The Study of Leonard Hughes
8.27.2004
Five Sad Things
I'm not sure if this was the intent of the blog, but here is an idea I had been working on for an EP. Jeremy referred to it as the "Five Sad Things EP," but I never had a name for it. If anything it was referred to as "those really depressing song ideas."
These stories came about in mid-to-late 2003 from news stories heard on NPR and the local news. I heard all of them within a week of each other, which is why they stood out. I don't typically watch the local news because of the pathetic journalism and rabid sensationalism. All of these stories coming hot on each others heels, though, made an impression, and I wanted to write some sad songs about them.
Beware, these are very sad and, in some cases, morbid.
1. A ten month old baby drowned in a half-inch of water in a five-gallon bucket in his house. His grandmother was watching him. The grandmother was an illegal and spoke no English. Therefore, when she found the baby, she didn't call 911 because she didn't want to call attention to the illegal family members, including herself. Instead, she rocked the lifeless child in her arms until its parents arrived home.
2. A scientist studying trees cut down a very old tree and brought it back to his research univeristy to study. He was unable to determine its age with the technology he had available at that time (60's or 70's). Flash forward to the current day and students revisit this tree to find that it was over 4500 years old. The scientist had killed the oldest living thing on planet Earth, and took his own life upon finding out.
3. A five year old boy wakes before his parents, figures out how to start their car, drives down the street, crashes into a tree, and is killed by the airbag. The parents awake to confusion and terror.
4. A seven year old boy is discovered by police investigators upon receipt of a tip from a neighbor. The boy had been locked in a cage is a small room his entire life with meager food and no socialization. When asked how he felt about his parents, who were hauled off to jail, he replied: "I love my parents, but they don't love me."
Well, I'm deeply sorry to have put your through that. Tragic stories all. My stomach gets knotted every time I review the list (scrawled on the back of a Wired magazine for convenience).
"Wait! That's only four sad things," you say? True. The fifth story was a late addition, and may not immediately seem as fundamental touching on a human level. It is The Hulk. I thought Ang Lee's movie adaptation was proundly sad. The alienation and helplessness of the Hulk really touched me. I doubt I would directly refer to the Hulk in the song, but I would definitely reference those themes and vaugely referrence a number of scenes.
When I get a chance to write some lyrics, I'll be sure and share them. Tragedy inspires me, I don't know why.
- posted by Joshua Provost @ 2:15 PM 5 comments
8.25.2004
Blood on the Golden Shores
By Brock H. Brown
Gregory’s eyes drifted over to the telephone booth pushed against the wall of the college. Languidly, he considered it. But it stared back at him. It flung its blue and black AT&T death upon his glare. Nervously he looked away from the phone, feigning un-interest.
“The thing about messages is that I never get them,” Gregory told himself. “I’d love some messages, there’s no question about it, but I never get any. That’s just how it works. And that’s how today will work.”
Gregory hoped to hell or high water that today would work like that. But when he approached the phone booth and picked up the receiver, it didn’t.
A monotone, emotionless voice alerted Gregory to new messages on his machine. Dr. Sanders’ gruff, yet overly considerate voice resounded to existence.
“Greg,” he said, as if apologizing before the sentence had been uttered, “the test came back.” Then a deadening silence as Dr. Sanders pauses, as if delaying the news would somehow make it easier. “It’s positive.” Gregory’s lips puckered and his brow furrowed in an effort to hold back tears. Although a recorded voice, Sanders seemed to take this reaction into consideration. “You need to know Greg that there are ways to work this out. Things can be done. It isn’t hopeless; never think that it’s hopeless. I want you to come into my office on Monday and we can go over some ideas, consider some possibilities.”
“Consider this,” Greg thought as he slammed the receiver down.
Then he stood there, running his hands through his hair again and again. Greg also whispered to himself, “Oh, God no, God, Lord, no,” as if a mantra could solve all. He pulled his hands back from his hair and noticed a strand stuck between two of his fingers. “You’re contaminated,” he thought to the strand. “Or are you?” Greg considered it for a moment, wondering if his hair, toenails, snot, teeth, eyebrows or even skin were contaminated. With a sigh Greg dragged his diseased body across the parking lot.
Inside the car Greg gripped the steering wheel and his mind flooded with another torrent of questions about his newfound curse. “Is this steering wheel now contaminated?” he wondered. “The car, no matter who owns it, will always be stamped with the impression of death.” Greg soured and turned the key. As the car glided down the blacken asphalt the skies above burst forth with perspiration. The droplets, which had gestated in the pregnant fogs, pelted down and sprinkled against Greg’s contaminated window.
“This is Greg’s rain” he told himself, “It’ll mark the event.”
But as he continued driving along, thoughts, suspicions and commitments filtered through his brain. It was then that he knew something else would mark the occasion. In the flickering of his mind’s eye he saw weeks before the call, before the doctor’s appointment even, when he shook Jeff’s hand and they laughed, both dreaming of scandal, and struck upon the agreement. A trip. Down to the coast.
“You know,” Jeff said, “You fill up the car with drinks and candy and we drive down the highway, stop at a shoddy motel and hit the town with some local friends. Sex with local friends sometimes.”
Back then Greg had laughed in between the sips of his tonic. Now, he shuddered. Jeff didn’t know that very soon thereafter the sores appeared in Greg’s mouth. A few days later Greg began to feel like he couldn’t get enough sleep. But Greg couldn’t tell Jeff now, could he? No. Maybe he could bear a trip. Throw some crap into a bag and buy what he lacked when he got to the coast. That was what he would do.
The trip lost appeal when his car rolled up to his building and he saw not just Jeff, but Larry, his despicable face bearing through the lobby window.
“Damn it.”
His mind’s eye flickered again and she was before him. Beautiful her. Green eyes with swirled pockmarks of black; her hair flowed. It was imperfect, as was she, and all the more brilliant because of it.
But they never really talked. Only here and there, and never at a great length. She did all her talking with Larry. The jerk with a mouth full of crooked teeth, that was him, right there in his lobby, the third member to this party for the coast. He was the one she whispered to. She sent Greg into self-decadence and drugs and ultimately doctor’s calls. And Larry was here to attest to it. Greg rolled his tongue in cheek and stepped out of the car.
In the lobby, as Greg approached Jeff and Larry, Jeff turned around and greeted Greg with a warm explosion of welcome.
“Hey there Greg, what’s new? You don’t mind if Lar here comes along do you?”
Greg turned to Larry as the other nonchalantly shook his hand.
“How you doin’ there Greg?” Larry asked with all the sincerity in the world. But Greg hated that handshake all the same.
“I’m fine, great. Yeah he can come.” Greg forces his glance on Larry. “Of course you can come. Heck, I know we’re going to have the best time of our lives. One heck of a trip, that’s what this is going to be.”
Jeff looked at Greg worriedly.
“Is everything all right Greggers?”
Inside Greg’s mind a million curses set off and exploded into more sap to drain into fake enthusiasm.
“Of course it is!” Greg answered.
“Do you need to pack?” Jeff asked.
“Just a few things” Greg said, stepping towards the lobby elevator.
“Then get it! And hurry!” Jeff laughed after Greg.
The doors began to close, and Greg’s face fell. Startled, Larry slithered in-between the crevice. “I’ll come up with you,” he explained, “I need to use the bathroom”.
When they finally hit the road, the drive was smooth, Greg was behind the wheel and the rain-splattered sky had melted into night.
The conversation was dense, but Greg enjoyed it. They talked of beaches, and gulls, crabs and sand.
“I wonder what the sand will be like down there?” Jeff questioned.
“Bonnie says its gray, and coarse” Larry replied, “like granulate or coal.”
“Lead from a pencil” Jeff added.
“On Coronado the sand’s golden” Greg stated.
“We’re not on Coronado” Larry battered.
“Golden?” Jeff asked.
“There’s little bits of gold right there in the sand” Greg affirmed, “It sparkles like the sun. Like…like the glitter Jeff’s sister used to wear to cheer practice.”
“You’ve actually been there?” Larry said in a threatening tone.
“No” Greg replied.
“Then how the hell do you know so much about it?”
“Well, I read an article on it in Town and Country.” Greg replied, “But I would like to go there one day. Before I die. I mean, if I were to die I’d go there before I got sick, and vomit blood on the golden shores.”
“That’s sick” Larry accused.
“No it isn’t” Greg replied.
“It’s sick and I’m going to tell Bonnie you’re a sick person.”
“Hey Lar,” Greg piqued up, “You drink too much.”
“What?” Larry asked.
“You’re a drunk. You’re always drinking, getting surly and upsetting Bonnie. In fact, Bonnie hates it when you drink. And you’re always drinking, so it’s ironic she likes you at all.”
At the end of Greg’s tirade Larry didn’t yell, he didn’t even get upset. But he laughed. Quietly at first, but then with piercing cruelty. Greg’s eyes squinted and his brow furrowed at the malicious giggle, as if in pain, or fear. Larry noted Greg’s reaction.
“You must really have a thing for Bonnie, Greg, and it must drive you nuts that she’s with me.”
Greg swerved the car then, dragging his diseased form as well as Jeff and Larry into the on-coming traffic lane. Ahead of the darkened freeway, headlights blossomed into view.
“You want to die Lar?” Greg quietly asked through the sound of his own engine revving.
In the backseat Jeff was sickened with madness. “Turn the car back Greg! What are you doing?”
“Just screwing around” Greg replied as he pressed his foot harder against the accelerator.
“Hey Greg” Larry piqued up.
Greg looked over to Larry who was pointing up at Greg’s forehead.
“You’re bleeding.”
Greg’s hand drifted up to his forehead to feel the moistening spot chafing against his skin. A sore. As if in a trance Greg turned the car back into its previous lane. “I need to go to the bathroom…at the next stop.”
When they got back into the car Jeff drove. Larry sat up in the passenger seat and Greg lied sprawled out in the back. Outside the window, the sky drifted by, cloudless and black. The bleak, unsettling nothingness of the nightscape unhinged Greg, drove him to tears. And although tears glistened in his eyes, those watery orbs narrowed to slits when he looked up to Larry in the passenger’s seat. He was a bastard. And bastards always win, while losers die with sores erupting on their foreheads. Greg somberly thought about this as the car drifted on and his body drifted into sleep.
When Greg opened his eyes again the void landscape of the night was gone and the majestic inner woodwork of a cathedral was before him. With a gaping look across the room Greg took in gothic pillars, whitewashed walls, carved sainthood and color-glass holiness. And he felt veneration. Then a quiet touch drifted across his shoulder and she was beside him.
She walked into full view before him and smiled. It was then that Greg knew. She was getting married. He begged her not to, he held her hand, tried to speak and looked into her eyes with all of the honest desire in the world to plead with her.
And then the sea rushed in. Leaking, creaking, the sudsy waters expanded the wooden sentinel doors like a balloon; they burst them like a sore. The waters cascaded down through the pillars and up along the walls. It rushed in between him and her, and before he knew it, she was floating away. As she was floating upstream Greg was left all alone on the waters of the cathedral. And what’s worse, it was then that he woke up.
The empty, barren landscape of the desert was no more when Greg woke up. Instead, a thick, wispy fog rolled by the windows. Greg tipped his head up and glanced outside the window. Between the fogs, lights and buildings peaked out, ghostly beacons that welcomed Greg from his slumber.
Up in the driver’s seat Larry was behind the wheel. Jeff turned around in the passenger’s seat and nodded to Greg.
“We’re here.”
Greg stretched his arms out and leaned forward. “So what’s the plan?”
Jeff turned around, “Well, we’re going to check-in to our hotel, and then we’ll meet up with some girls. I met them down here last summer. They’re nice, you’ll like them.”
They had cats. And the cats were everywhere.
Greg sat scrunched against the corner of an overstuffed, overly comfortable sofa. The pillows, rather then cushioning him, seemed to engulf Greg and pull him down into an ever-deepening sinkhole. To his right Larry and Jeff sat, but neither one of them seemed bothered by the couch or the swarm of felines. Across from them the three girls sat. They were striking, and obviously aware of it. But their exotic beauty and sensuality was overcompensated by their boorish and bombastic personalities. They were simply chatty girls. Well, two of them at least. Natalie and Francesca sat across from Jeff and Larry, and their mouths ran forward, spewing words that merely danced in circles.
But next to them sat a third girl, highlighted by an air of silence – Julia. Her eyes were like bubbles engraved in the dark ovals of her mascara and her hair, thick and flowing, were like a sea of black waves. But it was the hush that caught Greg. It was the unmistakable sound of nothing that was heard when everything and everyone around a person seemed to be making a special connection leaving you isolated in a void of self remorse. But it was also something more, something knowing and un-innocent. And Greg wanted to know all about it, and about her.
His conscious effort to find out more about Julia began as Greg and his friends walked along the sidewalk with Julia and her friends. Greg hurried up to the head of the group to trot alongside her.
“So, Julia,” he began, “tell me a little bit about yourself.”
She didn’t even turn to face him. “Like what?”
“What do you mean like what?” Greg asked.
“Well, whatever you want to know” she said.
“Well, whatever you want to tell me” Greg stated with a grin.
Julia smiled and leaned in close to Greg. Close enough to whisper into his ear. Then she said, “I don’t talk much”. And with that she stalked ahead of Greg leaving him all the more wondering, all the more needy of her.
Inside the restaurant Greg decided to sit across from Julia.
“You need to tell me something else about yourself” he said.
“Something else?” she asked.
Greg nodded, “Yeah, another thing.”
Julia leaned across the table, “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself? I hardly know a thing about your life.”
Greg sat there for a good long time. He sat there without saying anything. He didn’t even look at her as he sat there with his brow furrowed. And then his eyes watered up.
“What you need to know about my life” Greg said softly without looking up “is that it’s going to end soon”.
Then a splotch of red dripped down from his forehead and landed on his napkin. Greg’s lip quivered. “And I have to go to the bathroom because of it.”
Greg was absolutely sick of himself. On his way to the bathroom he was unsure, in the hallway disappointed, but by the time he had reached the toilet he utterly and completely loathed himself. Sitting there in the stall, Greg recounted all of the things that had gone wrong for him today, and feared all that would tomorrow. And of course, he considered blaming it all on his newfound ailment. “But the thing is,” Greg realized, “This is not that different from a normal day in my life. I’m a downward spiral. I’ve never lost anything, but I’ve never won anything either.”
And that blandness of self, that void that went unnoticed by everyone else, save for the person it inhabited, was the real disease.
The bathroom door swung open briefly and the sounds of people laughing, connecting with one another, and bonding, struck Greg as the very thing he lacked.
“Some lack iron, others an immune system,” Greg thought as he exited the stall and faced his sore-littered head in the mirror, “But I suffer from a lack of personality.”
Tonight that would change. Tonight Greg wanted to be one of life’s winners, badly. He wanted the scope, emotion and satisfying finality of a motion picture ending to materialize in his life now that he was so close to the end of it. And he wanted Julia.
“Forget Bonnie. I’ll take Julia. She’s in the here and now.”
Amidst the self-encouraging speeches and rhetoric Greg regurgitated to himself, he came to a very singular conclusion: “Since Julia’s sitting right across from me, and the other girls are sitting across from Larry and Jeff, then I must be meant to be with her.”
It was cemented in Greg’s mind. He would embrace her; he would become a winner tonight. He would face his fears, buy a house on the golden shores and these bloody manifestations of his cowardice would vacate his forehead. Because life was what you make it, and it takes the person walking the path to choose it.
Julia looked out of the corner of her eye and saw Greg approaching the table; approaching her. He was all cleaned up, and he had the look of absolute determination upon his face. Julia knew then that this was his life moment, and the look in his eyes already spoke of victory. He grabbed her and kissed her. It was the kiss to end all. It was competent and had a true reverence behind it. It was the kiss of a happy ending.
Julia didn’t want it. Forcefully, she pushed Greg off and ran her napkin disgustedly across her mouth. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked. The others at the table erupted in equally vehement accusations.
Jeff shook his head. Larry repeatedly shouted out “you’re a sick person Greg, and Bonnie always knew it.”
Julia’s friends shouted out a string of curses. Julia herself merely turned back to her dinner. Greg’s reaction was equally as strong, but unlike everyone else’s, completely apologetic. He faced Julia and Jeff and Larry, and what seemed to be the entire world, with fear and disgrace. And then he ran.
Past the bar, out the restaurant, beyond the accusers and out onto the street. Greg ran. Then, from the flurry of lights and horns and people the bicycle emerged. It ran across Greg, pushed him down; the gears sluiced through his flesh and when the concrete rushed up to meet him it pulverized his nose.
And his cowardice, his red, thick disease splashed out onto the streets, like blood on the golden shores for the rest of the world to inhale. People ran up to him immediately.
“No, get away, I’m fine” Greg warned. He held his hands up, bloody as they were, and tried to keep the onlookers away. But they still approached.
“I’m fine!” Greg screamed.
But he realized he wasn’t fine. Now was his chance to bleed out the disease that had already cost him so dearly. Here at the end of a writer’s paper and ink, on concrete and street, was Greg’s “happy ending”. He wrapped his hand around the laceration on his arm and squeezed.
- posted by Brock @ 2:26 PM 7 comments
Commercial it up
I've posted my sick & twisted commercials. Brock and I don't want to get rusty so we're going to try and make them soon. Josh, want to play a character or do lighting?
I wish I had the patience to post the scripts in proper format.
- posted by Gabe @ 2:26 PM 10 comments
Laxative Commercial
A man sits down on a couch next to his son with NEWSPAPER in hand. As he opens the paper his face contorts in pain and lets out a GRUNT.
MAN
Holy crap, I’ve got some wicked constipation!
SON
Dad, you shouldn’t have eaten that block of cheese.
MAN (LAUGHING)
Son, you’re probably right. Good thing we’ve got a major supply of LOG JAM FREE! Man puts down paper and pulls the product out of his pocket.
SON
Dad, you keep that in your pocket?
MAN
Son, you never know when the constipation will hit you.
Man holds up product and talks towards the camera.
MAN
When the log’s large and hefty, LOG JAM FREE will clear the way! Hooooo!
Man and son laugh together. (Possible jingle plays).
FADE OUT
- posted by Gabe @ 2:19 PM 3 comments
Injury Lawyer Commercial
INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY
MAN with neck brace, bandaged head and ankle brace, sits on a couch with crutches at his side. Man exhibits evidence of head injury with slurs and twitches.
MAN
I was seriously injured by a street sweeper. I didn’t know who to call. Thankfully, I saw LION AND TIGER INJURY LAWYERS on the back cover of the yellow pages.
INJURY LAWYER, sharply dressed in suit and tie and holding a folder filled with papers, walks on camera. He speaks with stern confidence.
LAWYER
William was injured and didn’t know who to call, most likely due to his severe head injury. But fortunately for William, he overcame his temporary retardation, and called us.
LAWYER takes a seat on the arm of the couch and crosses his legs. He pats William on the head.
LAWYER
At LION AND TIGER, we aggressively pursue a large settlement, much like a lion, or tiger, pounces on weak, maimed prey and rips apart their bloody carcass until there’s nothing left.
LAWYER stands back up and takes a step towards the camera.
LAWYER
If you’ve been injured in an accident, call LION AND TIGER, the injury lawyer kings!
Camera zooms in for an extreme close-up and LAWYER ROARS loud like a lion.
LAWYER
Roooar!
- posted by Gabe @ 2:14 PM 3 comments
8.23.2004
Put the Pen Down!
I don't do a lot of writing, but I may be doing some serious writing very soon. I've been working on an idea for a film the last few days, and had a few creative breakthroughs today. I pitched the idea to Angie over lunch and she immediately lost her appetite, pushed her meal aside, and was very close to heading to the bathroom. That's right, the story was so powerful it twisted her stomach up just like that.
I'm going to work on it a little more before posting any details, but I can see myself making this film early next year. I'll put together a proper treatment and post it soon. I'm going to need some help!
- posted by Joshua Provost @ 3:11 PM 7 comments
8.20.2004
Done
Since this is everything story related, I might as well post about the completion of my script. I had written it and rewritten it previously, but this week I finished polishing it up and honing it for the final draft. It's all set now...no more rewriting and no more polishing. Unless suggestions and logical changes are given to me.
- posted by Brock @ 4:18 PM 1 comments
8.16.2004
My First Script Attempt
Since Brock posted a snippet of his latest script, I thought I'd do the same with my first that I wrote in Screenwriting class. It's entitled Songwriter.
4
INT. CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY
Three men in business suits sit around a conference table. The room is sharp and pristine. Gold and Platinum records grace the wall along with posters of famous bands.
One of the men is Ricky Fredrickson. The other two men are in their thirties. They all look like they came out of GQ magazine. Ricky, however, has a new hairdo, much like that of someone that was at Tony’s show.
Gentlemen, we have a new victim.
The men laugh in a greedy anticipation.
His name is Tony DeMarco. He’s
twenty-six, a lady killer, and
building quite a reputation for
himself in the…
Ricky rolls his eyes and changes his tone to a mocking one.
…underground.
MARK
Wait a minute. Underground? What the hell are you thinking?
RICKY
As you all know, record sales
have dropped, slowly but steadily.
I’m under pressure to branch out,
take risks.
GARY
Hmm, OK. So what do you have in mind? Cheap production, cheap distribution, and little marketing?
RICKY
Not exactly.
GARY
So, what’s your plan Rick-O?
RICKY
Marketing the underground movement. Making it the next big thing.
MARK
The underground scene is risky.
RICKY
Not the scene, artists from the scene. Tony’s got the look. His music, however, needs to be more palatable for the masses.
GARY
Do you honestly think he’d be willing to change his music?
RICKY
I doubt it. But do we have to tell him?
They erupt in laughter.
- posted by Gabe @ 2:22 PM 2 comments
8.13.2004
Hey folks. How's it going? I can't believe we've got a place to post our short stories and stuff like that. And Josh and Jeremy are here to post with us! That's awesome. Well, I'll leave the chatter off this blog since it's mainly for stories. I was gonna post a snippet of my short story, but I've decided to hold off. I felt bad leaving this blog, a story blog without something though, so I decided to give you a scene from my script.
The script is entitled Last Rights with Johnny Boscow and its about a late night talk show host (like Conan) who breaks out from the manipulative grip of his producers to make his show what he wants it to be. This scene here is in the first act and it details how Johnny is commonly left out of the network's decisions regarding what's supposed to be his show. Enjoy,
-------------------------------------
INT. OFFICE – DAY
Johnny stands before two large, ornately carved maple wood doors.
Muffled sounds and utterances can be heard coming from the other side of the large doors. Johnny presses his ear against them and listens in on a husky, youth-tinged voice that screams out “Beware the Red Threat! Rise up against your thirst!”
Johnny’s hand reaches out and grabs one of the door’s golden knobs, but it doesn’t open. Groaning to himself, Johnny twists the knob again, but the door remains locked.
Johnny shakes his head and sits down on the floor next to the doors. The loud sounds coming from within the room begin to dissipate and with a click the large doors swing wide. Men and women adorned in suits and carrying briefcases swarm out of the room, passing Johnny by. Robert Gleck then steps out of the room and nods to the dispersing people.
Ok, folks, let’s get to it!
Johnny faintly waves at Rob from below. Robert casually looks down and sees Johnny. With a start he steps back as Johnny stands up.
Johnny! Where in the world were ya?
JOHNNY
The door was locked.
ROBERT
What? Dang. Ok. Hey everyone! Get back here.
JOHNNY
Rob, just forget it.
ROBERT
No Johnny, it was an important meeting. They don’t mind.
The suited men and women march back through the large wooden doors followed sharply by Robert. Johnny walks in abashedly.
This time they leave the doors wide open.
INT. BOARDROOM – DAY
Inside the boardroom everyone stands; some pace around the room with their briefcases in hand. Johnny slowly approaches the huge conference table in the center of the room.
Go ahead and have a seat Johnny.
Johnny sits down in a chair at the far end of the table; everyone else remains standing.
We were just discussing the plan for our ‘Crimson Surge’ bit.
JOHNNY
Oh?
ROBERT
You bet.
JOHNNY
Ok.
ROBERT
Here’s what we need you to do.
Rob nods over to his side where ALBERT RILEY, 28, a rotund yet dastardly looking man, stands.
Albert doesn’t seem to be paying attention until Rob snaps him to awareness. Languidly, he approaches Johnny.
You’re gonna introduce the soda after the monologue by pouring it into your cup and taking a drink. Georgie Boy is gonna ask you what you’re drinking to which you’ll reply, ‘Crimson Surge’-
Every one of Albert’s words is overly punctuated and slowly spoken as if he were a mother explaining something complex to a child.
-Then Georgie will hold up his own bottle and drink it. After that his head will explode in a fountain of ‘Crimson Surge’.
JOHNNY
You’re suggesting that the soda makes his head blow up?
Albert ignores Johnny’s question, punctuating his next sentence by shaking his clenched fist.
After you see his head blow up on the monitor Johnny, it’s very important that you stare into your camera and viciously say ‘Beware the Red Threat!’
A wormy ASSISTANT WRITER excitedly pipes up.
In that moment, you are a white tiger.
JOHNNY
On the monitor?
No, we mean figuratively.
Rob gently pushes Albert away.
Say it with a little heat is all they mean.
ASSISTANT WRITER
What must we beware Johnny?
Johnny looks at all of the executives and writers crowded around him, glaring down upon him, and he lamely responds.
The Red Threat?
- posted by Brock @ 2:10 PM 3 comments
8.12.2004
Welcome
This blog has been here quite a while. The original idea for it was to write a collaborative story between Brock and I. That never took off, because of me. But now its new purpose is to be a place where Brock and I can post original short stories and such. Mine will be filler. Brock's will be...well, inspirational.
- posted by Gabe @ 2:23 PM 5 comments
