Groundwar
08-03-2007, 11:57 AM
The title's a bit of a misnomer. . . so I thought I'd just put the whole script up. Well as much as it will let me post. . . . I thought it was edited, but apparently not. . .
Need an animator. I'm actually an accomplished musician and have a studio, so I can do voice and music, though I'm happy to relegate responsibility and fanfair (hah!) ;)
Anyway, write me if you're interested. I won the domain and am a programmer by trade so I can get a sweeeeeeet site up.
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Militant Gore
by
Jesse James Richard
1. Al Gore is Melting 3
2. Society 2.0 10
3. Hit List 16
4. Cattle Train 27
5. Who Invented the Internet? 34
6. Y/N/M 48
7. Dick’s on the Chopping Block 57
8. No Means No 67
9. Crash Test Dummy 73
10. Filtered In 78
11. Swimming in the Potomac 83
12. Up to the Hilt 93
13. Milking Us 96
14. Waking Up America 111
1. Al Gore is Melting
Yes, the fact that Al is offering me a cigarette is odd. But it’s the least odd thing about this moment.
He unwraps the package, rips open the foil top, shakes out a smoke and puts it in his mouth. Then he walks across the room and I think, ‘He isn’t going to walk through that pool of blood is he?’ And I just watch him slowly make his way across the room pulling out a camouflage-colored Zippo lighter, sparking it and lighting his smoke.
Half of me wants to watch his face to see what disgusting look he’s going to make when he inhales deeply. He’s going to cough out his chest and then there on the floor with the blood and the severed fingers there’s going to be Al’s lung, just kind of pulsating and flopping around until it goes black and shivers it’s last breath. This half of me doesn’t believe Al smokes despite the fact that I saw him smoking when he lit that guy on fire just the other day. Exploded is a better way to put it.
The other half of me is watching his footsteps, counting down the strides before he steps right into the pool of blood on the floor between me and him. My pool of blood.
And he steps while I cringe in disgust thinking, ‘Don’t do it. Don’t step in the blood. Walk around! Walk around the blood!’ But step. . . step. . . step. . . and he walks right into the crimson pool and through it towards me with squishy sounding strides. The cigarette package is outstretch, offering like. I close my eyes thoroughly repulsed by the blood he’s got on his shoes. He’s going to track it everywhere.
“You’ve got blood on you.” I kind of whimper, opening my eyes again.
He just shrugs and closes the distance between the two of us.
Then things get a little awkward.
He eyes me because he knows that this is taboo. And I eye him back feeling the tension thick as frozen butter.
You’re ability to smoke a cigarette is severely impeded when you only have fingers remaining on one hand. Certainly I can smoke the damn thing, but lighting it is going to prove to be difficult. Him offering me the cigarette has just reinforced that I don’t have a working hand any longer.
It’s a little embarrassing for him.
I pull out a cigarette with the right hand, my non-dominant hand, and put it in my mouth. Then I say “Can you give me a light.”
“Certainly.” He replies.
Then he lights me up.
I inhale deeply and he flicks the top of the lighter closed with a clink. Then we just sort of stare at each other and exhale together.
There’s so much to say, but where do I begin.
I take another drag.
“Did you have to cut off my fingers?” I ask.
“I told you it was an accident.”
I shrug like I’m saying, ‘That doesn’t bring back my fingers does it?’
We’re in my office. It’s night time. I’m sitting in the same chair I’ve been sitting in for three years – well not consecutively. This is my office and that’s how long I’ve been employed her.
In my felt-back, Global Deluxe Armless Steno Chair ($59.99 from Staples) I’m slouched back in the middle of the room, the chair in a thick puddle of blood.
“You’re going to track that everywhere.” I say.
He shrugs again.
My left hand, my dominant hand, is hanging loosely beside me and it’s just bleeding out all over the floor. I think it might have clotted, the holes where my pointer, my middle finger, and my pinky used to be. I still have my opposable thumb but since there’s no other digits that it opposes it’s pretty much useless.
‘At least I still have my ring finger.’ I think to myself, and then I start laughing. A slow ha-ha at first that snowballs into a deep belly laugh and jiggles me on the chair. I’m laughing and laughing and Al is just looking at me strange like I’m the weirdo.
Then I realize the laugher is hurting my hand because I’m not making a “Ha-Ha” sound anymore, I’m making a “Ow, Ow” sound and I slowly roll to stop.
I look around the dark office, then I wipe a tear from my eye with the good hand.
There’s a pause.
“I mean, at least I can still get married.” I say and I lift my hand and extend my ring finger.
He just shakes his head, takes the last drag of his cigarette and drops it into the pool of blood where it makes a sizzling sound and then dies.
“To Liz?” He asks.
“Mr. Vice President –”
“Former Vice President.”
“Mr. Former Vice President, you’re no fun.”
“I know.” He replies, and then he turns around and walks away.
This is a strange, nearly impossible to believe tale, but I assure you it’s all true. Every last maiming and murder.
Al is a psycho.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sorry. . . you know. . . for cutting off your fingers.” He offers.
“THAT DOESN’T BRING THEM BACK DOES IT!” I scream, but then I calm down because really it’s not a big deal. I’m just in shock that I can flip him the bird. Really, I probably wouldn’t have used them for much good anyway.
“C’mon. It’s not like you were going to use them for anything but, well, you know.” He says turning around, mocking masturbation with his hand.
That’s just like him. Kick a guy when he’s down. I’ve seen him do it. Literally, kick a guy when he’s down, or when he’s buried up to his neck. Just kick him right in the nose. That’s what he’s doing now, kicking me in the nose.
First he takes my fingers.
Then he costs me my girlfriend, you know, if I can call her my girlfriend.
Then there’s this whole accessory to murder thing.
“You had to bring that up, didn’t you?” I ask about the masturbation.
“Well, that’s really the reason you’re caught up in all this mess, isn’t it?”
He’s probably right.
“You know, it’s a disease. Like alcoholism.” I say.
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince of this anymore.
“Nymphomania, you mean?”
I want to say yes, but I don’t have nymphomania. This isn’t my problem, I just tend to tell people this, you know, when I get caught mid-stroke.
“Yeah.” I reply, nymphomania.
“Constant masturbation isn’t a disease.” He retorts.
“It is for some.” I reply feeling like a scolded child.
“You mean it’s a habit.”
“Same thing, right?”
“Crack is a habit, not a disease.” He replies.
Then I shrug and drop my cigarette into my blood. Then I notice the blood-red footprints across the clean white floor and I sigh.
“Great.”
“What?”
“You tracked blood everywhere. First the fingers, then Liz, now this.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He replies, but he doesn’t sound convincing.
“I should get to chop off your fingers.” I say.
“You know, I did you a favor. With all the time you’re going to save from not having to masturbate 10 times a day you can actually get a hobby.”
“Masturbation is my hobby!” I nearly scream.
It’s probably a bad thing when your palms smell like dirty socks.
“I bet you’re good at it.” He replies sarcastically.
“Well it’s not like I’m cracking a can of tuna in my bedroom to add ambience.” I add.
There’s a lot to this and I blame, well aside from Al, Liz, my girlfriend slash ex-girlfriend slash newest enemy. Aside from the good people at the F.B.I. Liz really helped instigate this whole ‘lets change the world thing’.
They say everyone in the world is separated by six people. Six degrees of separation. You know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone that knows Paris Hilton or in this case the two term serving Vice President of the United States of America, Al Gore. In my case it’s only two degrees of separation.
It’s Liz and then it’s Al.
And once you bring in the whole masturbation thing into it, it starts to make a lot more sense.
Maybe I should jut start from the beginning.
Need an animator. I'm actually an accomplished musician and have a studio, so I can do voice and music, though I'm happy to relegate responsibility and fanfair (hah!) ;)
Anyway, write me if you're interested. I won the domain and am a programmer by trade so I can get a sweeeeeeet site up.
--
Militant Gore
by
Jesse James Richard
1. Al Gore is Melting 3
2. Society 2.0 10
3. Hit List 16
4. Cattle Train 27
5. Who Invented the Internet? 34
6. Y/N/M 48
7. Dick’s on the Chopping Block 57
8. No Means No 67
9. Crash Test Dummy 73
10. Filtered In 78
11. Swimming in the Potomac 83
12. Up to the Hilt 93
13. Milking Us 96
14. Waking Up America 111
1. Al Gore is Melting
Yes, the fact that Al is offering me a cigarette is odd. But it’s the least odd thing about this moment.
He unwraps the package, rips open the foil top, shakes out a smoke and puts it in his mouth. Then he walks across the room and I think, ‘He isn’t going to walk through that pool of blood is he?’ And I just watch him slowly make his way across the room pulling out a camouflage-colored Zippo lighter, sparking it and lighting his smoke.
Half of me wants to watch his face to see what disgusting look he’s going to make when he inhales deeply. He’s going to cough out his chest and then there on the floor with the blood and the severed fingers there’s going to be Al’s lung, just kind of pulsating and flopping around until it goes black and shivers it’s last breath. This half of me doesn’t believe Al smokes despite the fact that I saw him smoking when he lit that guy on fire just the other day. Exploded is a better way to put it.
The other half of me is watching his footsteps, counting down the strides before he steps right into the pool of blood on the floor between me and him. My pool of blood.
And he steps while I cringe in disgust thinking, ‘Don’t do it. Don’t step in the blood. Walk around! Walk around the blood!’ But step. . . step. . . step. . . and he walks right into the crimson pool and through it towards me with squishy sounding strides. The cigarette package is outstretch, offering like. I close my eyes thoroughly repulsed by the blood he’s got on his shoes. He’s going to track it everywhere.
“You’ve got blood on you.” I kind of whimper, opening my eyes again.
He just shrugs and closes the distance between the two of us.
Then things get a little awkward.
He eyes me because he knows that this is taboo. And I eye him back feeling the tension thick as frozen butter.
You’re ability to smoke a cigarette is severely impeded when you only have fingers remaining on one hand. Certainly I can smoke the damn thing, but lighting it is going to prove to be difficult. Him offering me the cigarette has just reinforced that I don’t have a working hand any longer.
It’s a little embarrassing for him.
I pull out a cigarette with the right hand, my non-dominant hand, and put it in my mouth. Then I say “Can you give me a light.”
“Certainly.” He replies.
Then he lights me up.
I inhale deeply and he flicks the top of the lighter closed with a clink. Then we just sort of stare at each other and exhale together.
There’s so much to say, but where do I begin.
I take another drag.
“Did you have to cut off my fingers?” I ask.
“I told you it was an accident.”
I shrug like I’m saying, ‘That doesn’t bring back my fingers does it?’
We’re in my office. It’s night time. I’m sitting in the same chair I’ve been sitting in for three years – well not consecutively. This is my office and that’s how long I’ve been employed her.
In my felt-back, Global Deluxe Armless Steno Chair ($59.99 from Staples) I’m slouched back in the middle of the room, the chair in a thick puddle of blood.
“You’re going to track that everywhere.” I say.
He shrugs again.
My left hand, my dominant hand, is hanging loosely beside me and it’s just bleeding out all over the floor. I think it might have clotted, the holes where my pointer, my middle finger, and my pinky used to be. I still have my opposable thumb but since there’s no other digits that it opposes it’s pretty much useless.
‘At least I still have my ring finger.’ I think to myself, and then I start laughing. A slow ha-ha at first that snowballs into a deep belly laugh and jiggles me on the chair. I’m laughing and laughing and Al is just looking at me strange like I’m the weirdo.
Then I realize the laugher is hurting my hand because I’m not making a “Ha-Ha” sound anymore, I’m making a “Ow, Ow” sound and I slowly roll to stop.
I look around the dark office, then I wipe a tear from my eye with the good hand.
There’s a pause.
“I mean, at least I can still get married.” I say and I lift my hand and extend my ring finger.
He just shakes his head, takes the last drag of his cigarette and drops it into the pool of blood where it makes a sizzling sound and then dies.
“To Liz?” He asks.
“Mr. Vice President –”
“Former Vice President.”
“Mr. Former Vice President, you’re no fun.”
“I know.” He replies, and then he turns around and walks away.
This is a strange, nearly impossible to believe tale, but I assure you it’s all true. Every last maiming and murder.
Al is a psycho.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sorry. . . you know. . . for cutting off your fingers.” He offers.
“THAT DOESN’T BRING THEM BACK DOES IT!” I scream, but then I calm down because really it’s not a big deal. I’m just in shock that I can flip him the bird. Really, I probably wouldn’t have used them for much good anyway.
“C’mon. It’s not like you were going to use them for anything but, well, you know.” He says turning around, mocking masturbation with his hand.
That’s just like him. Kick a guy when he’s down. I’ve seen him do it. Literally, kick a guy when he’s down, or when he’s buried up to his neck. Just kick him right in the nose. That’s what he’s doing now, kicking me in the nose.
First he takes my fingers.
Then he costs me my girlfriend, you know, if I can call her my girlfriend.
Then there’s this whole accessory to murder thing.
“You had to bring that up, didn’t you?” I ask about the masturbation.
“Well, that’s really the reason you’re caught up in all this mess, isn’t it?”
He’s probably right.
“You know, it’s a disease. Like alcoholism.” I say.
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince of this anymore.
“Nymphomania, you mean?”
I want to say yes, but I don’t have nymphomania. This isn’t my problem, I just tend to tell people this, you know, when I get caught mid-stroke.
“Yeah.” I reply, nymphomania.
“Constant masturbation isn’t a disease.” He retorts.
“It is for some.” I reply feeling like a scolded child.
“You mean it’s a habit.”
“Same thing, right?”
“Crack is a habit, not a disease.” He replies.
Then I shrug and drop my cigarette into my blood. Then I notice the blood-red footprints across the clean white floor and I sigh.
“Great.”
“What?”
“You tracked blood everywhere. First the fingers, then Liz, now this.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He replies, but he doesn’t sound convincing.
“I should get to chop off your fingers.” I say.
“You know, I did you a favor. With all the time you’re going to save from not having to masturbate 10 times a day you can actually get a hobby.”
“Masturbation is my hobby!” I nearly scream.
It’s probably a bad thing when your palms smell like dirty socks.
“I bet you’re good at it.” He replies sarcastically.
“Well it’s not like I’m cracking a can of tuna in my bedroom to add ambience.” I add.
There’s a lot to this and I blame, well aside from Al, Liz, my girlfriend slash ex-girlfriend slash newest enemy. Aside from the good people at the F.B.I. Liz really helped instigate this whole ‘lets change the world thing’.
They say everyone in the world is separated by six people. Six degrees of separation. You know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone that knows Paris Hilton or in this case the two term serving Vice President of the United States of America, Al Gore. In my case it’s only two degrees of separation.
It’s Liz and then it’s Al.
And once you bring in the whole masturbation thing into it, it starts to make a lot more sense.
Maybe I should jut start from the beginning.