At 10/17/10 08:30 AM, TheLameSauce wrote:At 10/16/10 08:33 PM, DeftAndEvil wrote: I blame the Newgrounds' inability to indent. Or at least make the letters more interesting.that's like driving thirty mph into a pothole every day and then blaming the street when your tire blows out. if you want your work to be a horrific internet defecation then go ahead, but don't be surprised when no one traipses through it. honestly, this is pretty good advice for someone submitting their first piece, and a reiteration for those posting their second or more.
oh, and to avoid looking like an oblivious twat, i am aware i have a very long unfinish work with no comments on this forum. i wasn't really expecting people to read it, but i thought it wouldn't hurt to leave it available in it's current form.
At 10/16/10 08:33 PM, DeftAndEvil wrote: I blame the Newgrounds' inability to indent. Or at least make the letters more interesting.
that's like driving thirty mph into a pothole every day and then blaming the street when your tire blows out. if you want your work to be a horrific internet defecation then go ahead, but don't be surprised when no one traipses through it. honestly, this is pretty good advice for someone submitting their first piece, and a reiteration for those posting their second or more.
it's okay. death of the protagonist should adequately grab the reader's attention. By leaving the assailant unspecified the murder is given a taste of mystery, which should make the reader want to continue reading. so conceptually, this prologue is fairly strong. however, it does seem to lack something.
this is just one paragraph of a prospective book that i have no greater understanding of. without knowing how you plan on continuing your piece, it is difficult to truly evaluate your opening paragraphs. if i were to suggest anything though i would further play with the mystery angle as it seems to be the one you're going for. why else put the first person narrator in a precarious life or death situation? you should give the reader a little-just a minute hair's worth- of detail about the narrator's attacker. give the reader just enough to intrigue, not enough to identify. think of the one armed man in the fugitive. describe some unique article of clothing, or accent/gait, or even an odd comment just before firing that would make the reader curious about the shooter, and greater yet, the situation they find themselves diving into. i feel a little touch of mystery would really help reel the readers into the meat of your prose.
another thing, i don't know if you've proofread but some of your sentences are repetitious.
THE WARD(through the door):
Kenny, you don't know me but I'm a friend. I can fix this. You just got to let me in.
More familiarities click inside the brain of KENNY BRODIE. He reaches forward and pulls his video game controller from the table in front of him. Holding it in the meat of his hands as if he was playing, a word softly spills from his lips.
KENNY BRODIE:
Games.
INT. Oakdale Apartment's hallway. Early Evening.
THE WARD knocks on the door of apartment 712 with a little more alacrity. He leans his body against the affronting obstacle.
THE WARD:
Come on Kenny, open the door. The longer we wait the worse it's going to get.
THE WARD begins to slap at the door with his palms. The heavy thuds echoing down the hall.
THE WARD:
It's really fun out here, Kenny. It's a festival. There's games of chance, and spilling steins of ale, and attractive females with expansive bosoms and strong steeds for sale!
The apartment door behind KENNY BRODIE opens and A LITTLE OLD LADY, female and mid eighties, pokes her head through. Her face is genial but ravaged with time, speckled with age spots under a thin white mop of hair.
LITTLE OLD LADY:
He's probably not home, young man.
THE WARD:
Huh, I suppose...
LITTLE OLD LADY:
Please keep it down.
The LITTLE OLD LADY closes her door and vacates the conversation.
THE WARD (to self):
I guess I'll just wait for him to come back then.
THE WARD takes a seat on the floor, his face directed towards door 712 and his back propped against the wall opposite. Feeling quite fatigued after a long day, he leans his head back and falls asleep.
INT. Oakdale Apartment's seventh floor hall. Late Evening/early morning.
The last hours of one day have faded and the new hours of the next have sprung and CORRINE BRODIE wanders her home halls, a slight sway to her step. Her sparkling evening attire has dimmed after a long night on the town, her hair spills in loose jumbles around her face. Her keys jingle as she blindly fingers for the one she needs. She notices THE WARD sleeping in the hall across from her door, but ignores him with a drunken indifference. After two failed attempts, CORRINE slides her door key into place and turns the lock. She enters with an uncoordinated lunge and slams the door emphatically behind her. THE WARD startles with the noise and leaps to his feet, looking around the hall disoriented.
THE WARD:
Must have fallen asleep.
THE WARD starts knocking on the door, more exploratory than demanding, not really expecting a response. There isn't one; THE WARD stretches and yawns. His arms are still extended above his head when the door opens, a disheveled intoxicated CORRINE BRODIE revealed.
CORRINE:
What?
THE WARD:
Where's Kenny Brodie?
CORRINE:
I don't know, in bed probably.
THE WARD:
Oh, great. Can I come in? I need to talk to him.
THE WARD attempts to enter the Brodie apartment, sliding between CORRINE and the door frame. CORRINE sees this maneuver and counters by stepping forward, closing the gap and leaving THE WARD standing uncomfortably close to her.
CORRINE:
No.
THE WARD:
Okay. Can you get him then?
CORRINE:
No. He's sleeping. Look, I don't know what lame shooting tournament you guys were supposed to have, but I guess he's out.
THE WARD:
That's so weird. I was just sleeping.
CORRINE:
It's three in the morning. That's not weird at all.
THE WARD:
I guess not weird. More coincidental.
CORRINE:
Well, I'm sure he'd love to compare sleeping habits tomorrow, but for now we're calling it a night.
CORRINE begins to close the door, but THE WARD interjects.
THE WARD:
I don't think he can last that long.
CORRINE reopens the door looking far more concerned than before.
CORRINE:
What do you mean? Is he okay?
THE WARD:
I don't know...I don't think so. Have you noticed anything different about his behavior lately?
CORRINE:
He was really moody tonight. And quiet. Maybe lazier, although I don't know if that's even possible. Oh, God. He's not on drugs, is he?
THE WARD:
Maybe. But, I mean more beyond the realm of normalcy. Starting fires with his fingers, speaking to animals, disappearing, the like.
CORRINE (annoyed):
Do you live here?
THE WARD:
Oh, no. I don't really live anywhere at the moment.
CORRINE:
Who let you in?
THE WARD:
Some nice old man. Cloudy hair, little belly.
CORRINE:
Mr. Mortensen... look, I'm going to call the police if you don't get the hell out of here.
THE WARD:
The police?
CORRINE:
Yea, the police. Something tells me you're familiar with them.
THE WARD:
Actually, I seem to have inadvertently pulled a little information on the subject, but it's vague and makes little sense in this context. They're musicians correct?
CORRINE:
You could wait here and find out.
THE WARD:
You said that rather threateningly.
CORRINE:
I did.
THE WARD:
Okay, I'll be leaving then. If you do change your mind, if you need assistance, I'll be around.
CORRINE:
You'd better not be.
CORRINE slams the door in THE WARD's face. After a moment of recollection, he walks away from the Brodie's apartment without a clear destination. As he does, he passes the stair exit.
THE WARD:
Stairs?
THE WARD pushes himself through the one seemingly unlocked door in Oakdale.
INT. Oakdale stairwell. Early morning.
THE WARD beholds the stairwell with appreciation, his face illuminates as he bears witness to the scuffed descending cement with its chipped painted metal handrails.
THE WARD:
Oh, much better.
INT. The Brodie Apartment living room. Early Morning.
CORRINE BRODIE walks away from her violently slamming apartment door, irritated and exhausted. The sun is still hours away from making an appearance, and the apartment is a pit of dark. CORRINE BRODIE hiccups quietly as she wobbles towards her bedroom.
CORRINE BRODIE(to self):
I'm just going to let this shoeless hobo wander the hallways in the middle of the night. That senile old man is going to get the whole building robbed.
Well, that's all i got so far.
MR. MORTENSEN:
It's an old building and it's got its quirks. But I'll tell you, in my fifteen years the elevator's only been down once. And that was only for three days about six years back. They really take good care of the place.
INT. Seventh Floor Elevator entrance. Early Evening.
With a subtle chime, the elevator arrives to its seventh floor destination. The doors slide open and THE WARD bounds from his claustrophobic prison for the assuring stability of immobile ground. MR. MORTENSEN calmly follows suit, helping THE WARD get back to his feet.
THE WARD:
I do not like elevating.
MR MORTENSEN:
A stair man? It's a lot healthier for you.
THE WARD:
I could imagine.
MR MORTENSEN extends his hand for shaking and THE WARD obliviously ignores it.
MR MORTENSEN:
Mr. Mortensen.
THE WARD:
I don't know what that means.
MR. MORTENSEN (befuddled):
It's, uh, it's my name.
THE WARD:
Oh, it's a great name. So many syllables. Your family must be proud.
MR MORTENSEN:
A lot of people have had it before me, but I think that I do it justice.
THE WARD:
Of course you do.
MR MORTENSEN:
All right. Well, I really got to get going, I was hoping to get a little laundry done today. It was nice to meet you...
MR MORTENSEN pauses for THE WARD's name, which he doesn't give. After awkwardly sitting silent for far too long, MR MORTENSEN continues.
MR MORTENSEN:
I like you. I think you'll bring a very unique vibe to this place. We could use that. Some of the residents around here are a little cold.
THE WARD:
They're just going to get colder, winter is approaching.
MR MORTENSEN:
Winter does tend to fuel the discontent. Well, don't be a stranger.
THE WARD (sincerely):
I'll try.
MR. MORTENSEN chuckles softly to himself as he turns and strolls down the hallway to his apartment. THE WARD, now sure his encounter with MR. MORTENSEN is over resumes his search for KENNY BRODIE. He walks in the opposite direction of MR MORTENSEN, running his fingers along the hallway walls and thoroughly examining its hard dark maple doors.
THE WARD:
Kinnay...Keeney...Kininily...
INT. OUTSIDE THE CARNEY APARTMENT. EARLY EVENING
THE WARD abruptly stops his slow, dawdling stroll down the hallway. With an electric spinning jump, he faces a door to his immediate left. It is an earthy deep brown door, heavy and sturdy, not unlike any other of the doors on the floor except for one minute detail. Centered by the door's dingy white painted frame, just under the resident's peephole and just above its numerical assignment, a white ledger rests proclaiming "Carney" in scrawling hand written pen.
THE WARD:
Carney! I've found you!
THE WARD attempts to let himself into the apartment, slamming himself shoulder first into the rich wood as he's denied by another lock. Thinking back to a previous occasion, THE WARD closely searches the door.
THE WARD:
There's no buttons?
THE WARD is still in the midst of his button search when the door cracks open, just as far as the chain lock will allow. Exposed in the opening is the apartment's owner, MR CARNEY. He is a man of girth, completely blocking the interior of his apartment from view. His hair is unctuous and frayed as if shaped by pillows and blankets and sweat. He is unshaven and unwashed, chronic conditions that have plagued MR CARNEY most of his adult life. He is adorned in an old discolored bathrobe and time weathered slippers. Distrusting eyes peer at THE WARD through bent, scratched glasses.
MR CARNEY:
Who are you? Why are you trying to open my door?
THE WARD:
Those are both very good questions.
MR CARNEY:
What do you want?
THE WARD:
Is there someone else here?
THE WARD stands on his toes trying to peak over the giant before him.
THE WARD:
Perhaps behind you?
MR CARNEY:
No. There's no one else here. I live by myself...with my rottweiler.
THE WARD:
Rotting what?
MR CARNEY:
It's a dog. A big mean dog.
THE WARD:
Oh. Yes, of course.
MR CARNEY attempts to shut his door but THE WARD stops its closure with his foot. Grimacing in pain as his foot is crushed he again tries questioning MR CARNEY.
THE WARD:
Are you sure there's no one else here? Maybe someone a little smaller? Cleaner? No spectacles?
MR CARNEY:
Look(MR CARNEY's arm escapes the apartment, an extended finger taps the name tag on the door.) I am Walter Carney. This is my apartment. No one else is here, because if they were, they would be trespassing and I would have to kill them. Go away.
THE WARD:
So there's no Caney here? Candy...
MR CARNEY:
Kenny? Kenny Brodie? You're one of his idiot friends? He's in 712.
THE WARD:
712?
MR. CARNEY:
It's the number on his door, like the number on my door, only his is a different number on a different door because it's a different apartment. Get it?
THE WARD:
Yes, I think I do. Kenny Brodie lives in an apartment with the number 712 on the door.
MR CARNEY:
You're a quick one.
THE WARD:
Thanks. I'm sorry for bothering you.
MR CARNEY:
Don't worry about it. Believe it or not, you're not the first of his brain dead buddies to show up at my door accidentally.
THE WARD:
We're not really friends. I've actually never met him.
MR CARNEY:
That's great. Move your foot please.
THE WARD obliges MR CARNEY and removes his foot.
THE WARD:
I've got to admit I have been having quite a hard time navigating this place...
MR CARNEY slams the door in THE WARD's face, coming inches from crushing his nose.
THE WARD(to self):
Okay then.
INT. Outside apartment 712. Early Evening.
KENNY BRODIE stands statuesque outside his own apartment. His face is completely absent. Something brought his physical body here, but it's unsure of what to do next. The endless stillness of the scene is broken when the apartment door opens and CORRINE BRODIE steps out into the hall. She is dressed for a night out, heavy makeup and a sleek, short dress. She lets out a startled gasp, as KENNY is standing literally inches from her.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Whoa. Good timing, I was about to give up on you. What took you so long?
CORRINE attempts to take the sixty dollars KENNY is firmly holding in his hand, but his grip is too strong and her hand slips away empty. She tries a second time, with more force, and successfully pries the three twenty dollar bills from him.
CORRINE:
Come on, don't be like that. It's only sixty dollars.
Some more familiarities click inside KENNY BRODIE and he silently walks into the apartment. CORRINE opens the door after him to finish the conversation.
CORRINE (with her head poking through the door.):
Seriously, Kenny, grow up. You can come with us if you want.
KENNY sits down on the living room couch and stares and the television's black screen.
CORRINE:
Whatever. If you see Mr. Mortensen tell him we're getting some of his mail. It's in the table drawer. Have a good night!
CORRINE slams the door and locks it.
CORRINE (to self):
What a baby.
INT. Oakdale apartment's hallway. Early Evening.
THE WARD follows the descending door numbers, searching for door 712. As he makes his way, he bumps shoulders with a frustrated CORRINE BRODIE walking the opposite direction and speaking rapidly into her phone.
THE WARD:
Excuse me.
CORRINE gives a hand motion to signal everything is fine and continues down the hallway on her phone.
CORRINE:
No, he didn't say anything the whole time. Okay, I'll be down in a couple minutes.
THE WARD turns the hall corner and sees door 712. Assuming it's locked, he tries to open the handle with less aggression than before. When it does prove locked, THE WARD starts to rap his fist against the door.
THE WARD:
Hello? Kenny? Hey, I was hoping to talk to you for a little while. I know you're probably feeling a little strange, maybe scared, but I really think I can help you.
INT. The Brodie Apartment. Early Evening.
KENNY BRODIE sits perfectly still on the couch, the sun has sunk and the apartment is an array of grays and blacks leaking through the window. THE WARD's knocking from the outside can be heard, distant and muffled to KENNY BRODIE's ear.
KENNY moans and grabs at his stomach, doubling over as it wrenches in pain. He slowly slides his back along the bank wall and takes a seat on the sidewalk next to it. His panting increases in rapidity and intensity, sweat is beginning to form on his face. Another strong pang eminates from his stomach and KENNY cringes severly. A faint groan is uttered and then suddenly he stops. KENNY no longer cringes, no longer whines. Not just pain has been wiped from his face, everything has. Robotically, KENNY lifts himself up from the ground. He rhythmically marches home, twenty dollars still balled in his left fist.
EXT. City street in Chicago. Early Evening.
The WARD wanders the street completely occupied with all that is around him. He marvels at the trees, and buildings. He awes at the signs and cars. He does not look where he is going and walks into a garbage can that sentries the corner.
WARD(rubbing leg after kicking the metal garbage can):
Ouch... That is a tall building.
The WARD's face forms a wild smile as he observes just how high one of Chicago's skyscrapers can go. He starts to move again, this time staring straight into the sky. KENNY BRODIE approaches the WARD on the sidewalk from the opposite direction. Much the opposite than the wandering WARD whose sight is focused upward, his is focused dead ahead with mouth open and eyes vacant. KENNY's arms and legs move like a programmed machine, timely and efficient. The WARD begins to spin while still moving forward, trying to see the tops of all the buildings within his vicinity. As he does, he walks straight into KENNY BRODIE. The impact hardly effects KENNY, but it sends the WARD bouncing off as KENNY continues his pace. The WARD jogs up to KENNY attempting to apolgize.
THE WARD:
I'm really sorry. Wasn't looking where I was going.
KENNY keeps on marching without acknowledging the WARD or his apology. The WARD keeps jogging alongside him hoping to interact.
THE WARD:
These building are so tall. I was trying to calculate in my head which could hold the most water. I think it's that one. Not the tallest, but it's got girth.
KENNY doesn't respond to the WARD in any capacity.
THE WARD:
Oh, come on. Look, I'm really sorry.
The WARD jumps in front of KENNY and outstretches his arm for a hand shake. KENNY breaks neither stride nor focus and walks through the WARD's extended palm knocking it away from him with his chest. The WARD stands with his arm out in disbelief as he watches KENNY walk away.
The WARD:
What a weirdo.
The WARD comes to a realization upon saying the word "weirdo". Suddenly this entranced marcher is of great interest to him. He follows KENNY as inconspicuoulsy has he can, trying not to gain the zombie's attention.
Ext. The Oakdale Apartments. Early Evening.
The Oakdale Apartents stand strong along its aging peers in one of the older blocks of Chicago, a weathered pillar of brick and cement framed amongst the foliage of deciduous trees. A short walkway extends from the entrance of the building flanked by the little dirt canals of mirroring city gardens. MR. MORTENSEN, late sixties and male, is opening the Oakdale's glass door main entrance when he sees the slowly closing shell of KENNY BRODIE. MR. MORTENSEN is a friendly jovial old man, finding some sort of inner peace as he ages. His wide face easily forms smiles and his pale eyes still glimmer with life under his feral whirlwind of white hair. He holds the door open for KENNY BRODIE.
MR. MORTENSEN:
Oh, hey Kenny. Got the day off?
KENNY BRODIE does nothing to indicate acknowledgment of MR. MORTENSEN's salutation. He stiffly walks past the old man and into the building. MR. MORTENSEN continues his conversation as he follows KENNY through the door.
MR. MORTENSEN:
You and your sister haven't been getting any of my mail have you? I've been expecting a letter from my grandson for a couple weeks now.
The door closes behind MR. MORTENSEN silencing the soft tone of his voice.
Ext. Just outside the Oakdale Apartments. Early Evening.
THE WARD watches the interactions of MR. MORTENSEN and KENNY BRODIE from afar, poorly hidden amongst the bushes of a neighboring building.
THE WARD:
Kinney...Caney...Kindly?
THE WARD carefully walks towards the Oakdale's glass entry, nervously glancing about him as he does. When he gets to the door, he cautiously places his hand upon the handle. Slowly, he tries to pull the door open. It doesn't budge, clanking as the lock smacks the metal interior of the frame. Like most buildings, The Oakdale's entrance is locked from the exterior. After being denied, THE WARD tries to open the door with more force, only to be more violently halted by the buidling's defense mechanism. Frustrated THE WARD violently flails at the door handle.
INT. The Oakdale's Elevator lobby. Early Evening.
MR. MORTENSEN and KENNY BRODIE sit silent and patient as they wait for the elevator. MR MORTENSEN touches the up button and exhales a breathy laugh.
MR MORTENSEN:
Guess we forgot to hit the button.
The elevator arrives and the doors slide open. KENNY BRODIE enters the cavity with the enthusiasm of a granite block. MR. MORTENSEN is quick behind him and hits the clear circle next to the number seven. The doors begin to close when MR. MORTENSEN hears the thrashing of THE WARD outside. MR. MORTENSEN impedes the elevator doors with an extended forearm, and they slide back open in reaction.
MR. MORTENSEN:
Would you hold the elevator for me?
MR. MORTENSEN steps out of the elevator to address the noise outside.
INT. The Oakdale's entrance. Early Evening
THE WARD flings his limbs wildly at the defiant plane of glass desperately trying to force its concession. MR. MORTENSEN can plainly see this desperation as he saunters near, a light hearted smile on his face. He pushes the door open from the inside, where it allows passage without key, and lets the WARD in.
MR. MORTENSEN
Forgot your keys?
THE WARD:
Thank you.
THE WARD quickly examines the door looking for an explanation as to why it open with such ease for the old man and so stubbornly for him. MR MORTENSEN begins his slow trek back to the elevator lobby; THE WARD gives up on the door and follows him.
MR. MORTENSEN
Happens to me all the time, son. Are you new to the building?
THE WARD:
What? Yea, I guess. I've never been here before.
MR MORTENSEN:
Thought so. I know almost everyone here. It's a good building, you know, the owners don't live on site but the maintenance guy does. His name is Phil. You met him?
THE WARD:
I'm not sure. I've met a lot of people. Don't know all their names.
MR MORTENSEN:
Well, I'll have to introduce you. He's a real nice guy. About your age, maybe a little older. He throws a party every Halloween. You'd probably get along. He's a lot of fun.
MR MORTENSEN and THE WARD reach the elevator and MR MORTENSEN hits the up button.
MR MORTENSEN:
Sorry. I asked someone to hold this, but he must not of heard me. Seemed pretty distracted.
THE WARD knocks along the metal barrier of the elevator shaft. He sticks his fingers between the crease and tries to pull the elevator shaft open. MR MORTENSEN laughs cheerfully in response.
THE WARD:
None of the doors work.
MR MORTENSEN
Yea, there's only one elevator so you can find yourself waiting sometimes.
The elevator arrives and MR MORTENSEN walks into the inviting opening. THE WARD follows. MR MORTENSEN again hits the seven button.
MR MORTENSEN:
Which floor?
THE WARD:
Okay?
MR MORTENSEN:
I guess were neighbors then. (jokingly) Don't make too much noise.
INT. Elevator unit. Early Evening.
THE WARD is greatly startled as the elevator moans and rattles into its ascent. With a swell of fear, he braces himself against the walls. He searches the tiny compartment for an explanation and sees MR. MORTENSEN appraising him in bemusement.
THE WARD:
Do you feel that?
MR. MORTENSEN:
Yea, the elevator kicks around a little bit.
THE WARD:
Elevator?...we're elevating...
THE WARD quickly looks down at his feet and looks at the SON.
THE WARD:
Yes, that's very observant of you.
On this comment, THE WARD, FATHER and SON sit in awkward silence.
THE WARD:
This is weird...that I am not wearing any shoes?
FATHER:
A little weird.
SON:
It's raining. Aren't your feet cold?
THE WARD:
Yes. My feet are cold. And wet. Do you have any shoes that I may use?
FATHER:
No.
Another awkward moment rests between THE WARD, the FATHER and his SON.
THE WARD:
Okay. Well, enjoy your bean.
THE WARD turns with alacrity and lightly jogs away from the FATHER and SON. Expeditiously exiting an uncomfortable scene. The SON struggles to understand what he just stood witness to. He turns to his dad for answers.
SON:
Is that man okay?
FATHER(wistful):
Ben, some people don't have mommies and daddies. They don't have brothers or sisters or pop pops or nammies. All they have is themselves. They're alone and scared. And sometimes when you're alone and scared you just need someone to talk to. Even if you don't really know them, and even if they don't really want to talk to you. You just need to talk with someone.
SON:
You shouldn't run without shoes.
Int. Petey's Pizza Kitchen. Day.
JUNIOR MINAYA, early thirties male and hispanic, washes dishes in the industrial sink that sits in the corner of Petey's kitchen. The reds, greens and whites of sauce, vegetables, and cheese are peppered at random across the counters and floor. But in particular, the now dormant making zone is where most of the mess collects. The lunch rush has ended and the restaurant's fervor has dissipated into a calm. JUNIOR rings a towel from the sink and swipes it across the nearest counter in a swift albeit haphazard manner, knocking the bulk of discarded food to the floor. KENNY BRODIE enters the kitchen from the employee's back entrance. Hearing his arrival, JUNIOR turns towards his guest. His face sculpted into the stern, no-nonsense stare the people around him have quickly learn to expect.
JUNIOR:
What are you doing here, Brodie? I thought you had today off.
KENNY:
I do, but I missed you. I just couldn't bear going a day without seeing your pretty face.
JUNIOR
Ah, that's sweet.
KENNY:
Did you miss me?
JUNIOR:
No, not really. You're an ass.
KENNY:
C'mon, tough guy. Give me a hug.
KENNY stretches his arms out awaiting an embrace, but JUNIOR makes no motion to hug.
JUNIOR:
Seriously though, why are you here? I doubt you would come all this way just to piss me off. Wait. Let me guess, you wanted to clean the kitchen after the lunch rush?
KENNY:
That's close. I want my check.
JUNIOR:
It's always about money with you, isn't it?
JUNIOR reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys.
JUNIOR:
There's some mistake pizza over by the delivery boxes if you're interested. Apparently that idiot, Cowler, can't tell the difference between green olives and green peppers.
KENNY:
How old is it?
JUNIOR(slighty agitated):
I don't know. Forty five minutes? An hour maybe? Since when do you care?
KENNY smiles and shrugs as he walks over to the delivery boxes and grabs a slice of mistake pizza. Junior walks out of the kitchen into some unseen room to collect KENNY's check.
JUNIOR (as he leaves the kitchen):
Even when you're off, you're a pain in my ass.
KENNY smirks to himself as he chews the pizza and watches his boss leave. After only a few bites, JUNIOR returns with a small envelope concealing Kenny's check. He extends the check to KENNY who stands and takes it from him.
JUNIOR:
What do you need the money for? Hot date?
KENNY:
You know it. I'm going to take her to the most happening place you can take a girl for...
KENNY rips open the envelope and takes out the check to see how much it is written for.
KENNY:
Sixty eight dollars? What the hell, man?
JUNIOR:
Sixty eight dollars ain't bad. That's a decent night on the town.
KENNY:
I owe my sister sixty.
JUNIOR:
Don't get mad at me. You called off Tuesday and half of Wednesday. And besides, you're supposed to be making tips. It's not my fault if you're no good at your job.
KENNY:
How am I suppose to make tips from the kitchen?
JUNIOR:
You're the one refusing to wait tables.
KENNY:
What about delivering? Cowler can't even read a map.
JUNIOR:
You're not driving around for Petey's in that rolling coffin. The wheels are going to pop off like a wine cork and send you tearing through a park. It's a lawsuit waiting to happen.
KENNY:
Oh, I forgot that you were a lawyer slash pizza guy. You're killing me, Junior.
JUNIOR:
Shut up.
KENNY:
You know, I had no idea I was such a charitable person until I started working here, in your soup kitchen.
JUNIOR:
You done yet?
KENNY:
Yea I'm done...with you and this stupid job...
JUNIOR:
Whatever. You're coming in tomorrow, right?
KENNY:
I don't know. Where am I working?
JUNIOR(in some disbelief):
In the kitchen. Where do you think?
KENNY:
It's not like I really have a choice, is it? I mean I still have bills.
JUNIOR:
Alright, see you at one.
KENNY gives a half-hearted wave over his shoulder as he heads out of the back kitchen entrance. Although KENNY's back is turned and he can't see him, JUNIOR waves back before going back to his cleaning duties.
Ext. Kenny Brodie's bank's outdoor ATM. Day.
KENNY BRODIE stands in front of his ATM looking slightly perturbed from his earlier conversations with his sister and boss. He slides his work check into the machine and waits a moment. The machine rejects the check with a disheartening beep. KENNY sighs in frustration and hastily pulls the check from the dispenser. He looks it over, concludes that it's fine, and redepostits it into the machine with meticulous care. The machine sucks the check in.
KENNY:
(in a mocking whispered tone) Your car is dangeous. You're gonna run over people in the park. (in his normal voice) I've delivered in that car for five years and never once have I ran someone over in the park.
The ATM rejects the check with another taunting beep. KENNY loses his cool with the machine and yells. A PASSING WOMAN, forty and female, is startled by the outburst, cowering away from KENNY. She quickly collects herself and gives KENNY her dirtiest look as she hurries away.
Kenny(to the PASSING WOMAN):
Sorry. Stupid thing won't take my check.
The PASSING WOMAN is uninterested in KENNY's explanation and completely ignores his apologies. KENNY forfeits any attempt to make amends with the PASSING WOMAN. He turns his attentions back to his check. He pulls the check taught between his hands and rubs it against the corner of his bank's foundation, hoping to work out any wrinkles. After a couple of minutes, KENNY examines the check again, and after it again passes his inspection, deposits it back into the ATM. It is again sucked into the machine.
KENNY:
Come on...
The machine accepts his check.
KENNY:
About time.
Kenny starts to push buttons on the ATM's touch screen. The machine ejects three crisp twenty dollar bills. KENNY grabs the money, but as soon as it's in hand, he yelps in pain and violently reaches down towards his left leg. KENNY stares angrily at a gray squirrel that bounds away from him. He touches his fingers to the bite wound that is already starting to bloody the white of his sock.
KENNY:
You've got to be kidding me! I mean, who gets bit by a squirrel? Really just great. I don't have health insurance and some furry little Manson just gave me rabies.
KENNY's face goes blank for a second. His mouth hangs agape and his eyes dead stare. Kenny shakes the blankness off his face.
KENNY:
Whoa...
KENNY takes a few unsteady paces forward before losing his balance and bracing himself against the wall of the bank. He rests uneasily there, taking a couple heavy breaths as if trying to overcome nausea.
KENNY(weakly):
Oh, dude...
CUSTOMER:
I didn't see any non-fat milk back there. You don't have any stored away in the back somewhere, do you?
The STORE CLERKS only response to the CUSTOMER is to make a slight belching noise, all while not moving an inch and continuing to stare. The Ward turns and engages the confrontation between the CUSTOMER and the STORE CLERK.
CUSTOMER:
Non-fat milk? Yes? No?
A miniscule drop of saliva escapes from the STORE CLERKS mouth and forms a glistening strand from his lip.
CUSTOMER:
Hello? What is wrong with you?
The Ward:
I think he's on break.
CUSTOMER:
So? He can still answer the question. He's being incredibly rude.
The Ward:
Yeah, he is. Why don't I take care of your groceries? My uncle owns this place. I've got a tab.
The CUSTOMER gushes a smile as The Ward collects her groceries and places them in her arms.
CUSTOMER:
Oh, thank you! That is so nice!
The Ward:
Don't mention it. And they should be getting more milk tomorrow. Noonish.
CUSTOMER(to STORE CLERK):
Jerk.
The Ward pulls the CUSTOMER in close.
The Ward:
Don't let him get to you. Between us, that guy isn't going to be working here much longer anyways. Bit of a space case.
The Ward lifts his sunglasses and winks as he turns and jovially struts out the door. The CUSTOMER, still slightly flustered from the whole experience, watches The Ward leave in bewilderment. She takes notice of his missing shoes and her face becomes more quizzical.
Int. Early Afternoon. The Brodey Apartment.
Kenny Brodey, male early twenties, plays video games from his couch. He is wearing pajama pants and a subtly stained white tee shirt. His dark hair is unkempt as he has obviously just awaken recently. A blue tooth rests in his ear, a two liter of soda by his feet, hot pocket wrappers are littered around him leaving him the epicenter of mess in an otherwise tidy apartment. Kenny is implementing a very slouching posture as he plays, resting the controller on his stomach and resting his feet on the coffee table in front of him.
Kenny(into the bluetooth):
Whoa. Watch out running through the middle. There's a sniper taking pot shots from the north tower.
Kenny blindly stretches his arm out feeling for the two liter of cola, his eyes never breaking focus with the television screen. He finally finds the two liter by his feet and twists the cap off. As he does, he comes to a realization that brings a wry simle to his face..
Kenny(into the blue tooth):
Never mind. False alarm. This guy just happens to be the worst sniper that's ever lived.
KENNY takes a large sip straight from the two liter bottle,as he does he rests the thumb of his free hand on the joystick spinning his video game character in circles.
Kenny(blue tooth):
No. I'm literally running around in circles as he fires rounds into nothing. It's kinda of funny in this really sad way.
KENNY takes another long sip from the two liter whilst spinning his character.
Kenny(blue tooth):
I'll probably die of natural causes before this guy lines me up.
KENNY punches himself in the chest to force a large belch.
Kenny(blue tooth):
Kid must be having a seizure or something.
Kenny finishes the two liter of coke and tosses it behind himself and the couch.
Kenny(blue tooth):
Alright, I'm going in. Put him out of his misery.
Corrine Brodey, mid twenties female, enters the front door of the apartment. She obviously has just got off work; she is dressed in business casual attire, her hair is pulled into a ponytail, there is a harried air about her. She sees Kenny sitting on the couch and looks relieved. She tosses her apartment keys onto the coffee table.
Corrine:
I'm glad to see you.
Corrine continues through the living room and walks into the kitchen.
Kenny(to Corrine in the kitchen):
Most people are.
Kenny(blue tooth):
No, it's my sister. Hold C, I'm going to take B.
Int. Brodey Apartment Kitchen. Early Afternoon.
Corinne walks into the kitchen and pulls a bottle water out of the fridge. She takes a long drink before she sees that Kenny has left hot pocket boxes on top of the trash can. She grabs the boxes.
Corrine(to Kenny in the living room):
On top of the trash can. That's close, Kenny, but trash actually goes inside of the trash can.
Kenny(from the living room):
Trash can's full.
Kenny(to blue tooth):
Not talking to you, talking to my sister.
Corrine puts the boxes into the trash and pulls the bag out. She ties the bag and puts it on the ground.
Corrine(to herself):
Trash can's full. I can see why that would be confusing.
Corrine opens a cabinet door and pulls a new trash bag out. She inflates it and puts it into the trash can.
She grabs the full trash bag.
Corrine(to Kenny in the living room):
I need you to give me that sixty dollars for the gas bill.
Kenny(from living room):
Sixty dollars? No problem. I'm TALKING TO MY SISTER! What the hell is so hard to understand about that?
Int. The Brodey Living Room. Early Afternoon.
Corrine reenters the living room with the trash bag in hand. Kenny continues to focus on his game.
Corrine:
Like now.
Kenny:
I didn't go to work today, so I don't have the check. I'll get it tomorrow. Oh, come on.
Kenny flings his blue tooth into the couch.
Corrine:
Kenny, I need it tonight.
Kenny:
Why? I'll get it tomorrow. It's fine.
Corrine:
Gary's taking me to that new club downtown tonight.
Kenny:
You know, if Gary was a real man he would pay for his woman.
Corrine:
How would you know what a real man does?
Kenny:
I watch a lot of movies. Now, shhhhh. I'm trying to kill kids on the internet.
Corrine:
Kenny, come on. It's two in the afternoon. You still have plenty of time to go to Petey's and the bank and get back to playing video games with your idiot friends.
Kenny:
I just woke up. It's my day off. I'm not going anywhere. I'll get the check tomorrow. Please, I'm trying to concentrate.
Corrine reaches over the back of the couch and grabs the television remote from Kenny's peripheral. She turns the television off. Kenny tosses the remote to his side and darts for the television. He turns it on and reacts in disbelief.
Kenny:
What the hell, Corrine? I had a eighteen kill streak going. Now I'm dead. You killed your own brother.
KENNY shakes his head in disappoinment of his sister.
Corrine:
Go to work. Get your check. Go the bank. Give me my money. You know, I don't need this. I make enough to live on my own. This is to help you out. Would it be so hard for you to be just a little more grateful?
Kenny:
If you make so much money then why can't you wait until tomorrow?
Corrine:
Go.
Kenny:
Fine.
Corrine extends her trash wielding hand to Kenny as he grabs his keys from the coffee table.
Corrine:
Take this out with you.
Ext. Chicago Bean. Early Afternoon.
THE WARD stands enamored with the glinting metallic construction before him. There are still a handful of visitors to The Bean despite the chill weather, but none with the intense interest of The WARD. He runs his fingers along its sleek curvature and admires his distorted reflection. A FATHER, early thirties and male, and his SON, eight and male, watch the WARD as he interacts with The Bean.
THE WARD(to self):
Such a unique creation. Soaking in its surroundings and regurgitating them out anew. A distorted perspective on the everyday perception.
THE WARD turns from the bean and addresses the people around him.
THE WARD(to FATHER and SON):
Is this some sort of altar or monument? A gift to the Gods? Who was this created for?
FATHER:
I think it was made for everyone.
SON:
It's the bean.
THE WARD(To self):
The bean, of course. Plentiful. Great source of protein, fiber, complex carbohydrates and vitamins. It must be the staple of their diet. Something to be venerated, and celebrated. (to FATHER and SON) Well, this is something wonderful.
FATHER:
Yup...
THE WARD(to self as he runs fingers along the bean):
Fantastic.
The FATHER takes a few steps away from THE WARD shielding his son with his arm.
THE WARD:
Don't let my presence taint your spirituality. Pray to your bean.
SON:
You're not wearing any shoes.
i didn't realize we had this forum. here's a script i've been working on for fun. it's not in the right format and it's unfinished, but thoughts and opinions would be appreciated and might entice me to finish.
Ext. Early Afternoon. Bustling streets of Chicago
THE WARD, Late Twenties, walks the streets of downtown Chicago. His dark hair is a disheveled crown upon his head. He wears no shoes, no shirt, only a pair of aged and dirtied animal skin pants. His face is a beacon of concern and interest as he voraciously consumes his surroundings. His eyes, completely black spheres vast as a winter evening, extrapolate every detail. It's fall in Chicago; the sky is overcast and rain waters rest in puddles on the ground. Brisk winds scrape past the ONGOERS as they too walk the streets of Chicago adorned in more appropriate jackets and knit caps.
The ward reaches out towards ONGOER 1, 20 and male, as he nears. ONGOER 1 is engrossed with a conversation he is having on his cell phone and hardly notices The Ward.
The Ward:
Mahala keli. Moka Mahala.
ONGOER 1:
To be honest, I don't care. I mean, it's every day with this.
ONGOER 1 puts change from his pocket into THE WARD's open palm and continues on his way. ONGOER 1 is so preoccupied with his phone call he never breaks stride to assess the absurdity of the panhandler before him.
ONGOER 1:
You know what I mean? If they break up, fine. I'll be there, but if not...I'm not going to wait.
The Ward examines the loose change in his hand with severe confusion. He jostles the little metal trinkets and listens to the clinking noise they make. His attention is only broken as another ONGOER WITH DOG, 28 and male, approaches. The ONGOER WITH DOG walks forward with unhappy intent as though the dog is his only reason for being outdoors on such a cool evening.
The Ward:
Mahala keli. Polo polo moka mahala.
The Ward again reaches out his hand towards the ONGOER WITH DOG, only this time he makes contact with the person. There is a brief moment of mutual blankness on the faces of The Ward and the ONGOER WITH DOG as The Ward's hand rests on the ONGOER WITH DOG's right shoulder. The moment is gone shortly, and the ONGOER WITH DOG violently pulls himself away.
ONGOER WITH DOG:
Don't friggin' touch me, crackhead, or I'll snap off your arms and feed them to my dog.
The ONGOER WITH DOG shoves The Ward in the chest as he rushes past with his dog. The shove causes The Ward to stumble slightly, but he catches himself on a nearby trash bin. He moves the bottom of his jaw along the top.
The Ward (to himself):
Don't friggin' touch me, crackhead.
The Ward looks around him quickly. There is no one in his immediate vicinity.
The Ward:
Huh. West Germanic tongue...
The Ward turns his attention towards the numerous street side signs that pock Chicago's downtown area.
The Ward:
Latin derived writing system...violent and volatile society comprised of an indifferent and contentious people complete with man-eating canine companions. What a time to be alive.
Int. Local Convenience Store. Early Afternoon Hours
The Ward enters a nearby convenience store. Fluorescent lights illuminate the rows upon rows of purchasable miscellanea. Thanksgiving derived décor is scattered throughout the store. The Ward stands in the door way and examines the store thoroughly, before catching eyes with the STORE CLERK, 30 male. The Ward's face cracks open with a smile and he eagerly advances on the STORE CLERK. The STORE CLERK is the poster boy for occupational indifference. His hair is matted, and unwashed; his blue eyes dully take in The Ward.
The Ward:
Good Morning, Shop keep. You wouldn't mind if I asked you a few questions?
STORE CLERK:
Go ahead.
The Ward:
Splendid. As they say, the merchant is the eyes and ears of any city.
STORE CLERK (humoring The Ward):
Yup, that's basically what I hear them say.
The Ward:
Excellent. So tell me, have you seen anything strange lately?
STORE CLERK:
What?
The Ward:
Anything strange. Out of the ordinary. Weird. Odd. Peculiar.
STORE CLERK:
I know what strange means. This is Chicago, dude, I see a lot of weird things.
The Ward:
I mean the events or people that transcend ordinary out of the ordinary. The notably odd.
STORE CLERK:
I don't know, man. You're about the weirdest thing I've seen in awhile.
The Ward:
Yes. Like me, but different. I mean really weird stuff.
STORE CLERK:
Weirder than you? Hmmm...
The Ward:
How about anything that you might classify as magical?
STORE CLERK:
Magical? Like unicorns?
The Ward:
Well, sort of, I guess...
STORE CLERK:
No, I haven't seen any unicorns lately.
The Ward:
Not unicorns. More like magic people.
STORE CLERK:
Ah, like wizards.
The Ward:
Yes! Like wizards.
STORE CLERKS:
Nope. No wizards.
The Ward:
No?
STORE CLERK:
No.
The Ward:
Are you sure?
STORE CLERK:
Yeah. I'm sure. It's been awhile since I've seen a wizard.
The Ward focuses his eyes on the STORE CLERK closely analyzing the movements of his face. The STORE CLERK counters with a humoring smile.
The Ward(whispering):
You don't have to fear your tongue. You can talk to me, I will protect you.
Store Clerk(leaning towards THE WARD):
Look, I'm cool with you warming up in here for a few seconds. It's cold, I get it. But now you gotta leave. I mean you smell, and you're not wearing any clothes, and you're kinda creeping me out. And that's against store policy.
The Ward(in a dramatic attempt to inspire):
Sir, there's no need to be difficult. The well being of everything you know is at stake. You, your store, your city, everything could be gone before your next breath. I'm here to stop it. I am your protector; I am your ward. But I can't do it alone. I need your cooperation. Will you help me?
STORE CLERK:
Get out of my store or I'm calling the police.
As the STORE CLERK is becoming quite agitated The Ward decides that no progress is going to be gained from talking further with him. The Ward extends his hand to the STORE CLERK and touches the man on his temple. Again there is a brief moment of blankness on each of their faces. The Ward pulls his arm back, but the STORE CLERK remains in a blank state.
The Ward:
Nothing. That doesn't make any sense. It would have had to be something of enormous gravity to bring me back here. But, nothing...
The STORE CLERK continues to stare blankly, void of reaction. The Ward waves his hand in front of the STORE CLERK's face and whistles.
The Ward:
May have pulled a little hard there.
The Ward sighs as he contemplates the STORE CLERK's lack of witnessing something extremely odd. He looks to his peripheral and catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a sunglasses rack's mirror on the counter next to the STORE CLERK.
The Ward:
I suppose I am a little under dressed.
The Ward walks away from the counter and towards a clothing rack in the front of the store. He pulls a sweatshirt from the rack, unfolds the material and pulls it over his head. The sweatshirt is two sizes too large for him. The word CHICAGO is sprawled across the chest.
The Ward:
And the eyes. Not that many people around here with night eyes, I notice.
The Ward walks back over to the counter and grabs a pair of cheap aviators from the sunglasses rack. He puts them on and checks himself out in the rack's mirror. He smiles in appreciation of his new look.
The Ward:
Much better.
The STORE CLERK continues to stare dumbly off into nothing. The Ward drops the change he was given earlier on the counter and waves his hand in front of the STORE CLERK again. The STORE CLERK does nothing. As The Ward waves his hand in front of the STORE CLERK a CUSTOMER, forties and female, takes her place behind The Ward in line.
The Ward:
I hope you don't mind, I seem to be a little short. I'll just have to get you back next time.
The Ward starts to walk out of the store tugging on his over-sized sweatshirt trying to get it to sit more comfortably. After The Ward's first couple steps away, the CUSTOMER eagerly engages the STORE CLERK. She drops two arms full of groceries in front of the STORE CLERK.
serves them right. internet will save integrity. art for art's sake, not for profit.
At 10/10/10 02:06 AM, Stereocrisis wrote:At 10/10/10 02:05 AM, andycastaneda wrote: Momma Had a coware you really spending your time like this?
what is the difference between the way he is spending his time and the way you are spending yours? substance of post? isn't that rather subjective?
russia is too fucked up to care about.
a pedestrian life going nowhere. but what is movement but a relation to your surroundings? yours are static. constant. the backdrop for the one scene of your play. you're a dreamer by profession and it's only now that you're broke you see how intangible your wares are. hope isn't concrete. you can't structure a life on hope. people are too busy for you and yours. dreams are for the sleeping. it's a world of gray. why have colors if you can't paint? Give Up.
At 8/18/10 11:54 PM, Genocide wrote:At 8/18/10 11:53 PM, TheLameSauce wrote:Thanks, bro!At 8/18/10 11:52 PM, Genocide wrote: You speak English better then most of the twats on this board.than. asshat.
Well played, sir.
don't worry about it. you ever go to some nice garden and see how many daisies you can fucking stomp before some sad lonesome gardener comes out and gives you the hose? good day.
At 8/18/10 11:52 PM, Genocide wrote: You speak English better then most of the twats on this board.
Well played, sir.
than. asshat.
i remember when i found snopes.
i graduated high school in independence, ks(not to be mistaken with independence, mo). whole fucking state sucks. we should just start dumping garbage there.
At 8/18/10 11:32 PM, GenocidalChipmunk wrote: Hey lame, i just spotted you in about five other topics here. Stop prowling the BBS dude, I made this thread for fun. What, you think there's really gonna be a battle? It's called having fun. Maybe you entertain yourself by flaming the BBS but other people go on it for actual uses.
case in point.
just because you spend a lot of time here doesn't mean that everything, or anything for that matter, that should happen here is epic. you're a delusional little spastic.
why are your spatulas made of paper? fucking morons.
it's all a complete waste time. newgrounds is an elaborate scheme of scrip and ersatz pride. you've all bought into enron's sixth floor.
At 8/18/10 10:05 PM, BrandonXDD wrote: jizzing all over a girl's face succesfully without getting any in her hair or eyes! :D
mutually exclusive.
some of the pictures look symmetrical, or somewhat structured, and thus sort of cool. some look like hot pixelated garbage. crap shoot.
i don't know. i suppose if all you guys left it might be nice.
At 7/23/10 02:01 AM, MercatorMap wrote: Sir, you don't hand over shit to somebody who is not in uniform.
You ask for a badge first. If they can't produce it, you drive off.
true. he was probably a serial rapist. now he has your address. put peanut butter in your asshole before you go to sleep. they hate that. or love it. it's polarizing anyways.
you didn't get a ticket. stop bitching.
At 7/23/10 01:52 AM, Ptero wrote: Are you alright?
yea. i'm just broke and it sucks. how are you?
Select between 5 monster racers, upgrade your monster skill and win the competition!
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