The following is an excerpt from the script of the new action movie 'Fists of Furious Fury: The Jack Mann Chronicles', which is currently in development with Universal Pictures.
*** ***
Scene 8
JACK MANN has captured ALUC AL-FLESCHWOUND, and is driving him to the military base for questioning. JACK's sidekick, SHYTE, is also in the car.
JACK: Heh heh, didn't really think I'd fall for that, did you, Fleschy? I mean, how was that supposed to work?
SHYTE: Totally.
(JACK lights a cigarette and takes a gulp of whisky, while driving.)
JACK: I mean, dressing every hostage up to look like you is a pretty solid plan; spread doubt, confuse your pursuers, maybe get some civilians killed-
SHYTE: Cold, bro, cold.
JACK: -don't get me wrong, very villainous, but don't you see the flaw?
ALUC: Miz-turr Mann. I could not expect you to begin to comprehend my menacingly magnificent malicious machinations. You see, your understanding of my scheme is so stunningly stunted that a glimpse of it's true majestic majesty would give you nosebleeds.
JACK: 'Kay, you do that. But the thing is, you're so visually unique that even in a crowd of people diguised as you, you still stand out as the real you amoungst all the yous that aren't you. I think.
ALUC: Aheheh.
SHYTE: Dude, what the J-man's trying to say is that you got those big face scars, and we can recognise you cause of it.
(ALUC stops laughing)
ALUC: ...What...did you say?
SHYTE: You have the word 'Habdabs' carved into your damn skull, man.
ALUC lunges forward, clawing at SHYTE.
ALUC: He was my beloved childhood spider monkey! How dare you dirty his name with your tongue, boy! I shall viciously viscerate yooooou!
(JACK has an exciting and dramatic fistfight with ALUC that involves jumping across cars, and has some really cool explosions that we can't really describe here. ALUC end up pinned under an overturned car, as JACK & SHYTE wait for backup.)
SHYTE: *pant* *pant* dude...'viscerate'?
(JACK pulls shrapnel from his legs and drinks more whiskey.)
JACK: Not so sharp after a few blows to the head, are ya, Fleschy? I think you mean 'E-viscerated'.
ALUC: *rasping* No, you dopes! I shall eviscerate you, then viscerate you back together so I can eviscerate you again!
JACK: Heh, well, I think you should stay right there and get rested...until the backup arrives. Then we'll get you 'Ar-rested'!
(Everyone laughs heartily, apart from ALUC, who struggles vainly, cursing in foreign-speak.)
End of Scene
*** ***
Truly, this wiil be the Citizen Kane of whizz-bang-spurt-crash-boom-aaargh cinema.
Friday, 26 February 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
The Mountain.
On my travels, I had the good fortune to pass through some of the Welsh countryside, and even spend a little time exploring. But I want to talk about one specific feature of the landscape that really struck me.
The land is pockmarked place of great trenches and greater peaks. Huge swathes of earth seem to have been torn out of the land by giants, and piled on top of each other in a heap. However, this all seems to have happened aeons ago, as the land has warped and changed around these natural monuments to incorporate them into itself, like a living creature.
For all this frenzied activity, it's deafeningly quiet there. The sky is almost blank, as if all features had been washed away by the rain. All that's left is rolling green hill, stretching on into the imagination.
The best way to describe it would be 'a kind bleakness'. There's an abscence of life and animation, but it seems tranquil and benign, rather than lonely. You can be the sole figure in a barren, unpopulated landscape, and the nothingness doesn't bother you. You can't miss anything, as there is no need for it. It's a void in reality where nothing is enough. Nothingness seems to fill the very abscence it implies. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind being alone, forever. Being cut off wouldn't seem so bad. I could smile peacefully as I lost my mind, believing myself to be a politician, debating key issues with the scrub.
The place has the scope of an effortlessly epic and endless landscape that I've only before seen in fiction. As I walked, I kept expecting to walk into an invisible boundry, placed there by a deific designer because he hadn't made the rest of the level. Being there made me begin to see how people can take the beauty of the world as proof of the existence of god. It all seemed exceptional, like a feat of engineering or craftsmanship. I wouldn't hesistate to say it was a work of art, an antiquity concocted by an old Italian master. Probably bearded. Possibly gay. All the best artists were.
It was so unlike the city, the worst of which can be an uncomfortable juxtaposition btween a demented grey dystopia and a neon explosion. You can be bored to tears by a sea of dull housing rectangles one moment, and be stabbed in the retina by primary colours the next. A playground of squalor.
...
It was wonderful.
The land is pockmarked place of great trenches and greater peaks. Huge swathes of earth seem to have been torn out of the land by giants, and piled on top of each other in a heap. However, this all seems to have happened aeons ago, as the land has warped and changed around these natural monuments to incorporate them into itself, like a living creature.
For all this frenzied activity, it's deafeningly quiet there. The sky is almost blank, as if all features had been washed away by the rain. All that's left is rolling green hill, stretching on into the imagination.
The best way to describe it would be 'a kind bleakness'. There's an abscence of life and animation, but it seems tranquil and benign, rather than lonely. You can be the sole figure in a barren, unpopulated landscape, and the nothingness doesn't bother you. You can't miss anything, as there is no need for it. It's a void in reality where nothing is enough. Nothingness seems to fill the very abscence it implies. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind being alone, forever. Being cut off wouldn't seem so bad. I could smile peacefully as I lost my mind, believing myself to be a politician, debating key issues with the scrub.
The place has the scope of an effortlessly epic and endless landscape that I've only before seen in fiction. As I walked, I kept expecting to walk into an invisible boundry, placed there by a deific designer because he hadn't made the rest of the level. Being there made me begin to see how people can take the beauty of the world as proof of the existence of god. It all seemed exceptional, like a feat of engineering or craftsmanship. I wouldn't hesistate to say it was a work of art, an antiquity concocted by an old Italian master. Probably bearded. Possibly gay. All the best artists were.
It was so unlike the city, the worst of which can be an uncomfortable juxtaposition btween a demented grey dystopia and a neon explosion. You can be bored to tears by a sea of dull housing rectangles one moment, and be stabbed in the retina by primary colours the next. A playground of squalor.
...
It was wonderful.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Thousands of tiny strands of filament
Hair is something most people will be familiar with, in that we're all covered in it. Personally, I have a great concentration of these miniscule protein-based strands on my head, and they're currently inspiring a kind of anger not felt towards an inanimate object since my first girlfriend cheated on me with her school desk.
Homewrecker.
Hair is something that I have a schizoid relationship with. I've been growing mine for the past 3 years in an unconscious attempt to be the world's biggest girl's blouse. I like the way it looks, and I've begun to hold it as one of my defining characteristics, but living with it on a day-to-day basis is making me tear the damn stuff out. It's like the worst possible hybrid of pet and spouse. You have to feed it and water it constantly, pay attention to it, and ask it about it's feelings. And on top of all that, you can't have sex with it.
I've occasionally thought about having the entire thing cut off, but it takes a very specific face to pull off the skinhead look. You need a strong jaw, defined features and very little flab about the face. Most people will end up looking like a failed east-end gangster. Or in my case, an east-end gangster's girlfriend, to whom he's given the very special gift of alopecia.
Considering that male-pattern baldness is something that runs in my family, it seems downright wasteful to cut my hair. A drunk man once told me "Let yer hair grow!". Well, it was more shouted across the street. Along with "Ponce!". But the point stands. As long as I have the ability to grow hair, I think I ought to enjoy it, before I become another envious slaphead who glares at the more endowned.
Look at you sitting there, all happy and free, with hair on your head!
As a point of interest,the next time you have a conversation with one of the...follically challenged, wtch their eye movement. Their gaze will dart back and forth from your eyes to your scalp. See, to bald people, being near someone with hair is like waving a piece of steak in front of a hungry dog; he wants it so bad, but he can't figure out how to get it, and the moment you let your guard down, he will take it!
All in all, I feel less annoyed about my own hair.
But now I'm afraid to go outside...
Homewrecker.
Hair is something that I have a schizoid relationship with. I've been growing mine for the past 3 years in an unconscious attempt to be the world's biggest girl's blouse. I like the way it looks, and I've begun to hold it as one of my defining characteristics, but living with it on a day-to-day basis is making me tear the damn stuff out. It's like the worst possible hybrid of pet and spouse. You have to feed it and water it constantly, pay attention to it, and ask it about it's feelings. And on top of all that, you can't have sex with it.
I've occasionally thought about having the entire thing cut off, but it takes a very specific face to pull off the skinhead look. You need a strong jaw, defined features and very little flab about the face. Most people will end up looking like a failed east-end gangster. Or in my case, an east-end gangster's girlfriend, to whom he's given the very special gift of alopecia.
Considering that male-pattern baldness is something that runs in my family, it seems downright wasteful to cut my hair. A drunk man once told me "Let yer hair grow!". Well, it was more shouted across the street. Along with "Ponce!". But the point stands. As long as I have the ability to grow hair, I think I ought to enjoy it, before I become another envious slaphead who glares at the more endowned.
Look at you sitting there, all happy and free, with hair on your head!
As a point of interest,the next time you have a conversation with one of the...follically challenged, wtch their eye movement. Their gaze will dart back and forth from your eyes to your scalp. See, to bald people, being near someone with hair is like waving a piece of steak in front of a hungry dog; he wants it so bad, but he can't figure out how to get it, and the moment you let your guard down, he will take it!
All in all, I feel less annoyed about my own hair.
But now I'm afraid to go outside...
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