Diabolic Fiction

The Attic Wars

(a.k.a. 9&PENN)
excerpt from feature-length screenplay

FADE IN:

EXT. IDYLLIC BACKYARD -- AFTERNOON
Camera holds on a pink, terry cloth towel hanging from a clothesline, swaying gently in the breeze.

CARR
(v.o., thoughtfully)
Terry cloth.
(pause)
Have you ever felt it? On your face? Hands? Knees? I have. It is luxurious. Oh, you like silk? Well, fuck silk. You’re wearing caterpillar shit. I’d never be caught dead in it. But the first girl did. I bet she loved the stuff.

BLOOD is splashed across the towel as the song “Hole In My Life” by The Police begins.

FADE OUT

FADE IN

MUSIC is still playing as CREDITS begin over JON SUNN (early-30s, clean cut, impeccable black suit) walking down a Washington, D.C. urban street in a ritzy part of town.

He enters a high-class men’s clothing shop.

A MONTAGE shows Sunn being FITTED for several dress shirts and a dark suit by a tailor.

Montage ends and Sunn leaves the store and enters an Irish pub next door. The address over the door reads “6”.

CREDITS END – MUSIC ENDS

INT. BROTHEL, SAN FRANCISCO -- EVENING
WINSTON CARR sits in a row of chairs against one wall of the ornate waiting room. The walls are covered in crushed red velvet wallpaper. He waits quietly, with his hands in his lap.

PEGGY HIPP enters, followed by a line of prostitutes, all of varying ethnicities, sizes and shapes.

PEGGY
Welcome, Mr. Ca-

CARR
(interrupts, whispers)
Tiberius.

PEGGY
(whispers)
Sorry.
(out loud)
Welcome, Tiberius. Who will it be today?

Peggy walks over to the line-up of girls and holds her hand over the first one’s head. Carr shakes his head. Peggy and Carr repeat this ritual several times until she holds her hand over the head of MS. EDITIRX (asian, early 20s). An almost imperceptible frown appears on her face.

PEGGY
(sotto)
Of course.
(out loud)
Ms. Editrix, would you escort Tiberius to suite 6?

Ms. Editrix takes Carr by the hand and leads him down a side hall lined with red doors, all with numbers starting from 1. They stop in front of 6 and disappear inside.

INT. IRISH PUB, WASHINGTON D.C. -- EVENIING
Sunn’s friend, LIAM DANVER (early-30s, looking a bit disheveled) is sitting at a table in the middle of the pub. The happy hour crowd is in full force. Liam looks up as Sunn approaches.

CROSSFADE TO:
Sunn and Liam have been in the pub for several hours now. The happy hour crowd has dwindled. Liam is looking drunk while Sunn remains relaxed, distant. Liam has a small glass of scotch with a sugarcube dissolving at the bottom. Sunn has a tall, slender glass of lager.

LIAM
Do you have any idea how much you cost?

SUNN
Do we have to do this?

LIAM
Just drink up and hear me out.
(pause)
And what’s with the glass? It reminds me of my mother.

SUNN
Why?

LIAM
She was a model in the ‘60s. Runway, department store ads, movie stand-in, the whole thing. She also liked to dress me up like a ballerina and have me dance for her fucking druggie friends.

SUNN
Was this before college?

LIAM
Jesus Christ, Sunn. I try to tell you something and you just make fun of it. What the fuck?

SUNN
You’re right. Sorry.

LIAM
Anyway, how much do you think it would cost to replace a woman? I mean, if she were an android or something, fabricated from parts and stuff?

SUNN
I don't know, Liam.

LIAM
Take a fucking guess.

SUNN
Are we talking replicant, or robot?

LIAM
It doesn't matter, but if you must have an answer, then I would say replicant, because who would want to fuck a metal girl?

SUNN
Well, if you're talking replicant, then I would have to say around, uh, twenty-two thousand dollars.

Liam coughs. Scotch drips from his chin.

LIAM
(wiping chin)
You're kidding, right?

SUNN
What do you mean?

INT. –- BROTHEL, ROOM 6, EVENING
Carr is laying with his eyes shut, in a post-coital coma.

EDITRIX
(O.C.)
I mean, do you ever think some wealthy, great-looking guy will come in here and fall for you?

INT. –- BROTHEL, BATHROOM
Ms. Editrix is standing in a bathroom that adjoins room 6 and room 8. She is talking to fellow prostitute, MS. CARAMEL (40s, Af.Amer).

CARAMEL
(weak smile)
Every day, it’s the only thing that keeps me from killing myself.

EDITRIX
This guy keeps telling me he’s a government agent, but when I looked in his wallet, I found out he’s only an insurance investigator. All I get are these aging, flabby losers that can’t even keep it up for more than a minute. Most of their money pays for nap time. I don’t know why they don’t just get a hotel room and rent some porn.

CARAMEL
Be thankful, girl. The last thing you want is some pig sweatin’ on you for an hour.

EDITRIX
(pointing back into the room)
I never have to worry about that with him. It’s over before it’s even started. I get to catch up on my soaps while he sleeps it off.
(pause, sobbing)
I almost got sick again.

CARAMEL
Oh, no, baby.

Caramel hugs Editrix.

CARAMEL
(cont’d)
Baby, baby, baby. You got to get out of this.

INT. –- BROTHEL, ROOM 6
Carr is laying in bed wide awake as the girls converse. His lips are trembling as he listens to them.

EDITRIX
(O.C.)
He always picks me. Why? I had to bite my hand just to keep from throwing up.

CARAMEL
Oh, baby. Let Caramel take care of you.
(pause)
Talk to Ms. Deinomache. Maybe she could make it so you don’t have to be with him again.

EDITRIX
You think? God, I would be so happy. I don’t know if I can do this again.
(pause)
I don’t think she likes me.

CARAMEL
Don’t worry, baby. Caramel will make everything all right.

A single tear runs down the face of Carr.


CROSSFADE TO:
INT. - IRISH PUB, WASHINGTON D.C.
Liam and Sunn are still in the middle of their heated discussion.

LIAM
What do you mean, it’s all right? Do you know how much it costs to train you, clothe you, house you and pay you?

SUNN
I never thought about it, Liam.

LIAM
It's why Deuxchamp is always on your ass about getting rid of that racecar. If you die in a crash, or are even injured, there goes the investment.

SUNN
I would hardly call a 1974 Chevelle a racecar.

LIAM
It growls when you touch the gas pedal- its got fucking stripes on it- it's a racecar.

SUNN
Whatever, the point is I don't race it.

Liam shakes his head and waves his hands.

LIAM
That's not the point. We're getting off the subject. You say that the female replicant should cost twenty-two thousand dollars. Is that right?

SUNN
Yes, depending on her looks. I mean, I'm not paying 22-grand for the Mona Lisa.

LIAM
That's a given. I'm talking about a beautiful girl, like Asia Argento or Sandra Bernhardt.

Sunn coughs, hiding a grin by wiping his mouth with a cocktail napkin.

SUNN
How can you put Asia Argento and Sandra Bernhardt in the same category? One you would pay any amount to have while the other is maybe a blue-light special at $9.95.

LIAM
(agitated)
It doesn't fucking matter, allright? Whatever you think is beautiful and whatever I think is beautiful doesn't fucking matter. All I'm saying is that our ideal, ok, our ideal is worth twenty-two thousand. Can we agree on that?

SUNN
Sure. Our individual ideal, no matter how fucked up it is.

LIAM
Yes, no matter-
(pause)
For fuck'sake, can we just have a normal conversation for once?

SUNN
Normal? What is normal about the list price of a female replicant?

LIAM
It is just an example. I don't even know why we're talking about replicants.

Liam finishes his scotch and waves to a waitress. While he waits he chews on the sugarcube.

LIAM
(cont’d)
Listen, just pick out a girl that you like.

SUNN
Well, I like Lynda Carter.

LIAM
Wonder Woman? No, I mean someone in this bar.

SUNN
Oh. Well, I would have to say...

Sunn scans the women, all of varied ethnicities and forms. There’s an Asian girl in the corner, two black girls at a table by the bar, a group of solidly-built softball players chatting by the window and a tired-looking brunette in the back. All women. Liam and Sunn are the only men in the place besides the bartender.

SUNN
How about the one back there?

LIAM
The Korean girl?

SUNN
No. Brown hair, at the table in the back. She kind of looks upset and tired at the same time.

LIAM
Upset and tired? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you profiling her?

SUNN
If you don’t want to play…

LIAM
Ok. Whatever.
(pause)
Now, considering you'd pay twenty-two thousand dollars for your ideal woman, what would you pay for her?

SUNN
Well, if my ideal is Wonder Woman, then I am basing all my assumptions on physical attraction and creative use of a lariat. But, what if she's completely uninteresting, or she hates everything I like, or she smokes, or has bad breath? In that case, she would only be my ideal for beauty, but not the whole package. If the brown-haired woman's personality is perfect, then she would become my new ideal. How much then? Fifty thousand? One-hundred thousand? But it is not what I'd be willing to pay, but the manufacturer's perception of what men would think of her. To me she might be the ideal, but to the majority of consumers, she might be a blue light special.
(pause)
I'll be right back, Liam.

LIAM
Hurry up, I'm losing interest in this shit.

Sunn walks over to the brunette who is sitting alone at a corner table.

SUNN
(to woman)
Hi. My name is Sunn.

The woman doesn’t seem to hear Sunn. She is engrossed in the swirls of her drink.

SUNN
(cont’d)
Excuse me.

Sunn clears his throat to which the girl absently responds by holding out her empty glass.

RAMONA
Seven and seven.

Sunn takes her glass, turns to get her another drink, then stops and turns back to her.

SUNN
I'm sorry. I'm not a bartender.

RAMONA
Then what can you do for me?

SUNN
I'm an FBI agent. Maybe I could help you.

Diabolos Fantastik

Synopsis for a graphic novel
or ongoing comic book series
Written by Jon Wilkins

VOLUME 1: The Cane of Abel
Abel Winston is a bored millionaire in Victorian England when he decides to dress up like Dracula and stalk the dark alleys of the East End scaring people. One night, he stumbles on an attempted murder and scares the thugs away by accident when he slips and falls from his hiding place. News spreads about the vampire hero and Abel decides to carry on fighting crime dressed as a vampire. At first, he is sloppy, but soon gets better and enlists the aid of assistants who create weapons and special effects for him. His alter-ego is Diabolos, more of an anti-hero, not fighting crime because it is the right thing to do, but because it takes him away from a very boring life. His costume looks more like a toned-down Nosferatu. This comic will have a very dark, comedic tone.
ATMOSPHERE REFERENCE: Dr. Who - The Talons of Weng Chiang. Kind of a cross between Batman: Year One and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, if David Lynch directed it.

Twilight of the Dead

synopsis for a feature-length screenplay

It is the year 3034. Mankind has long since abandoned Earth for the moon, leaving the zombie horde to roam across the world. The Earth colony on the Moon sends a squad of military scientists to make its yearly inspection of the planet, believing a cure for the undead can be found. The 10-person crew lands on Earth to find that an alien race has enslaved the zombies and are making them dig a massive, 1-mile wide pit in the middle of Central Park. The crew finds that over the years, the zombies have acquired a limited intelligence, manifesting itself in speech and understanding of their condition. A few of the more advanced zombies have formed an underground rebellion to free their brothers and sisters. The crew joins with them to discover what the aliens are looking for. But it won’t be easy. The aliens have turned some of the zombies into an elite fighting force the rebellion knicknames Crushers. Could the artifact in the pit be the thing that caused the zombies to rise in the first place? Do the aliens want control over this device? And if so, why?

DORNÓG: a dream

1. In the small county of Brimstone, Illinois there sat the only known, perfectly circular field in the world. Its diameter stretched 70 feet with a dense forest spreading out from its sharp edge. Its surface was smooth sand with not a blemish on it. No grass...no pinecones...no foreign matter whatsoever. Except... one small pebble directly in the center of the circle. Hardly noticeable, really. It never actually caught anyone's eye until the boy came along. He is known as "the boy" because no one thought to ask his name. But after everything was said and done, you can't really blame anyone for not asking. That was the last thing on their minds.

2. As boys go, this one hadn't seemed too special. His sandy blonde hair was cut around his head and a few thick pieces often fell in front of his eyes. He had pale blue eyes and a stare that could make the Devil nervous. He was thought to be around ten years old and stood almost 4 1/2 feet tall. His voice was soft yet growled with age and his intellect darted at you like a snake's tongue.
Everyone in Brimstone knew all of this, but that didn't get to the heart of what the boy was made of. Some said he was made of iron and some said he wasn't made of anything... that he was a ghost. But one thing they all agreed on was that he had saved Brimstone.

3. It was on a cloudy summer day that the boy happened upon the clearing. Dark, murderous clouds rushed overhead throwing shadows over the sand making it seem as if ripples were expanding across the flat surface. But not even the wind could stir the infinite grains. The boy took a tentative step onto the clearing and let his foot sink into the cool sand. He took another step, and another until he had crossed one radius and reached the pebble. When he looked back, he saw that his imprints had disappeared. There was no trace that he had walked across the clearing. The pebble was very smooth...very round...and looked very heavy. He tried to pick it up but it wouldn't move. It seemed rooted to the sand by an invisible force. The boy could dig his hand under and around, but not move it. The boy noticed that the pebble emitted a low hum that seemed to shake the earth. He put his ear to it and listened as it talked. The boy sat down Indian-style with the pebble between his crossed legs. He just stared at it... waiting for something.

4. Hours later, the boy stood up, his job done. The pebble no longer rumbled or talked or felt cold to the touch. It could now be picked up and was no longer heavy or round or very smooth. It was just an ordinary pebble as it once had been. The boy strode across the sand leaving his imprints in the frightened grains. Days later an electrified fence was erected around the clearing and an ultra-secret government agency set up an underground base directly beneath it. The clearing remained unblemished except for a trail of small footprints.

Dancing....Sleeping....Falling

PARIS, 18th century

1. Franz Mesmer walked out of his two-story apartment and made his way down the Rue de Bastille toward the theater. He knew there would be a line of sophisticates stretched around the block...all of them waiting like sheep to witness his power.
Yes...that was a good word for it...POWER.
“Professor Mesmer? Wait for me, professor!”
Franz turned to see one of his pupils, a well fed young man named Puysegur. “Right on time, boy. Do you have my devices?”
Puysegur patted a canvas bag slithered around his shoulder, its weight causing him to walk like a hunchback. “Everything’s in here, sir. I wouldn’t forget a thing.”
Franz smiled evilly. “I should hope not, Puysegur. I should hope not.”
They finally arrived at the stage entrance at the rear of the Cine de Diabolos. A stage manger greeted them and Mesmer strode purposefully to his dressing room. Puysegur headed in the opposite direction toward the stage to set up the devices.
Inside his room, Mesmer sat down in front of a large mirror. Red light bulbs encircled the glass and bathed his face in a bloody hue.
A knock came to the door.
“Entre,” he sighed.
The door opened and in walked Madame Eman Chudolais, wife to one of the richest men in France.
“What can I do for you, Frau Chudolais?”
Eman glided to where he sat and touched his shoulder lightly.
“It is more what I can do for you, Herr Mesmer,” she purred as she slid into a crushed velvet chaise lounge. “You see, my husband has a smoking problem. It is affecting his health. I think you may be able to help him.”
Her eyes moved over him like hundreds of tiny hands.
Mesmer smiled. “Well, if you need some tickets for tonight's show, maybe I can...”
“No, Herr Mesmer. I need you to see him right away. I can make it worth your while.”
Madame slipped two gold coins onto his make-up table. He picked them up and they glittered on his palm like two tiny suns.
“Well, I would be delighted to see Herr Chudolais. My show is over at midnight, if you care to..."
Madame Chudolais stood up. She didn’t seem very happy. “You do not understand. You must see him now. He is waiting outside the door.”
Mesmer was annoyed by the intrusion. It’s only a smoking problem, he thought.
Madame went to the door, opened it and motioned for someone to come in.
“Here is my husband, Monsieur Chudolais.”
In walked a short, overweight man who held a glass in his meaty, right fist. The contents of the glass were constantly being drained into his mouth and then refilled by a dwarf carrying a bottle of very aged wine.
“Can you help me?” asked Chudolais between gulps.
“Well, I believe I can, Monsieur. If you would be so kind as to have a seat over here.” Mesmer motioned to a chair and the two men sat facing each other a foot apart.
“Now, just concentrate on your problem, Monsieur. Think only of your problem and close your eyes. Let your mind drift...let your eyes close...your mind drift...your eyes close....your mind drift...your eyes close...your mind drift....your eyes close....your mind drift....your eyes close....your mind drift...your eyes close...your mind .drift...your eyes close...your mind drift...your ey.......
Mesmer was suddenly overwhelmed by nausea. His stomach churned and his head felt light as a feather.
“Please, excuse me for a moment. I’m not feeling too well. I’ll return in a minute to continue the hypnosis.”
Madame Chudolais was visibly concerned and offered her help but Mesmer waved her away and rushed into the adjoining bathroom.
Mesmer dipped his head in a basin of cool water and steadied himself.
Must be that cheap wine Puysegur buys, he thought.
After a minute, Mesmer’s head cleared and he returned to his dressing room. Madame and monsieur were exactly as he had left them. He sat down in front of Monsieur Chudolais and proceeded with his treatment.

SOHO, 2 a.m.

2. Chudolais awoke and found his mouth buried in the torn neck of a motionless woman. Blood caked his lips and his white silk shirt was now crimson. They were both lying in an alley.
“Oh my God. What have I done?”
A police officer walked by and noticed Messier Chudolais hunched over the lifeless1 woman and immediately blew his whistle.
“Halt, sir! Halt I say!”
Chudolais didn’t move. He seemed rooted to the spot. He wanted to run...wanted to disappear into the night. But some invisible force held on to him.
Two more officers arrived and they wrapped their arms around Chudolais.
“Mon dieu! It is Monsieur Chudolais!” The police officer couldn’t believe his eyes. The French industrialist had just been gorging on the fresh blood of a prostitute. He must be mad. Surely he must be.

RUE DE BASTILLE, 7:36 a.m.
3. Professor Mesmer opened the morning newspaper and almost choked on his coffee.
“I see you’ve read the news, sir.”
Mesmer looked up from his paper and nodded his head to Puysegur who sat down at the table. “Yes, I have. Quite out of the ordinary, wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course.”
Mesmer ran the events of the previous night through his head and came to a conclusion.
“Madame Chudolais set-up her husband.”
“How can you say such a thing?” replied Puysegur, his eyes wide with anticipation.
“Easy. She had asked me to cure her husband of a bad smoking habit. When I put him to sleep, I suddenly became sick. I left the room hastily and was in the lavatory for several minutes. The nausea quickly passed and I returned to my dressing room. I proceeded to suggest to Monsieur Chudolais that he needn’t smoke again. When he awoke, he looked absolutely normal. No sign that he would rip the throat of a young prostitute.
“But that is when I realized that there was a sticky substance on my hand. I smelled my fingers and immediately felt sick again. It passed quickly and I washed my hands.”
“So? What does that mean?”
“It means, Puysegur, after I realized the same substance was on the two gold coins, that Madame Chudolais had purposely poisoned me. I believe she wanted me out of the room for a short time...long enough for her to suggest to her husband...who was in a trance...to kill a prostitute, and to stay there until he was found.”
“But why would she want to do that?”
“Why, her freedom, of course. You see, Puysegur, even though she had all the money in the world, she was still Monsieur Chudolais’ property. She still had to answer to him. I also noticed bruises on her neck which she attempted to cover up with make-up. He was obviously beating her.”
“Mon dieu! The perfect crime. Monsieur Chudolais would have no defense. He was caught red-handed, and in his mind, he intended to commit the crime all along. And there is no way to prove that Madame Chudolais had anything to do with it.”
“Right, Puysegur. The perfect crime indeed.”
A knock came to the door. Puysegur answered it and accepted a package which he carried to Mesmer.
“It is addressed to you. It is very heavy.”
“Thank you Puysegur. You may leave now.”
“Yes, Herr Mesmer.”
Although he already knew what was in it, Mesmer opened the box and feasted his eyes on gold coin after gold coin....the box overflowed.
“The perfect crime indeed.”

Smiling At Ground Zero

Johnny Zang sat on a hill overlooking his fair city. He thought about how it used to be called Pleasantville, but now that the meteor was only minutes away from smashing right smack dab in the middle of town, the newspapers had renamed the doomed city, Ground Zero. While this quiet area was the focal-point of the meteor’s emotionless fury, scientists predicted that the impact would destroy about 95% of all life on Earth. In other words, with the exception of cockroaches and glowing creatures at the bottom of the ocean, all would be gone.
Johnny was already aware of this. He also knew that in 2.5 million years, a fish hitherto unknown by science, would rise from the sea and tread upon a beach. A few million years later, it would begin to walk, and then a few weeks later, would become the first mammal to stride over the Earth since the great meteor of ’98.
The thing is, Johnny had the power to stop the meteor dead in its tracks. Just one thought and that hunk of space debris would explode into a million tiny pieces, harmless to Earth.
Pete Mitchell walked up to Johnny. He sat down next to him and looked down on the deserted town.
“Those morons. They think they can run from this thing. They don’t realize that they’ve traded a quick, painless death for an agonizing one. I’m staying right here. I ain’t gonna leave and take the chance of slowly burning to death, or choking on the ash and smoke from the damned thing. No sir. Right here I will stay!”
Johnny ignored Pete. He had only one thing on his mind, and that was how he was going to spend the last few minutes.
“Oh shit, Johnny, there it is.”
He looked up to see a small, grey speck in the sky. Its image wavered in the noonday sun, but started to expand with every passing second.
“Here it comes. Those scientist fuckers were right…that son-of-a-bitch is headin’ right for us. Oh shit.”
Johnny held his hand over his forehead to cut the sun’s glare. The meteor was growing larger. A small shadow began to appear over the city. It soon oozed over the ground, blanketing the town square…slowly stretching out and expanding to swallow everything in its dark diameter.
“You think we’ll get to see it up close? I mean, right before it hits? I want to see it. I want watch the flames all around it…I want to feel the heat…see the rock right here. You know? Do you think I will?” Pete turned his head to look at Johnny, hoping for an answer.
Johnny lay back and slid his hands behind his head. He smiled.
“No, Pete. You won’t see a goddamed thing.”
Before he could turn around for one last glimpse of the meteor, Pete’s eyes melted away. A second later, his skin and then his insides followed right behind.

New Better Man

Dallas Berman was 55-years-old and dying. The doctors told him it was prostate cancer...inoperable. He could already feel the burning sensation through his body...the crawling of the disease...the oozing of its murderous tendrils.
So it was on the day of the visit to Dr. Ferber that Dallas decided on his plan.
He had already given it a name...The New Better Man Plan.
He took care of Step One by having a will drawn up on his computer. One of those Do-It-Yourself jobs...his neighbor was a notary public and the legal will was soon stashed in a bank's safety deposit box.
Step Two was a letter to his daughter. It wasn't very long...only two pages. He hadn't spoken to her in 30 years. There was so much to say, but none of it would interest her.
Step Three went something like this:
It was just after noon and Dallas made his way into a Manhattan department store. Once inside, he stripped down naked and pulled a shotgun from his jacket. He screamed insanely...he pissed himself...he shat on the smooth marble floor of the Ladies Department...he waved his gun above his head...and then, he let loose with both barrels and blew the head off a four-year-old boy standing next to a mannequin.
An off-duty cop tackled Dallas from behind and held him down until a team of police arrived to take over.
Dallas was arrested, charged and went to trial in just 4 days. The outrage over the poor boy's murder was splashed across the tabloids...cries for his public crucifixion were numerous. But, as luck would have it, and as Step Four had been planned, Dallas was found innocent by reason of insanity and remanded to a high-security mental institution.
Dallas was allowed frequent walks in the yard. He mingled with other inmates and patients and found that his sentence and why he was jailed was kept a secret. When asked why he had been sent to prison, Dallas responded with a story about nervous breakdowns and the death of his high-school sweatheart.
He soon gained a few friends. His favorite conversationalist was a middle-aged man named Mark. He was an agreeable fellow...and, like most inmates, had found God. He would preach mostly, but never talked about why he was in prison.
But all this was part of Step Five:
"Mark?"
"Yes, Dallas?"
"Would you accompany me to the movie tonight?"
"What do you mean? Like a date?"
"Oh, no. Just, go with me...wait for me so we can walk together and chat."
"Are you sure you're up to it, Dallas? I know you are very sick."
"Oh, I'm fine, Mark. Just meet me by the game room a few minutes before the movie."
"Sure."
The time passed by slowly for Dallas. He read. He slept. He comptemplated masturbating, but figured it might dull his senses. He had to be alert for Step Six which went something like this:
"Well, Mark, you're on time."
"I'm excited to see the movie. Do you happen to know what they're showing?"
"Yes, Mark. They are showing HELP!"
"What?"
"HELP! The Beatles film. Have you seen it?"
"Uh...yes...a long time ago."
"Really? Well, it is one of my favorites. I mean, I'm a Beatles fan through and through, and I like everything they ever did, but HELP! has always been my favorite."
"Oh."
"Yes. And I'm so glad they're showing it tonight. It'll make me so happy."
"Well, that's good, Dallas. But, I'm feeling kind of sick...maybe the meatloaf coming back to haunt me...so I think I'll go back to my bed."
"Oh...ok, Mark. But one thing before you go."
"Yes, Dallas?"
"Just a little payback."
Dallas thrust a sharpened pencil through Mark's eye. He jammed it in with the palm of his hand and then broke it off. Mark dropped to the ground and scraped at his damaged socket. Dallas knelt down and drove a second pencil into Mark's neck. It punctured an artery and blood poured from the wound.
Step Seven:
Dallas took a seat and waited as the projector warmed up. He reached into a breast pocket and pulled out two pills. He swallowed them dry and worked them down his throat while the first few notes of HELP! washed over him.
The pills were working fast. Dallas was soon in the numbing embrace of eternal slumber.

Rice King of the Jews

Jesus stepped out of his hut and surveyed the sweeping valley before him.
He could smell the miso soup bubbling over a fire. His wife was knealing before it, stirring the cloudy water with loving grace.
"Miyoki. Is it ready?"
"Not yet, Akuma."
"Why do you call me Akuma? Takahanada told me it means, 'devil'."
"Because that is what you are to the clan. A devil to destroy all they have built."
"Those fools, they have built nothing but a dynasty of hatred and sin. I will someday drive them out of this valley like I drove the moneylenders out of the temple."
Jesus drew a sword from the sheeth at his side and stared at the winking blade.
"If I only had Mitsurugi with me...I could have cleansed the temple with their blood."
Miyoki shuddered, and rubbed her hands over the fire. "Sometimes you scare me, Akuma. Darkness falls over your eyes."
"You haven't seen darkness...a shroud so thick you can feel its weight on your body. My father once brought a darkness that could be felt."
"Ahhh...Joseph, the carpenter."
"No. Not him."
Jesus stepped down the path and stopped in front of the bubbling pot. He dipped a small bowl in the liquid and then drank from it. "I must leave soon. I am being called to another land. I feel that Nippon is my true home, but I have duties elsewhere."
Miyoki stood and hugged her husband. "Why, Akuma? If this is your home, then why must you leave? Your brother gave his life for you...it might have been you on that cross."
Jesus held Miyoki's face in his hands.
"He gave his life so that I may continue my work. I am being called back to Rome. Pilot is about to return to the 21st Century. I must stop him before he can make the leap in time."
Miyoki look confused. "You always talk about Pilot...and the 21st Century. What are these things? How can someone go forward in time?"
"I'm sorry, Miyoki. I shouldn't have told you that. Just know that I will return."
The man they now called Akuma turned and walked into his hut.
The silence crushed him.

Midget Rental

“Can you see anything past phase one?”
“What’s phase one?”
“I told you about phase one.”
“Well, refresh my memory. I’m sure I must have been drunk or out-of-my-mind on mushrooms to have listened to one of your rants.”
“I think it was some of that homemade peyote Sandra had...but in any case, you seemed interested at the time.”
“I did? That doesn’t seem like me.”
“Can I tell you about it now?”
“Do you have to?”
“Well, no...but I would like to. You said you’d help me out with my theory.”
“Now I KNOW I was high if I agreed to that...there is no way I’m helping you.”
“Come on! You promised. You said that if I could get you a date with Sandra, then you would help me with phase one.”
“With Sandra? Well...did you?”
“Yes...you’re supposed to meet her tonight at the Shitkicker Bar & Grille...at eight o’clock.”
“Eight? Shit! That gives me an hour to get ready.”
“I just need two minutes of your time. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“Fine. But hurry up.”
“Okay...all I have to do is ask you two questions.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“Ok...go ahead.”
“First question...do you think the sale and rental of midgets would in any way jeopardize the stability of this planet.”
“Is that really your first question?”
“Yes...what is your answer.”
“I would have to say...uh...no.”
“Ok...good....now....second question....what would happen if you found out that while you were high on peyote, you had sex with Sandra and then later, while you were on a date with her the next night, she revealed to you that she was actually a man?”
“I guess I would start by killing you...then I would find Sandra and beat the living crap out of her...or him...and then break your chemistry set.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well...have fun on your date.”
“I’m sure I will.”

Cult of the Pit

unfinished mystery radio play

SYNOPSIS:
Detective investigates Lovecraftian horror in an old mansion. He isn’t a “psychic detective”, in other words, he has never run up against this type of case. I want to explore what a regular guy (with some bravery and intelligence) would do when facing such a terrifying thing. I rarely have an idea completely figured out when I write, but I assume there will be a monster, some evil cult dudes, damsel in distress and some good ol’ detective work fighting mobsters, yakuza and a horde of beasts from the netherworld. I will focus on the mobsters, gangs, cultists and the mystery more than the supernatural aspects of monsters. It will build slowly to the mind-shattering conclusion!

MAIN CHARACTERS:
CALEB MARSH: Private Detective in WWII-era San Francisco.
SUSIE FANUTTI: Marsh's secretary. Italian hottie from back East who died her hair blonde and tries to hide her Brooklyn accent.
RACHEL MARSTEN: Wealthy widow of Manfred Marsten III.
(Rachel is being blackmailed by a mysterious organization. If she does not turn over the deed to her mansion, they will release photos or her in an illicit love affair which will void her claim to any money or holdings left to her by her late husband's will.)
MANFRED MARSTEN III: Inheritor of the Marsten African diamond fortune. Self-proclaimed explorer and scientist.
MERKHI: Manservant to Mr. Marsten.
BOSS FLAMINGO: Local gangster. Racketeering, bribery, theft, prostitution, opium and the occasional murder. Runs the Tenderloin Organization, a group of thugs that control many businesses by extortion.


PART: 1

MUSIC: Laughter Theme

MARSH: My name's Caleb Marsh. I'm a detective here in glorious San Francisco...I say glorious because this place is so rotten I'm never without a job. Ever since Hitler decided he wanted to rule the world, things around here have gotten real strange. 1939 has not been a good year for law abiding citizens, but the worse things get, the better the business. For example, there was this one time when this broad came into my office and demanded to see me. She (fade out last line)

SFX: City sounds, cars, people, fishmongers.
Fade Out
Fade In we hear a typewriter and SUSIE and RACHEL bickering.

SUSIE: Listen lady, Mr. Marsh is busy right now. He's got lots of clients and no time for snooty broads like yourself.

RACHEL: Then I guess he has no time for a handsome retainer in the neighborhood of $3,000.

Marsh hears the amount and opens his door.

MARSH: Ahhhh, Ms. Marsten. I was on the phone with the, uh, Mayor, I told Susie not to disturb me. Please, come in to my office.

They move into Marsh's office.

MARSH: Have a seat.

RACHEL: How is old Angelo?

MARSH: Wonderful...I think we may get together for a game of golf.

RACHEL: Really? I thought poker was the Mayor's pleasure.

MARSH: If I'm not mistaken, "young girls" are the Mayor's current pleasure.

RACHEL: I'm sure his wife would not be too happy to learn this.

MARSH: Which is why the Mayor is so gracious in his donations to the South of Market Mission.

RACHEL: Oh yes. You were instrumental in keeping it up and running despite the fact that Boss Flamingo wanted it for himself.

MARSH: Yeah, well, let's just say I had a little help from friends in high places, friends that don't like Flamingo.

RACHEL: Well, Mr. Marsh, perhaps you can help me as you did those poor derelicts.

MARSH: You need a bowl of soup, Ms. Marsten?

RACHEL: (chuckle) Oh no, Mr. Marsh. Actually, I was wondering if you could track down some people?

MARSH: When did they go missing?

RACHEL: No, it's nothing like that. I suppose I should start from the beginning.

Cue eerie MUSIC.

RACHEL: (cont'd) I need to find some men belonging to an organization known as The Black Hand. They have challenged my late husband's will and have threatened me with blackmail, but I know nothing about them. My lawyer advised me to hire a private detective to find out just who these men are and why they think they should get a piece of my inheritance. They have specifically expressed a right to the items my husband brought back on his last adventure and say they will release photos of me and, well, lets just say, a very close friend.

MARSH: Please, Ms. Marsten. You must be honest with me if you want me to do my job.

RACHEL: Well, I guess I might as well tell you that I was having an affair. My husband and I had grown distant. I needed someone.

MARSH: So, they plan to release these photos?

RACHEL: Yes. And if they do, I will lose any claim I have to my husband's fortune. As an amendment to his will, my inheritance is forfeit if I am caught in any, indiscretion.

MARSH: Smart guy. Wasn't your husband killed by his manservant?

RACHEL: He was...or might have been. What the police don't know, and what I am about to tell you must be kept in the strictness of confidence, Mr. Marsh. If it were to leak out, I would face many more questions than simple infidelity. You shall know the whole sordid tale. The sum of $3,000 is only a taste of what you will receive if you are able to fulfill my request. (pause) Do you have anything to drink?

MARSH: Only whiskey...and water.

RACHEL: Water will be fine.

Marsh pours her a drink.

MARSH: One water, straight, no chaser.

RACHEL: Thank you.

Rachel takes a few sips

RACHEL: (cont'd) Can I trust you, Mr. Marsh? While your methods are questionable, your reputation as an honorable man is what brought me here. I have already told you much.

MARSH: You can trust me, Ms. Marsten. My word has never been broken.

RACHEL: Very well. I will begin my tale. You see, it all began five years ago, when my husband was on safari in New Guinea. As you may know, he fancied himself an explorer and scientist, though he did not hold any formal degrees. He was deeply interested in one arm of study known as cryptozoology. From what he told me, it is the search for...

MARSH: (finishing her sentence) ...for species that have yet to be discovered. Biologists believe we haven't uncovered all the animals, insects and plantlife which reside on Earth.

RACHEL: (sarcastic) Why Mr. Marsh, did you learn that at Harvard? (laughs)

MARSH: Actually, it was Yale.

RACHEL: I don't see a diploma.

MARSH: I lost it in a poker game. Please, continue.

RACHEL: Well, my husband thought by going into very remote regions, he might stumble onto one of these hidden specimens as he called them. He was in the rainforest for six weeks before I got a letter from him. I have it here. (paper rustling)
(reading from note) Dearest Rachel, It has been over a month now and I've heard...(voice fades from RACHEL to MANFRED)

SFX: Jungle Sounds.

MANFRED: ...I've heard nothing but hearsay and fables. It all seems fruitless at this point. Our native bearers have all but abandoned us, telling frightened tales of a beast that stalks the forest around a fabled temple. Only one of the damn savages remains. His name is Merkhi. He doesn't speak a whit of English but I have been picking up his native language. From what I can understand, Merkhi says the other natives are afraid of ghosts. He himself doesn't believe in such things which is rare among his people. I was of a mind to believe him until the night before last, when the camp was awaken to the sounds of something moving through the brush. We immediately set up fires, believing that a tiger was on the prowl, but we saw nothing. It wasn't until we set out in the morning that we saw the most peculiar thing. Tracks of some unknown beast were all around our tents. I have taken pictures and made a cast of the devilish thing and hope to have that professor have a look at it. Dr. Eberhardt says it reminds him of talons from a monitor lizard, but says there shouldn't be any on the island. And if it were a monitor, then it would have to be 20 feet long, according to the size of its claws...a terrifying monster to be sure. Another strange thing is the lack of sound. As we travel deeper into the forest, we hear fewer and fewer birds. It's as if no animal has stepped foot in this part of the forest since the dawn of time. It's also getting colder. I can feel a slight drop in the temperature every mile we go. And it is back-breaking work, fighting through vines and bramble as thick as any. Slow going and tedious. I think the blasted savages knew how hard it would be and made up those ghost stories. We've decided to pack it in for the night. I have posted several men to watch for whatever creature visited us last night. What a triumph if we could capture it. I will write soon, my darling. You are in my thoughts every day.

RACHEL & MANFRED: (simultaneously) Love, Manfred.

RACHEL: (cont'd) Three weeks later, I received this letter. (reading from note) Dearest Rachel, I am compelled to write with the most triumphant of news...

MANFRED: ...compelled to write with the most triumphant of news. It loomed before us as we broke through a particularly heavy wall of bush. In the center of a large clearing sits the temple of which the savages spoke. We have set up camp at the edge of the forest, about 30 yards from the entrance of the temple. The gardens surrounding it are crumbled but the main structure appears to be intact. It is late and darkness approaches. I plan to investigate the temple tomorrow at first light. I can barely sleep and decided to write you. I will send a man back to the village for more supplies and equipment. I will write again soon.

RACHEL & MANFRED: (simultaneously) Manfred.

RACHEL: (cont'd) And that was the last I heard from him, until he sent me a letter several months later saying he would be returning and to call a carpenter to begin work restoring our basement.

MARSH: Why the basement?

RACHEL: At the time, we only used a small portion of it as a wine cellar. The basement actually stretched much farther under the house. There were areas that I did not even see until recently.

MARSH: What happened in New Guinea?

RACHEL: Manfred returned home with several small crates and one enormous crate that had to be lowered into the basement through a hole in the garage floor. He seemed, well, at the time I thought it was simply preoccupation. He had obviously found something he believed was important and was only thinking of it. He practically ignored me, spending all of his time in the basement. One day, I ventured down into his domain and promptly got lost. Seemingly, out of nowhere, my husband appeared. It scared the hell out of me I assure you. He told me not to go anywhere but the wine cellar and said there were dangerous areas. He walked me to the stairs, watched me ascend them, and then retreated into the darkness. As the days turned into weeks, he slept down there more and more. A week or two could go by and I wouldn't see him. He had his dinner brought down to him by Merkhi. Manfred returned with him from New Guinea. He didn't speak a word of English but my husband seemed to have picked up the strange language. Merkhi was the only one allowed in the basement. It got to the point that I started to move on with my life. I rarely spent time in the house, always out shopping or with my friends. I hated being in such a silent and lonesome room. After a time, I would not see Manfred for weeks. He seemed to go out only at night. Merkhi would drive the Studebaker from the garage. The curtains on the windows of the car were always shut. They would return just before dawn and descend into that wretched basement.

MARSH: I read he died down there, but no body was found. Police arrested his manservant and charged the poor man with murder. He was hanged a day later.

RACHEL: Yes. I remember the night Merkhi came up from the basement. I was having a dinner party...anything to take my mind off my husband. It was around 11:30 that Merkhi walked into the ball room, covered from head to toe in blood. His eyes were open so wide and he had this grin on his face...it froze the blood in my veins I tell you. Most of my guests either screamed or fainted or left. I tried to talk to him, but he seemed in some sort of catatonic state. I called the police and they sent some men down into the basement. They came back and said it was a maze of tunnels that seemed to go on forever, they had almost gotten lost. They said they had followed a trail of blood to a large pit. Merkhi was taken away and questioned but he never really came out of that state he was in. The police concluded that Merkhi had murdered Manfred in some native ritual and had thrown the body down into the pit. Several policemen were lowered on ropes but returned after 100 feet saying there was no bottom in sight. Merkhi said nothing and he was convicted of murder.

MARSH: I remember reading that he said something to you, just before he was lead to the gallows. But you never revealed that conversation.

RACHEL: Yes, Merkhi did whisper something to me. At the time, I didn't know what it meant and thought it would only lead to speculation by the newspapers.

MARSH: Can you tell me?

RACHEL: Yes...he told me that Manfred was still alive, but that he wasn't Manfred anymore.

MARSH: You mean, the manservant claimed to be innocent of murder?

RACHEL: Yes. I didn't know what to make of it then. I guess I subconsciously wanted all of this to end. You see, I was planning to divorce my husband. I felt abandoned and didn't want to be his wife anymore. I thought that the police might find out and suspect me of plotting to kill him, using Merkhi as my assassin. I figured the whole mess would be better forgotten.

MARSH: Yes, that would have been suspicious. You stood to lose a very comfortable life, but with your husband dead, everything is yours and no more Manfred.

RACHEL: Exactly, Mr. Marsh. You sound like you aren't sure if that isn't what happened.

MARSH: I haven't made my mind up, Ms. Marsten. But your story is compelling. Now, tell me about the will.

RACHEL: As I said, Manfred had the original will amended when he returned home. In it, he added several clauses and in regard to Merkhi, he left the artifacts in the basement to him. Now, with his servant dead, the items have reverted to me. That is, until these men claimed that Merkhi was a member of their group and that they have a right to my husband's things.

MARSH: Was he a member?

RACHEL: There's no way to tell. He may have, but it doesn't matter. Merkhi is dead so they have no real claim. That is why they are blackmailing me. They assume I would rather give up the mansion and keep the rest than take a chance and lose everything to the State.

MARSH: So, you're hoping I can find out who they are before they decide to expose your affair.

RACHEL: Yes, Mr. Marsh. Get those photographs and you will never have to work another day in your life.

MARSH: Sounds peachy. So, who's your contact?

RACHEL: I've only talked to him on the phone. He sounds foreign but it's an accent I can't quite place. He wants me to hand over the mansion within a week or the pictures will end up in the hands of my husband's lawyer.

MARSH: A week? Well, I'll see what I can do.

RACHEL: Please, Mr. Marsh. What I went through for that man I deserve everything. Who knows what those scoundrels want it for.

MARSH: I hope to find that out. I guess that's all the information I need for now. Give me a call if you are contacted again. If I uncover anything, you'll be the first to know.

RACHEL: Thank you, Mr. Marsh. You have my gratitude.

MARSH: All I need is your money, Ms. Marsh. $100 a day plus expenses. You can start by writing a check for $3,000 and give it to my secretary.

RACHEL: Of course. Goodbye, Mr. Marsh.

Rachel exits leaving Marsh to his thoughts.

MARSH: (sotto) Well, Ms. Marsten. Seems as if greed gets in the way of common sense. Even if she lost the house, she must still stand to inherit billions from her husband's diamond mine. Why does she want that house so bad? And why should a group of strangers want it?


PART: 2


SFX: 30s jazz music, city street noises, car noise.

MARSH: My first stop would be to see Freddy LeReece. He had all the dirt on the upper crust of San Francisco society and was willing to dish it for the right price. I had three grand burning a whole in my bank account so I decided to put it to good use.

SFX fade.

Marsh enters a store. A bell dings as he opens the door.

FREDDY: Ahhhh, Caleb. How are you today? Still shabby as usual.

MARSH: And I see your taste in women's underwear hasn't changed either. Your bra strap is showing beneath that suit.

FREDDY: Yes, well, one must be comfortable if one wants to feel good.

MARSH: Well, I'd love to talk more on the subject but I have more pressing business.

FREDDY: Then, might I suggest a donation to the church of LeReece?

MARSH: Only if you're ready to confess.

FREDDY: My mouth is ready and willing.

MARSH: That's what I was afraid of.

SFX: Rustling of money being exchanged.

FREDDY: Ahhhhh, such a generous donation. Pray tell, what is it that you'd like to know?

MARSH: I'm sure you've heard about the Marsten murder.

FREDDY: Of course. Nothing escapes these ears.

MARSH: Then you must know that the heiress Rachel Marsten will inherit everything.

FREDDY: Well, I'm sure she'd like to get it all, but I hear there's a little matter of some rather revealing photos.

MARSH: You know about those.

FREDDY: Caleb, please! You insult me with your skepticism.

MARSH: Whose blackmailing her?

FREDDY: There are so many good things a church can do for its community. There's the orphans and the bums and the....

MARSH: Fine. Here's another donation. Now spit it out.

FREDDY: Very well. At a dinner party last week I met the most charming man from South Africa. Did you know they have the cutest accent? Tall, too. Blonde hair, chiseled features, piercing blue eyes. I could have sworn he saw right through my tuxedo.

MARSH: What's his name?

FREDDY: Rand-something.

MARSH: Rand? First name or last?

FREDDY: I don't really know.

MARSH: What's the name of his company?

FREDDY: I haven't a clue. I wasn't exactly paying attention to what he was saying. Although, he did seem to ask a few questions about the Marsten mansion. He said he was interested in it and if I knew whether or not Ms. Marsten was going to sell it. I asked him why he wanted it and he said something about it being nice and reminded him of his family's estate in Africa.

MARSH: Thanks Freddy. Stay cool.

FREDDY: I always do, Caleb. Ta-ta.

to be continued...

"Homer Uber Alles"

excerpt from a Simpsons™ Teleplay
Based on characters created by Matt Groening

Fade In:

DRAMATIC WAGNERIAN MUSIC BEGINS. CREDITS APPEAR OVER....

ESTABLISHING SHOT of Montgomery Burns’ mansion. A thunder storm is raging. Lightning cracks here and there.

Lightning strikes illuminate the silhouette of a gaunt figure in the massive front window of BURNS’ mansion. As each lighting bolt hits, the figure appears closer and closer till the lightning illuminates the face of MONTGOMERY BURNS.

BURNS
(to himself)
Oh raging tempest. Your bellowing agony is solace to my aching heart. I long to be swept into the heart of your delicious pain.

BURNS’ P.O.V. of front lawn. Lightning strikes and hits one of his hounds. It yelps and runs into the darkness.

INTERIOR OF MANSION (BURNS’ BEDROOM) We see Burns from behind staring into the raging maelstrom.

BURNS
(to himself)
Someday a strong wind will take me away from this wretched cesspool of a town. And I will return to crush you all under the heel of my tyrannical boot.
(to SMITHERS)
Did you get all that?

SMITHERS
...ty-ran-ni-cal boot. Got it sir. Are you sure you want that in your college reunion speech? They are, after all, making you president emeritus.

BURNS
(with controlled rage)
Don’t try to tell me what those cretins want to hear! They laughed at me. All of them! With their frat parties and girlfriends and clean skin and long flowing hair and...

SMITHERS
Uh...sir?

BURNS
(agitated)
Don’t interrupt me when I’m reminiscing or I’ll have you flayed alive and hung from the flagpole at that Little League baseball park I bought.

CUT TO Little League baseball park. Crowd is cheering for teams...universal symbol for radioactivity appears on each base. Boy hits homerun...crowd goes wild...bleachers collapse.

BACK TO SMITHERS and BURNS in office.

SMITHERS
Uh...yes, Mr. Burns.

BURNS
Now leave me.
(a hint of sadness)
I wish to be alone.

SMITHERS EXITS. BURNS TURNS TO THE WINDOW as lightning continues to crack around him. A single tear slides down his cheek.

SCENE BEGINS TO DISTORT (denoting flashback). CROSSFADE TO...BURNS, a bit younger but still with sparse hair. CLOSE UP remains on face...he is crying...staring out of a similar window as a storm rages outside.

OUT OF SHOT we hear a young, American voice call out.

STEVIE
(sarcastic)
Hey, Burnsy. We’re out of beer. Go down to the cellar and bring up another keg, or we’ll have to give you the old Bismark Bum Burn again. Haw haw haw!

LAUGHTER FROM MANY OTHERS assails his ears as he trudges to the cellar door. It is very dark and he is scared. Rats run around his feet causing him to tumble to the bottom of the stairs.

BURNS
(moaning to himself)
Oh why, papa? Why did you have to send me to this infernal place? No one likes me. I can't seem to fit in. You always told me that the intellectuals would be worshipped, but these mongrels don't seem to care that I am their cerebral superior.

BURNS stands and walks over to a beer barrel. He wraps his arms around it, barely lifts it and then falls backward. The beer barrel lands on him, crushing his legs.

BURNS
(whimpering)
Someone...my legs have been crushed. I cannot feel anything from my waist down! Help me! Help me!

UPSTAIRS, a full scale frat party has ensued.

STEVIE
(finishes his stein of beer)
Where the hell is Burnsy? I'm getting sober by the second.

In the BASEMENT, beer leaks over Burns' body and into his mouth.

BURNS
(almost unconscious)
Legs...crushed, mind...failing, beer...flat…

Burns sees a few rats in the dim corner of the basement. He feebly motions toward them with his fingers.

BURNS
(to rats)
Come to me, my vermin horde. Avenge my death and make those putrid frat boys pay for their crime.

The rats run over to Burns.

BURNS
Yes, yes! Free me from my fermented tomb.

The rats move around the keg, but begin to gnaw at Burns' body.

BURNS
Not me, you furry swine!

Rear Window Ethics

Ralph was so tired of all the hullabaloo. After that business with the wife-killer and then the photographer across the way who was pushed out of his rear-window, all he wanted was some peace and quiet.
But then the piano started up. Every evening. That damned piano.
And the newlywed couple...banging away at each other morning, noon and night, not to mention putting a healthy dent in his bedroom wall.
"Shut-up!"
They didn't hear him.
Ralph paced up and down his hallway...from the kitchen to the bedroom and back.
"Bastards. All of them. Nosy sons-a-bitches."
He looked out his window and saw the tell-tale flash of his neighbor's binoculars.
"Didn't that fucker learn anything?"
He leaned out his window and shouted up to the second floor.
"Jeffrey! You shithead! Stop watching me!"
He could see the dark form of the photographer roll back into a shadow. The man named Jeffrey was now confined to a wheelchair...both legs had been broken after he poked his nose into a neighbor's business.
"Killing his wife is a man's business! Keep out of mine! I'll finish the job!"
Ralph closed the window and drew the curtains. He did the same all about his house and then turned on all the lights. He knew that from Jeffrey's point of view, he could see Ralph's shadow very clearly.
"Ok, Jeffrey. You want a show? You got one."
Ralph went to a closet and pulled out a department store mannequin. It was nude and missing a hand, but Ralph figured it wouldn't matter.
He took it to the living room and stood right in front of the curtained window. He then began to argue with the mannequin. He shouted and flung his arms about. He smacked the dummy's face and then lunged for it, grabbing its neck and strangling the defenseless mannequin.
He let it slip to the floor and then went to the kitchen. He returned to the livingroom with a large saw.

About ten minutes later, police broke through his front door and witnessed Ralph cutting the arms off his mannequin.
"Can I help you officer?"
The three cops looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
"Where'd you get the dummy?"
"Well, officer, I work for Bristol's Department Store on 45th, downtown. I'm also a sculptor and figured I could use some parts for my work."
"Sorry to bother you sir."
Ralph smiled. "Who called you here?"
"We got an anonymous tip. Someone said you were cutting up a woman."
"Really? Oh boy. The things people think they see."
"Right. Well, sorry to have broken in like that. We had to check it though."
"Sure, officer. No problem. Just close the door on the way out."
The three officers departed.
Ralph went to his closet and pulled out three more mannequins. He set a policeman's cap on each head and rolled them to the livingroom. He then took his saw and began hacking away at them.

"This is the 45th Precinct, Sgt. O'Leary speaking."
After a moment, O'Leary set the phone down and turned to an officer.
"Some guy says you, Williams and Donnelley are being hacked to bits inside an apartment."
"Really? Too bad for us, eh?"
O'Leary hung-up the phone and returned to his knitting.

Departure From The
World Of Day

Stephen looked out onto his San Francisco world. It was his and he was proud, but he sometimes found it a little tiresome. All he could do was pedal around the backyard and call to Mark over the high, vine-covered wall that divided his friend's world from his own.
For hours, Stephen's feet pedaled and propelled him through the dense undergrowth that covered his kingdom. The weeds grappled with his trike's tires causing him to climb down from his lofty perch above the floor of his world and untangle his trike from the angry, clinging vines.
His hand thrust into the middle of the struggle, prying apart the screaming weeds until they lay dead at his feet.
With his hands stained a dark green with the blood of his enemy, Steven swung his leg over the trike's gaunt abdomen and slid comfortably into its warm and ragged seat.
Then, from behind him, he heard the protests of the weeds as they were crushed by his dog's running paws. Turning his head until it could twist no more, Stephen saw his First Best Friend. He suddenly realized that Mark was only his Second Best Friend and stored the thought away to remember later.
His dog stumbled toward him and sat with his paws thrown up onto the trike's front tire. His First Best Friend looked into Stephen's eyes and awaited understanding.
"So my friend, what do you want today?"
The dog whined, answering his master's question the only way he knew how.
"You want me to stop? Now? On such a beautiful day for a ride... on such a perfect day as this?"
Again the dog whined and tossed his head from side to side repeatedly. When he was sure his master understood him, the dog slipped his paws off the trike and trotted into the thick hedge that sat like a sentinel, guarding over Stephen and all that was his.
As he watched his friend disappear behind the hedge, Stephen pedaled his trike to the Great Wall of Green, slicing through battling vines, and finally reached the edge of his kingdom.
He had never ventured past his kingdom's End... never even peered secretly through the gigantic hedge which marked the boundary between his world and the Old Man's. He never thought his First Best Friend traveled between worlds. He had assumed that a barrier, like the one that separated Mark and himself, lay on the other side of the Great Wall. Now, he was uncertain.
Thoughts of his Mother and her warnings came flooding back through his mind. Tales of the Old Man and how he devoured little children were told while he sat at a fatherless dinner table.
Stephen would often ponder the stories while he lay in bed, listening to the sounds his world made when the sun had fallen below the Earth, leaving all that resided in his kingdom to come alive and run amok inside his head.
Now, in the reassuring light of the afternoon, Stephen parted a section of the Great Wall and slowly inched his way through. Sharp twigs clawed at his sweat-soaked shirt, trying to rip it from his back, he was sure. Drops of blood flowed unnoticed from a hundred, tiny wounds he would later see when staring in his Mirror world.
When Stephen stepped into the place he had often daydreamed of through the heat of summer school, he saw his First Best Friend sitting at attention, waiting for his master to question him.
"So what now, my friend? Do we sit and wait for the Old Man to devour us? Surely he can smell us even now."
The dog smiled and whined a suggestion.
Stephen looked back to the hedge and watched as the wound he had just opened in the Great Wall heal itself, not even leaving a deep, green scar.
The hedge smiled but offered no suggestions.
Stephen suddenly wanted to crash through the Wall and return to the world in which he had total control. But, as he turned to open the newly healed wound, his First Best Friend leaped over a small bush and ran up the hill leading to the Old Man's house.
He glanced back at the hedge, then after his friend. He knew he couldn't leave his First Best Friend alone in this strange land. The others would never forgive him.
He would never forgive himself.
With that thought, Stephen stepped through the bush and ran quickly up the hill until he came upon his dog sitting next to the Old Man. Stephen's eyes widened at the fearful sight and his heart stopped for a split second. He was ready to give up everything, hoping his dog would follow him as he flew down the hill, ripped through the hedge and stumbled into his own world, never to return again.
But, after a moment, when the Old Man did not leap up to devour him, Stephen resisted the temptation to run.
He was sure the Man would awake at the slightest sound in order to grab any young children for his dinner. But, he lay completely still in the thick grass of spring.
The Old Man's hat sat limply over his eyes while his hands lay folded beneath his wrinkled head. His clothes hung loosely about him and looked even older than he.
Stephen stepped a small step closer and smelled something he was sure he would never forget as long as he lived. The odor rose from the Man's body in a steady stream of invisible particles. Stephen shrank back at the stench, his nose wrinkling up and his eyes squinting as if the sun were shining full in his face.
For some reason the dog didn't seem to mind, and Stephen realized that the longer he stood where he was, the less and less he was able to smell the Old Man. After a few minutes he was used to the noxious odor and slid closer to his dog. His First Best Friend whipped its head about as a butterfly flew an erratic path around his snout.
Stephen kneeled down and stared at his Friend, waiting for him to turn towards him. When he had the dog's attention, Stephen spoke in a secretive whisper.
"Do you know him? Is he another Friend?"
The dog whined a response and moved closer to the Old Man.
Looking into the Man's eyes, Stephen saw a disturbing void. He could see no soul... no life... no understanding. When his grandfather had died, he remembered staring into those same eyes.
He turned back to look upon his new world and saw that it was good. Reaching down, he plucked a dandelion from the soft earth and held it up to his ear. He could hear it talking to him, mumbling in some ancient speech, telling him what to do.
The flower realized the futility of its suggestion and stopped speaking.
Stephen brought the flower to his nose and breathed in its life essence as he waited for the Old Man to wake up. He hoped it would be soon for in a few minutes he was sure his Mother would call to him... her voice traveling between worlds, seeking him out.
He twisted around and reached behind to touch the Old Man. His finger hovered in uncertainty as a light breeze ran through the Man's gray hair.
Then, a ghostly call found his ears and he knew it was his Mother.
Standing up, he looked to his dog and then to the hedge whose shadow was flooding over the ground. One last time he gazed at the Old Man and hoped he would wake up soon, for they were leaving the World of Day and passing into the World of Night and Darkness, where nothing but his thoughts roamed the places in-between Here and There.

DRIFTER SMILE

Excerpt from the feature length screenplay

From an idea by Garry Messick
Written by Garry Messick, Jon Wilkins and Grant Balfour
Screenplay by Jon Wilkins

FADE IN:
INT. – MOTEL BATHROOM, NIGHT
Overhead shot of a sink filled halfway with water. A small amount of blood is swirling at the bottom.

A hand enters the frame and dips a glass into the sink, fills it with water, then exits the frame.

MAN
(o.c.)
Wake up, Alfonse. Drink this. Don’t you want a drink?
(beat)
Come on. Wake up.
(rage)
Wake up!

SFX: One punch, then a gurgling sound as if someone is being forced to drink, then a glass breaking.

CUT TO:

EXT. – NORTH TEXAS BACKROAD, NIGHT
The CAMERA moves over the hills, finally catching up to a sheriff’s car hauling ass down a two-lane road until it comes to a halt next to a battered sign reading:

WELCOME TO REMBRANDT
Home Of The Texas-sized Swedish Meatballs!

As the dust cloud clears, 40-ish sheriff JOHN PAYNTER gets out and stares down the long highway.

PAYNTER
(sotto)
Son-of-a-bitch.

Paynter looks back down the road and sees nothing but darkness. He gets back in his car, starts it up and slams down on the gas pedal. The car lurches forward, and fishtails a bit before continuing down the highway.

INT. – PAYNTER’S SQUAD CAR
Paynter opens the glove compartment and rifles through the contents before coming away with a half-finished bottle of whiskey and a cassette tape. Paynter rams the tape into the car stereo, and tries to open the bottle with one hand.

ANNOUNCER
(from the stereo)
Welcome to Volume One of Successful Living Through Positive Thinking. I’m Richard Danforth, president of BioLife Incorporated and I want to welcome you to the beginning of a whole new life.

Cheesy music plays as Paynter has trouble getting the cap off the bottle. He tries unscrewing it with his thumb but it won’t budge.

PAYNTER
Goddammit.

ANNOUNCER
Just 1-hour out of your day is all I ask to help you live longer, happier and most importantly; better.

Paynter looks at the road for a moment, making sure there’s no oncoming traffic. He then takes his other hand off the wheel and uses his knee to steer the car. He loosens the bottle cap and is about to take a swig when he looks up and notices a woman with short, black hair standing in the middle of the road wearing a see-through nightgown. Her back is to him. Paynter drops the bottle and slams on the brake sending the car into a slide. The car careens sideways and runs the woman over before coming to a halt in a cloud of dust.

ANNOUNCER
(cont’d)
Let’s start with what I like to call, the moment of pure love. This is where you take your arms, wrap them around yourself, and repeat the following; I love myself. I love my warmth, my voice and my smile.

Paynter looks down at the whiskey bottle lying on the passenger seat. He grabs it and takes several, long gulps. He wipes his mouth on his shirtsleeve and exits the car.

EXT. – NORTH TEXAS BACKROAD
Paynter walks around his car, looking for the woman. He strolls down the road a bit to find nothing.

ANNOUNCER
(distant)
Just sit like this for a few minutes, realizing who you are and what you mean to YOU!

Paynter walks back to his car, leans in and grabs the bottle. He is about to take a drink when he HEARS:

ANNOUNCER
Are you sure you want to do that?

Paynter lets the bottle rest against his bottom lip, but doesn’t drink.

ANNOUNCER
(cont’d)
Do you really need that? Wouldn’t a hug be much better? Hugs are better than bugs, and we all know a person sees nothing but bugs when they do what you do. Like the one on your shoulder.

C.U. on Payner’s face. He slowly turns to look at his shoulder. REVEAL a very nasty-looking beetle crawling from his back over his shoulder. Paynter freaks out and starts smacking at the bug.

ANNOUNCER
(cont’d, with bluegrass banjo)
That’s the spirit. Beat the bug blues away. And give yourself a hug while you’re at it.

PAYNTER
Fuck off!

Paynter pulls his revolver and uses the butt end to smash the stereo. Paynter calms down as the smoke clears. He slides into his car and rests his eyes. When he opens them, he clears the tape from the stereo and throws it onto the road. Strangely, the stereo is still in working order, though in very bad shape. Paynter reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out another tape. He slides it into the stereo and starts the car. Music blasts from the stereo as he speeds away.

Jesus of the Apes

Synopsis for a graphic novel
or ongoing comic book series
Written by Jon Wilkins
From an idea by Jon Wilkins & Garry Messick

"Think not that I [Jesus] have come to send peace on earth: I come not to send peace, but a sword." (Matthew 10:34)

COVER:
Jesus squats menacingly among a group of fierce gorillas.

CHARACTERS:
Jesus – Destroyer of mankind, guardian of animalkind.

PLOT NOTES:
Joseph and Mary find that their son Jesus has disappeared. In fact, he was taken by white slavers to be sold in Egypt. The boy escapes with missionaries and is taken to the Congo. There, he walks away from the camp and is found by a mother gorilla. She raises him as her own and he grows up to be a powerful figure. The missionaries find the young man and teach him to read and write. During his time with the apes, Jesus finds he has special powers of healing and precognition. He returns to civilization in his early 30s and begins to spread his gospel of humanity for animalkind. Pontias Pilot (who’s son was trampled to death by an elephant) hates animals and decides to make Jesus an example. While in his holding cell awaiting crucifixion, Jesus is visited by an African shaman. The shaman offers him a nasty looking drink, saying it will save him. Jesus drinks it. As he is nailed to the cross, he slips into a deathlike slumber and awakens in the tomb, suffering from severe amnesia. All he can remember is the shaman’s name and makes his way back to Africa. There he ventures deep into the jungle before stumbling upon his gorilla tribe. He also decides that humankind is unworthy and must be destroyed by an animal army. Occasionally, angels appear and attempt to take him back to Heaven and restore his memory, but he fights them off thinking they are demon birds. He takes the name of Jesus making his goal to raise an animal army to sweep across Earth and destroy civilization. His animal army can travel over water.
SUBPLOT: While Jesus/God is away from Heaven, there is a revolt and a new angel wants to take control.

Hudson Waits

"Why don't you just kill me, boy? Slit my throat. Beat my old head in. Smother me in the middle of the night with one of m'own pillows."
Jasper looked down at his mom. He saw how sick she was... not only her body, but in her head as well.
"Come on, boy. I can see it in your eyes. You'd liked to have gone with your teacher, eh? To the edge of the sea. See all them fishes. Swimmin' around your spindly little legs. Breathin' that salt water. Feel your eyes, stingin' from the stuff."
Jasper thought of the beach... the sun beating down on him one summer when his mom had been well and his dad had still walked the earth.
"Come on, damn you. Do it... do it! Your papa was always cleanin' up after you. He died in that hell hole because of you!"
Jasper walked away. He left his mom as she started to cry... weeping into the pillow she had just ordered him to kill her with.
"Play your goddamn saxophone, Jasper. So you don't have to hear me."
Jasper hated playing the saxophone. It's meaty growl... a slight rasp to its voice, the kind a 6-pack-a-day smoker has. He thought of Mr. Coleman, his fifth-grade science teacher. He thought of how all his classmates would be stretching their toes in the warm, Carolina sand... taking turns pressing their faces into the only diving mask they had... watching all the fish dart in and out of their grasp.
Instead, Dr. Coleman had asked him to stay with his mother.
"As a personal favor to me, Jasper. She needs someone to talk to. And if she gets any worse, you need to be ready with the phone," he had said, not realizing the anguish the boy would go through. But probably not caring.


When Jasper dreamed, it always started somewhere in the South Pacific, usually over a coral reef, his legs scissoring him down toward a cave opening, its darkness welcoming him. Jasper could almost feel the cold ocean draft pulsating from within. But, as always, he awoke just as he entered it.


An oceanographer... now that's what Jasper wanted to be. Exploring the uncharted depths of the sea, where light had not shown since creation.
His mother refused to buy him a snorkel and mask, instead giving Jasper his dad's old saxophone. At first he let it sit in his closet, but soon the wails of pain from his mother's room drove him to it.
Nothing but a few, tortured squeaks jumped from the horn, but in time, as his mother became sicker and sicker, his playing evolved.
The belongings his father had left behind – which Jasper had avoided like the plague – now became a treasure throve. The forty or so jazz albums (he was forbade to play John Coltrane and discovered his genius years later) were constantly playing. A combination of loud music and a screaming saxophone were enough to drown out the sounds that haunted him day and night.
But the waving moans of the tenor only reminded him of the ocean calling him. They also reminded him of Karen...


..."Dig s'more, Jasper. Your gonna need a deeper hole if you wanna bury someone."
Jasper rammed his shovel into the hard packed earth again and again until he was standing in a 4-foot deep grave. "Is this enough, daddy?"
"Yeah, I guess that'll about do it. Now, get her over here and we'll finish this thing."
Billy walked over to the limp body of Nancy Carter, his fourth grade sweetheart who he'd accidentally shot with his father's Army pistol.
"She's so heavy, daddy. Help me."
His father shook his head. "No can do, son. You've got to learn to clean up your own mess. It's the way we do things in the Truffaut family."
Jasper dragged Nancy into the grave and began to fill it in.
"Keep working, son. I'll go get us a beer."
Later, as the sun set on the gruesome day, father and son sat next to each other on the porch.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, boy?"
"Will I ever get caught?"
"No way. You buried her real nice."
"Well, I don't know if I feel so good about it."
"Boy, you know what you got now?"
"No. What?"
"You got a skunk."
"A skunk?"
"Yeah. Ya' see, a skunk has the ability to keep bigger animals from eatin' it by spraying them, keepin' them at bay."
"I know."
"Well, now you have a skunk... you have the ability to keep bigger people from hurting you."
"Because of what I did?"
"Yep, but it's something you have to work on... cultivate. Let me tell you how I got my skunk, Jasper my boy..."


It wasn't until his next school year that Jasper understood the power of what he had done. His father was rotting in the state pen and Jasper was mercilessly teased by his schoolmates. One boy in particular would not leave him alone...


...The bully's hand came down on Jasper's shoulder like a steel clamp.
"Ouch, Tony. That hurts."
Tony the Bully smiled. "I know it does."
"Oh. Well, could you stop, please?"
Tony just smiled. "Aw, the little baby wants me to stop."
His grip tightened.
Jasper felt he had no other choice. "If you don't let go, I'll get rid of you like I did Nancy."
Tony's grip loosened... a bit. "What do ya' mean?"
"I'll kill you, and then bury you so no one can find you."
The color in Tony's face suddenly went on vacation, and a dark stain rapidly spread across the front of his jeans.
He let go of Billy.
"And if you tell anyone, I'll get you!"
Tony ran home and never ever looked at Jasper again.


As Jasper got older, he was asked to take on more and more responsibility. Going to school and living his dream was no longer an option. Working to support his mom was the only thing he could do. He decided to use what talent he had and joined a small jazz combo that played regularly at a local club. He soon became popular and was asked to front his own band.
Before he knew it, a year had passed and his career soared. His mother passed quietly in the night. Her funeral was attended by three people... the priest, a cemetery caretaker and Jasper.
But, it hadn't surprised him.


"Jasper? Before I die, I want you to know a few things."
The week before her death, her mouth had trembled letting drool hang in a quivering string. Her hair was nest of gray twigs with white cables falling from underneath.
"That man... the one who you called father... the one you sentenced to death. He wasn't your father. I don't know who the hell your father is. You're a bastard. What do ya' think of that?"
Jasper tried not to. He just stared at her, hoping this would be over soon.
"Nothing to say? Well, would it surprise you to know you had two brothers? One was killed coming out of me, and the other I had put down before it could show its face to the world."
Jasper was unmoving... no change in his expression.
"You cold, little bastard. Nothing gets to you. I bet you sit in your room and smile while you listen to me. You don't care. It's that horn you blow. Is that your new friend? Your only friend? Do you fuck it 'cause you can't get no girl? You killed the only thing that ever loved you. She loved you, didn't she? Is that what you think? Why did he have to stick up for you? You killed her, YOU! And they sent my Jean-Phillipe to prison. What did that little girl ever do to you? When they came for him, you didn't say a word. You just let them take him from me... forever! Did he tell you how he got his damned 'skunk'? Huh? He killed his parents. That's right. Shot 'em dead. He was sent away about your age and doctors sure straightened him out. Did he ever tell you about that?"
Years later, Jasper understood his mother's rage. It was his fault daddy had to go to prison, a place that Jean-Phillipe would not walk out of.
Jasper remembered back to that day on the porch. He and his father were tired from burying Nancy. Jasper listened to the story...


...Jean-Phillipe Truffaut stepped into his parent's bedroom and watched as his mother and father rolled around on the bed, sweaty and naked as Charlie Byrd blasted from the stereo.
When they rolled to a new position, Jean's father saw him, and quickly wrapped himself in the sheet.
"BOY! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"
Jean didn't move.
"I SAID, MOVE IT!"
He didn't budge.
The elder Truffaut got up and stumbled his way toward Jean. "I'm gonna tan your hide, boy!"
Before his father could reach him, Jean-Phillipe pulled out a pistol and shot his father between the eyes.
His mother gasped and tried to slither out the bathroom door, but he shot her in the back, piercing a lung and rupturing her heart.
A dying gasp came from his father's mouth, and Jean bent down to listen.
"N..n..now you got....yourself a....s...sk..skunk...boy."
Little Jean-Phillipe Truffaut shot him again and walked out of the bedroom to make a bowl of cereal.


Jasper was jolted back to reality when his mother suddenly gasped for air and then coughed till her face turned red.
"I guess if I was dying just now, you would have just stood there, watching me. You hope I die soon, don't you? So you can live your life. Do you still dream of the ocean? Hmmm? Well, forget it... you're too stupid... I must've fucked some retarded sailor to get such a pitiful thing like you. I would have done you like I did the last baby I had, but the doctor said it was too late. I had to have you."
Jasper smiled.
"That's funny to you? I swear, if I had the strength I'd raise up and strike you down, right where you stand."
Jasper turned on his heel and walked away.
"I'll come back for you someday, Jasper. You count on it. Someday, you'll see me. You might not recognize me, but I'll be there. I swear it."
The next day, Jasper found her, motionless... not breathing.
He let out a heavy sigh, closed his eyes and listened to the ocean in his head. After a moment, he picked up the phone and called Dr. Coleman.


For Jasper, it was finally time to live his life. He went back to school and got his diploma. A scholarship and an audition that amazed professors got him into the University of California, Berkeley. His time there was productive, and he made many friends, but the shadow of Nancy always appeared whenever he got too close to a girl. He figured he'd spend more time playing the sax and less time digging up old memories.
It wasn't long before he graduated and toured with his roommate's band in Europe, playing to sellout crowds on jazz hall stages in Germany and in the bistros of Paris. He still heard his mother every time he blew his sax, but the money, women and heroin were useful tools in keeping those thoughts buried deep in his subconscious.
All this time, he never forgot his original dream... to explore the depths of the ocean... to swim among creatures he had only read about. The years flew by and before he knew it, that dream had receded, almost disappearing from memory... as had Nancy. Her shadow was no longer there, only the occasional whisper. Jasper knew it was only the wind and his imagination, but this fantasy helped him to reconcile his guilt. Sometimes it made him sick to forget; to not remember her would be monstrous, but age can wear away the strongest memory.


Now, at the age of 70, Jasper was finally relaxing. After all these years, he had come to appreciate the saxophone and actually enjoyed playing it. Once, the sound had only reminded him of his mother, and now it only reminded him of the sea. He had left Nancy, his mother and a heroin addiction behind him, looking only toward retirement and someday a peaceful slumber.
He had worked hard all his life and now reaped his reward in the form of a jazz club in Kansas City. It was paid for and packed every night. He even entertained the patrons with surprise appearances they enjoyed.
On this night, Jasper ended an improvisation and looked out at the watchers. That's what he called people who came to watch him play. Still, his only true friend was his sax.
One man stood out from the rest. While most of the patrons had adorned themselves in suits and dinner dresses, the man was wearing a long sleeved, white shirt with horizontal, black stripes. His pants were black and a stocking cap was flat on top of his head. He looked old...almost too old to be alive, Jasper thought. He motioned to Jasper and mouthed, "Have a seat."
The jazzman stepped down from the stage and shuffled to the table. He sat down heavily, realizing it was 4 a.m.
"That was a nice set, you played."
"Thank you. I haven't seen you in here before."
"No. I have not been here. I came to see you."
Jasper thought the man may be French or Belgian, from his heavy accent. "You like jazz?"
"Oh yes, Jasper. Very much."
"Maybe you saw me in Paris, way back. I played there once."
"Yes! I saw that show. You were magnifique!"
"Thank you."
"Yes, you were wonderful. Too bad you were only pretending, eh?"
Jasper looked down. For some reason, he was ashamed.
How could he tell?
"No need to be that way, Jasper. I understand your reasons."
"I doubt that."
"No, on the contrary, I know your true dream. I could tell it, in your eyes."
"Impossible."
"Not at all."
"Then tell me, what is my true dream?"
The old man smiled. "To explore the sea...just like me."
He leaned into the candlelight and Jasper got a good look at him. He knew the man's face. "Jacques Cousteau?"
"Yes, it is me!"
"But...how? I mean, I never really followed your career, I'm sorry to say. I just kind of forgot about the sea and everything. Things kind of consumed my life."
"Yes, I know. But I am here to change all that."
"Is it really you? This is incredible. How did you find me?"
"That is not important. I have come to give you what you have given me tonight."
"What is that?"
"Why, happiness, of course. I saw you finally playing with love, after all these years. I have been following your career and have waited for you to accept your abilities."
"This wasn't my dream."
"I know, Jasper. But you can still live your dream, yes?"
"At my age?"
"Age? Look at me? All you have to do is float, ha! And see, yes?"
Jasper was bursting inside. He wanted to grab the man, tell him all the hopes he had when he was boy.
"Come with me, Jasper!"
"Where?"
"On the Calypso. We will sail the seas, together. I will teach you about the oceans and you will teach me how to play the saxophone."
"Is this a joke? You're serious?"
"Very serious."
"Prove it."
"Very well." Cousteau handed Jasper a plane ticket.
"You will fly to New York. There, the Calypso is docked. All the instructions are in that envelope."
Jasper decided he would do it. "Ok. When do I leave?"
"In two days. You will fly there tomorrow. Then, we leave immediately for the Caribbean."


Jasper landed at JFK airport and followed the instructions to a car waiting for him at the arrival level.
He suddenly remembered his mother's words, how she said he would never realize his dream.
The driver was dressed in a sailor suit that appeared to be several sizes too small. "Are you Jasper Truffaut?"
"Yes. Is this the car to the Calypso?"
"Yes, sir. Hop in."
Jasper noticed a small monkey, sitting in the passenger seat. The creature was staring right at Jasper, shaking its head from side to side. Jasper looked away and thought about the Calypso.
The car ride was almost an hour. Heavy traffic lay between the city and the docks, but they soon arrived. When he stepped from the car, Jasper was sent into a trance by the lapping waves and the overwhelming perfume of salt water.
"We're here. The Calypso is harbored on the other side. You'll have to present some I.D. to get in."
"Thank you."
"Good luck, Jasper."
The jazz-man-turned-oceanographer grabbed his bags and followed the fenced area to a security hut. The guard inside was sipping tea and eating a popsicle. Jasper thought it might be cherry-flavored, for the man's lips were stained a deep red.
The man saw Jasper and set his popsicle in the teacup. "Can I help you, pal?"
"Yes, I am here to see Jacques Cousteau. I am expected. My name is Jasper Truffaut."
The security guard glanced at a clipboard. "Hmmm...nope, don't see your name. And just for the record, I'm usually a nice guy. I have sympathy for your type. But you might want to leave before my partner gets here. He hates you people, and he'll be likely to smash your face in."
"He doesn't like black people?"
"What? He don't mind black people, he just hates you insane fuckers. Now get the hell outta here!"
"I am a guest of Cousteau. He sent a car for me."
"Listen you fruit cake, there ain't no Calypso here. Jacques Cousteau is dead. Don't you know anything? Now get on back to whatever loony bin you escaped from." The guard's eyes went wide. "Aww shit. Here comes Vinnie. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Vinnie was a very tall, very broad and very mean looking man. A dark brown stain was splashed across his shirt. He was muttering to himself and looked extremely pissed-off.
"Those fucking guys didn't put the top on securely. The coffee is like molten lava and these fucks set a goddamn trap for me." Vinnie looked at Jasper. "What the fuck we got here?"
"Nuthin’, Vinnie. He was just lost. He's leaving now."
Jasper thought he should go and call the Calypso from a pay-phone, but he didn't have the number. "Listen, if you could just call the ship, I know he will vouch for me. I'm expected."
Vinnie crossed his arms. "Ship? What ship?"
Jasper’s answer was timid, "The Calypso."
"What? Did you hear this, Donnie? The fucking Calypso."
Jasper pressed on. "Yes, Cousteau is waiting for me."
"Oh he is? Did you tell this shit that 'Jock' is dead?"
Donnie smiled. "Yep. But he doesn't believe me."
"I saw him last night. He was in a club, in Kansas City. He invited me here. He said I could be an oceanographer if I taught him to play the saxophone."
Vinnie cracked his knuckles and then started poking Jasper’s chest with a gnarled and scarred finger. "You goddamn wacko. You're just like all the rest. You run around spewing bullshit and then you snap and lose it completely and kill someone. My sister would be alive today if it weren't for you lunatic motherfuckers."
Vinnie hit Jasper hard enough to knock the jazzman to the ground. "It's crazy fucks like you that hurt this world!"
The livid security guard kicked Jasper in the ribs...his steel-toed boots made swift work of Jasper's brittle bones. The sound of each one cracking caused Donnie to flinch.
Jasper hugged his saxophone case to his chest. "Please...just call Jacques."
"Fuck you!"
The boot collided with Jasper's head releasing a blood clot that killed the jazzman instantly.
"Get up, you fuck!"
"Shit, Vinnie. He ain't moving."
Vinnie put the boot to him again and waited. "The fucker's dead."
"Aww shit, Vin'. What are we gonna do?"
"Help me pick him up. He's goin' for a little swim."
Donnie grabbed Jasper's legs while Vinnie picked up the dead jazzman by the shoulders. They dragged him to the edge of a dock and let the still form slide silently into the murky waters of Hudson Bay.

Gorge D'Pigeon

"Hurry up, Malcom."
"I'm trying, Benton, I'm trying."
The two old men fumbled with a heavy, suit of fur.
"Get it on, a car's coming."
Malcom zipped up the suit and adjusted his head. "Is it on straight?"
"Yes. Now get next to the road and wait for the command."
Benton led his friend to the side of the highway and hid behind him.
"Now, when I say 'GO!', you run straight across and don't stop 'til I tell you to."
"Okay. This had better work."
Malcom readied himself to sprint across the dark and lonely highway. It had been 50 years since he had run for the track team at Harvard.
The car turned a corner and came closer.
"Get ready, Malcom. Here... it... comes... GO!"
Malcom sprinted across the road almost tripping over his own furry feet.

Inside the Porcshe 911, Kathy Winters was enjoying the drive home. She decided to use the side road so that she could give her sports car a real workout. As she turned a corner, she accelerated to 95 mph.
It was then that she saw Bigfoot run in front of her. Her blood froze and she had to veer sharply to keep from slamming into it.
Her car lost its traction and careened into a 100-foot deep gorge.

Malcolm stripped off his fur suit and sat down to catch his breath as Benton ran up to him.
"That was great, Malcolm! Did you see her face? Well, of course you didn't see her face. You were running for your life! Ha ha! Don't worry. I got it all on video."
Malcolm bundled the suit and stood up. "What happened to her?"
"She went right off the cliff."
"Wow. We must have really scared her. Let's get home. I want to see that video."
"Can we get some KFC first?"
"Are you serious?"
"It's the gravy... lord, it's the gravy!"

Peel & Play

When Tommy walked up, he saw his friend Jimmy walking a skinned cat-puppet across the sidewalk.
"How'd you peel yours?" asked Tommy.
"My Grandpa. He's the one who told me all about it. Isn't it great?"
"Sure is, Jimmy."
"Ya want me to get Grandpa to make you one?"
"No thanks, Jimmy. I brought my own."
"Wow!" howled Jimmy as his friend pulled out his own puppet. "Hey, isn't that Marcie Owens from next door?"
"Yep."

...won't you be my neighbor?

"Helen...come here. He's at it again."
Benny Prichard stared out his 2nd story, bedroom window and watched his next-door neighbor dig a hole... no... Benny was sure it wasn't just a hole... it had to be a grave.
"Helen," he whispered as loudly as he could. "Come here. You'll miss it."
Benny pressed his face against the window. He knew that with the light off, his neighbor would not be able to see Benny spying on him.
"Dear?" his wife called. "Where are you? Why do have the damn light off."
"Don't turn the..."
The bedroom light flashed on and the gravedigger's head jerked up to stare fixedly at Benny.
"OH SHIT!!! Turn off the light... TURN OFF THE LIGHT YOU STUPID BITCH!!!"
"How dare you talk to me like that, Benny Prichard! I will not turn off the light... you can do it yourself!" she yelled as she stormed out of the bedroom.
Benny leaped for the light switch but stumbled over a chair, turning on the TV. In his second attempt, he fell sideways and a flailing arm turned on another lamp.
"NONONONONONONO...HE'LL SEE ME!!!!! AAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

Gordon Montague looked up at his neighbor’s second floor window and thought he saw a strobe-light punctuating a pitiful moaning that echoed from his neighbor's house.
"My God, they're sick people."