lorena and younger Myra goofing off at the table. --
-- Younger Myra’s face forever fixed in a silly, crazed expression. A voracious Norma Bates pretending to stab violently at the turkey. In her clenched fist, a metal two-tined serving fork. Between the two wild-eyed, young faces in the foreground, sits the “artiste” himself. --
Young Joe – smiling out.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:30 am
INT. IMPROVISED SURVEILLANCE ROOM – NIGHT
A shabby looking room, quite dark, but you can spot some surveillance equipment in the background. And a huge telescope, looking out the window.
Next to it sits AGENT BUKOWSKI, asleep over an opened comicbook. He is in his twenties, has an eager, yet not too bright air about him.
AGENT STEWART enters, a weathered CIA-vet in his late fifties. He has seen too much to care about anything but his retirement. He throws a bag of fast food in Agent Bukowskis direction, waking him up. Some fries spill over the comicbook.
AGENT STWEWART
Rise and shine, bonehead.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
Haha. (rubs his eyes) This has got to be the most boring job I’ve ever done.
AGENT STWEWART
No reason to risk your job by falling asleep.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
What danger is that nerd anyway.
AGENT STWEWART
You got to start reading your fuckin’ assignments, Bukowski. Some weeks ago, that guy googled “derivatives” for about fiftiy times, and shortly after ... boom, down goes the derivative market.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
That’s all? Guess he wasn’t the only one googling that term.
AGENT STWEWART
Fifty times? But actually, yeah, he wasn’t alone one this. About 80 other people did so. All under close surveillance now. They seem to be somewhat connected. Agency calls them the August-Eighty. They communicate through a website called “John August”. Cryptos over at Quantico think its some kind of commie-slang for revolutionary partisan action.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
So this could be big? Boy, I need something like that on my CV.
AGENT STWEWART
Don’t get your hopes too high. So, what’s our guy doing?
Agent Bukowski looks through the telescope.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
The usual, sitting in front of his computer. Not jerking off, so that’s something for a change ...
Agent Bukowski suddenly seems alert.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
Wait, what ... huh? He’s staring at a fork.
AGENT STWEWART
A fork? That can’t be good. Let me see.
Agent Stewart gets agitated, shoves Agent Bukowski to the side and peers through the telescope.
AGENT STWEWART
Fuck, that is a fork. ... What’s he mumbling? Shit, we need a microphone in there, fast.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
I could ... I’m a lip-reader.
AGENT STWEWART
What?
AGENT BUKOWSKI
Don’t ask.
Agent Bukowski looks through the telescope for some seconds.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
He keeps saying the same thing over and over ... “fuckin’ scrippets”.
AGENT STWEWART
“Fucking scrippets”? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
AGENT BUKOWSKI
Now he’s writing something down ... in big capital letters ... P, H, O, B ... Phobia.
AGENT STWEWART
That’s enough, I’m calling the agency.
Agent Stewart yanks out a cellphone, speeddials.
AGENT STWEWART
Agent Stewart speaking, get me a on secure line to DC, now.
Agent Bukowski still stares into the telescope.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
(to himself) What are you up to, traitor-boy? ... (to Agent Stewart) Okay, he now has pulled photographs out of a drawer in his desk. A lot of photographs.
AGENT STWEWART
(into his cellphone) We’ve got some sort of situation here, Sir. Our objective is acting highly suspicious. He’s looking at a fork, yes, and photographs. Dozens of ‘em. Why that’s bothering me? I tell you, there’s something really bad going on over there. He keeps talking about “scrippets” and ... Sir? Yes, “scrippets” ... what? Oh my god.
Agent Stewart shouts to Agent Bukowski.
AGENT STWEWART
Turn the friggin’ telly on. Now!
Agent Bukowski switches on a small, portable televison set.
AGENT STWEWART
CPN. Faster.
Agent Bukowski flips through the channels, then comes to a halt.
TV-COMMENTATOR (V.O.)
... entering the main production facilities. Actually, it’s the first time, President Corbach is visiting a fork factory. Along with his guest, Russian premier Vitali Gobulov and his wife here in the town of Scrippet, Colorado ...
AGENT BUKOWSKI
Holy shit!
AGENT STWEWART
We’ve got to stop that! What’s he doing over there?
Agent Bukowski looks through the telescope.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
He’s typing. Fast. And mumbling again. This time he says ... oh my god ...
AGENT STWEWART
“Oh my God”?
AGENT BUKOWSKI
No, no. He keeps saying ... “deadline”.
A moment of shared shock between the agents.
AGENT STWEWART
This is it. We take him out. Now.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
Can I do that, please? It would be so good for my ...
AGENT STWEWART
Yes, yes, but fuckin’ hurry! The President’s life is on the line!
Agent Bukowski grabs a sniper rifle, puts it on the window sill. Then hesitates.
AGENT BUKOWSKI
But what if he is just ...
AGENT STWEWART
Shoot him. Now!
BANG. A shot! Agent Bukowski drops dead to the ground, a red hole in his forehead.
AGENT STWEWART
What the ...?
BANG. Another shot. Agent Stewart is down too, blood sipping on the floor from his shattered skull.
A moment of silence, as we ponder the mayhem, suddenly an explosion is heard, over the television. Televised screams fill the room.
TV-COMMENTATOR (V.O.)
Oh my god. Oh my god! This is a bloodbath! The entire building is hit by an enormous explosion, the people inside maimed by literally millions of forks! I can’t believe this is happening. This is unbelievable! There seems to be no way, President Corbach, nor Premier Gobulov or his wife Phobia have survived this brutal, heinous attack ...
FADE OUT
September 17th, 2008 at 6:36 am
One more for good measure. I haven’t read the other entries so something along these lines might already be done. I’m sure this ain’t the only bloody fork in the bunch… but can you really ever have too many bloody forks? Yes, yes I believe you can. Oh well. My apologies to all… and to Harold.
INT. MOVIE THEATRE LOBBY – NIGHT
HAROLD, a bit doughy and the opposite of clean-cut, stares absently while munching popcorn and creating a grease-trail on his faded purple XXXL tee-shirt.
The movie poster that has him transfixed shows a buxom, screaming woman and, just entering the picture, a huge bloody fork. The splashy red title reads: “PHOBIA! A Film By Paul W. S. Anderson... Nothing To Fear But Fear Itself!”
Harold works on a wedged seed with his tongue, nodding.
HAROLD
(to self)
I am, like, SO there, man...
September 17th, 2008 at 6:38 am
INT. DINER – DAY
CHUCK is sitting in a booth, eating alone. LAWRENCE, a far from inconspicuous private detective, walks up to his table.
LAWRENCE
Charles Allen?
CHUCK
Yeah, that’s me. Somethin’ I can do for you?
LAWRENCE
Mind if I sit down?
CHUCK
(Turning his attention away from the stranger and back to his dinner)
I doubt it would matter if I do.
LAWRENCE
I imagine you’re right. Let me explain, Mr. Allen. My name is Lawrence Mead. I work as a private detective.
Chuck looks up from his plate, sauce hanging desperately to his lower lip
CHUCK
Really? I thought the trenchcoat was more of a fashion statement.
LAWRENCE
I’m glad you think this is funny, Mr. Allen. I’m here because of your father-in-law.
CHUCK
Oh, Jackson?
He stops to spear a bite of the meat on his plate. Shoving it into his mouth and not bothering to swallow before continuing.
CHUCK
(Continuing)
How is he? Still the same obnoxious self-aggrandizing--
LAWRENCE
(Cutting him off)
Rich. That’s how he is. Rich and convinced that these business trips of yours involve more than just business.
Chuck stabs another bite with his fork, and points it at Lawrence.
CHUCK
Look, if we’re going to talk business, you might want to get something to eat. The food here is great.
LAWRENCE
That’s all right. I don’t eat food that I haven’t made myself. After that movie, you know with the two girls down in Alabama, I just don’t trust what anybody else tries to serve me.
CHUCK
That’s pretty messed up, if you ask me Larry. You oughta talk to a shrink about that.
LAWRENCE
I didn’t ask you and I didn’t tell you to call me Larry. Besides, I don’t think I’ve got much of an appetite right now anyway.
Lawrence pulls out a photograph and pushes it across the table to Chuck.
LAWRENCE
Your beloved father-in-law is willing to pay me a lot to find out what’s going on when you leave your wife at home all the time for these trips.
He pushes another picture over to Chuck.
LAWRENCE
(Continuing)
A whole lot. Of course, if he gets what he wants, not only do you lose your wife, but you lose access to all her money. The way I see it, these pictures may be worth a good bit more to you than they are to him.
Chuck scrapes up the last of the food on his plate, and as he finishes the bite, picks up one of the photographs.
CHUCK
Fried Green Tomatoes.
(Off Lawrence’s confused look.)
The movie you were trying to think of, the one that’s got you so scared, that’s Fried Green Tomatoes. A chick flick.
He wipes his mouth with his napkin, then looks at the picture again with a smirk.
CHUCK
(Continuing)
Now, let’s talk business.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:52 am
My first scene so please go easy on me ya’ll :-)
FADE IN:
INT. OFFICE BUILDING -- NIGHT
MIKE, a handsome, upper class man in his mid-thirties, sits at his desk with his office chair turned around. He is staring out his office window of the empty 69 story Michigan Avenue skyscraper. He is dressed impeccably – wearing a black pin-stripped Armani suit, white Valentino shirt, red Ferragamo necktie and black Bruno Magli shoes. He sits motionless, holding a long, blank stare out of the window into the black velvet night.
On the center of his desk, directly behind him, is a MANILA ENVELOPE with only a corner of a photograph visible. Next to the ENVELOPE lies his CELL PHONE.
The CELL PHONE begins to RING on his desk. After four rings, Mike slowly turns and picks up his CELL PHONE. After a brief glance at the number on the screen, he answers.
MIKE
Hello.
HEATHER (V.O.)
(filtered)
Mike? Where are you?
MIKE
At the office.
INT. MIKE’S HOME -- NIGHT
Mike’s wife HEATHER, a gorgeous woman in her mid-twenties with long, blond hair, is standing in the dimly-lit, enormous KITCHEN holding a cell phone to her ear. Her hourglass figure reflects off the white marble flooring.
HEATHER
This late? What’s going on?
INT. OFFICE BUILDING -- NIGHT
Mike glances at his watch and immediately leaves his office, grabbing the manila envelope on his way out. He enters the stairwell, pauses, and begins walking up the steps.
INT. STAIRWELL -- NIGHT
MIKE
Taking care of something.
INTERCUT
HEATHER
What are you taking care of?
MIKE
My biggest phobia.
Mike reaches the top of the stairwell and exits the door labeled ROOF.
HEATHER (V.O.)
(filtered)
Your what?
EXT. ROOFTOP -- NIGHT
Mike walks out onto the rooftop all the way to the ledge. As he steps onto the ledge, he kicks some debris over the edge. He stops, and watching the debris fall, he sees that beneath his feet – 69 stories below – is Michigan Avenue lit up by the ornamental street lights. Mike once again glances at his watch.
MIKE
My phobia. You know “dear!” – my fear of heights.
INTERCUT
HEATHER
Mike, what’s that noise? What’s wrong? Please tell me. You’re scaring me.
MIKE
Did you see today’s mail?
(beat)
Heather walks over to the pile of MAIL she had placed earlier on the black granite countertop and begins to shuffle through it. She immediately notices a MANILA ENVELOPE that had nothing written on it but her name.
She opens the ENVELOPE and pulls out a black and white photo of her and another MAN outside of a MOTEL room. They are wrapped in each others arms, engaged in a passionate kiss.
HEATHER
Mike I can expla...
MIKE
(shouting)
Shut the fuck up! I gave you everything and this is how you repay me. You’re nothing but a whore!
Heather turns, faces the window above the sink and leans on countertop with her head down.
HEATHER
(crying)
Mike...I love you.
MIKE
Love! You don’t know what love is... but I’m about to show you.
Mike glances at his watch once again.
HEATHER
(crying)
Mike...please...come...
WHACK! A large PITCHFORK is thrust in the back of Heather and exits out of her midsection. She lets out a SCREAM. Gasping for air, she falls to the floor – crimson blood spilling out of her on the white marble.
As she lay on her side taking her last breath, she makes out a MAN wearing a ski mask and dressed in all black. He kneels down next to her and picks up the CELL PHONE and places it next to his ear.
MAN
It’s done!
On the rooftop Mike drops the CELL PHONE over the ledge. He slowly raises the PHOTOGRAPH in his left hand and stares at it for a minute and drops it over the ledge. He gazes out at the beautiful city skyline and then slowly leans forward off the ledge.
FADE OUT.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:52 am
INT. HIGHSCHOOL CAFETERIA – LUNCHTIME
It’s loud with teenaged chatter and cell texting. ELIZABETH DIETRICH, a sixteen-year-old in glasses and a shapeless plaid shirt, walks between the rows of tables, carrying a tray of food. She’s talking to LORI, also sixteen, with a nose piercing and a Ramones tee. Trailing after them is BRENT, overweight, pimpled, already digging into his TRAY of mac-and-cheese with a greasy cafeteria FORK.
ELIZABETH
Okay, look. I realize I might not have handled last night that well. But did you have to tell Kenneth that I have a real ... “boner phobia”?
LORI
Well he already knows you’re in the school band. I couldn’t tell him you have a “music phobia”.
ELIZABETH
Why do I have to have any phobia?!
LORI
How else am I supposed to explain you running off like Forrest Gump? You’re lucky I didn’t keep those Death Cab tickets for myself.
ELIZABETH
This is a nightmare. Now the whole school thinks I’m gay.
LORI
The whole school? Liz. Kenneth likes you. I’m sure he didn’t tell anyone.
In front of the girls jumps DAVID HAN: a short nerdy korean with a huge, twenty-year-old POLAROID CAMERA hanging around his neck. The strap is far too big for him, and the camera hangs at his belt. The girls stop abruptly. Brent bumps into them from behind, almost losing his tray.
DAVID HAN
Photo for the yearbook?
They stare at him dubiously. No one ever wanted to take their picture before.
DAVID HAN
The school gets more funding for sex ed if they think we have lesbians here.
LORI
Take my picture and I’ll cram that camera up your wasabi hole.
DAVID HAN
This is my Dad’s camera.
LORI
I don’t care if it’s Kim Jong Il’s
BRENT
(mouth full, fork waving)
That camera is broken anyway. He spent twenty minutes this morning trying to take a picture of the computer class. Mr. Hagedorn tried to fix it for him, so we got to play Pokemon.
Elizabeth looks at him.
BRENT
I mean Counterstrike.
David Han holds the camera up to his eye and tries to take a photo. The camera clicks but nothing happens. He shakes the camera and tries again. Still nothing.
ELIZABETH
(to Lori)
Great. Just great.
One of the tables nearby is filled with Jocks. PETE, seventeen, brushcut and a smirk, leans out into the aisle.
PETE
Hey Dietrich. Don’t be scared, but, I’ve got something here for you.
He grabs his groin.
BRENT
(brandishing his fork like a samurai sword)
You want a second mouth, a-hole?
PETE
(stands up)
You want some of this, fatass?
Pete shoves Brent, who staggers backwards, trying to keep his balance. He spins around, and slams his tray food-first into Elizabeth, covering her shirt with mac and cheese. The tray drops, clattering noisily.
The entire cafeteria hushes, as everyone turns to look.
ELIZABETH
Ugh! What’s next?!
KENNETH walks up.
KENNETH
Hey.
(a long beat)
ELIZABETH
(deep breath)
Hey! Um. Hi. Listen. Before you say anything. Is it possible you could just ... um ... forget that you saw me right now? And the next time you see me, can we just ... pretend like this never happened? Because, I don’t think I can deal with being more embarassed than I already am.Behind her, Brent takes a step and slips on the mac-and-cheese that’s covering the floor. As he falls, he grabs Elizabeth’s shirt, which rips away, leaving her in nothing but her bra.
You could hear a pin drop. Then...
At his belt, David Han’s CAMERA GOES OFF WITH A FLASH. The photo falls to the floor.
Elizabeth sighs.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:56 am
INT. BUSY RESTAURANT KITCHEN – NIGHT
RUDY, 17, smiling broadly, dressed in kitchen whites, stands before a giant sink spraying down dirty dishes.
He takes careful aim at trouble spots, destroying globs of syrup, ice cream and cake, all with crackshot precision.
Rudy moves on to a pile of spoons, spraying down through the pile as the spoons scatter from the force of the stream.
The spoons part to reveal at the very bottom of the pile...one fork.
Rudy gasps, his smile replaced with a grimace. He tosses the sprayer absent-mindedly, sending the coiled stainless nozzle flying into the face of a passing WAITER. The Waiter shrieks in pain, hurling the stacked tray of sundaes and pastries he’d been carrying into the air.
The desserts impact all over the kitchen, eliciting yelps and shouts as Rudy, motionless, stares down into the sink.
The fork sits alone in a corona of spoons, gleaming. Light glints off one of its tines.
A PASTRY CHEF and the WAITER, stained with ice cream and chocolate, join Rudy at the sink.
WAITER
What the hell, Rudy?
PASTRY CHEF
(looking into sink)
Just hold on a minute, Jesse. Rudy? Can you hear me?
Chef waves a hand in front of Rudy’s face.
PASTRY CHEF
(to Waiter)
I think he’s in shock. I knew this would happen one day.
(angry, turning on the rest of the staff)
Who gave a customer this goddamned fork?!
The rest of the staff looks away, eager to avoid Chef’s gaze.
WAITER
I think I...
PASTRY CHEF
YES??
WAITER
I...I gave a customer a fork, he asked for one.
PASTRY CHEF
There’s a procedure to follow. You can’t just hand out forks of your own free will!
WAITER
He was having apple pie. Who eats pie with a spoon?
PASTRY CHEF
(embracing Rudy)
Rudy is fork-phobic! Don’t you understand? It’s our responsibility to create a safe work environment for everyone. EVERYONE! How would you like it if we covered the dining floor with landmines? Make your job a lot more dangerous, wouldn’t it?
WAITER
How was I supposed to---
Chef points at the far wall. The Waiter turns to find a simple sign picturing a fork with a red line across it.
WAITER
But we specialize in pastries, how can you eat pastry without a fork?
Rudy starts to moan.
PASTRY CHEF
(to Rudy, a whisper)
I’m sorry, Rudy, I’m taking it away. We’ll lock it in the safe with the others. You won’t see it again.
(reaches down to grab the fork)
Try to forgive me.
The Chef steps away from Rudy and toward the backpedalling Waiter.
WAITER
Careful with that.
PASTRY CHEF
Oh, scared? Scared of this?
(waving the fork)
Ever see what one of these can do?
The Chef reaches into his tunic and pulls out a tattered Polaroid.
PASTRY CHEF
Look.
WAITER
(catches a glance and turns away)
No, I...wait...
PASTRY CHEF
I’ll bet this guy thought the same way you do. Look at this picture and see what a fork can do. Look at it!
He’s backed the Waiter into the corner. The Waiter tries to look away, but sees no other way out but to face the Polaroid head-on.
WAITER
That’s...horrible...But...
PASTRY CHEF
But what?
WAITER
It doesn’t look like the fork did any of the damage to this guy. I mean, there’s the pot of boiling water, the hot oil...Hell, there are motorcycle tracks over his chest.
PASTRY CHEF
Don’t you see? The fork started it all!
The Waiter works his way out of the corner and starts to walk out, pulling off his bowtie and vest.
WAITER
You’re crazy.
(points at Rudy)
And if he’s fork-phobic, why is he working as a dishwasher?
PASTRY CHEF
What, he’s not entitled to pursue his dream like you are? Go on, quit, we don’t need your hatred here!
The Waiter exits out the back door.
Rudy is coming around. Chef gives him an encouraging embrace.
RUDY
What happened?
PASTRY CHEF
Never you mind.
A BUSBOY dumps a fresh pile of dirty dishes into the sink.
PASTRY CHEF
Look!
RUDY
(beaming)
It’s like Christmas morning!
Rudy grabs his spray nozzle and gets back to work as the Chef looks on.
September 17th, 2008 at 6:59 am
INT. CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY
JOHNSON and ROGERS are taking a power lunch and talking before the meeting begins.
JOHNSON
I don’t think that it’s fair that Miller gets this promotion before we do. I have this huge phobia that I’m going to die before I make CEO.
ROGERS
I agree, but you know why he got it. It’s because of the C-M-N-E.
JOHNSON
C-M-N-E?
ROGERS
Yeah, the Corporate Male Nipple Effect.
JOHNSON drops his fork.
JOHNSON
You’re kidding me, right? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
ROGERS
You got my pic message right? The one I sent to everyone?
JOHNSON
Apparently not.
ROGERS
Lemme show ya.
ROGERS pulls out his Blackberry and shows JOHNSON a picture of MILLER swimming.
JOHNSON
Oh my god! Those things are huge!
ROGERS
And round, too. I’m telling you, it’s C-M-N-E. Women with larger boobs have been getting promotions for years, it’s our turn.
JOHNSON
Time to let these babies shine! Where’s the ice cubes?
September 17th, 2008 at 6:59 am
INT. BUILDING LOBBY, DOWNTOWN, L.A. – DAY
TOMMY, 39, with a briefcase and wearing a hundred dollar Men’s Wearhouse suit is sweating profusely as he argues with GEORGE, 28, who’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, in front of a set of elevators.
TOMMY
No way. No How.
GEORGE
You gonna walk?
TOMMY (shrugs/beat) My only uncle bought it on one of these things.
GEORGE
Numbnuts, it’s on the 44th floor. That’s at least a half-an-hour walk, if you make it, and we’re 10 minutes late now.
TOMMY
Ain’t happening.
A packed elevator opens and a HERD of PEOPLE spills out.
GEORGE
If we miss this meeting, that’s it. Everything we’ve worked for is gone. Poof-no cars, no house, no girls, no getting Erica back.
TOMMY
What’s she got to do with it?
GEORGE
Why do you think she left you?
Tommy’s got no answer.
GEORGE
Because you’ve got no money, Tommy.
CUT TO:
INT. BUILDING – 44TH FLOOR – HARRIS & BERGEMAN
CHARLIE HARRIS,48, African-American, primly groomed with muscles nearly bulging out of his two thousand dollar suit, is at his desk eating a steak from Fine-China.
His son, CHARLIE JR., 24, is standing behind him. They’re having a good chuckle watching GEORGE and TOMMY on the computer monitor.
CHARLIE
What the hell are they doing?
CHARLIE JR.
I don’t know, Pop. Maybe trying to get an angle.
Charlie picks up a large still photo imprinted with a time code. In it a thinly disguised George and Tommy a breaking into the back door of a house.
CHARLIE
One thing I do know is they better have my shit.
One the monitor: George and Tommy get on the elevator.
Charlie eats another bite of his steak, wipes his fork clean with his cloth napkin, and gets up.
He keeps the fork in one hand and grabs the photo with the other.
CHARLIE
I’ll be right back.
Charlie Jr. starts to follow.
CHARLIE
Sit tight. I got this.
INT. ELEVATOR
GEORGE and TOMMY are riding up to the 44th floor. Tommy is on the brink of a panic attack and George is a little amused.
GEORGE
I told you this is perfectly safe.
The elevator arrives at its destination and opens.
CHARLIE is standing front and center. He pulls the emergency stop button on the elevator, sending the BUZZER off.
CHARLIE
George?
TOMMY
No, I’m Tommy he’s George.
CHARLIE (raises the photo) Hey, you wouldn’t happen to recognize these two, would you? (uses the fork as a pointer)
George and Tommy stand silent.
CHARLIE
OK, because they look familiar. Matter fact, they look just like the two clowns standing right in front of me.
GEORGE
You must be mistaken.
Charlie slams the fork with the photo under Tommy’s chin. With the photo now pinned to his face, George falls to the back of the elevator. Blood gushes.
George stands stunned looking at his friend, and Charlie punches him, knocking him out cold.
Charlie picks up the briefcase, straightens his suit out, and leaves a heaping mess behind in the elevator.
September 17th, 2008 at 7:03 am
INT. LABORATORY CAFITERIA -- DAY
Intern HOWARD and intern STOLDT are in mid-conversation as they polish off the daily special. It looks anything but that.
HOWARD
If your safe word’s so good then what is it?
STOLDT
Bismarck.
HOWARD
The ship or the city?
(no answer)
Yea...Bismarck’s good.
STOLDT
Bismarck’s reallll good.
DR. JOHANNSON, Principal Research Scientist of Bloomberg experiments, pushes through the cafeteria door whispering heatedly at a copy of The Times. He walks past the interns not noticing them.
JOHNNASON
Kapowski, you smug bastard, don’t you think I don’t know that you stole my formula. That’s my award you’re accepting. (His blood boiling now) I’ve got an award for you, you little prick, the Nobel Prize for douchebaggery. (stops, thinks) No, the Nobel Committee would never award such a thing. Don’t worry Johannson, you’ll think of something better later, you always d...
HOWARD
Doctor, is everything alright over there?
Sitting down at their table, he takes HOWARD’s fork from his hand and begins to pick away at his lunch.
JOHANNSON
Look at this self-righteous bastard. He knows that formula was mine. And now look at him. (Points the photograph in The Times.) That should have been me on stage with that Einstein historical impersonator.
STOLDT stares at them blankly
HOWARD
‘The Spfoa’s’...the Scientific Prize for Outstanding Achievement in Science...they’re the Oscars of the scientific community.
JOHANNSON
Yes, and this year was supposed to be my Scorsese year. You know what comes with this award? Fame. Accolades. Kudos. All the fine scientist tail you could ever imagine. After years and years of coming so close, I could finally taste it. It tasted so sweet. (Now carving the eyes out of his nemesis’ picture with a fork prong) But this congratulaphobic tit stole my formula and my award. Now all that’s left is the bitter taste of humiliation, like a day spent sealing envelopes.
STOLDT
Are you sure congratulaphobic is a wor...
JOHANNSON
Yes, intern, I do think it is a word, and this man is the definition.
STOLDT
I spent my undergrad studying to become a clinical psychology intern and I’ve never heard of that condition before.
JOHANNSON
I’m the scientist damn it, I’d like to think I know what is and isn’t a real disease. That’s why they call me DOCTOR Johannson. And this man’s a textbook congratulaphobic just as sure as you’re a dullard and you’re a doper.
(pointing at STOLDT and HOWARD respectively)
(Beat)
Congratulaphobia. ‘Phobia’ means fear of. ‘Congratula’ is the first two thirds or congratulations, it means congratulations. Combined, if you’re following along you may have already figured this out, it means the fear of giving someone their due recognition. This is far from rocket science. Did you even learn anything at school or did you get your degree of the back of a cereal box? This man is unwilling to accept that I outdid him this year, that my formula was pure scientific magic. So he stole it and is playing it off as his own.
STOLDT
Did he really steal it? Or are you just envious? Are you the congratulaphobic? Its okay doctor, we all wish we were on stage with that Einstein historical impersonator. If you just admit it, you will feel that burden of this condition lift off your shoulders. Just say it, ‘congratulations’.
JOHANNSON
You’re right intern...congratulations.
(beat)
You’re fired. (pointing at HOWARD) Let this be a lesson to you, don’t ever make me do that again.
JOHANNSON turns and walks out of the cafeteria.