Steve's Written Works

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: The Rain, It Comes A-Burnin'

It's damn good Steve.
Ordinarily I wouldn't read a play at all, give me a novel any day, but that reads very well.

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: Smite the Land

The story is good Steve, very damn good.

I've sometimes thought the same about the style question. I like the style & have no problem with reading it. But does OchrisO have a point regarding critical interpretation? I dunno- how are such things viewed?

[Steve]

Re: Smite the Land

I'm glad you guys enjoyed it. The style is in homage to McCarthy, yes, but more toward Joyce's style.

[Storyslinger]

Re: The Rain, It Comes A-Burnin'

Very well written!

[Steve]

SCENE III

The interior of the old Baptist church. The congregants of Little Water are sitting in the pews as the town preacher, BROTHER JELLON LAMB, enters with leatherbound bible. The light comes on at the pulpit as he takes his place there.

LAMB

O brothers and sisters of Little Water! What shall we do with this day? What? Now that we have cleansed our souls in the sacred waters, what shall we do?


He holds the bible up in the air before him.

LAMB

Today is a day of reckoning. God watcheth this day and judgeth all. Through the sacred rite of baptism we have tilled the soil of our souls, we have readied the spirits for the seed of The Creator—God, Maker of All Things. Behold! The seed of the Lord shall sprout! In most the seed of the Lord will flourish, rich and green . . . but lo! There are yet those who grow, even now, black and twisted among us.


The rain seems to hammer a little harder in support of the preacher. Wetly, one of the parishioners—PHILO HOLFE—gets to his feet.

PHILO HOLFE

How shall we know, Brother Lamb? How shall we spot the black ‘n’ twisty plant?


The congregation approves the question with a low murmur. Lamb leans forward from his pulpit.

LAMB

I, Jellon Lamb, am a specialist in weeds! I am the hand that roots them out. They shall no longer say “I am the Branch of Life and the Branch of Death?” “The Stalk of Death are those that challenge the bounds of Decency, that wallow in lust and walk in the mire of unfaith and adultery , that worship secretly strange and vile gods.”



He raises his hands to the rafters and curls them into fists and slams down both fists simultaneously, thumping the leatherbound bible upon the pulpit.

LAMB

“I am the sickle that hovereth poised at the foot of the Stalk of Death! I am the hand that roots them out.” They shall no longer say “I am the Branch of Life”—they who are the Stalk of Death!


The congregation roars its approval.

PHILO HOLFE
(Encouraged)

What must we do?

LAMB

There are few among them who knows who it is they prosecute. “The weed grows deep, and black are its roots. Scarlet is its demon flower!”

ALL

Amen!

LAMB

(Bows his head again)

Yea! O soldiers of the Lord!


He stands there for a moment, head lowered, hands extended. Finally the din quells and Lamb lifts his head.

LAMB

I think we have one brave soul here willing to cast the first stone. Mrs. Roth, would you like to come forward?


An elderly crippled woman shuffles forth. This is WIDOW ROTH. She fingers her crucifix, massaging the silver Christ to warmth.

WIDOW ROTH

Clearly, brothers and sisters, Satan has planted a thistle in God’s very soil.


As if on cue, the doors to the vestry burst open and Molly Bath is thrown to the floor before the congregation. Carp Boone stands there behind her.

WIDOW ROTH

And here the thistle! What evil here! O such is the lure of a good, strong set of legs!

MOLLY BATH

You crooked old cunt! Let me go! Let me go all of ye!

LAMB

Silence! Molly Bath! You have walked the path of sin and you shall no more!

MOLLY BATH

Let me go, you pompous turd! I’ve done nothing wrong.



The Widow Roth cackles madly like a witch from a fairy tale.

WIDOW ROTH

I know your words! Sinner! You are neither cold nor hot! So because you are lukewarm I shall spew you from my mouth! Filth! Demon from the mouth of hell! Cloven as the viper's tongue! Cloven as the hoof of Satan! Your words know only the alleyways of trickery and deceit! Speak not, for our ears are warned against you! Bloody lily of the muck-heap! Begone! Yea! Get thee behind me, Satan! A single strand of your hair would pollute the sacred Jordan River!

MOLLY BATH

You crazy goddamned bitch! Old crone! Withered tits a-swingin’! Let me go! Just let me go!

WIDOW ROTH

How dare you speak the name of the Lord in vain! Brother Boone, shut her up!


Boone steps forward and slaps the harlot in the mouth. Molly falls back but gets back to her knees. She points at Boone but it is at the jaundiced eyes of the Widow Roth she glares. Her bleeding lips pull back in a cruel, mocking smile.

MOLLY BATH

Why Carp, for shame! What? Never supposed to see me on my knees before you again so soon?


Tilting her head towards the battered harlot and straining at her clogged wheels in an attempt to motivate herself, the Widow Roth casts the congregation a sly, conspiratorial glance.

WIDOW ROTH

Lepers and harlots should be marked! Your shame shall not go unrecognized, whore!

(Proffers her hand)

Brother! The shears!


Boone steps forward with a pair of rusty shears in hand. The Widow Roth looks at him, her mouth twisted into a rebarbative smile of contempt. She reaches forward and seizes Molly by the hair and cuts a huge lock of it.

WIDOW ROTH

Whore hair! Slattern! May the flux poison your veins! Succubus!


She flings the fistful of hair to the floor, spitting out obscenities. Molly sits there weeping. Soon Brother Lamb kneels by her, lifting one arm by the wrist.

WIDOW ROTH

You have riddled this pious acre with sin and sloth! But your day has come! Out! Out! Get thee from our ground! Get out of here! Vile fornicatrix! Begone! While we still have a mind to let you! Base baggage! Minx! O defiless! Or is it better we burn you out? Wicked temptress! Witch! Out—or burn you we shall!

CONGREGANTS

Exile! Exile!


Amidst these chants Molly is dragged, bleeding and sobbing and cursing, down the aisle of the church. Near the back the Bundrens are standing there. She looks at Darl with haunted, pleading eyes as they haul her offstage. Lights go out.

Copyright © 2008 by Stephen J. Davis
All rights reserved.

[Seymour_Glass]

Re: The Rain, It Comes A-Burnin'

This is really awesome. I want to perform it.

[mia/susannah]

Re: The Rain, It Comes A-Burnin'

I have to say Steve. This is very good. I would love to see this become a playright.

[Steve]

A sneak preview at one of the two novels I finished during my hiatus from the site:

[Steve]

Re: In the Land of Hope

The author would like to express his appreciation
to his fellow writers and readers on TheDarkTower.com
for his long association and their dedication to the
craft.

[Steve]

I

Dark was the night and the indian walked through the woods up to the old baptist church and he stood there in front of the heavy wooden doors and listened to the roof cringe beneath the merciless rain.

Lightning carved a brief scar across the leaden sky. The indian's face lit up in that one flaring instant, eyes black, lips fat and leechlike. The rain pelted hard against his neck and back, coursing down his bare arms in dark veins. He placed one hand against the heavy wooden door as if to divine some trace of the God it housed and pushed it open.

Not a sound. Only the roar of the rain as it crashed on the roof. The indian stood there just in the nave listening as a wind whistled through the valley and blew on through the eaves of the church. He turned and closed the door behind him. He walked on up the tabernacle with his boots squelching between the pineboard pews and leaving great tracks of mud on the warped floor. He walked up to the pulpit and stood there looking at it as though debating a sermon. Then he reached over his shoulder and wordlessly slid a huge bowieknife from its deerskin sheath on his back.

There were voices from the vestry. The indian looked over and saw there was a small stack of crates there. Dark bottles. An outrageous stench. Corn whiskey. The voices were growing louder and he could tell there were at least two. He listened to the voices and he crept silently over to one side of the vestry and held the knife in both hands as though about to perform some heathen ceremony and soon a man in brogans emerged from the shadows and the indian lunged forward and seized the man by the hair. The man tried to cry out but his throat was already cut. The indian stepped back. A jet of blood roped from the bleeding smile in the man's throat and hit the wall and the man fell to the floor and lay gasping for a breath that would never come. The indian leered blackly in the man's dying sight with a yellow grin, the hair black about his face like moss at night. The man jerked. Then he lay still. The indian stood breathing quietly as though nothing had ever happened. Another thunderbolt rent the blackened sky outside.

The indian stared at the dead man gaping up from the floor with alien indifference. He squatted down beside the man and took hold of his wrists and hauled him into the vestibule and out of sight. One of his brogans slipped from his foot and the indian walked back over and picked it up and held it in his hand and then he punted it across the tabernacle and then stepped back. It was a peculiar thing to all but him. He turned and stropped the knife against his thigh and walked back over to the vestry. He squatted and sat picking his teeth with a thumbnail as he waited for the other man to show up.

It turned out that he did not have to wait long. After a while he heard the man call out and not long after he heard footsteps. By and by the man stepped from the vestry. He was fat and had a mangy look about him. The indian rose to his feet and raised the knife. The man saw his shadow and turned and drew a singleshot pistol he had with him.

The indian struck out with the knife. A slick red scar down the man's paunch. He gasped and the gun went off. The indian hissed with pain as the bullet stitched an angle down his right thigh.

The man turned to run but the indian caught him. Cursing obscenely he dragged the man back and shoved him into the pulpit and then he took hold of him by the hair. The man struggled and sobbed and clawed at the indian's face. The indian then began beating the man's skull against the heavy wood of it. This he did over and over until he broke open the fat man's forehead and the brains trickled scarlet on the wood. He let go at last and the man fell down in a pool of black blood. The indian looked up at the wooden christ nailed to the wall and saw its forehead was stippled with blood. I don't know you, the indian said.

More to continue . . .

[BillyxRansom]

Re: In the Land of Hope

This was awesome.

[Frunobulax]

Re: In the Land of Hope

Can I have some more, please??

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: In the Land of Hope

Good Steve - damn good!

[Steve]

Boyd lay back with his hands laced about his head on the warm clapboard raft and listened to the cicadas dirge in chorus on the riverbank. The morning sun spun like a molten platter in the sky. Not a cloud in sight. The crates were tucked away beneath the brown tarpaulin bound down with twine and his clothes were piled in a loose wad on top. His father's revolver was in there as well. There had been a fire two nights before and although most of the smoke had drifted from the valley the sky appeared poisoned and somewhat discolored. It did little to discourage the mosquitoes and gnats though. They swarmed in dirty brown clouds amid the sawgrass and on the water. Boyd kept slapping at them but it seemed futile. He lay there with all the summer insects humming and far above his head a jayhawk banked in a lazy arc.

He pushed himself up on one elbow. He scooped a hand in the muddied water and wet his face. He saw the flash of carp in the river, all but invisible to see in the sandy flow. Breaking the hellish sun on their backs like daggers. Any other time he would be drawing a line out here for them but not this day. He had a job to do and he meant to see it through.

When he sat up his vision boiled for a moment and he held his head until it passed. The air around him throbbed like a swollen tooth and it would be hotter yet. He reached for his hat and fanned his face with it and put it on. Then he stood and shuffled over to the transom of the raft and urinated into the teacolored current.

Here was a boy who shambled when he walked, his hands long and his hair hanging loose about his thin shoulders. Here was a boy who would be a man before long and he was painfully thin with the rack of his ribs visible.

He turned back from the transom and, pants about his ankles, squatted.

Shit, he whispered. There was not a soul around to see him and yet his face burned and when he was done he hurriedly buttoned his fly.

The raft scudded down the river passing skeins of sawgrass and rucks of cattail. Now and then the raft would drift closer and closer to the bank and Boyd would have to take the long birchwood pole and push himself back into deeper waters or else he'd run aground. He picked up the pole and hefted it in his hands. It was nine feet long and as big around as his arm and worn smooth from years of use.

He poled the raft away from the snared watercress and then sat crosslegged on the warm boards. There had once been orchards here. This land had gone to ruin some twelve years before when the drought had come and the branches had grown withered as the bones of lepers. The drought passed but the valley had never fully recovered. Now he boated along past mossed appletrees and tasseled fernwood that lined the river like Pilate's soldiers.

When the raft rounded a bend in the river the smoke grew thicker. He raised his head. A hellish backdrop of fire in the distance swaged by dark clouds. It all had a tainted feel to it. He leaned and spat. Well, he said.

He squinted in the growing haze and watched the riverbank carefully. The trees mirrored in the lucent brown water. His father had told him he would go ashore soon after he went around the bend. There would be a signal. He never said what. Boyd sat and looked through the gaps in the trees, past the mossed palings. The smoke was settling over everything now and could feel the heat from the fire baking the land.

The air exploded with three sharp cracks. One right after the other. On the third he saw a yellow flash burst on the shore like the formation of some failed star. He swore under his breath and under that ten o'clock sun he poled the raft toward the grassladen bank and the prow nudged up the silty landing and the cargo beneath the tarpaulin rocked and clanked together.

Boyd glassed the area. Crossing from the trees were two men. One was indian and the other white. He watched them. They paused and the white grinned. The indian had the gun in his hand and the white had a jug. Boyd turned and pulled his shirt on. He tucked the revolver in his waistband and took out his knife.

The indian stepped aboard the scow and pointed with the pistol. His face was amass with scars. You little son of a bitch, he said.

I didn't do nothin, Boyd said.

The indian looked at the cargo bound under the tarpaulin and Boyd saw that he was barefoot. He gestured at Boyd with the pistol and Boyd took his knife and cut the twine and stepped back. There, he said. All of it.

What's your name.

Boyd.

The white stepped aboard and pulled away the tarpaulin like a magician preparing to unveil some great act of fakery. There were half a dozen boxes there and all were filled with quart bottles. The white grinned blackly at Boyd. The indian said nothing. The white set down the jug he'd carried with him and pulled the stopper from one of the bottles and sniffed it. Then he took a swallow and it dribbled from the sides of his mouth and he nodded once. The indian turned and Boyd saw two more men coming out of the country. They stood on the bank and one by one the white started handing the boxes over to them which they in turn set on the grass. When this was done the white stepped off the raft and he and the other two men picked up a box each and headed into the trees. The indian turned back to Boyd. He reached into his pocket and brought out a wad of bills. Here, he said.

Boyd took it. How much is it?

The indian didn't answer. He was looking out at the fire burning in the distance. Boyd could see several scars across his arms and hands and what looked like buckshot pocks salted his throat. He turned and looked back at Boyd. In the smoky light he looked like a gorgon. I saved your life this morning, he said.

Boyd blinked at him. What do you mean? he asked.

I killed a shiteating dog, the indian said.

Boyd looked at him.

The money's all there.

I know it is.

Well then what is it?

Boyd shook his head and the indian spat.

They stepped off the scow and Boyd bent down and picked up a box. It was heavy and it rattled in his arms. The indian stood there watching him. Boyd looked at him and the indian pointed at where the other men had gone. Boyd turned and walked into the woods like a pilgrim enroute to his death.

When he returned from delivering the box he saw the indian was sitting on the raft like an anchorite in the hazy summer day.

I could kill you now, he said. If I wanted to.

Yessir.

The indian looked him up and down. Where you from?

Where am I from?

Yes.

Staunton.

How's the pussy up there?

Boyd shrugged.

Your name's Boyd.

Yessir.

Don't sir me.

Yessir.

Who's your pa?

Boyd told him.

You don't look it.

You know him?

No.

Well what do you mean I don't look it?

The indian had picked up the twine and had wrapped it around his hand like a poultice. Now he untangled it and dropped it to the floor of the raft like a killed snake. Go on, he said.

Go on?

You ain't deaf. Get out of here.

Boyd bent to pick up the birch pole. Yessir, he said.

Tell your pa I'll be up there to see him.

Who are you?

Who.

What's your name?

Don't got one.

What do you mean?

I don't got a name. Now get out of here before I shoot your head off.

More to continue . . .

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: In the Land of Hope Chapter 1

Damn Steve, I like this! Is this a finished novel?

[Steve]

Re: In the Land of Hope Chapter 1

Yes, Brian, this novel was the first of the two I completed in rough draft.

[Dave!]

Re: In the Land of Hope Chapter 1

Very Descriptive, and entertaining as well. I like the use of similes in this, and will be keeping my eyes peeled for more. Great job!

[Steve]

THE SCALPHUNTERS

by Stephen J. Davis

"There are no principles; there are only events.
There is no good and bad, there are only circumstances."
--Balzac

There is no more chilling sound than the cries of a dying child.

Grace burst out of the house, her steps hastened by the shrieks upon the wind.

“Jimmy come quick!” she cried. “Somethin’s happening to Joe!”

The first thing she saw was a man standing in the tall grass on the edge of the pasture. Then she heard the anguished cries again and saw the boy.

Her young son was crawling in the grass toward the house. His fingers were hooked in the earth as he dragged himself along and blood licked the edges of his skull like fire.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .”

It was a horrific sound, a wailing that trailed off into hoarse hitching sobs. In the moment before her husband raced from the barn, she realized with terrible clarity that her son had been scalped.

She saw Jimmy then, running full gallop, from the half-finished barn. He hollered out and the stranger turned toward him. Even over little Joey’s squalling Grace could hear the snick! as the man thumbed back the revolver’s hammer.

“Now hold up there, hoss,” the stranger said with dreadful calm. “I don’t want to have to shoot you but I will if I have to.”

“You son of a bitch. You scalped my boy.”

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .”

The cries of the boy were deafening.

The stranger lowered the pistol a little and knelt to the grass. He wiped the blade of his knife on his pants and then pinched something out of the grass.

Grace covered her mouth, realizing the man was holding her little boy’s scalp in his hand.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” She fell to her knees in terror and grief.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .”

The haunting cry was like a lingering note in a dirge. The stranger wiped the scalp on the grass and then tucked it in his belt.

Grace bent down and gathered her son into her arms and held him close. Blood and tears fell onto the earth. If not for the gentle shaking of the boy’s body as she held him close, Grace would have thought the boy dead.

“Why have you done this?”

The stranger stood up and pointed the gun at her husband, who was trembling with rage as his wife and son sobbed in front of him. Grace thought he wasn’t going to say anything. Then he whistled piercingly and looked back at her.

“It’s been a long ride, ma’am,” he said. “And pickings are slim out here.”

Little Joe shrieked with pain again and Grace tightened her embrace, whispering comfort in his ear. When she looked up she saw two other men coming up from the pasture, a decrepit old mule trailing behind him.

When they arrived one of the men walked over to Grace and knelt down. She held her son close and shrank back, rocking little Joe in her arms. The man reached over and grabbed a fistful of her long black satiny hair and fingered it almost lovingly.

“Oh aye, Johnny, she’ll do fine,” he said in an Irish lilt to the stranger who had scalped the boy.

“Let them alone!” Jimmy bellowed, stepping forward.

“Now quit your hollerin’,” said the Irishman. “I was just havin’ a gander at the lovely lassie here. She’s got real soft tresses, too. We got a bleedin’ Rapunzel here.”

The look of terror and anger in Jimmy’s eyes frightened Grace.

“But this’n ain’t got much har at all,” the third man said. He was a dimwitted brute by the looks of him and he had a bucktoothed leer about him. He jabbed a bowie knife in Jimmy’s direction and chuckled muddily.

“You got a point there, I reckon,” the first stranger said. He shrugged a little. “Go on and do it.”

At those words, Grace covered her bleeding son’s body and began to cry again.

As she held her little Joe, Grace watched as the brute drew his own revolver and shot her husband through the head.

The Irishman whistled as the man fell back with blood bubbling from the fist-sized hole in his skull.

“Did ye see that bastard’s head come apart?” he crowed. “I ain’t nivver seen brains like that in me life!”

Grace ignored him, rocking her son. Johnny had walked over to the tattered mule wobbling behind them. He pet it once, then put the muzzle of the pistol between the mule’s blind eyes and blew the top of its head off.

“Why are you doing this?” Grace cried. “We don’t have nothin’, why are you doing this?”

“Just doin’ our job, ma’am,” Johnny said. He cut some of the straps from the dead mule and tossed the parcels there to the brute, then studied at the house and the barn that would never be finished now that Jimmy was dead. Then he stalked over to Grace. With the Irishman’s help he prized little Joe from his mother’s clutch.

She screamed and thrashed around in a frenzy.

Little Joe shrieked for his mother and scrabbled madly to get back to the safety of her bosom. The Irishman licked his yellow teeth and wrapped his long arms around the boy in a bear hug. His pale face was flushed with delight.

Another figure approached in the distance. A tall boy on horseback sped toward them on a rheumy-eyed mare that wheezed as it trotted. Before he had stopped the horse, the tall boy was dashing, running over to them. Grace saw him and at first she thought that perhaps the boy was their savior, but within seconds she realized the boy also had a belt of scalps.

The tall boy rushed over to Johnny. The Irishman stood rooted, holding little Joe in his arms.

“Wha’s happenin’, Jake?” he quipped in his thick accent.

“Lawmen coming,” the tall boy said, out of breath. “Five miles out.”

Little Joe’s crying grew louder.

“Would you shut that kid up, Charlie?” Johnny said to the Irishman before turning back to the boy called Jake. He asked how many there were and Jake said a round dozen, all armed to the last man.

Grace heard none of it, instead watching the Irishman grab her son’s skinned and bloody skull by the temples. She cried out beseechingly but the Irishman did not seem to care as he drew his knife across the boy’s throat in a bloody smile.

Little Joe’s cries tapered to gurgling gasps, then those died away as he himself died away. Grace wailed again.

Johnny turned back to her. “Ain’t nothin’ we had against any of you, understand,” he said. “It’s just how it turned out.”

She wanted to gouge this man’s eyes out, would have if she could, but she found all of her strength had poured out with her tears and her family’s blood.

“Go round up them horses yonder,” Johnny told his men, not looking away from her.

The brute and the tall boy moved swiftly and gathered the three horses stabled in the unfinished barn. The Irishman let go of little Joe’s body and he fell facedown in the grass, his lifeblood seeping deep into the earth. Grace crawled over to him, her body wracked with sobs as the two men watched her in her pain as she cradled her dead son.

The others came back with the horses already saddled. They watched the woman covered with blood and tears as she grieved for her dead. Johnny Quickborn, who was still staring down at them, glanced back over at the open prairie. He could sense them coming now, and they would be coming hard.

“Let’s get going.”

As they mounted up, he bowed his head at the woman and offered her a smile. It was of gentle condolence. Then he shot her.

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: The Scalphunters

A strange one Steve.
For me it has no point, no purpose beyond the violence. maybe I'm missing something here?

[Steve]

This is an excerpt of my attempt at a zombie film... it's my first stab at horror, pardon the pun.

Anyway, please tell me what you think.

FADE IN:


1 EXT. OFFICE BUILDING - NIGHT

An office building, well past sundown.

In one of the windows, we see a strange blue glow.


FADE OUT.



2 TITLE

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

FADE IN:


3 INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - NIGHT

The strange blue glow is coming from... a POWERPOINT PRESENTATION.

DAVE GRIMSEY is twenty five. He wears a rumpled shirt and tie. He looks very stressed as he attempts to rehearse his presentation before an unseen audience.

DAVE
... and as you can see from this, uh,
this chart here...

GARY (O.S.)
What chart?

Dave's POV of the audience reveals a man leaning back in his chair--this is GARY NEWSOME, his sardonic co-worker. You know the type.

Dave looks back and sees--no chart or graph on the slide.

DAVE
(hurriedly)
Oh shit. Sorry. Let me --

He hurriedly clicks the mouse. A graph pops up. Gary snickers.

DAVE
Ahem. Anyway, as you can see from this
chart here, stocks are projected to
flourish... um, to flourish... uhhh...

GARY
You're sinking, man.

DAVE
I know, I know... oh Christ, I had it
earlier... uhhh... oh! Stocks are
projected to flourish over the next
six to eight months with an increased
profit margin of 11.2 million dollars,
`and --

GARY
I, uh... I don't think that's a decimal
point there, Dave. I think it's just
a spot on the board.

DAVE glances back. Sees he's right.

DAVE
(grins sheepishly)
Yeah. 11.2 million dollars won't sound
like a whole lot of money to these
guys, will it?

GARY
Are you kidding? These shitheels probably
walk around with 11.2 million in the
pockets of their Brioni suits, man. Keep
going.

DAVE
Yeah, right... um, where was I?

GARY
"Increased profit margin of 112 million
dollars"...

DAVE
Oh right... with increased profit margin
of 112 million dollars that, with your
investment, will multiply tenfold.

GARY
(sotto)
And add to that 11.2 mil in your pockets.

DAVE
(laughs)
Yeah...

GARY
Okay, Dave. Bring it home.

DAVE
(changes slides)
Okay... so in conclusion, ummm... in
conclusion, we feel... we feel... how
do we feel, exactly?

GARY
How about "We feel that you should
write us a big fuckin' check, Mr.
Nagasaki or Mitsubishi or whatever-
the-fuck-your-name-is..."

DAVE
(dryly)
I think it's Mr. Miyagi, actually.
You know...

DAVE AND GARY
(together)
"Wax on, wax off."

They laugh... and then Dave sighs and sits down and puts his head in his hands.

DAVE
I'm dead, man. I'm never gonna be able
to pull this off tomorrow. God, why
did I ever volunteer to do this...

He sighs- and Gary comes over and claps him on the back.

GARY
You'll be fine. A couple more run-
throughs and you'll be set.

DAVE
Yeah, I guess you're riiaaaaagh--
(lets out a TREMENDOUS YAWN)

GARY
I wouldn't yawn in your presentation
if I were you, though. Want some
coffee?

DAVE
Please. I could use a break from
all this crap anyway.

GARY
My ears feel the same way

.


4 INT. BREAK ROOM - NIGHT

GARY and DAVE walk down the hall and into the break room. The lights are on when they PUSH OPEN THE DOOR...

TED
(mumbling)
...come on, give it to me fucker,
come on and...

TED FIELDING (31) reminds us of the typical office drone. In the crook of his arms he's clutching a sheaf of printouts. He's shaking the vending machine, trying to get a bag of Skittles that has seemingly snagged.

GARY
Hey Ted, if you're gonna dance with
it, I'd put some music on.

Gary reaches for the radio in the corner and turns it on. A RADIO BROADCASTER's voice:

RADIO BROADCASTER (V.O.)
Since four o'clock this afternoon, the
death toll has...

Gary tunes the broadcast over to a music station -- soft MUSIC, the type heard in elevators: pleasant, but annoying. It's "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" by Dionne Warwick.

TED
Dance with it? I'd buy it a drink if
it didn't act like such a fucking
BITCH --

He smacks a hand against the glass helplessly. Dave sidles past him.

DAVE
Let me?

He walks up to the machine and then slaps it on the side once with his palm. Ted watches as we hear a soft THUNK! -- his candy is free.

TED
(retrieving it)
Howdya do that?

DAVE
It's a gift.

TED
Working late, too?

TED rips open the bag of Skittles and begins munching on them.

DAVE
Yeah. I'm just going over this big
presentation I gotta do tomorrow --

TED
Oh yeah, yeah, the Japanese thing.
Yeah, you better nail it or the boss
will nail your ass to a board.

DAVE
Thanks, Ted. Anyway, Gary's been
helping me go over it a coupla times
before we go home.

GARY
Yeah, I'm acting the role of the big
Japanese businessman, and Dave's the
intrepid young sales rep out to make
the big bucks.

DAVE smiles.

TED
Well, friends, I'm shoving off. These
TPS reports can wait till morning...
Beth's been riding my ass about
spending more time at the office than
at home.

GARY
Well, maybe if you spent more time
riding her ass instead of the vending
machine, she wouldn't feel that way.

They all LAUGH.

TED
Hell with you guys... see ya tomorrow.
Good luck, Dave.

DAVE
Yeah, see you later, Ted.

GARY
'Night, Ted.

CU on TED as he walks out and CLOSES THE DOOR BEHIND HIM.

GARY
(sotto)
What a putz...

5 INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT

As the tranquil MUSIC continues to play...

TED walks down the deserted and darkened hallway, jacket slung over his shoulder.


6 EXT. PARKING LOT - NIGHT

We follow TED as he PUSHES OPEN the door and walks into the night. The parking lot is all but deserted.

Ted wanders over to his car: he digs in his pocket for his keys; he hits the button and his headlights FLARE UP and he goes over and unlocks the car.

He digs in his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He dials.

TED
(the phone RINGS, then
Hi honey, it's about eight-thirty and
I'm headed home now. I'll pick up some
Arby's on the way -- call me when you
get this. I love you. Bye.

He hangs up. He HEARS movement behind him. He turns.

A FIGURE is limping toward him -- we can't really see it in the dark. Ted squints.

TED
(nervous)
Hey, who's that?

The FIGURE limps on closer, in the beams of the light... he is pale and bloody, and he MOANS.

TED
Holy shit, man. What happened to you?
Hang on, I'll call 911...

The FIGURE closes in, Ted shrinks back uneasily... and then the FIGURE suddenly tackles Ted, snarling as he rides him to the ground, smashing him face-first into the asphalt.

TED
Get off me, you fu --

Ted SCREAMS and struggles to get up but the FIGURE grabs a clutch of hair and lunges, teeth-bared, for Ted's throat... the tranquil MUSIC continues to play.

FADE OUT.


Copyright © 2009 by Stephen J. Davis.

What do y'all think?


"Each man under my command owes me one hundred Nazi scalps... and I WANT MY SCALPS! ~ Lt. Aldo Raine

[LadyHitchhiker]

Re: In the Dead of Night

Oooooooooooooooh.... me likey ...

[ClicheGuevara]

Re: In the Dead of Night

Very nice, too bad the putz gets it first. .

[Steve]

That's right, Palaverites! I done made me a film:

http://blip.tv/file/2089481

It's a horror flick in the styles of the Coen Brothers, and it was a blast to film. A few more projects are in the pipeline, but I wanted you all to see it first.

Love,

Steve

[Steve]

Re: Days Gone Bye

Oh, and comments would be greatly appreciated!

[Jean]

Re: Days Gone Bye

connection is slow today, I'll wait for a better time - sometimes my server is galvanized into a more active life