Scene 5. Interior. Day. Under The House.
An eerie light plays over the dozens of human bones gleaming in the shadows. A strange pulsating sound. The camera drifts towards a slimy, throbbing shape - a hideous, swollen pupae. Grossly deformed limbs emerge, then a lumpish, agonised head. It yelps piteously - it's SPOOFY, his DNA being sucked into the mutating larval sac.
Scene 6. Interior. Night. Timmy's Room.
TIMMY lies in bed. He seems listless and pale. BOB CLARK pops his head round the door and switches the light off.
BOB CLARK
Well good night champ!
TIMMY
...Dad...?
BOB CLARK
Yes son?
TIMMY
What's undead mean?
BOB CLARK
(Shaking his head with a wry smile)
Crazy kids.
Scene 7. Interior. Night. Parents Room.
MARG CLARK rubs DIOR (TM) "SWEET VIOLATION" EXCORIATING MASQUE on her face with one hand while carefully holding the label in view with the other (NOTE TO DIRECTOR: CONTRACT REQUIRES 10s LINGERING CLOSE UP OF PRODUCT). BOB sits on the bed, pulling off his socks.
BOB CLARK
...so I said, well, son, it's kind of like if your gerbil FiveCent died and then God said Oh whoops sorry Timmy that was a mistake and brought him back to life, kind of like a really cool XBox game.
MARG CLARK
Oh honey you're so smart!
Do you think he's...you know...experiencing some kind of post-traw...post...
BOB CLARK
You mean post traumatic stress dementia.
No honey, he's just a normal healthy little boy exploring a big new world.
MARG CLARK
You're right. I guess I'm just being silly.
I just can't help wondering--
BOB CLARK
You just stop that wondering and come here -
daddy's got a housewarming present for his little helper!
MARG CLARK turns out the bedroom light with a saucy smile.
Scene 8. Interior. Night. Missy's Room.
Home security camera footage. The clock timer in the bottom corner reads 0300 hrs. Missy's rumpled bed is empty. A dog-eared copy of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis" is cast aside next to the pillow. The clock fast-forwards to 0415. Nothing happens.
MEMO TO WRITING DEPT FROM PRODUCER
WHADDAFUCK? YOUSE GUYS WANNA GO INDIE WITH THIS PARANORMAL ACTIVITY NOTHING HAPPENING SHIT THEN GET THE HELL OUT OF THE STUDIO YOU OVERPAID SACKS OF (SOMETHING) .. WHAT? YEAHYEAHYEAH OK GOTTA GO LUNCH WITH GEORGE YOU FRICKIN WRITERS MOVE THIS DOG ALONG FREAKING PARANORMAL INACTIVITY INDIE STUDENT CRAP JESUS WHERE'S MY XANAX
No comments:
Post a Comment