Work in progress, number 9....

LIGHTS UP
NARRATOR SITS ON A DIRECTOR'S CHAIR ON AN OTHERWISE EMPTY STAGE
TITLE:

IX
Current Events

NARRATOR: I do not understand why, but one essential ingredient of “recovery” appears to be guilt.

Maybe it’s part and parcel of the Calvinist underpinnings of American society; an insistence that you need to know that you’ve sinned before you can go and sin no more. Whatever…

When you commit a crime involving alcohol your punishment at certain points along the way will involve being lectured by various organizations. The most well known of these organizations is the monolithic M.A.J.A.F.E. [SPOKEN, “ma-JEFF-ah”], or Mothers Against Just About Fucking Everything.

PAUSE

With one foot planted in Catholic school and the other in the Women’s Temperance movement of the early 20th Century, M.A.F.A.F.E. [ma-JAFF-ah] now has chapters in every State except Hawaii, where it remains too relentlessly pleasant for people to get all that upset at anything.

Mothers Against Drunk Driving, or M.A.D.D., was one of the last great populist political movements. M.A.D.D. is a text book example of the potential of grass roots political action. Started by a small group of women that no politician took very seriously, by the time they became known nationally they accomplished the most difficult task of all, they changed the culture.

Before M.A.D.D., a DUI arrest over the weekend meant a $500 fine and some embarrassed laughter around the water cooler on Monday morning. After M.A.D.D., it was five thousand dollars and you prayed no one would find out. The culture of alcohol was forever different.

It happened in the early days of the new century that some members of that group, who were also active in anti-pornography, anti-music, anti-poetry, anti-tobacco, anti-anime, anti-comics, anti-theatre, anti-fast food, anti-evolution, anti-union, anti-show tunes, anti-dancing, anti-gay, anti-lesbian, anti-video games, anti-abortion, anti-Santa Claus, anti-Halloween, anti-New York Times cross word puzzle, anti-Harper’s Index, anti-literacy, anti-New World Order, anti-gambling, anti-Catholic, and anti-Islamic groups, [CATCHES BREATH] spun off to form the mother of all aunties.

Coincidentally, or perhaps not, most were also members in good standing of M.W.S. (Mothers Who Spank) and S.O.W.T. (Support Our White Troops). It is these women who are tirelessly engaged in monthly letter writing marathons, sending cards, small Bibles and candy bars to our boys on the front lines in the struggle to bring freedom to Iran and Syria as it had been finally brought to the handful of surviving Iraqis still hanging on in the decontamination camps on the border of the [SPOKEN SLOWLY WITH EACH WORD PUNCHED FOR EMPHASIS] great glass desert.

LIGHTS DOWN
END OF PART ONE
INTERMISSION MUSIC PLAYS

Work in progress, parts 7 and 8....

LIGHTS OUT
LIGHTS UP
TITLE:

VII

The Possum Pillow

NARRATOR: A direct result of my early release and indirect result of my smart mouth was that I began attending both Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous meetings. There are three things you ought to understand before we proceed.

One, I am not an alcoholic.

Two, I am not a drug addict.

Three, I am not “in denial,” thank you very much.

I like to drink and, on occasion, have drunk too much. But after attending a series of AA meetings I can say I am not in the same league with the people I’ve met there. In baseball terminology, I’ve dabbled a bit in double-A ball, while these boys have had whole careers in The Show.

I remember a cold November morning; the usual suspects were joined by an old man, maybe in his 60s, and who had the grizzled quality of a long-ball hitter. Loving our last remaining addictions, everyone stood around for a while before the meeting started, chain smoking cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of a half and half mix of strong black coffee and sugar. After the meeting started, the old man walked to the front and explained that he’d thought about coming to meetings on many occasions in the past but had never done so. But then something happened that changed his mind.

A short time ago he’d come into a little money and was celebrating with some friends. They started at a couple bars and things got a little blurry after two or three in the morning.

Two days later about six-thirty in the morning he woke up. He was covered with snow that had fallen the night before and slept across the railroad tracks at a downtown crossing.

And, he was using the frozen body of a dead possum as a pillow.

PAUSE

Still drunk, half frozen himself, he was taken aback when the possum suddenly opened its eyes and spoke to him with what he recognized as the voice of Robert Young on the old TV series “Father Knows Best.”

NARRATOR USES CALM REASSURING VOICE FOR POSSUM AND GRIZZLED OLD GUY VOICE FOR “CARL”

“How are you, Carl?” The possum asked.

“Uhhhh… not too good. Kinda cold.”

“Head hurt a little, does it?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“I’ll bet. Listen, Carl….”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to lecture or put any pressure on you but… well… look around.” The possum said.

Carl looked around.

“Do you think it might be time to go to one of those meetings, Carl?”

Hard as he tried, Carl couldn’t think of an argument to offer the possum.

PAUSE

The story circulated among my friends for the next month or so and became our code for someone getting a bit too familiar with recreational intoxicants. “Now there goes a candidate for a possum pilla.” One of us would say. “I heard that.” Someone would add.

LIGHTS OUT
LIGHTS UP
TITLE:

VIII

Kathy with a K

A WOMAN IS SITTING IN THE FRONT DESK 2ND ROW

NARRATOR: Kathy with a K sits at the front, sort of in the middle of our angry little group. Kathy with a K teaches English Literature at an area high school and is in her fifth year of finishing her doctoral dissertation. She has had four short stories published and is working on a novel, a secret she keeps from her dissertation advisor.

She has a younger brother and an older sister. Kathy’s father died about seven years ago. Her mother still lives in the house they all grew up in. Her brother lives in Ohio and owns a failing record store. Her sister lives in Los Angeles and is married to a man who is a successful casting director.

If name-dropping were an Olympic event her sister would be the captain of the US team.

Kathy’s sister spoke as if everything she said was a part of an impossibly long sentence that would only end when she died.

KATHY’S SISTER: [OFF STAGE, SPOKEN AS FAST AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE] SowewenttoSpagotohaveanearlylunchwithMartyScorseseandSeanPenncamebythetableanditwasmaybeaquartertoonebuthewaseitherdrunkorstonedorwhateverandashelefthebumpedintothetableacrossfromusandspilledwateralloverthatnicegirlfromwhat’sthatshowwithDavidSpade?.Anyway,sothenthatguyfromAmericanIdolwhowasatthebarwithwhat’shernamefromthatshowohyouknowtheone….

KATHY WITH A K: [VOICE RISING TO COVER THE LAST BIT OF HER SISTER’S RUN-ON SENTENCE] Arrrrrrggggghhhhhh!!!!! [PAUSE]

What I want to tell my sister is that I’m happy that blind luck tossed her into the path of the same idiot that blind luck tossed into the path of a good job, and happy that the lack of condoms in extra-extra-small has her ankle-deep in enough yuppie larvae to make California’s community property laws seal the deal.

Let’s hear it for the wonders of a thoroughly random and impersonal universe.

But, like so many people who find themselves beaten with the good end of the luck stick, she talks about her good fortune as if it was the result of thought and effort, complex planning, years of hard work!

I understand that I am not the first person in class to say this, but [ALMOST PLEADING] I am not a violent person!

PAUSE

The holidays are hard enough, aren’t they? I’d had a few drinks before we all sat down, a couple glasses of wine during the turkey and yams and the traditional bean casserole. I was so close to escaping into a nice tryptophan coma when she gets into this manic lecture mode – I swear she was doing coke in the goddamn bathroom all through dinner – and suddenly, this… this… moron who represents everything I detest about Twenty-First Century America is explaining to a room full of our relatives everything I’m doing wrong with my life…. [PAUSE… THEN PICKING UP SPEED AGAIN] And in this screeching fingernails-toenails-finishing nails-roofing nails-on-a-chalk-board-voice…. [PAUSE]

I just wanted her to shut up.

I just wanted her to stop talking.

I just wanted her to finish this inventory of my bad life choices.

[SHE STARTS SLOWLY BUT QUICKLY BUILDS TO A SHEER EXPRESSION OF RAGE] I just wanted her to tell everyone that she has her life because she regularly sacrifices Girl Scouts to Satan and that the simple reason that most major motion pictures suck beyond the realm of suckitudeness is because everyone involved in the industry is the exact same in-bred El Lay dip-shit mouth-breathing mentally defective dick-head that her idiot husband is!!!

PAUSE
EMBARASSED BY HER OUTBURST AND ASHAMED BY HER CONFESSION
EYES DOWNCAST

But I… um… I didn’t say anything. There was this serving fork for the turkey on the table in front of me and I… uh… picked it up and jammed it right into her Botox-filled forehead. [NERVOUS LAUGH AS IF STILL THRILLED BY THE MEMORY]


LIGHTS DOWN ON KATHY

NARRATOR: It was a superficial cut, but head wounds bleed profusely and as the blood poured onto the dishes and tablecloth and her sister screamed, Kathy with a K threw the fork on the floor and started shouting at her mother that there was Botox on the fork now and she could never use it again.

Her brother-in-law called the police who arrested Kathy and took her away in handcuffs as the paramedics loaded her sister into the ambulance with her husband.

Her mother and her brother sat on the couch drinking Grey Goose vodka straight from jelly glasses.

As her mother lifted the glass to her lips the blue and red flashing lights from the police car fell on the painting of Wilma Flintstone on the side of her glass.

She was wearing a spotted dress and she was smiling.

She seemed happy.

LIGHTS DOWN

Work in progress, parts 5 and 6....

LIGHTS DOWN AND UP
TITLE:

V
Confusion Reigns Supreme

NARRATOR: On our first Saturday morning Ms. Peaksbury asked me…

LIGHTS UP ON DESK WHERE MS. PEAKSBURY SITS

MS. PEAKSBURY: How did you feel when you were smashing those computers?

NARRATOR: [TO AUDIENCE, GAINING SPEED] In my mind I scanned a word list: audacious, blissful, bodacious, courageous, exhilarated, ecstatic, fearless, glowing, heroic, indomitable, inviolable, justified, noble, resolute, righteous, stalwart, strong, sublime, unafraid, unassailable, undaunted, valiant, vindicated, warm, wonderful, and… human.

[TO MS. PEAKSBURY] Confused.

PAUSE

[TO AUDIENCE] And so it was that “confused” became the angry person’s mantra. It wasn’t plucked from the defiant word list that threatened one’s graduation – which is to say, it was not the truth.

It was not “angry” or “mad” which, for some reason, were considered unacceptable answers. Nor was it an obvious uncloaked word of submission that had dominated since it became clear that the truth would, under no condition, set us free. It was not “wrong” or “immoral” or “bad.”

MS. PEAKSBURY: But Robert, if you felt it was wrong and immoral, why did you continue to drive into the other cars until the police shot your car?

LIGHTS OUT
WHEN THE LIGHTS RETURN THE NARRATOR IS AT DESK STAGE RIGHT
ANGRY BOB IS IN DESK A ROW IN AND TOWARD CENTER

TITLE:

VI

Angry Bob

AS THE NARRATOR SPEAKS TO THE AUDIENCE ANGRY BOB IS LOOKING TOWARD MS. PEAKSBURY’S DESK

NARRATOR: Angry Bob is thirty-nine years old, married with three angry kids and a house on the city’s west side. For the past seven years every day Angry Bob drove through the rush hour traffic that slowly made its way toward his downtown office.

Every city believes it has the worst drivers in the world and this city is no different. But Angry Bob actually found the perfect way to express the attitude at the very heart of the city’s motorists.

ANGRY BOB: People here drive as if their families were being held hostage and, if they allow any of the cars behind them to get ahead of them… their families will die.

NARRATOR: Angry Bob’s car was some maroon late-model Ford with 130,000 miles on it and a bit of a knock in the engine. While the interior bore the tell-tale signs of parenthood, the body was in excellent shape with no rust and almost no dings or dents.

Everyday the traffic backs up to a crawl, and everyday people weave their way in and out of the lanes as if they really believed chaos theory was bunk and it was actually possible to anticipate the random flow of traffic.

In the process Angry Bob’s bumper would be bumped and an occasional fender scraped, horns would blare, fists would wave. Taken as whole, it was like some post-modern opera by John Adams or Phillip Glass; Angry Bob On the Beach.

PAUSE
ANGRY BOB SPEAKS….

ANGRY BOB: What annoyed me the most was the attitude of entitlement on the part of the drivers who cut in and out of my lane. They all cross over with a certain confidence, as if they know I’ll hit the brakes rather than hit them.

[ALMOST IN MONOTONE, RAPID] Every morning. Every evening. Coming and going. Squinting into the rising sun in the morning. Squinting into the setting sun in the evening. Breathing in the exhaust. Sweating in the summer heat.

All the time moving so slowly that what was left of my air conditioner threatened to overheat the engine that knocked and sputtered [MIMICS THE KNOCKS AND SPUTTERS HITTING DESK AND STUTTERING]

Day in day out. Week after week. Month after month. Coming and going to a job I don’t like…

PAUSES AND LOOKS AWAY

…to a family that didn’t seem to like me anymore.

Thirsty. Hungry. Tired. Hot. Cold.

And then there’s that one afternoon when a young kid in a shiny sports car cut in front of me, and I hit the brake hard enough to smack my forehead on the wheel as the car behind me tapped my bumper and leaned on its horn.

I looked at the sports car in front of me and, reflected in the tiny rear view mirror, the kid’s eyes meet mine and I watched as the kid mouthed the word…

“Asshole.”

BECOMING MORE AGITATED, ANIMATED

I didn’t smash the sports car, not at first, not like the newspaper and TV said. No, I eased on the gas and gently made contact with the bumper. I saw the kid react and saw the brake lights come on. I slowly pressed on the accelerator and began pushing the sports car.

Now, the sports car could beat my car in zero-to-sixty, no contest. But the sports car was no contest for a full-sized Ford slowly crunching it into the delivery truck ahead of it.

I saw that smug entitlement on the kid’s face downshift into panic.

OBVIOUSLY RELISHING THE MEMORY AS HE RELIVES IT
THROUGHOUT, HE USES HIS DESK AS IF IT WERE HIS CAR PUSHING IT SLOWLY INTO THE DESK IN FRONT OF HIM

The back bumper of the truck was just high enough, and the front of the sports car just low enough, so that the car was slowly being shoved under the truck.

The hood of the sports car started to crumple; the back lights come on as the kid thought to throw it into reverse.

The car behind me was a mid sized Japanese number, silver gray, probably thirty grand. The driver was a woman who reminded me of a friend of my wife’s named Janet.

I’d never done anything to Janet. I’ve never spoken coarsely, never been rude; yet she always looks at me with the look you get when you taste something unpleasant.

The modern world seems stuffed full of women like Janet.

Forty-something, anorexic-thin, carrying water bottles with them everywhere, always in front of me at coffeeshops where all I want is a simple cup of coffee… but they order complex drinks that take a half-hour to make and require machines that looked like they’d been salvaged from old steam locomotives and fifties sci-fi films…

…and every one of them looks at me as if I remind her of the ex-husband who took her youth and then left her for the young girl in the tight uniform making the damn coffee.

PAUSES… RETURNS TO STORY

SHAKES HIS HEAD

So… faux-Janet hits her horn, though why she did is still unclear. It’s as if she needed to express her disappointment. She did this at the exact moment that I decided I wanted some more room in back of me as well.

As the sports car grrrrrinds in reverse in front of me, I throw the car into reverse and slam into the silver car behind me…

PUSHES HIS DESK BACKWARDS SLAMMING INTO DESK BEHIND HIM

…and it’s hood crumples and it rear-ends the mini-van behind it!

Now… the mini-van was driven by another soldier in the Army of Janets.

Faux-Janet had a look of confusion and despair as she looked into the eyes of Janet Three in the mini-van behind her and saw the disappointment looking back at her.

[EXCITEDLY] Disappointment and condescension smashed into each other at the speed of light and released particles of moral superiority and smugness impacting everyone within a mile of the event.

ANGRY BOB SLUMPS DOWN ONTO HIS DESK
THE LIGHT ON HIM IS KILLED AS THE LIGHT ON THE NARRATOR COMES UP

NARRATOR: But by then, Angry Bob was smashing into the sports car again, and again into Faux-Janet, back and forth, three more times. The other drivers around the commotion were now tooting their horns nervously as well. After clearing a space in front and back of him Angry Bob now decided to leave the pack; in his mind was a cartoon of a silver sardine busting through the tin walls of the can… and he smiled.

For the next fifteen minutes, just as Warhol had predicted, Angry Bob drove down the shoulder of the road, intermittently crashing into the cars on his left as he went. Some choices were obvious, cars that edged onto the shoulder to block his path. Some were less obvious. He hadn’t realized, for example, how much he hated SUVs until he found himself crashing into every one he passed.

During his rampage, Angry Bob smashed and crashed into a grand total of seventy-four vehicles. The television news footage shot from a circling helicopter showed the rows of state and local police and sheriff cars that converged on the bashed and battered maroon Ford. As I watched it all unfold live on the local news I saw the cops, guns raised, arms extended stiffly, slowly approach the car as it sat, wheels spinning. When I saw the police open fire I thought I was watching the driver die in a hail of bullets; it wasn’t till later, when I watched the footage endlessly repeat, that I realized that the police had shot the tires and the engine of Angry Bob’s weapon of mass destruction. At the end of his twenty-three minutes of fame Angry Bob’s Angry Ford had been shot over one hundred and nineteen times and had broken both axles. In one newspaper photo the Ford looked just like the car at the end of Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde.

I watched the legend of Angry Bob unfold on the communal TV in jail. It was a long room filled with orange-clothed fans of Angry Bob, cheering him on.

One of the inmates was a fifty-something black man named Lateef who reacted to every news story involving a Caucasian criminal with a recasting of the story that began “If he’d been black they’d a shot his ass.” Whenever he said that, his constant companion Byron would always add, “Yeah.”

Lateef told us, “I knew a brother in Pittsburgh back in seventy five named Louis Watson; we called him L.G. for ‘Long Gone’ after his habit of disappearin’ any time we sent him to the liquor store. L.G. was semi-famous when Jimmy Johnson up in Chicago wrote a song for him, the “Saint Louis Blues”…

EYES CLOSED
SINGING 12-BAR BLUES MEDIUM TEMPO
TAPPING DESK TOP IN TIME
THE WORDS “SAINT” AND “SENT” SHOULD BE SUNG SO AS TO SLUR INTO EACH OTHER

“I got the St. Louis blues, as blue as I can get.
I got the St. Louis blues, as blue as I can get.
We sent Louis to the liquor store, and [STOPS TAPPING, IN HIGHER VOICE DELIVERED AS PUNCH LINE] Louis ain’t been back yet.”

PAUSE

[CONTINUES IN LATEEF VOICE] Anyway, he’s drunk, stoned, whatever, one night about four in the morning and he rear ends this cop car at a red light.

They shot the brother nineteen times!”

[IN NARRATOR’S VOICE] Lateef paused for effect and let his gaze crisscross the room.

Then he concluded, [IN LATEEF’S VOICE] “I’ll tell you what, he’s long gone now.”

“I hear that.” Byron added.

Work in progress, parts 2-4....

TITLE:

II
The Prison Notebooks

SOUND EFFECT – METAL DOOR CLANGING SHUT – VERY LOUD
SOUND EFFECT LOUD VOICES DOWN AND OUT

For those of you who’ve never been to prison – [ASIDE] which, today, is to say, haven’t been yet – here are the three things you should know: [HOLDS UP ONE FINGER] One… the noise. It’s never quiet, not even for a moment. Not ever. [HOLDS UP 2 FINGERS] Two… the smell. There’s a sort of very thick industrial cleanser smell that never quite manages to cover up layers of far worse smells underneath. [HOLDS UP 3 FINGERS] And three… [SHUDDERS] the food.

If you gave a room full of monkeys some eggs, flour and a whisk they would produce something edible at least occasionally. No; the only way you can make food this bad is on purpose.

PAUSE
CONTINUES MORE SERIOUS IN TONE

This relentless assault on your senses – the constant din, the pervasive stench, the numbingly horrible tastes, and the all-encompassing boredom of the place – these things combine in their effect like some enormous low-voltage Taser with no “off” switch. Most of the time you’re not asleep, you spend stunned.

PAUSE
CONTINUES WITH RETURN TO MORE UPBEAT TONE

My own time was served in the county lockup, which, in some ways is worse than the big state prisons up north. The lockup is always fifty or sixty percent over capacity which makes it more prone to sudden outbursts of violence.

But it was that overcrowding and my lack of prior criminal record that got me an early release. And it’s the memory of the sound, smell and menu choices that keeps me coming early to the meetings… sitting quietly… and mustering all the sincerity I can as I confess and repent my crimes again and again.

TITLE:

III

George Orwell in Anger Management

NARRATOR: We will read now, from the Anger Management Handbook:

“Unexpressed anger can create other problems. It can lead to pathological expressions of anger, such as a personality that seems perpetually cynical and hostile. People who are constantly putting others down, criticizing everything, and making cynical comments haven't learned how to constructively express their anger. Not surprisingly, they aren't likely to have many successful relationships.”

[PAUSE] Hmmm….. [BEMUSED] Now that someone is actually working on my biography I’d kinda like to meet him, clear up a few things, double check some dates, the usual stuff.

WALKS BACK TOWARD BIG DESK
SITS ON THE EDGE

See…. My problem is this: What if cynicism is the only sensible response for the true romantic in the postmodern world? Which is sort of what Oscar Wilde was asking in his famous quotation: “Only someone with a heart of stone can look upon the death of Little Nell without laughing.”

PAUSE
DISMISSING THE THOUGHT, HE CONTINUES

The whole culture of counseling has a certain… Smurfs vibe to it.

You remember the Smurfs, right? The tribe of tiny animated blue people who preached the joys of cooperation to the very generation of people who, now in their thirties and forties, seek to make me more cooperative?

The only Smurfs who had individual personalities were those portrayed as incompetent curmudgeons who would inevitably see the error of their ways and return to the safe conformity of the greater blue pack.

Just as AA refuses to allow for the possibility of a glass of good Bordeaux with a nice beef carbonade, so too does anger management fail to recognize that a punch in the nose or swift kick in the balls might be the proper response in some situations.

I’m not a violent person; I don’t believe in corporal punishment in schools

– except for college, but that goes without saying –

I’m against the death penalty, dog fighting, cock fighting… I’m not that sold on prize fighting or the NFL or NHL for that matter. But I do believe in the possibility of righteous anger.

NARRATOR TAKES A BOOK FROM HIS DESK AND OPENS IT, FLIPS THROUGH SOME PAGES TO A MARKED SECTION

A few weeks after George Orwell had gone off to fight in the Spanish Civil War he wrote in his diary, “I’ve been here for two weeks and I haven’t killed my first fascist yet. [PAUSE EYEBROWS RAISE] If we could each kill one fascist they would quickly become extinct.”

Maybe his math needs updating, but he has a point, and his anger was a righteous anger.

CLOSES BOOK, PLACES IT BACK ON HIS DESK, CONTINUES

Woody Guthrie’s banjo had, written around the edge of the top, “This machine kills fascists.” I just don’t mention that to Ms. Peaksbury.

NARRATOR WALKS STAGE RIGHT
ALL LIGHTS OUT BUT THE LIGHT ON THE DESK ILLUMINATING THE “Ms. Peaksbury” NAME PLATE

LIGHTS UP
TITLE:

IV

Big Black Dookie Eater

In prison, a guy who’s pretending to be crazy by eating his own feces is called a “dookie eater.” This always reminds me of the moral of Kurt Vonnegut’s novel, Mother Night,

“You are who you pretend to be, so you must be very careful who you pretend to be.”

For no apparent reason, a couple years back my dog, Butchie, a black Lab mix, suddenly became a dookie eater. One day in the middle of winter out in the snow he found a frozen dog turd… and the poopsicle was born.

Now I have to search the yard before I let him out and shout at him everytime he stops to examine the ground. The problem has not affected my pit-bull, Sundance, who has become the main supplier of the yard snacks. I don’t know how long this will go on. I suspect that at some point either he will stop eating it or I’ll stop caring that he does. This is how most of my problems get solved.

I’m telling you this because in jail there was this 20 year-old four hundred pound black kid with a row of big gold teeth in front who smiled all the time in this odd way that was as if he was hearing the voices of dead stand-up comedians…

NARRATOR ROLLS HIS HEAD A BIT AS HE SAYS

…Nipsy Russell, Godfrey Cambridge, Red Foxx, Richard Pryor….

He would smile, mutter to himself and roll his head, but never actually look at anyone. He was being held in the county jail temporarily before heading up north for good to a maximum security lock-up.

His name was Maurice Maurice Morris, his street name was “Two Times,” and he’d killed six people; four in his family and two more later that same day. After I got out I looked up the story in the newspaper.

The paper said he had the mind of a very large and very strong six year-old child and had developed a problem with crack cocaine. The first four people who died were people who told him that he should stop using crack when that was the last thing he wanted to hear. The last two people who died were people who wouldn’t share their crack with him.

I don’t know what it could feel like to have your life be completely over, but still find yourself alive and stuck inside it.

I wonder if there are ghosts, and if that’s what they feel like.

Or, maybe when your life turns to shit, eating shit just seems somehow logical, I don’t know.

As I was being processed before my release I was put in this small room that had two wooden benches and one door. I’d been there for about twenty minutes when the door opened and, for some reason, they brought this kid in, sat him on the bench across from me, and left us there. When they brought me in they handcuffed my left hand to a metal bar by the side of the bench. The guard who brought the kid in just told him to sit and be quiet and left.

Now, the words [AS IF SPEAKING TO PRISON GUARD] “Uh, excuse me, but shouldn’t you handcuff this huge dookie-eatin’ mass murderer, or give me back my bat?!?” never got past my chest, regardless of the volume they played at in my head because, in the movie that was playing in my head, when I said them the guard stopped, looked at me, looked at the kid, said “Now you behave,” smiled, and left.

So I didn’t say anything.

Maurice Maurice looked at me and smiled. He laughed softly to himself. Rolled his head, he looked at my handcuffed arm. For some reason his gold teeth seemed...

enormous,

out of proportion to the rest of his face.

Maybe there’s some primal connection between shit-eating and cannibalism because I sat there with the “pa-WOOSH pa-WOOSH” sound of my own heart pumping blood roaring in my ears, trying not to seem concerned and trying to imagine how I might fend him off when he jumped on me, and what it would feel like when those big gold teeth chomped down on my throat.

We were together all of three minutes when they returned and took him away.

I never saw him again.

Work in progress....

Below is the first section of a work in progress. It began as a short story developed in a writer's group a few years ago. In an exercise we each took the first line from a song off the Beatles Sgt. Pepper album to use as our first line. Later, at the suggestion of a friend, I reworked what I had into the form of a stage play. As I continue to work on this I want to use this blog to post some sections and solicit comments and reactions.

____________________________________________

The set is very simple. A large desk and a few student desks suggest a classroom.

Scene titles are introduced by the NARRATOR who can do so with some flip cards or something similar.

The character of the NARRATOR is the voice of the play; it is through that voice the story is told and unfolds. The NARRATOR is the voice of EVERYMAN [used in a non-gender specific way] and throughout the play a series of actors, male and female, can play the part of the NARRATOR. They can be of various races and ages. Some sections will be more appropriate for some actors than others, but the use of multiple actors both signifies the “everyman” concept and makes manageable the amount of dialogue any one actor must learn.

TITLE: 

I

Lucy in the Sky (With Diamonds)

NARRATOR: [IN SLOW, CALM, HYPNOTIST’S VOICE] Picture yourself on a boat on a river…. All you see is the blue sky… all you hear is the sound of the water and birds…. all you feel is the gentle motion of the boat…. [PAUSE]

BACK LIGHTS UP SLOWLY TO REVEAL THE SET WITH EMPTY DESK AND CHAIRS

LIGHTS UP SLOW ON NARRATOR SITTING AT DESK IN FRONT STAGE CENTER RIGHT

NARRATOR’S DESK HAS A COUPLE BOOKS AND NOTEBOOK ON IT

NARRATOR: [TO AUDIENCE, AS IF COMING OUT OF THE TRANCE HE JUST PUT HIMSELF IN, SHAKES HEAD, COUGHS] So… we sit here, eyes closed, and concentrate on our breathing in this high school class room on this Saturday morning.

[LOUDLY SCOOTS CHAIR AROUND TO FACE FRONT AT AN ANGLE]

An even dozen of us, here for different infractions: A couple of barroom brawlers, a scattering of spousal abusers, a couple NBA fans; a woman who stabbed her sister in the forehead with a serving fork at the family Thanksgiving dinner; a frequent flier whose carry-on luggage was lost; a rush hour driver who, much like Popeye before him, [IN POPEYE VOICE] “had all he could stands till he couldn’t stands no more,” and a biker, who threw onto the roof of a nearby church, the gun, mace and club of the cop who stopped him. Having made clear the things he would not allow happen, he let himself be arrested and taken away quietly. Which, if you think about it, sort of makes him the poster child for “anger management.” [PAUSE]

And me.

Like most chapters from the Book of Bad Decisions, my story begins, “So anyway, I was drinkin’….?”

You can call me a Luddite if you want, that’s fine. Just don’t call me a “technophobe.” I don’t fear technology, a fact my crime will readily attest to. No one who fears computers would break into a store full of computers.

The store claims I did over six hundred thousand dollars worth of damage before the police arrived but my lawyer is working on that. For me, the night is still a bit of a blur. All I can really say for sure is that, after you take a full go-for-the-cheap-seats swing with an aluminum baseball bat and connect,

NARRATOR TAKES SWINGING BAT MOTION

[SPOKEN WITH WISTFUL AFFECTION]…after you watch those first shards of beige plastic fly… in slow motion… turning in the air….

PAUSES… LOOKS OFF INTO THE AIR

It’s true, the Bible does say “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.” But I think that anything said in the pre-computer age has to be taken in context. I do believe that, had Microsoft been around in ancient Samaria, we would find “Blessed are the PC smashers, for theirs is a righteous anger.” Right there in the Sermon on the Mount.

NARRATOR STANDS AS HE SPEAKS AND PRODUCES AN ALUMINUM BASBALL BAT WITH WHICH HE TAKES A FEW PRACTICE SWINGS, SMACKS IMAGINARY DIRT FROM HIS SHOES, FLIPS BAT IN THE AIR ONCE OR TWICE

In my own memory of that evening I see myself as a Ninja warrior in a martial arts movie. The invincible swordsman; the masterless Samurai. The silver bat my sword, the tables and shelves of PCs, soldiers in the enemy’s overwhelming force.

Once I gave myself over to the experience, it was indescribably beautiful in the way that violence can become something beautiful, if the heart is pure.

NARRATOR SWINGS, SLASHES, STABS IN MOCK MARTIAL ART MOVES

NARRATOR REMIANS IN MOTION THROUGHOUT THIS

I am somewhat large and was brandishing a shiny weapon at the time and it is a not-so-minor miracle that I didn’t die that evening in a hail of hollow-point cop bullets as I spun around, startled by the shouts of…

FINALLY SMASHING A DESK, HARD

… “FREEZE!!!” [SHOUTED VERY LOUD]

NARRATOR STANDS, FROZEN IN PLACE, OUT OF BREATH

A whole bunch of police were standing there, .40 caliber Austrian-made semi-automatic hand guns trained on my chest.

PAUSE

THE NARRATOR LEAVES THIS FANTASY/REENACTMENT, GETS RID OF THE BAT AND CONTINUES, SITTING

Now this had the immediate effect of ripping me out of my own private Hong Kong action movie like a cop’s flashlight – WHACK! – to the back of the head.

NARRATOR STANDS NOW SPEAKING OFF TO THE SIDE, HANDS CLASPED IN FRONT OF HIM

Your honor, I’m not making excuses for what I did. It was… the… [FINDING THE WORDS] unfortunate intersection of a profound hatred of computers, and a corresponding affection for single barrel bourbon and hydroponic marijuana.

NARRATOR LOOKS DOWN QUICKLY

PAUSE

NARRATOR RETURNS TO SEAT

[TO AUDIENCE] One of my many problems is that I often sound like I’m smarting off, even if that’s the farthest thing from my mind. That was a particularly good example of that.

Now I have to attend AA meetings, NA meetings, and an anger management class, all of which are hands down more enjoyable than prison so I shouldn’t be complaining.

And, while I believe in my heart that the wanton destruction of a half a million dollars worth of PCs should count towards the 400 hours of community service the judge added to my sentence, I know enough to not bring that up.

LIGHTS OUT
SOUND EFFECT - CROWD OF PEOPLE TALKING - ENTERS VERY VERY LOUD

The Story of the Bean and the Beautiful Red Witch....

[My FaceBook friend Christie Bell is, among other things, an artist who, in her photography, loves to work with costumes and found objects.  A while back she posted that she had come across a large wire metal cage and planned to use it in some photographs.  Christie and I both have a good friend named Jennifer and Jennifer has a lovely daughter named Sabina who I have been known to refer to as "The Bean."  Christie just posted a series of photographs she shot of Jennifer and Sabina and, as I looked at them, they seemed to suggest a fairytale that, before I knew it, I was writing down, as I heard it in my ear, as I looked through the photos.] 

 The Story of the Bean and the Beautiful Red Witch

In a big house at the edge of the forest lived a pretty little girl the people called The Bean.  Sometimes, at night, she heard sounds from the forest coming through her window.  Sometimes it sounded like whispers. Sometimes it sounded like laughter. Sometimes it sounded like music. And sometimes it sounded like flowers.

The people who lived in The Village told The Bean to stay out of the forest.

The people in The Village told The Bean that, in the forest, there lived the Beautiful Red Witch.

Sometimes at night, when the wind was blowing from the forest into The Village, people said they could hear the Beautiful Red Witch whispering, calling their children to come to the forest.

The people in The Village said that the Beautiful Red Witch waited in the forest for little girls, little girls just like The Bean.

If they were not careful, little girls would be drawn by the sound of the whispers, the sound of laughing, the sound of music, and the sound of flowers and walk off the path that ran around the edge of the forest, and walk into the forest.

There, the Beautiful Red Witch was waiting.

Little girls, just like The Bean, would not see the Beautiful Red Witch at first.  They would be drawn by the sounds – whispers, laughing, music, flowers – and before they knew it… they were deep into the forest. And the Beautiful Red Witch would suddenly appear.

The Beautiful Red Witch would grab the little girls and cast a spell that would turn the little girls, just like The Bean, into birds.

The Beautiful Red Witch would put the birds, which were, until very recently, little girls, just like The Bean, into cages where they would whisper, and sing their songs that sometimes sounded like laughter (and sometimes sounded like flowers) and sometimes, when the wind was right, the sounds would drift from the forest, to the village and, well, you know the rest.

And so it happened that, very early one morning as The Bean was asleep she woke up to the sounds of flowers and music and left her house and walked to the edge of the forest and, before you could say “Yessir, that’s my baby”, The Bean had walked into the forest as the first light of the day barely managed to sneak into the edges of the green.

At first, The Bean did not notice the Beautiful Red Witch as she silently came up to her.

But then… suddenly… The Bean saw the Beautiful Red Witch!

The Beautiful Red Witch was surprised because The Bean did not cry out.  The Bean stood very still and looked at the Beautiful Red Witch.

“It’s true,” said The Bean, “you are beautiful.”

The Beautiful Red Witch was again surprised (making twice in one day after one hundred and seventeen years of no surprises at all).  In her hundreds of years living in the forest and turning wandering children into birds the Beautiful Red Witch had never been told such a thing.

Not ever.

“Ooooo!" said The Bean. “Is that the cage you will put me in?”

“Yes.” Said the Beautiful Red Witch with her beautiful voice.

Before the Beautiful Red Witch could speak again, The Bean stepped inside the cage.

“Wow!”said The Bean.  “It is amazing in here!”

Again, the Beautiful Red Witch had no reply.  Finally, she asked The Bean, “Really?”

“Oh yes!” said The Bean. “It’s wonderful!  Have you never been inside?”

 “Well…” said the Beautiful But Quite Confused Red Witch, “…actually, no.”

“Here…” said The Bean, stepping out of the cage.  “You simply MUST try it.”

The next day the people in the village came to the forest and were amazed by what they saw.

There, in the center of the clearing by the road that runs round the forest, sat a large cage, and inside the cage sat the most beautiful red bird they had ever seen, whispering, laughing, and singing its song that sounded like flowers.

The End

* Here's a link to a download for the song "The Silver Witch" which makes for a lovely accompaniment to the story.

The Pitch... A Short Story

The Pitch
a very short story

“Tell him the idea.”

“OK. Here goes… It’s like I Spy meets To Catch a Thief meets The Matrix meets Kill Bill… but with ninjas.”

“Tell him how it works.”

“Imagine George Clooney as an international tennis bum; he plays in the international circuit, and he travels the world with his assistant, Chris Rock – or Ving Rhames – but both of them are really US secret agents who get assignments that coincide with George Clooney’s tennis playing.”

“OK, that’s the I Spy part; tell him the rest.”

“Well… when George Clooney was a little kid his father worked for the US government, maybe as a soldier, or maybe as a spy too… anyway, when he was a little kid his dad’s unit was ambushed by a bunch of communist ninjas and they were all killed. Then, this one ninja was sent to kill the family of the main army guy….”

“…George Clooney’s dad.’

“Right, but when he went there....”

“…the ninja guy.”

“Right, when the ninja guy goes there he sees the woman and the little kid, he ends up falling in love with the guy’s widow….”

“…Little Clooney’s mom.”

“Right… let me tell it.”

“OK, sorry.”

“The ninja guy falls in love with Little Clooney’s mom and befriends the family and ends up marrying her and becomes Little Clooney’s step-dad. He has to battle a bunch of other ninjas who are sent to kill him because he disobeyed the order to kill Little Clooney and his mom. So Little Clooney’s step-dad has a big fight scene where Little Clooney sees him kill all the other ninjas….”

“…because he’s, like, the greatest ninja.”

“Right.”

“The White Ninja!”

“Yeah, plus that’s how you can follow him in the fight with all the black ninjas. So later the step-dad teaches all his awesome ninja skills to Little Clooney, which we see in this montage as Little Clooney grows up into Teenage Clooney and then finally into the real George Clooney.”

“But the real George Clooney still doesn’t know that his ninja step-dad killed his real dad.”

“Right. So, anyway, George Clooney’s awesome ninja skills also make him a great tennis player. We’ll have another montage where it cuts from a ninja exercise to a tennis exercise where, like, in one shot he’s practicing moves with a ninja sword and in the next he’s doing the same moves with a tennis racket.”

“Eye of the Tiger.”

“What? No…. Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

“So, after the back story is set, the movie opens with George Clooney winning a tough tennis match with a series of perfect serves. Bam! Bam! Bam! Ace! Ace! Ace! And then, back at the hotel, his partner, who is like, a total expert with all kinds of explosives and electronics, is picking out stuff he needs while George Clooney is putting on his ninja clothes. Then they go to some bad guy’s big estate that’s like a fortress with all kinds of guards and electronic stuff and guard dogs and George Clooney is, like, almost invisible, scaling the wall and using a blow gun and throwing stars to take out the first batch of guards. We see Chris Rock….”

“…or Ving Rhames.”

“Right, or Ving Rhames, throwing what we think is, like, a grenade at two guard dogs, but it’s really a lump of burger that the dogs eats and then fall over, asleep. Then we see George Clooney between two guards, who don’t know he’s there, use two nunchucks to knock them both out…. WHIP! WAP! WAP! THUD! THUD! Anyway, this is all like in the intro, before the credits, and it ends with George Clooney getting the stuff – papers, a computer thing, whatever….”

“The MacGuffin.”

“The what?”

“It’s what Hitchcock… never mind.”

“Anyway… as the credits end, George Clooney is romancing some babe….”

“…because, you know, he’s George Clooney.”

“…and his partner comes in and says something so George Clooney knows their contact has arrived with their new assignment and he ditches the babe and their contact comes in with some high tech thing that looks like a portable DVD player crossed with a toaster that displays info on their new mission. And just then… the window glass suddenly explodes as someone shoots the contact, who falls dead on the carpet.”

“It’s awesome.”

“Yeah, the glass just shatters and a couple more shots are taken at George Clooney and Chris Rock, and George Clooney does this Neo-in-The Matrix-slow-mo-ninja bullet dodge move as Chris Rock gets this rifle with this high tech scope that follows the trajectory of the incoming bullets and shoots and the camera follows his bullet right back to the source… SWACK! Dead bad guy!”

“It’s GREAT!”

“Then George Clooney looks out the window and sees a bunch of cop cars pulling up to the hotel so Chris Rock picks the lock on the door separating their suite from the suite next door where no one is home and they stash all their super spy and ninja gear in there while the police arrive to interrogate the tennis pro and his assistant about the dead guy on their carpet. As this goes on, George Clooney notices one of his ninja throwing stars on the floor and puts his foot over it. Then, silently communicating to Chris Rock….”

“…because, like, they are in that über perfect buddy movie sync.”

“…in one smooth movement Chris Rock opens a drawer to get their passports for the police and – as he closes it – George Clooney reaches down, picks up the star….”

“…the shuriken.”

“Right, picks up the throwing star and flicks it into the drawer where THWACK! it sticks to the wood at the back of the drawer a split second before the drawer closes.”

“This will be cool.”

“This will be very cool. OK… next, when they break back into the suite next door to retrieve their stuff the beautiful woman who’s suite room it is suddenly returns and catches them. She recognizes George Clooney because she was there to watch the tennis tournament, and now she thinks he’s a jewel thief like Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief….”

“…only with ninjas.”

“Right, only Cary Grant is a secret spy ninja.”

“Ninja secret agent tennis pro.”

“Right. So the girl in the Grace Kelly part….”

“Catherine Zeta Jones, or Rene Zellweger.”

“Yeah, she’s like, a bored rich divorcee, and she’s attracted to George Clooney….”

“…because he’s, you know, George Clooney.”

“…and they let her believe that they’re international jewel thieves and when they invite her to accompany them on their next job she’s, like, so excited she starts negotiating for a bigger cut!”

“She’s like, ‘I want a third….’”

“And Chris Rock is like, ‘A third? Are you crazy? She’s crazy!’”

“And, with their new cover as jet-setting international tennis playing jewel thieves, the three are on their way to… Japan.”

“Right, Japan. Now it cuts to a wide shot of Tokyo at night, lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Do they do Christmas in Japan?”

“What…? It doesn’t matter… anyway, the three of them check into their hotel and George Clooney and Chris Rock send Catherine Zeta Jones….”

“Or Rene Zellweger….”

“…out on some errand which gives them time alone to go over the mission info the guy who got shot gave them.”

“Right. Their target is this old Japanese guy who heads up a special Yakuza assassination squad about which next to nothing is known. His head of security is an ex-Special Forces turned mercenary with a taste for beautiful brunettes….”

“…I thought I was telling it?”

“OK, you tell it, sorry.”

“Right, OK, so, so they find the guys estate, it’s like a fortress up in the mountains. When they scope it out with a high-tech telescope and what do you think they see? A courtyard filled with ninjas in training!

‘Whoa!”

“Chris Rock looks at George Clooney who is looking at the courtyard full of ninjas and says, ‘So… what do you know about that.’”

“And as a last shot of the courtyard of ninjas fades to black we hear Ba-da-da-da-da-da—dum-dum-da!”

“The first nine notes of Kung-Fu Fighting….”

“Which is, like, ironic reference number twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven?”

“It’s an estimate.”

“OK, now we fade back up and we’re at a table in an expensive restaurant. The three of them are there, making small talk and veiled references to their plans; Catherine Zeta Jones still thinks that George Clooney is there to steal jewels or something. When she leaves to go to the powder room, Chris Rock and George Clooney argue about bringing her along, but George Clooney tells Chris Rock he thinks she’ll play an important part in their plan, but before he can elaborate she returns to the table.”

“Dun-DUNNNN! The suspense builds!”

“After dinner they stroll back to the hotel and take a short path through a small park where….”

“…more ninjas?”

“More ninjas!!! This time, as the attack begins we switch to a Ninja George Clooney perspective… everything is quiet and in a kind of slow motion that’s inter-cut with bits in real time and really loud – back and forth…. Ninja George Clooney senses the attack and – in slo-mo – reaches in front of Catherine Zeta Jones’ face and – in real time – he snatches an arrow or a ninja dart, like, an inch from her face. Now Chris rock reacts in slo-mo surprise as two ninjas come at them. Ninja George Clooney pushes Catherine Zeta Jones behind him and, with kicks and punches, totally kung-fu’s those two ninjas as, Chris Rock, standing directly in front of Catherine Zeta Jones, reaches into his jacket, brings out a .32 caliber semi-automatic with a silencer – all in silent slo-mo – and points right at Catherine Zeta Jones, who reacts – in silent slo-mo – with horror, and then – switching back to real time – the camera racks focus and we see the third ninja standing right behind her, he’s got some kind of weapon, and FSSSSSST! Chris Rock gets off one silenced round that hits the ninja right between the eyes.”

“It’s awesome!”

“Yeah, the last thing we see in this sequence is Catherine Zeta Jones, hands still up around her face, trying to process all the information.”

“She’s seriously freaked out.”

“Yeah, and now we’re back at the hotel and she’s up in George Clooney’s face saying, ‘Ninjas!? There were freakin’ ninjas!!!’”

“She’s totally flipping out.”

“’You’re not here to steal stuff… are you?’”

“She asks.”

“And then we have the scene where George Clooney comes clean and they show her some high tech stuff and they try to convince her to help them out. She hesitates, and Chris Rock says, ‘Would you do it for your country?’”

“Catherine Zeta Jones looks at him, waits a beat, and says, coolly, ‘I’m from Wales.’ Another beat, and Chris Rock, slightly confused but with a look of understanding passing over his face, says… ‘Then do it… for the whales.’”

So we cut to the bad guy’s fortress and Catherine Zeta Jones….”

“They convinced her.”

“…drives up to the front gate in a drop-dead gorgeous blue Bentley convertible. She’s wearing an evening gown and there’s an open bottle of Champagne in an ice bucket on the passenger’s seat.”

“And… she’s lost.”

“And her car and her dress are covered with various high-tech devices that send info back to George Clooney and Chris Rock. The Bentley is sending back high-res pictures of the inside of the compound as well as infrared showing the location of guards inside the house.”

“And inside the house at the moment the Bad Special Forces Guy is starting to put the moves on Catherine Zeta Jones.”

“Now the sun is going down, it’s dusk. And George Clooney, dressed in a gray ninja outfit, enters the grounds and dispatches two guards allowing Chris Rock to enter behind him. Chris Rock wears this high-tech eyepiece that shows him a read out from the Bentley cameras; he’s also carrying a bag with a bunch of high-tech explosives that he starts putting in various places. This builds up to a big scene where explosions rock the barracks, blowing up most of the ninjas. George Clooney has a number of quick, yet impressive, ninja fights as he works his way into the house where the Bad Special Forces Guy holds a gun on Catherine Zeta Jones. At some point, George Clooney take off his ninja mask and, when he does, a flash of recognition passes over the Bad Special Forces Guy’s face. At the end of their fight, the Bad Special Forces Guy shoots Catherine Zeta Jones….”

“She’s just wounded.”

“But, mortally wounded by George Clooney’s sword, the Bad Special Forces Guy laughs, coughs, and tells George Clooney to look for the Hiroshi file… and dies.”

“Hmmmm…. I wonder what the Hiroshi file has in it?”

“Chris Rock tells George Clooney the place is going to blow sky high and they have to get out, but George Clooney heads upstairs to the old guy’s office where he finds the old guy has committed seppuku….”

“Hari kari….”

“…offed himself, is dead. In the next sequence we cut between shots of: Chris Rock getting the wounded Catherine Zeta Jones back to the car – George Clooney in the old guy’s office – Chris Rock shooting two of the last guards – George Clooney looking at the Hiroshi file – Chris Rock looking at his watch with great concern – a flashback to the killing of George Clooney’s father superimposed over a close up of George Clooney’s face – Chris Rock loading a magazine into his pistol with color-tipped bullets – a flashback of George Clooney’s ninja step-dad being given the orders to kill Little George Clooney and Little George Clooney’s mom – Chris Rock shooting at the closed front gates as he drives at them – a flashback of Little George Clooney watching his white ninja step-dad fight the black ninjas – the fortress gates exploding – a look of grim understanding on George Clooney’s face – the Bentley barreling through the space where the gates were – and then, the fortress explodes in an enormous series of blasts and fireballs!”

“Wow! Did George Clooney make it?”

“As the Bentley goes around a corner we see… George Clooney standing on the side of the road, in his gray ninja outfit, his head bowed in thought.”

“I knew he’d make it.”

“Act Three…. George Clooney and Chris Rock at Catherine Zeta Jones’ hospital bedside. She wakes up, Chris Rock excuses himself, George Clooney and Catherine Zeta Jones have a moment, and she asks if he could ever leave his secret ninja life. He says yes, but he has one last thing he has to do; they kiss….”

“And we cut to….”

“…George Clooney getting out of a sleek sports car and walking up the front walk to the porch of his childhood home. Inside, he and his step-dad have a quiet conversation, during which there’s a passing reference to George Clooney’s mom having passed away some years back.”

“Because my mom would ask the movie screen where she is.”

“Finally, George Clooney places the Hiroshi file on the table in front of his step-dad who looks slowly up at George Clooney.”

“Then…”

“…with lightning speed, George Clooney draws a knife and slashes at his step-dad who, with equal speed, leans back in his chair to dodge the strike, produces a knife of his own and blocks the attack. Both knives are driven SWACK! into the wood of the table top. And neither man’s eyes have left the other’s.”

“Cut to….”

“The courtyard of the home at dusk. George Clooney’s step-dad stands in a white ninja outfit, George Clooney stands ready in a blood red one.”

“It’s O-Ren Ishii versus The Bride in the courtyard at the end of Kill Bill 1. But, with George Clooney.”

“During the fight, George Clooney is cut two or three times, but, because his ninja suit is the same color, it isn’t noticed by his step-dad who – it is obvious to all of us – is still the superior fighter. As their swords cross, they talk about what happened all those years ago. As they fight neither man can gain an advantage, but we see blood on the ground and know it is George Clooney’s. After a pass, George Clooney’s step-dad sees a splash of blood on his white costume. He realizes George Clooney is wounded and increases the ferocity of his attack. He tells George Clooney that he can’t beat him because he has never understood sacrifice….”

“A look flashes across George Clooney’s face, and then.…”

“George Clooney makes what appears to be an awkward and desperate thrust with his right arm….”

“And….”

“George Clooney’s step-dad chops off George Clooney’s right hand! We see the blade, in the hand, move in slow motion across the screen, spurting blood….”

“Tastefully….”

“…behind it.”

“And.…”

“The slo-mo shifts back into real time with a cut to a tight two shot and we hear a kind of gasp, grunt, and we see a look of total surprise on George Clooney’s step-dad’s face; George Clooney has a short sword in his left hand that is now deeply imbedded into his step-dad’s chest.”

“The white ninja looks at George Clooney.…”

“And dies.”

“Fade to black.…”

“And fade up to the sidelines on a tennis court where George Clooney is standing by an equipment bag. He has a metal hook-like device at the end of his right arm. The shot widens and Chris Rock tells him, ‘Try the white one.’ George Clooney takes the hook thing off his arm and snaps in place this prosthetic hand gripping a tennis racket.”

“Awesome!”

“He looks at it and it switches quickly between backhand and forehand positions with a little mechanical sound. George Clooney smiles and looks up, and sitting in the first row of the stands is… Catherine Zeta Jones, smiling back at him, and she says, ‘Go get him, darling.’”

“And we pull out, up, a helicopter shot, slow enough to see George Clooney go to the line and fire off an ace and then we’re moving away, over blue water and beaches….”

“Roll credits… the end.”

“An action martial arts James Bond 60s TV series revival with a touch of Cary Grant meets Keanu Reeves buddy movie.”

“The Defiant Ones, with romance.”

“And ninjas.”

“And ninjas.”

“It’s the perfect buddy movie vehicle for George Clooney and Chris Rock.”

“Or Ving Rhames.”

“Right… or Ving Rhames.”