For Jennie

Here's a short story that combines April Fool's Day, a birthday, a pub crawl, and a lonely Irish lad.

Tragic Carmedy

A Shakespeare mashup. In a car.

All of the lines of dialogue belong to William Shakespeare.

Soft

Zombie movies have never been my cup of tea. I've never understood why they attract such a mass audience. So the best way to understand their appeal, I figured, was to try my hand at one.

Warning: Language alert.

I Blank You

This was a fun writing experiment.

Come Fly Away

A light-hearted love story between...

Well, if I tell you now, it'll ruin the story. Enjoy!

COME FLY AWAY by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. COURTROOM - DAY Twelve JURY MEMBERS, a variety of races and IQs, listen to a venerable JUDGE (60) with stonefaced apathy. JUDGE ...are charged to agree upon a decision. Jury dismissed. Judge bangs the gavel. Jury Members file out a nearby door. A back row REPORTER turns to his BUDDY. REPORTER Oh, man. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in there. INT. JURY ROOM - DAY ZEEB, a full-bodied hairy black fly of Brooklyn lineage, struts his stuff on a closed door. SHAYA, a smaller Southern belle of a fruit fly, admires him from a window. The door opens. Zeeb zips away to the ceiling. Jury Members hand over their cell phone batteries to a hallway BAILIFF. Led inside by an Asian FOREMAN (40), they settle around a table, naked cell phones piled in the middle. Zeeb’s crazy compound eyes lock in on Shaya. He whistles. SHAYA Little old me? Zeeb makes a beeline for her, bounces against the windowglass with a BZZZZZ! Settles next to Shaya. ZEEB Hey. How you doin’? SHAYA I declare, you are forward. ZEEB I got ten more days to live, honey. I ain’t gonna spend ‘em in talk. Whaddya say, sugarlips? 2. SHAYA Kindly be a gentleman, then, and fetch me a snack. Foreman opens a box of doughnuts. ZEEB Look, crullers! My fav. Name’s Zeeb. SHAYA Shaya. I’d be delighted to taste your cruller. Zeeb breathes faster at the double entendre, pretends to bow. He plummets to the doughnut box, dodges reaching hands. Zeeb lands on an sticky-iced cruller. Foreman reaches for the cruller, sees Zeeb on it, makes an icky face, withdraws his hand. SHAYA Well, now. Looks like he passed with fly in crullers. Shaya looks at the camera, smiles, lets the punchline soak. She looks at her window reflection, preens. Zeeb shoots straight up, burdened with a giant crumb, eager to show his strength. He grunts. He’s never going to get to the window. Shaya snickers. SHAYA Come on, Zeeb, big boy. Show me how strong you are, show me muscles. Zeeb, spurred on by her honeysuckle voice, gives it his all. He careens into glass, drops the crumb. SHAYA Surely you don’t expect me to go all the way down there for a snack? Zeeb pants, exhausted. SHAYA You have nothing left for me, Zeeb? Shaya-ZEEB 3. BANG! Foreman karate chops a cell phone with a furious hand, snaps it into two pieces. Foreman displays eleven slips of paper with “Not Guilty” in one hand, one slip of “Guilty” in the other. SHAYA Manners, manners. These humans. Zeeb rubs his front legs together. ZEEB Down to business, eh, Shaya. Come here, babydoll. He puckers his lips. SHAYA You can’t even fetch me a morsel. You expect a reward? Gracious me. Zeeb’s blood pressure skyrockets. With a henpecked grunt, he lifts off again, heads down to the doughnuts. Foreman swats at him, his mood darker. Zeeb zooms in merry circles around Foreman’s hand, plays the matador, eyes his chance to get to the crullers. Zeeb dives in, grabs a tiny piece of icing, off again. Foreman, a mighty overhand straight-armed swat, crushes the rest of the doughnuts. SHAYA Who said the hand is quicker than the fly? Shaya looks at the camera, smirks again. She walks up the window, knows full well that Zeeb struggles to elevate to her. ZEEB Hold up, sugarlips. I’m carryin’, here. Have a heart, babe. Shaya gets to the top of the window, in shade, stops. Zeeb plunks down next to her. He smears icing onto his hairy lips. Puckers up. ZEEB Your snack’s ready, dollface. 4. Shaya, irresistible in her coyness, edges close to him. She breathes on him. He shudders in anticipation. SHAYA That’s my honeybear. She kisses him, licks icing off his lips. Wowza. ZEEB BANG! Another cell phone split in half. Foreman, boiling mad, face beet red, hand smarts from the blow. His slips of paper, now ten “Not Guilty” and two “Guilty”. Jury Members look at Foreman with sickened fright. ZEEB Oh, baby, you give me wings. SHAYA Flattery won’t get you where you want to go, big boy. Only the best are good enough for Shaya. ZEEB The best, babe? I am da best. Biggest, strongest, fastest. Fastest? SHAYA ZEEB Yeah. You wanna time me? SHAYA I don’t handle rides very well. Sometimes my little old tummy feels downright funny. ZEEB I’ll show you, really. Time me. Shaya, with a mournful head shake, flies to a large clock on the wall, lands on the second hand’s far tip. Tick, tock, tick, tock. She zooms around the clock face. SHAYA Let me see your style, Zeeb. Oop. Shaya holds in a vomitous urge. 5. Zeeb zooms across the room, bangs headfirst into the door. ZEEB (yells) How many was dat? SHAYA Four tocks. ZEEB Watch dis, lover! Zeeb zooms down towards the table, swoops under Foreman’s hand as it smashes down towards another unlucky cell. Shaya holds her breath. BANG! Zeeb flies out, unhurt. SHAYA Phew! Just my luck. Time flies when they’re halving phones. Shaya looks at the camera, simpers. Shaya flies back to the window on shaky legs. Zeeb joins her. Foreman looks down at his slips of paper, enraged. Wait a sec. He’s taken aback. He spreads the papers out on the table, one by one. Each one reads “Guilty”. Smiles all round. The Jury files out. ZEEB Come on, babe, let’s ditch this joint for a life outdoors, with kids, the whole works. I’m yours. SHAYA They gaze into each other’s eyes. Arm in arm, leg in leg, they fly into the window. They fly into the window. They fly into the window. They fly into the window. FADE OUT. 

After The End

Logline: "A gorgeous heiress and an Australian lifeguard make a rash, storybook decision at the altar. But cultural, family, and personality differences are comically magnified during day-to-day marriage."

This is a simple premise, but one I haven't seen before. The climax of every romantic comedy involves an all-inclusive wedding, where everyone finds their someone, smiles abound, and all is chocolate and sunshine.

The End.

Or is it? In my opinion, real life (and real comedy, therefore) begins after the wedding, with the minute interactions and irritating details of actually living with a committed spouse.

AFTER THE END by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1369229 2. FADE IN: EXT. BEACH - DAY Hazy hot noon on a wide California beach. Beached bodies of HOUSEWIVES and SWIMSUIT MODELS dot the landscape, barely a grain of sand visible. Not a male in sight. Trim female ATHLETES play beach volleyball. BABES wearing nothing but bikinis and sunglasses lounge in puddles of tanning oil. Flashing bleached-teeth smiles, exotic BEAUTIES splash in the shallows, giggling and bouncing. Enough female flesh to freeze any man’s harddrive. Even the maintenance man is a MAINTENANCE WOMAN, perfect curves, aims a paint sprayer at a restroom facility, changes it from white to dark blue in the most sensual manner. Perched on top of a lifeguard’s tower, head in his hands, looking glum and love-wasted, is LIAM RYAN (20s), a shirtless, firm-muscled Australian, a Playgirl’s dream. White sunscreen plastered on his nose, plastic green-billed visor. A SUPERMODEL (20s) slinks up to his tower, leans against it, both hands up in her hair. An exotic accent, a breathy tone. SUPERMODEL Uh, lifeguard. Yoo-hoo. I wonder if you’d show me your breaststroke. LIAM (monotone) Swimming classes are six to eight every morning except Sunday. Supermodel huffs, stalks towards the water. Liam looks at the sky, mind not on his work. Supermodel stumbles into the surf, flails. Pretends that she can’t swim. Of course she can. SUPERMODEL Help me! Help, lifeguard. Beauties in the shallows roll their eyes at her. BUZZZZ! BUZZZZ! A cell phone vibrates in Liam’s pocket. He pulls it out, automatic, taps the screen. Looks down. 3. Text message: “Liam please come. How can I start without U.” A new light shines in Liam’s eyes. He draws himself up, stands tall on the tower. He hits his chest with a forearm, jumps off the tower like a graceful cat, alights on the sand below. He runs across the beach, slight puffs of water spray from beneath his bare feet. The sun shines through his green visor, illuminates his too-white nose, his eyes fixed on some distant object. Housewives and Athletes dodge his train-like forward motion. LIAM (whispers) I’m coming, Lissy. I’m coming. Liam sprints away from the water, towards a road beyond. He cuts in between Maintenance Woman and her building. He’s sprayed with dark blue paint, all over his naked torso. It’s as if he doesn’t even notice. Supermodel founders in deep waves far out to sea. She’s really in trouble this time. Goes down for the third time. SUPERMODEL (mouth full of water) Hep... Over here... Liam keeps running. A Housewife, far from the surf under a red beach umbrella, poises a piled-high hotdog, onions, ketchup, on the precipice of her mouth. Ready to bite... Liam runs smack into Housewife, falls on top of her. She squeals in delight. He pops right back up onto his hands and knees, onions and ketchup smeared across his blue chest. He nods an apology to the wrigglingly happy Housewife. LIAM Not my intention, ma’am. Housewife pouts. Liam stands. His head goes right through an outer loop in the red umbrella. 4. He strains to start running again, held back by the umbrella around his neck. The umbrella pole, sunk deep into the sand, bends to its limit. The umbrella snaps off its pole, vaults Liam forward. EXT. BUSY STREETS - DAY Traffic is snarled, mid-day jams. DRIVERS hang out of car windows, trapped in stalled vehicles, desperate for cool air. Liam runs in between the cars, eyes still fixed on some unknown purpose. The red umbrella flutters behind, cape-like. Drivers look at him like he’s crazy. Liam veers to the right, heads down a new street. His eyes are still on the sky: he doesn’t see the orange cones. Splat. He falls flat on his face in undried concrete. CONSTRUCTION WORKERS gape at their ruined job. Liam pushes himself up, his whole front gooped in gray gunk. He scrapes the wet concrete off his body, splattering it over the perfectly smoothed surface. The green visor remains stuck in place in the concrete. Construction Workers clench their fists. Liam clears most of the concrete from his chest, reveals the smeared ketchup. Construction Workers take a step back. One crosses himself. CONSTRUCTION WORKER #1 Dear God, we killed him. Liam, still oblivious to his surroundings, clomps off through a whole road of wet concrete, ruins it all. Construction Workers cheer. CONSTRUCTION WORKER #1 He’s a zombie. He doesn’t stop! A cement truck, two small orange triangle signs on its rear bumper, backs up toward the work zone, beeps. Liam, still unheeding, walks smack into the back of it. Liam staggers backwards from the blow. Construction Workers hold their breath. 5. Liam, after a moment to think about it, decides he’s all right. Keeps walking. Construction Workers cheer. CONSTRUCTION WORKER #1 That woulda been some liability. Back to work, boys. One of the orange signs is missing from the cement truck. EXT. CHURCH - DAY Liam bounds up the church steps. Pushes the two massive front doors open, one with each hand, head bowed with the effort. The doors give way with an ear-rending thud. Liam shakes his hair from his face. INT. CHURCH - DAY Hundreds of rows of pews, packed with well-dressed GUESTS. A wedding. Up front, a tableau of MINISTER, BRIDE, and GROOM. Everyone twists around to look at the intruder. Liam is a sight: blue painted body, red umbrella hangs down his back, gray specks of dried concrete adhere an upside-down orange triangle to his chest. He’s Superman. Bride’s jaw drops. Not a sound in the church. Liam sails up the aisle. Guests turn their heads as he passes, lend him a regal air, like a ship’s wake. The altar is set high above the congregation. Liam takes the steps one at a time, pitter, patter, pitter, patter, thrusts his knees high, pumps his arms. Bride, Groom, and Minister: still frozen in place. Liam gets to the top. Arms on hips, he catches his breath. A great big smile for Bride -- she is LISSY BANKHEAD (20s), her attitude and wedding gown scream “inherited wealth”, her bleached teeth peek out between perfectly pouty lips. 6. A great big smile for Groom -- he is YOUNGBLOOD RIBB (20s), prodigy in the toothpick business, could have gone pro in tennis if he’d chosen, successful in life and love. A great big smile for Minister -- not reciprocated. MINISTER If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. LISSY What are you doing here? LIAM I wasn’t going to come to your wedding, Lissy, ’cause I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome. Youngblood rolls his eyes. LIAM But then I got your... ‘n’ I knew that... oh, Lissy. Liam sweeps Lissy into his arms, crushes her into his chest. My dress! LISSY Ruined. Blue paint and ketchup on white lace and silk. LIAM You’re everything that’s holy ‘n’ bonza on this whole world, ‘n’, believe me, babe, I’ve seen most of it. ‘N’ here it is in my arms. YOUNGBLOOD (at a loss) Um, that is my fiancee, there, um, please, could you... LIAM Say you’ll be mine, ta. Lissy looks into his crystal-clear eyes. LISSY I love your accent. They kiss. Long, deep, and slow. Liam’s blue arms work up and down Lissy’s dress, smearing it beyond hope of repair. 7. MINISTER You have to kiss a few frogs before you find a prince. YOUNGBLOOD I am right here, Lissy. THORNE BANKHEAD (60s), Lissy’s father, a great mane of white hair set off by several impossible shades of tanned, Botoxed skin. In the front pew, he pounds the wood with a fist. THORNE That’s inappropriate, Lissy. Thorne’s arm is draped over the shoulders of a live BARBIE DOLL (18), her proportions preposterous. Lissy and Liam come up for air. They dive back in, sensual overload of a kiss, definitely not public material, much less an altar display. BILL RIBB (50s) and DEBBIE RIBB (50s), in their own front pew, googly-eyed. They look exactly like twins: same outfits, same side-swept haircut, same open mouths, bulging orbits. Youngblood looks to them, asks for advice with his eyes. Bill and Debbie, in unison, swing their eyes to him, mouths gulp like fish. No help. YOUNGBLOOD Lissy, um, I do not understand what is happening, I mean, I understand it in the birds and bees sense, but not in the you’s and me’s sense. I think you need to step back, think this through very carefully, because we are in the middle of our wedding. In the vows, right, Lissy? (beat) The “step back” part is important. Youngblood taps Liam’s shoulder. Lissy and Liam break their liplock. MINISTER Better to have and not need than to need and not have. YOUNGBLOOD Think about your actions, Lissy. This is so rash. 8. LISSY I haven’t been rash my entire life! Lissy flings out her arms in ecstasy. YOUNGBLOOD It could cost you a lifetime of happiness. Think it over. I will give you two a moment. LIAM I don’t need a moment. Do you need a moment? Nope. LISSY Liam swings an arm, a wild uppercut, smashes his fist into Youngblood’s chin. Youngblood somersaults backwards, lands on his stomach, out for the count. LIAM I’ve always wanted to do that. LISSY But why? He’s a nice guy. LIAM He had you, darling. He brought my life down around my ears with every glance he glanced you over the cereal, every hand he handed you in the theater, every check he checked you in the shopping mall. Oh, Liam. LISSY MONA BANKHEAD (50s), devoid of any talent except falling in love with rich men, runs from her pew on four-inch stiletto heels. She kneels at Youngblood’s side, taps his chin. LIAM Minister, we’re ready. Let’s finish those vows. MINISTER No shoes, no shirt, no service. LISSY Just this once. 9. MINISTER Time is what keeps everything from happening at once. Liam kneels on Youngblood’s other side. Strips Youngblood’s tuxedo jacket off. MONA But he’ll need that later! LIAM I need it now, Mona. Can you help with his shoes? Mona hesitates. LIAM Haven’t you always wondered what he looks like... underneath? Mona pulls off Youngblood’s wingtips. Liam throws on the jacket and shoes. A more remarkable sight. Arms around Lissy, cheek to cheek, Liam nods to Minister. MINISTER Do you, Alyssa Bankhead, take... take... take... MONA God bless you. MINISTER What is your name, Mr. Blue? Liam Ryan. LIAM MINISTER And your last name? Ryan. LIAM MINISTER Do you, Alyssa Bankhead, take Liam Ryan Ryan to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better and for worse... 10. THORNE Lissy, don’t do this! You’re supposed to marry Youngblood Ribb! This man is not the right one! MINISTER ...till death you part? THORNE If you do this, you’ll be breaking the merger, too, and I’ll cut you off without a penny! I do. LISSY Guests gasp as one. Oh, the courage! Lissy turns around, a brave jut of the chin. LISSY Love is more important to me than your mergers and all the money in the world. Guests applaud, cheer, kiss each other, swoon. THORNE Then you can kiss the reception hall goodbye, too, sweetheart. Thorne and Barbie Doll walk out, down the center aisle, derided by Guests on every side. LIAM Who needs money when we’ve got love? LISSY (whisper) I already said that, Liam. LIAM (whisper) Then you must be brilliant, ta. Kiss. MINISTER Do you, Liam Ryan Ryan... LIAM Just Liam Ryan. 11. MINISTER ...take Alyssa Bankhead to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, for better and worse, till death do you part? I do. LIAM Madness, cheering, thunderous applause. Bill and Debbie Ribb still stand stock-still, mouths open and close in unison, yoked eyes roll from one atrocity to another. Liam sweeps Lissy into his arms for another giant kiss. MINISTER What therefore God hath joined together, perhaps even against His will, let no man put asunder. (aside) I’d say, “Kiss the bride”, but you’re precocious in that department. (aloud) I present for the first time: Mr. and Mrs. Ryan! Huge organ music. Liam and Lissy skip down the aisle, arm in arm. Rock concert atmosphere. SUPER: “THE END” in flowing calligraphy. FADE TO BLACK. Roll END CREDITS. SERIES OF STILL PHOTOGRAPHS (DURING END CREDITS) Liam and Lissy hold hands, skip through the construction site. Construction Workers doff their caps. Guests follow, a giant crowd, trample through the wet concrete. Liam holds his hands over Lissy’s eyes, guides her to the beach, Guests skip and jump behind them. Liam, Lissy, and the WEDDING PARTY sit on a red and white checked tablecloth spread out on the sand, like a head table. Babes, Beauties, and Housewives mingle with Guests. Liam has taken off the red umbrella. 12. Liam and Lissy kiss, as all present toast them with open bottled waters, splash each other. The Wedding Party use sand to scrub the blue paint off Liam. He winces. Maintenance Woman has an apologetic expression. Lissy rips the orange sign off Liam’s chest. He’s howling. A Babe holds a boombox. First dance. Liam and Lissy sway. Much less formal dance. Everyone’s in on it. Sand flies in all directions. The limbo. Two guys from the Wedding Party hold a Babe horizontal, everyone’s going underneath. Except for Liam and Lissy: they’re making out in an unseen corner. Liam pops a Twinkie into Lissy’s mouth. Everyone’s cheering. Lissy jams a Twinkie all over Liam’s face. Laughter. Lissy licks the Twinkie off Liam’s face. Raucous laughter. Lissy tosses the orange sign backwards over her head. A huge crowd of Babes and Beauties jump for it. Housewife from earlier makes an elaborate presentation, hands the folded umbrella to Liam with a bow. Laughter. Liam and Lissy stand above the beach. Wave at everyone below. Liam and Lissy at the airport, the ticket line. Liam wears decent clothes, Lissy’s changed out of the dress. They kiss. Liam and Lissy at the terminal, the gate. They kiss. Liam and Lissy on the plane. They kiss. Liam and Lissy under a sign: “Cancun, Mexico.” They kiss. Sun’s going down. Liam and Lissy outside a resort hotel. They kiss. Liam and Lissy sit down to dinner at the resort. They kiss. Lissy points to a salad on the menu. The WAITER nods. Liam points to a steak on the menu. The Waiter nods. Lissy glares at Liam, an angry, teeth-clenching look. FREEZE SERIES OF PHOTOGRAPHS End Credits grind to a halt. 13. Music ends abruptly, with a sick-sounding atonal screech. That last photograph comes to life. Waiter backs away. Liam shrugs, a “What’s wrong” look. Lissy’s in a slow boil. She breathes in and out, in and out, controls her temper. She swallows. LISSY You eat meat? CUT TO BLACK. OPENING CREDIT SEQUENCE INT. HOTEL ROOM - CANCUN - NIGHT Lissy, curled in a ball on the bed, eyes wide open, chin trembles, looks ready to burst into tears at any moment. Liam leans against a window sill, looks at the Gulf. No one wants to make the first move. Liam takes small backward steps, a silent shuffle. His calves touch the bed. Lissy watches him. Her pouty lips tighten. Liam lowers his butt, ever so slow, eases down towards the bed. Five inches, four, three, almost sitting down... Mister! LISSY Liam leaps to the window. LISSY Youngblood doesn’t eat meat. LIAM I can hardly be expected to know that. Expected? LISSY 14. LIAM I mean, we’re not going to agree on everything, ta. LISSY Youngblood and I would craft menus together, a month out. He’s big on scheduling. We’d go to the outdoor market, first Saturday of the month, look through the leeks and bok choy. I bet you’ve never even heard of bok choy. LIAM Long as he’s not a country singer. LISSY What have I done? Lissy buries her head under a pillow. LIAM Last I checked, I cracked onto you ‘n’ you cracked onto me. You voted for a life of adventure ‘n’ chucked your boring life’s plans. I thought it was dinky-di. Lissy screams into her pillow. Liam reaches out the window, plucks a geranium from a flower box. Puts it between his teeth. Strikes a pose. LIAM Ugh. This tastes awful. Lissy looks up from under her pillow. Can’t help but laugh. LIAM There. Better. LISSY A stupid flower doesn’t make up for it. So we we’re idiots. LIAM No, I said you were brilliant. LISSY This can’t be happening to me. LIAM To us, babe, to us. 15. Lissy runs to the bathroom. Slams the door. Liam smiles. He jumps onto the bed, stretches out on his back. Draws one leg up in a sexy pose, looks at the bathroom door. He practices a sexy smile, rehearses complimentary lines for when Lissy emerges. LIAM (whisper) You look beaut... Better than I imagined... Ace! That’s spiffy, perfect for the old fella... The sound of crying through the door. Liam’s smile is wiped off. Throws up his hands. LIAM Yeah, that’d be right. THE REMAINDER OF THIS SCREENPLAY IS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST 

Simeli Mountain

This romping short script was written in response to MoviePoet.com's recent monthly challenge: write an adaptation of a Grimm Brothers' fairy tale. What a daunting task. The Grimm tales are readily accessible on-line, but it is clear that they were jotted down centuries ago with little thought devoted to story structure.

You can find an original version of the story at this excellent archive of Grimm stories.

I discovered that this little-known story seemed to be a corruption of the old Ali Baba stories. Primarily, the similarity of "Open sesame" and "Semsi mountain" seemed too fun an opportunity to pass up. So, after letting my imagination simmer on the project for a while, I came up with some original angles with which to tackle the interesting task of adaptation. Enjoy!

SIMELI MOUNTAIN by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT A windowless dark. MELVYN (30s), thin, a confused look in his eyes, wears a bathrobe. He clings to a stair rail with both arms, puts a tentative toe onto the next step down. NARRATOR (V.O.) ’Twas the night before nothing, the ninth of December, when Melvyn crept downstairs for chores unremembered. As though waking anew from uniform and tie, he now wore pajamas, but did not know why. Nor did he recall the featureless room. Was he in outer space, out-of-body in his tomb? A fluorescent ceiling light flickers on, reveals a heavy vault door in a cement wall, a voice-recognition access code box next to it. Melvyn drifts over to it, a moth to light. He punches in a four-digit code. NARRATOR (V.O.) Drawn to the box, to the microphone, when... he heard his own voice say: MELVYN Semsi Mountain. A red-lettered display on the access box: “Hello, Melvyn.” The vault door heaves open with a metallic crunch. NARRATOR (V.O.) When what to his wondering eyes should appear but a gaping great portal to next fiscal year. Safety deposit boxes inside. Millions of them. Melvyn, face bright with greed, walks inside-THE VAULT The massive door creaks shut behind him. NARRATOR (V.O.) But something was wrong! His legs were stuck fast, for his moral high ground had rebooted at last. A crime to steal from this treasure fountain! His voice quavered out a thin: 2. MELVYN Semsi Mountain. The door groans open again. BASEMENT Melvyn backs out of the vault, stumble-runs up the stairs. The vault door rumbles closed. Underneath the stairs, bright eyes watch from the shadows: BARNABY (30s), in a bank guard’s uniform. NARRATOR (V.O.) Don't fear for Melvyn, he's programmed to do it by a mental anomaly with no name to it. Melvyn flicks the light switch off as he disappears. INT. VAULT - NIGHT (FLASHBACK) Melvyn, masked and clothed in black, tosses the contents of the safety deposit boxes into large canvas bags. NARRATOR (V.O.) See, he’s condemned to repeat the last action he'd done before getting fried from a taserful stun. Barnaby comes up behind him, flanked by an entire S.W.A.T. TEAM. Barnaby fires a Taser into Melvyn’s right temple. Melvyn’s hair stands up straight as he falls down. INT. COURTROOM - DAY Melvyn, cross-eyed, drooling, sits handcuffed in the defendant’s chair as the JUDGE (70s) raps the gavel. NARRATOR (V.O.) The lawyers gave argument, precedent, and place, but that was not why the judge tossed the case. JUDGE I hate you, I loathe you, you petty little thief. But you’ve lost your marbles. NARRATOR (V.O.) To his mother’s relief. In the audience, Melvyn’s MOTHER (60s) clasps joyful hands. 3. INT. MOTHER’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY Mother sprawls on the dining room table, unable to spoon oatmeal between Melvyn’s slobbering lips. NARRATOR (V.O.) But her joy was short-lived. Indeed, how could it last with Melvyn forever enshrined in his past? She consulted physicians from each ilk and breed, but no hope from Mayo, nor e’en Walter Reed. Mother heaves herself into a sitting position. Determination shines in her eyes as she opens a phone book. MOTHER If you wanna be treated just like a barbarian! NARRATOR (V.O.) His mother went and called a veterinarian. INT. VETERINARIAN’S OFFICE - DAY VETERINARIAN (40s) peers into Melvyn’s wide open mouth. Mother stands to the side, hopeful, silly grin. NARRATOR (V.O.) He’d poked and he’d prodded, fed him a sweet, and finally evolved a new way to treat. VETERINARIAN Injury from a Taser to the brain, beyond doubt. If a Taser put him in, then it should bring him out. Veterinarian pulls a Taser from a drawer marked “Restraints”. Zaps Melvyn in the left temple. Melvyn’s hair plasters flat as he shoots upright. He gives a thumbs-up. Veterinarian flashes a confident smile at Mother. INT. MOTHER’S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT Two beds. Melvyn sleeps with soft snores. In the other bed, Barnaby pretends to sleep, in uniform under blankets. NARRATOR (V.O.) So out now he sleepwalks as regular rite. The twist? His brother followed him tonight. 4. INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT (BACK TO PRESENT) The fluorescent light flickers on. Barnaby. He marches down the steps, an enormous keyring jangles at his waist. NARRATOR (V.O.) Melvyn, poor man, walks the vices of men. But Barnaby could turn, can choose... Barnaby enters a four-digit code into the access box. BARNABY Semsi Mountain. “Hello, Melvyn.” The door yawns open. Barnaby rubs his hands. NARRATOR (V.O.) Barnaby did it. And lo, his mouth watered. With one step was his... Barnaby swaggers into the vault. The door closes. NARRATOR (V.O.) ...golden goose slaughtered. INT. VAULT - SAME The safety deposit boxes are plundered, the keys hang from an opened box. Money, stocks, bonds, jewels, gold nuggets, silver pieces, strewn everywhere. Barnaby bathes in wealth. NARRATOR (V.O.) Greed defies reason, men act with no sense. That’s why moments of bliss are just that: moments. Barnaby’s watch beeps an alarm. He panics. BARNABY Um. Uh, uh. Simeli Mountain? He pushes on the door. It does not budge. He yells louder. BARNABY Simeli Mountain! Simeli Mountain! NARRATOR (V.O.) When greed overtakes men, can naught make them see? Their brains turn to mush, can’t remember Semsi. But the righting hand of nature from chaos is swift. Barnaby should have known. The end of his shift. 5. Barnaby crumples into a little ball, sweeps as many valuables into his arms as possible, hugs them tight to his chest. The vault door eases open, a groan of discontent. Melvyn stands there, in the uniform of a bank guard. His mouth falls open. Behind him gapes a BANK MANAGER (50s), impeccable suit, slicked-back hair. BARNABY Melvyn made me do it, he put me to it. It was always his plan, and he walked me through it. NARRATOR (V.O.) Didn’t I mention the hand had been righted? Be on its good side, lest it feel unrequited. As you shall see... BANK MANAGER No, this can’t be true. I see Melvyn here, and there I see you. Bank Manager punches a number into a cell phone. BANK MANAGER I’m calling the police. You made me do it. MELVYN Barnaby, why in the name of-BARNABY Oh, screw it. Barnaby stands, drops the valuables, charges at Melvyn. MELVYN Semsi Mountain! The vault door creaks shut. Barnaby dives for the door, tries to get through. Only his head emerges before the heavy door closes. His head pops off neatly, no blood. The head rolls to Melvyn’s feet. NARRATOR (V.O.) The moral? Fine, the moral. I’d prefer it unsaid. Ahem. When amongst the treasures of this world, don’t lose your head. FADE OUT. 

And You Would

These last weeks, I have been deeply ruminating on the massive changes that have occurred in Western societies over the last century, especially evidenced in the near complete lack of education of children on the norms of social decency. Codes of etiquette are not just ignored, they are as scorned as the institutions which once promoted them.

In a very real way, we now live in the "diss" culture. As in, "Don't diss me or I'll" fill in the blank. To my mind, this "diss"ness is merely a transparent mask over a culture of selfishness. And so, being a writer, I naturally figured that the best way to express my discontent is through satire. Enjoy.

AND YOU WOULD by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com 2. FADE IN: INT. GROCERY STORE - DAY NICK (20), self-acknowledged master of all things, saunters towards the produce section with an empty basket on his arm. NICK I mean, seriously, did you know they can put zero percent fat right on the front even if there’s actually fat in there? It’s just gotta be low enough that they can claim it. It’s still a lie. Nick stops in front of the bananas. Looks over the bunches. NICK And here’s where the real coin comes in. They mark this stuff up like a thousand percent. Pure profit. But they’re still just nineteen cents a pound so you think it’s like some massive deal. Nick picks out a green bunch. In the basket it goes. NICK Green’s better. I hate all that mushy stuff, you know, the bruises and stuff. Same basic nutrients, sure, but who wants it? Nick walks to the condiment aisle. NICK I mean, I’m paying my hard-earned nineteen cents for a two-cent bunch, I better get what I pay for. That’s all I really mean. I just want what’s best, you know. Picks out a ketchup bottle. Goes to put it in his basket, but he’s so concerned about talking that he drops it. Awww. NICK He bends to pick it up. Ketchup leaks out of a split in the corner, gets on his hands. 3. NICK For the love... Man, this isn’t my day at all. Maybe it’s just my pet peeve or something, but I hate getting my hands dirty. Nick puts the ketchup bottle back on the shelf. Grabs another bottle, tosses it in his basket. NICK I’ll have to clean my hands... Oh, no, don’t you, you shouldn’t be thinking that. Listen, the store’ll return it to the manufacturer, no problem, reimbursement heaven. Don’t sweat it. Oh, come on, you want me to... You think I should... Nick turns, stares directly into the camera. NICK And you would? Nick shakes his head, turns away. Walks to the dog food aisle. NICK The thing I been thinking recently, all about these people on Wall Street, all these rich turds squatting on the rest of us, how awesome it would be if they finally got theirs. I mean, they’re all like, “I’m too good for regular people things”, I bet they don’t even go in grocery stores like this. Their food grows on money stalks, and their little slaves pick it off and hand-feed it. You know? Listen, I’m never gonna be rich, because I don’t know who I gotta know to be something. Nick passes a HEAVY-SET WOMAN (40) who struggles with a large box of diapers on the waxed floor. Nick doesn’t stop, keeps walking. NICK How great it’ll be, I’ll be so skyhigh when they get theirs. I’ll be out in the streets like, woo-hoo. Oh, come on, you’re doing it again, I know you are... 4. NICK (CONT'D) you think I should’ve... Look, it had handles, you know. And there are terrorists everywhere. I don’t know her. I’m not gonna profile her, it’s just that my mom told me not to go anywhere near strangers. I’m just doing what my mom wants, you can’t think I’m a bad... come on... Nick looks directly into the camera. NICK And you would? Heavy-set Woman picks up the diapers in the background. Drops them immediately, grabs her lower back in massive pain. NICK What was I... oh, yeah, you know, I bet those guys actually own grocery stores. One thousand percent markup. Yeah. Nick grabs a small bag of dog food, tosses it in his basket. Turns the corner. Heads to the check-out lane. NICK You’re not gonna find me caught dead in some minimum-wage job, no, sir. All or nothing for me. That’s the American Dream. Nick plunks down his ketchup and dog food on the conveyor belt. The CASHIER (14) scans them through. NICK A dead-end job like this where people see people all day long and still never talk to them? Please. I’d rather make no money and play video games. At least then I’m doing something, some back-andforth. I’d have made a good hunter, probably, back in hunt-and-gather days. First-person shooter stuff. CASHIER Nine eighty-five. Nick digs into a pocket. Pulls out a wallet. 5. NICK Look, see that, right there? That’s the only interaction they have. Some impersonal number, some money they’ll never see again, what kinda life is that? Nick hands over a ten dollar bill. Cashier counts out coins. Her long, fake fingernails scratch inside the register, scrabbling to pick up the coins. NICK Too long. Look at that. Like even she knows this job sucks, so she pastes on those mammoths just to stick it to the man, but the only person she ends up bothering is herself. Well, and me, I guess. CASHIER Eighty-five cents. Nick pockets the coins, picks up a grocery bag with the ketchup and dog food in it. Behind him, in line now, Heavy-set Woman hunches over her cart, in pain. She just has diapers and a ketchup bottle. Nick walks to the entrance as Cashier scans Heavy-set Woman’s scant purchases. NICK I know, I know. Her math skills suck as much as her choice of nail color. Is it my fault? Eighty-five cents. What is that, seventy extra cents? Not even a buck? Like I’m going to walk all the way back there for less than a buck? So what? That won’t even buy a pack of gum these days, they won’t even miss it. In the background, Heavy-set Woman searches in her purse for money. Cashier, impatient, hand out. HEAVY-SET WOMAN Anyone? I only need thirty-seven cents? Please? No one answers. Nick doesn’t even turn around, keeps walking. 6. NICK Yeah, I hear it. Come on, why do you always gotta put the world’s problems on me? I’m just a guy, come on. The store’ll take care of her, she’s a loyal customer, probably. I’m not gonna fork over my hard-earned money for a stranger who’s short that little. It’ll all work out. Oh, come on... Heavy-set Woman, still in tremendous back pain, gets no offers of help. Resigned, she hands the ketchup bottle back to the cashier. The bottle bursts in her hands, soaks them both in ketchup. Nick looks directly into the camera. NICK And you would? FADE OUT. 

Priceless Ice

This romping script experiments with a combination of two opposing genres: Mystery and Comedy. This cinematic duo has been done to marvelous success in feature-length films such as the classic "The Thin Man" series, and more recently "Hot Fuzz". I wondered if it could be done well in the short film format, and here is the result.

The first script, entitled "Apollo's Eyes Puzzler" was entered in the five-page contest at MoviePoet.com in February. The script then passed through two rewrites: a longer version which returned to my original title of "Truth Will Out", and then a refined version entitled "Priceless Ice" which is posted below.

Note that each version provides a different conclusion. Enjoy them both!

APOLLO'S EYES PUZZLER by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - NOON A magnificent diamond, large as a baseball, on purple velvet on a small wooden table. Refracts the sun’s rays, brilliant. Three adults circle it, hold hands. They are: HUNTNER (60), English, distinguished goatee; VYNNIE (30), waist-long hair, her eyes always wide open as if in surprise; SAFARI (30), voluptuous Betty Boop figure. The sky darkens. The diamond ceases its light show. HUNTNER Now is the time of renewal! Huntner thrusts his arms into the air, the others follow. They turn their faces to the vanishing sun overhead, stare into the eclipse, mouths open in ecstasy, bent backwards. HUNTNER Unblinking heaven, mother-father Sun, Apollo’s Eye! Cleanse us! The little group looks like an unfurling flower. Darkening field. INT. CITY MORGUE - DAY MATT CADAVER (30), city Coroner, green scrubs, alone. Bends across a dead body, examines a black lung. A Figure tiptoes up behind Cadaver, patient, stalks his prey. Suddenly the Figure looms above him, a terrifying surprise. Figure strikes him hard on the back. Cadaver falls face forward. Into the dead body. CADAVER (muffled) Egglehard, goddamn it. Cadaver straightens, wipes his face on a sleeve. The Figure: RON EGGLEHARD (40), idiot smile, idiot face. EGGLEHARD Was your mouth open? Huh? 2. EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - AFTERNOON The sun emerges from the eclipse. Light pours over the group. ALL Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! They release their hands, wave their arms, shake heads, rub eyes, twirl in a tizzy. Dizzying flurry of arms and legs. Vynnie freezes, rubs her eyes, blinks, points at the table. VYNNIE Huntner, call the police! Purple velvet, wooden table, but no diamond. Huntner whips out a cell phone, his eyes blink wide as he dials. INT./EXT. EGGLEHARD’S CAR/COUNTRY HIGHWAYS - AFTERNOON Egglehard drives like a nitwit, swerves across the midline, never looks at the road. Cadaver holds on for dear life. CADAVER When they told me to go out on cases after the layoffs? Huh, I’d thought the joke was on you. EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - AFTERNOON Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari stare dumbfounded as Egglehard’s car careens across the field towards them, never slowing. They dive out of the way. The car skids, brakes engaged, too late. It crashes over the wooden table, splinters fly. Egglehard jumps out, sucks the air in deep, pounds his chest. EGGLEHARD This is the life out here! So serene. These must be our suspects! Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari climb to their feet. EGGLEHARD Describe yourselves. Three things each, that’s enough for me. HUNTNER Um, Bob Huntner. Jeweler, museum curator, Apollo’s Eyes-er. 3. SAFARI Safari. Writer, reader, hot dogs. VYNNIE Vynnie Vinton. Widow, widow, widow. And you’re from the police? Vynnie licks her lips, a lustful look for Egglehard. Egglehard, jaw open, stares at Safari’s curvy body instead. Cadaver, still shaken, clambers out of the car. CADAVER Yup. Matt Cadaver, Coroner. My partner, Ron Egglehard, Detective. HUNTNER Nobody’s dead. It was theft. EGGLEHARD I know who did it. Everyone looks at him in astonishment. EGGLEHARD It was easy. Vynnie, I arrest you for the theft of... What was it? HUNTNER The Bringington Diamond. VYNNIE What!! Why? EGGLEHARD Your names both start with V. V is the 23rd letter in the alphabet. Michael Jordan, God rest his soul, was the greatest basketball player ever. Basketball starts with B. B for Bringington. B for Theft! SAFARI V is the 22nd letter. Damn. EGGLEHARD Unfazed, Egglehard ogles Safari, flirts with gross abandon. Safari is unresponsive. CADAVER Shouldn’t we be looking around for the diamond, Ron? 4. EGGLEHARD Can it run away? Does it have legs? Don’t worry, then. It’ll stay put. Egglehard makes a kissy face at Safari. No response. EGGLEHARD Say, what is this? VYNNIE She’s blind... Detective. Cadaver takes charge, steps in front of Egglehard. CADAVER What is this group? How’d you all meet? HUNTNER At the Religious Studies section at a bookstore last week. We discussed the upcoming solar eclipse, shared a common bond of spirituality. I, um, borrowed the Bringington Diamond from the museum as a symbol of multifaceted-- Is he all right? Egglehard pitches forward, falls over. Face down in the muddy car tracks. EGGLEHARD Maybe the thief came up from a tunnel. Or buried it. I’ll find it. Cadaver leans to Huntner, snide remark. CADAVER His daddy’s the Chief of Police. Egglehard squeals with delight. Holds a piece of Scotch tape. Cadaver looks down, shifts his feet. Dirty discarded pieces of Scotch tape litter the ground. CADAVER Wait a sec. What are there, maybe six pieces of tape? Egglehard counts as though counting is hard work. He nods. Cadaver bursts out laughing. Riotous, uproarious. I got it. CADAVER 5. EGGLEHARD The diamond? CADAVER The thief. Let me guess. You guys, during the eclipse, taped your upper eyelids open? HUNTNER It’s our duty. Someone had to wait for mother-father Sun in unblinking reverence. We’re Apollo’s Eyes. CADAVER That total eclipse lasted for, what, three or four minutes? SAFARI It seemed like an eternity. CADAVER I bet it did. Because your eyes needed to be refreshed by blinking. When you finally started blinking, you were momentarily blinded by dry corneas and retinal stimulation. HUNTNER Yeah, they burned bloody hell. CADAVER And while you were distracted, the thief worked through the pain, and, well, simply ate the diamond. VYNNIE It was bigger than my fist! CADAVER You do have a professional hot dog eater among you. The same woman who, every day, handles blindness. Egglehard leaps forward, buffets Safari on the head, knocks her down. He stands over her like a triumphant gladiator. HUNTNER But the diamond! Can we make her vomit the thing back up? CADAVER Truth will out. In about 24 hours. FADE OUT. 

PRICELESS ICE by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1348263 2. FADE IN: EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - NOON A magnificent diamond, large as a golf ball, displayed on faded purple velvet, sits on a small wooden table in the middle of prairie grass. Refracts the sun’s rays, brilliant. Three adults circle it, hold hands. They are: HUNTNER (60), English, distinguished goatee; VYNNIE (30), waist-long hair, her eyes always wide open as if in surprise; SAFARI (30), voluptuous Betty Boop figure. The sky darkens. The diamond ceases its light show. HUNTNER Now is the time of renewal! Huntner thrusts his arms into the air, the others follow. They turn their faces to the vanishing sun overhead, stare into the eclipse, mouths open in ecstasy, bent backwards. HUNTNER Unblinking heaven, mother-father Sun, Apollo’s Eye! Cleanse us! Renew us in our dedicated watchfulness, that our inner eyes be as seeing as thy own. The little group looks like an unfurling flower. Darkening field. Faces to the sky. Eyes wide open. Too wide open. The sun emerges from the eclipse. Light pours over the group. ALL Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! They release their hands, wave their arms, shake heads, rub eyes, twirl in a tizzy. Dizzying flurry of arms and legs. Huntner reaches up to his eyelids, yanks. Pulls off a piece of Scotch tape from each eye. Screams with the pain. Presses a palm against each eye. Shakes his head. Vynnie and Safari follow suit: yank, scream, press, shake. 3. Vynnie freezes, rubs her eyes, blinks, points at the table. VYNNIE Where’d it go? Purple velvet, wooden table, but no diamond. A worn dark spot on the velvet where the diamond had been. Huntner goggles at the void. He reaches up to his eyelids, forces them open with his hands. HUNTNER Blast and bloody hell, I’m going to catch it. The damn thing’s gone! Vynnie looks underneath the table. Nope, not there. SAFARI It can’t have-- no, no. VYNNIE What, what? SAFARI Apollo himself, you think? Taken it like in the books? Really? HUNTNER Maybe. Maybe not. One of you snagged the ice, more like? Open your pockets. Huntner takes a step. Safari and Vynnie jump backwards. VYNNIE NO! We didn’t take it. Maybe you did, to get the insurance. HUNTNER You’re insane. I’ll get canned. Insurance isn’t under my name. The three face each other across the table, distrust crackles amongst them. SAFARI You’re not touching me. Huntner whips out a cell phone. HUNTNER Only one way to settle this, ‘cause Apollo’s not going to tell me. 4. SAFARI You asked him yet? HUNTNER I’m calling the police. VYNNIE What police? We’re in the middle of nowhere. HUNTNER That small town that we passed. Had to have a county sheriff or something. They’ll take you down. One of you. I promise you. Huntner flashes a malevolent snarl as he dials. INT. COUNTY MORGUE - DAY MATT CADAVID (30), county Coroner, green scrubs, alone. Bends across a dead body, examines a swollen black lung. Nasty goopy sounds as he works. He whistles a lively swing tune. A dark, shadowy, indistinct FIGURE tiptoes up behind Cadavid, patient, stalks his prey. Suddenly the Figure looms above him, a terrifying surprise. Figure strikes him hard on the back. Cadavid falls face forward. Into the dead body. A wet goopy sound. Gross. CADAVID (muffled) Egglehard, goddamn it. Cadavid straightens, wipes his face on a sleeve. The Figure: RON EGGLEHARD (40), idiot smile, idiot face. EGGLEHARD Was your mouth open? Huh? A cell phone rings. In Egglehard’s pocket. He whips it to his ear. EGGLEHARD Egglehard speaking... Uh-huh... Uhhuh... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Egglehard hangs up. 5. CADAVID Who was that? EGGLEHARD I don’t know. (affects an accent) Don’t matter, pardner. Okay, partner, saddle up. Time to ride. CADAVID We got a case? But I’m in the middle of an autops-EGGLEHARD Remember the Layoffs! You’re my crew now. And I say: Onward! Cadavid wipes his hands on a towel, throws it on the floor in disgust. INT./EXT. EGGLEHARD’S CAR/COUNTRY HIGHWAYS - AFTERNOON Egglehard drives like a nitwit, swerves across the midline, never looks at the road. Cadavid holds on for dear life. Cadavid still wears his dirty scrubs. EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - AFTERNOON Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari stare dumbfounded as Egglehard’s car careens across the field towards them, never slowing. They dive out of the way. The car skids, brakes engaged, too late. It crashes over the wooden table, splinters fly. Egglehard jumps out, sucks the air in deep, pounds his chest. EGGLEHARD This is the life out here! So serene. These must be our suspects! Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari climb to their feet. EGGLEHARD Describe yourselves. Three things each, that’s enough for me. HUNTNER Um, Bob Huntner. Jeweler, museum curator, Apollo’s Eyes-er. 6. SAFARI Safari. Writer, ESPN, hot dogs. VYNNIE Vynnie Vinton. Widow, widow, widow. And you’re from the police? Vynnie licks her lips, a lustful look for Egglehard. Egglehard, jaw open, stares at Safari’s curvy body instead. Cadavid, still shaken, clambers out of the car. CADAVID Yup. Matt Cadavid, Coroner. My partner, Ron Egglehard, Detective. HUNTNER Nobody’s dead. It was theft. EGGLEHARD I know who did it. Everyone looks at him in astonishment. EGGLEHARD It was easy. Vynnie, I arrest you for the theft of... What was it? HUNTNER The Bringington Diamond. VYNNIE What!! Why? EGGLEHARD Your names both start with V. V is the 23rd letter in the alphabet. Michael Jordan, God rest his soul, was the greatest basketball player ever. Basketball starts with B. B for Bringington. B for Theft! SAFARI V is the 22nd letter. Damn. EGGLEHARD Unfazed, Egglehard ogles Safari, flirts with gross abandon. Safari is unresponsive. 7. CADAVID Shouldn’t we be looking around for the diamond, Ron? EGGLEHARD Can it run away? Does it have legs? Don’t worry, then. It’ll stay put. (beat) Maybe we should frisk them. Egglehard makes a kissy face at Safari. No response. EGGLEHARD Say, what is this? VYNNIE She’s blind... Detective. Cadavid takes charge, steps in front of Egglehard. CADAVID What is this group? HUNTNER We are Apollo’s Eyes. We met at the Religious Studies section at a bookstore last week. We discussed the upcoming solar eclipse, shared a common bond of spirituality. I, um, borrowed the Bringington Diamond from the museum. I’m a janitor, don’t you know. And aside, did you know that the curator keeps the exhibits refrigerated? Icebox cold, preserves them longer, especially the parchments. Frigid job getting the diamond out, I’m telling you. Cadavid looks bored. Huntner gets back on topic. HUNTNER The Diamond serves to refract Apollo’s life-giving rays, a symbol of multifaceted-- Is he all right? Egglehard pitches forward, falls over. Face down in the muddy car tracks. EGGLEHARD Maybe the thief came up from a tunnel. Or buried it. I’ll find it. Cadavid leans to Huntner, snide remark. 8. CADAVID His daddy’s the Chief of Police. Egglehard squeals with delight. Holds a piece of Scotch tape. Cadavid looks down, shifts his feet. Dirty discarded pieces of Scotch tape litter the ground. Egglehard counts the pieces of tape as though counting is hard work. A light dawns. Egglehard bursts out laughing. Riotous, uproarious. EGGLEHARD I got it. Let me guess. You guys, during the eclipse, taped your upper eyelids open? HUNTNER It’s our duty. Someone had to wait for mother-father Sun’s return in unblinking reverence. We are Apollo’s Eyes. EGGLEHARD That total eclipse lasted for, what, three or four minutes? SAFARI It seemed like an eternity. EGGLEHARD I bet it did. Because your eyes needed to be refreshed by blinking. HUNTNER Yeah, they burned bloody hell. CADAVID That’s possible. EGGLEHARD And while you were distracted, the thief worked through the pain and ate the diamond. CADAVID That’s not possible. VYNNIE It was as big as a golf ball! 9. EGGLEHARD You do have a professional hot dog eater. The same woman who, every day, handles blindness. Safari doubles over in sudden pain, grabs her midsection. CADAVID Well, okay, if you say so. I guess that’s it hitting the pyloric sphincter. Egglehard leaps forward, buffets Safari on the head, knocks her down. He stands over her like a triumphant gladiator. HUNTNER But the diamond! Can we make her vomit the thing back up? CADAVID No way. It’ll tear up her esophagus on the way out. I wouldn’t do that to a dog, much less... HUNTNER She’s a thief. Who cares about her? I need to get that diamond back to the exhibit. EGGLEHARD Do nothing. Truth will out. In about 24 hours. Cadavid grimaces. The thought gives him literal pain. SAFARI No, I think I’ve been poisoned. I didn’t swallow... OW. Safari goes limp, suddenly. Egglehard’s car starts. Wheels spin, dirt flies. Vynnie is in the driver’s seat, waves goodbye. The car rockets across the field, out of sight. FADE TO BLACK. The sound of a car crashing into a tree. EGGLEHARD (V.O.) I shoulda got those brakes fixed ages ago. 10. CADAVID (V.O.) (shrieks) What? SAFARI (V.O.) Oh, she did it? Ah. I suddenly feel much better. INT. COUNTY MORGUE - DAY Cadavid pores over the same dead body, focused. Egglehard tiptoes up behind him. Gets closer, closer. Egglehard raises an arm to push Cadavid. Cadavid bends to the side. Egglehard, off-balance, pitches forward, face-down into the body’s groin. He comes up, spluttering. Cadavid laughs. EGGLEHARD Oh no, oh my... aggghh. Egglehard pours liquid soap into his mouth, swishes, swirls, spits it out onto the floor. Goes to the sink, turns on the cold water. Puts his head under the stream, bubbles froth out of his mouth. CADAVID You get a confession out of Vynnie, yet? Egglehard replies, something indistinct. CADAVID I mean, she did it, right? The bubbles cease. Egglehard straightens, turns off the water. EGGLEHARD No, she didn’t. CADAVID But she stole your car. A getaway car. 11. EGGLEHARD She doesn’t have the diamond. She said she just wanted a man to chase her for once. CADAVID So we’ll never know who did it. EGGLEHARD I guess not. CADAVID That’s the way it goes. I guess. EGGLEHARD CADAVID I wouldn’t want to be Huntner right now, explain this to his curator. EGGLEHARD I guess not. CADAVID A valuable piece of ice like that. Priceless loss. I guess. EGGLEHARD CADAVID At least it’s been insured, I hope. I guess. EGGLEHARD CADAVID Huntner’ll be fired for sure. EGGLEHARD I guess not. Huh? CADAVID EGGLEHARD Curator forgave him. Case closed. Cadavid goggles in astonishment. Doesn’t make sense. Egglehard shrugs. He leaves. Cadavid leans back over the body. 12. INT. COUNTRY FIELD - DAY Overcast, clouds. The remains and splinters of the wooden table on the ground. The purple velvet cloth lies by itself. A dark wet spot lingers in the middle. The sky opens up, rain pours down. The velvet cloth becomes completely dark now. FADE OUT. 

Picking Up the Peaces

Logline: "A witty, unsettling thriller - former deadly assassin struggles for peace in a world that may not want it."

This film reads like an over-the-top and witty look at global politics and warfare, comparable to a Coen Brothers film or a Doonesbury cartoon. As always, the full script is available upon request.

Note: this excerpt contains ADULT LANGUAGE and VIOLENCE.

PICKING UP THE PEACES
by Kyle Patrick Johnson
Represented by: Registered with:
Canton Literary Management (CLM) Writers Guild of America,
Contact: Eric Canton West, Inc.
(866) 429-3118 Registration #1329562
ECanton@Prodigy.net
www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com
FADE IN:
INT. RIO DE JANEIRO - HOTEL ROOM - DAY (PRESENT DAY)
The yellow translucent shades are drawn, sickly hot light
filters through to dingy unpainted plaster walls. Bugs
scurry, large as mice, aloof as royalty.
A slow-revolving ceiling fan, weakly ineffective.
Sprawled on the bed, arms behind his head: JOHN FONTAINE
(30s), twinkling eyes conceal a tack-sharp mind, easy build
hides a lethal talent.
But his eyes are not twinkling now.
Bustling around the room: LONI EMERY (20s), glorious beauty
more worthy of cashmere and pearls. There’s no finery here.
She unpacks suitcases, tosses cheap clothes in small piles on
a rickety bureau.
In the bottom of a suitcase, she finds a small unframed photo
of a woman, MAUREEN FONTAINE (30s). She looks over her
shoulder at Fontaine, unsure...
She lays the picture on the pillow next to him.
Fontaine looks at the picture, a deep sadness.
LONI
It was months ago, John.
FONTAINE
Not to me. Not to Maureen.
Loni assembles weapons and covert night equipment from
seemingly innocent plastic parts.
Bullets wedged into her purse handle. Telescoping tripods in
suitcase edges. Gun barrels inside toothpaste tubes.
Her arsenal complete, Loni gives a curt nod of approval. Goes
into the bathroom, turns on a decrepit shower.
The shower turns off.
LONI (O.S.)
Ugh. It’s brown.
LATER
Fontaine lounges on the bed, reads “War and Peace” by
Tolstoy. In the original Russian.
Loni sits upright at a wobbly desk, thumbs through “Field
Manual for Night Combat”. Studies, underlines.
A boring day, a boring job.
LONI
There’s nothing in here about
babies.
Fontaine looks up, doesn’t know what to say.
LONI
Well, I guess they can’t do any
harm.
Fontaine looks down at his book, deep in thought, as if these
thoughts are brand new.
FONTAINE
(whispers to himself)
Can’t do any harm.
Loni puts her hand over her mouth.
EXT. RIO - MARKET - DAY
Fontaine and Loni wear bright obnoxious shirts, stroll
through the stalls, the American couple on holiday.
BAUBLE VENDOR (60s), plump leathery grandma, shoves cheap
bead strings in their faces.
BAUBLE VENDOR
(in Spanish)
For you? For the wife?
LONI
(in English)
No, no thanks.
BAUBLE VENDOR
(in Spanish)
The children, you must have
children, no?
Fontaine, expression strained, looks sick.
2.
LONI
(in Spanish)
No, we don’t have children, you
miserable witch. Go away!
Bauble Vendor shrugs, cheerful, harasses the next couple.
Fontaine and Loni weave their way through the market, dodge
vendors, slide behind a stall: piles of refuse and a barbedwire
tipped six-foot brick wall.
Loni tip-toes through the garbage, backs up to the wall.
Fontaine lifts a cell phone, takes several pictures.
Loni poses like a ditzy newlywed tourist. They laugh.
But the pictures are focused on the giant stone building
behind her, behind the wall, just over Loni’s head.
INT. RIO HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT
The bed is littered with papers and files, schematics of
alarm systems, building plans, maps, weapons specifications.
One satellite photo features a large stone building, a cloth
awning circled in red marker.
Fontaine and Loni, no-nonsense, shameless, pull skin-tight
non-reflective black catsuits over their naked bodies. No
underwear, smooth aerodynamic lines.
Loni throws Fontaine a smile, nervous, excited, ready.
Fontaine puts Maureen’s picture between his chest and the
suit, its outline visible.
They slap on dark facepaint.
Zip utility belts tight.
Slip fearsome knives into sheaths.
Yank tight gloves onto their hands.
Transformed into warriors.
Fontaine jogs in place, gets his heart rate up, psychs
himself, floods his body with adrenaline.
He swallows down tomato juice, in a small tin travel can. He
crushes the can in a steel fist.
He picks up a gun. His gun...
3.
FONTAINE
To war, Peacekeeper.
Fontaine kisses the handle, scored with dozens of notches.
Loni paces, looks through pictures on an iPhone, mumbles to
herself.
LONI
Vijuan Acedo, five eight, kill on
sight... Beatrisa Acedo, five
three, kill on sight...
Fontaine hears her, an unhappy cloud covers his face.
LONI
Vijuanito Acedo, two months, dark
hair, kill on--
FONTAINE
What happens if we split up?
LONI
Fourth dock from the airport.
Fontaine looks at the baby’s picture. With a snarl, he throws
the iPhone against the wall, a shatter of electronics.
He leaps through the open window, feet first.
EXT. RIO HOTEL - NIGHT
Fontaine lands on his toes, cat-like, on the top of a
delivery van behind the building. He bounces to the ground.
Low to the ground, Fontaine lopes into the shadows.
Loni climbs out of the window, less sure, dangles, drops.
She lands hard. Grunts. Jogs after Fontaine.
EXT. MARKET - NIGHT
Deserted stalls cast funhouse shadows in the moonlight.
Two ghosts flit through the narrow alleys...
Loni and Fontaine sneak up to the wall.
Fontaine cups his hands, hoists Loni to the walltop. She puts
wire cutters to the wire.
4.
BZZZZZZZZ. Electrified. The wire cutters bounce out of her
hand, clatter to the ground.
Loni teeters but maintains her balance. They freeze,
expecting a response. No one comes.
Fontaine hands the wirecutters back up.
Loni takes off one of her black gloves, lays it across the
wire, cuts the wire through the gloves. Just a minimal
smothered spark.
Loni cuts the rest of the wire in the same way, uses the
glove to gingerly push the wire aside.
She jumps over the wall.
Splat.
Fontaine, already tense, leaps up the wall, looks over.
FONTAINE’S POV
Loni sheepishly looks back up at Fontaine from the middle of
a shallow koi wading pool.
WALL
Fontaine puts finger to lips. Shhhh.
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
The central stone mansion towers like some ancient god,
squat, heavy, forbidding. Lights peep through basement
windows, but the rest of the structure is dark.
The large lush backyard central mansion pulses with a shadow
civilization, reflected light and music.
Loni and Fontaine slither towards the house, skirting pools
and water fountains and benches and statues and tennis
courts.
Fontaine and Loni peer in a basement window.
FONTAINE’S POV
Looks down on several lazy BODYGUARDS playing a board game,
Monopoly. Dozens of bottles of alcohol. Bodyguards seem to be
arguing over the placement of a hotel on the board.
5.
BACK TO SCENE
Fontaine looks in a dark first floor window. He shakes his
head, points at the window. Loni nods.
Loni pulls a tiny jar of dark jelly from her utility belt.
With a tiny Swiss Army Knife Trowel, she spreads the dark
stuff all across the window.
Simultaneously, Fontaine swings up to a cloth awning over a
porch, quickly cuts a large square of cloth out with a sharp
knife. He drops to the ground.
Fontaine puts the cloth on the sticky window, presses on the
cloth to ensure total adherence.
Loni holds two corners of the cloth...
Fontaine swings his elbow at the cloth, hard, fast. The
window shatters, but noiseless.
Loni pulls the cloth free, dozens of window shards stuck to
it, lays it on the ground.
They climb through the broken window.
INT. ACEDO MANSION - KITCHEN - NIGHT
Dark. A large kitchen, gorgeous granite and marble, all the
latest appliances.
Fontaine and Loni tip-toe past a hanging rack of sparkling
sleek steel knives. Fontaine pauses to admire them, takes one
down.
The overhead light flicks on.
Loni panics, falls flat on the floor. Fontaine ducks behind
an island counter.
BEATRISA ACEDO (17), the most innocent face this side of the
Virgin Mary, plods sleepily towards the refrigerator, rubs
her eyes.
Barefooted, nightgowned, she breastfeeds a gurgling infant,
VIJUANITO ACEDO (2 months), juggles him as she opens the
fridge door.
Loni scrabbles backwards, crab-like, unfolds the tripod
underneath her silenced handgun pointed up at Beatrisa. She
sets up a perfect shot.
6.
Fontaine is mesmerized, stares at the baby, the tiny wrinkled
crossed feet, the inoffensive tiny fingers, the gentle little
neck craned back for food.
Fontaine looks disarmed, nothing warlike about him at all.
Loni looks to Fontaine for permission to fire. Fontaine
shakes his head.
Beatrisa drinks down a half-empty bottle of milk. She murmurs
a lullaby under her breath.
Loni glares at Fontaine: “Are you crazy?”
Loni points the gun at Beatrisa again.
Fontaine scrambles across the floor, pounces on Loni, holds
her gun down.
Loni wriggles under him, tries to get free, makes noise.
Beatrisa looks down, sees them on the floor. Face goes ashen.
BEATRISA
(in Spanish)
Holy Virgin, protect me.
Fontaine waves at her: “Go away, get out of here.”
Beatrisa vanishes, slips out. Turns out the light.
Loni jumps to a crouch, juts her jaw into Fontaine’s face.
LONI
(hiss)
I had a perfect... Let me do one!
Fontaine puts his hand over her mouth, thumb on one side,
fingers on the other, grips her cheeks.
FONTAINE
What’d that baby ever do?
He stands, brings her to her feet, releases her face.
She rubs her cheeks.
Fontaine raises another finger: No more talking.
The light flicks on again.
No time to duck.
7.
A dark figure stands in the doorway, holds a silenced gun in
each hand, pointed at Loni and Fontaine. This is AMNUL
DEMIDOV (40s), Russian killer, eyes of death, lips of honey.
A standoff. Loni’s gun is in a lowered hand. Fontaine’s knife
hand is behind the island counter, out of Demidov’s sight.
Demidov smiles, enjoys the sight of two burglars discomfited
in the kitchen. He shakes his head, “tsk-tsk”.
FONTAINE
(in Spanish)
We’re here for the dishwasher.
Fontaine bends over the appliance, pretends to examine it.
DEMIDOV
(in English)
And I am Vladimir Lenin.
Fontaine, confusion, hears the accent.
FONTAINE
You’re not a bodyguard.
DEMIDOV
Depends on whose body. Now that
body...
Demidov gestures at Loni.
FONTAINE
You’re him.
Loni looks at Fontaine, her eyes wide open.
FONTAINE
You’re Demidov.
Demidov, a slight, mocking bow.
DEMIDOV
Orders are orders. A pity about
your wife, she was--
A pig squeals in a hallway. Voices coming near.
DEMIDOV
(in Russian)
Oh, fuck.
Demidov turns off the light switch with an elbow, dives for
the island counter.
8.
Fontaine throws a knife at the diving shape...
And hits a miniature pot-bellied pig instead. The pig appears
in the doorway, its feet slipping on the slick tiled floor,
and takes a knife dead between the eyes. The pig falls with a
surprised, and somewhat disappointed, grunt.
Fontaine and Loni drop to the floor behind the counter.
LONI
I think you got him.
BODYGUARD #1 flicks on the light, sees the butchered animal.
Demidov shoots Bodyguard #1, a perfect forehead hole.
DEMIDOV
You kill a pig, I kill a pig.
Demidov dashes to the light switch, covers the kitchen with
his guns, turns the lights off.
DEMIDOV
Where is Acedo?
LONI
Downstairs.
No answer.
Fontaine peeks his head around the counter. No one there.
Fontaine jumps out the broken window, Loni at his heels.
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
Fontaine scoots around the house, peeks through every
basement window he can find.
Loni tags behind like a bewildered puppy.
LONI
(whisper)
But I thought... And what’s Demidov
doing here?
Fontaine freezes. Points through a basement window.
9.
FONTAINE’S POV
A movie projector and a giant screen. VIJUAN ACEDO (50s), a
petty kingpin, more grease than hair on his head, sits in an
armchair ten feet from the screen. Surrounded by dozing
Bodyguards. The movie: a terrible B-grade love story.
BACK TO SCENE
Loni sucks a sturdy stick of chewing gun, softens it.
Fontaine pieces together a silenced sniper rifle from plastic
components stored in his utility belt.
She takes a diamond ring off her finger, makes a tiny circle
in the window with the diamond, cuts it like silent butter.
She plunks the gum onto the glass circle. She tugs the piece
out.
Fontaine puts the rifle into the hole, rests the end on the
cut glass. He takes Acedo into his sight.
FONTAINE’S POV
Demidov enters his field of view, stealthy, stalking Acedo
from behind, creeping through the sleeping Bodyguards, gun
drawn.
Fontaine pulls the trigger.
Acedo slumps to the side, a perfect shot through his temple.
Fontaine shifts his sight to Demidov...
Demidov, angry, swings his gun to the window, fires.
BACK TO SCENE
Fontaine pulls the rifle out of the hole, throws himself
backwards, knocks Loni down. They are unhit.
INT. ACEDO MANSION - BASEMENT - NIGHT
Demidov wanders around, casual, puts bullets in each
Bodyguard’s head.
He stares up at the window, peeved. Unclips something from an
inside pocket.
10.
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
A large grenade crashes through the window, lands on the
grass beside Fontaine.
Fontaine and Loni scramble to their feet, race in opposite
directions.
Fontaine trips and falls over something sticking out of the
ground, a thick three-pronged small vertical wire.
A bounding mine shoots out of the ground between his legs,
pops several feet into the air.
Fontaine curls into a tiny ball.
The bounding mine explodes. Tiny bits of razor-sharp shrapnel
fly in all directions. Except straight down. Which is where
Fontaine is.
The shrapnel peppers holes in the stone mansion.
Fontaine breathes, amazed he’s still alive. He sits up.
Demidov’s grenade explodes. It’s a sting grenade, sucks all
of the air out of Fontaine’s lungs, pelts him with hard
rubber balls at high speed.
Fontaine falls over, pain... unconscious...
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
Fontaine wakes up, winces, skinsuit tattered, Maureen’s
picture torn and visible.
Demidov stands over him.
DEMIDOV
I wonder why we are not allies. We
are wanting the same blood.
Fontaine blinks. Looks around the compound.
FONTAINE
You take Loni, too?
DEMIDOV
It is a good job.
Demidov beams a charming smile.
Fontaine makes a sudden lunge at Demidov’s throat, bounces
his whole body up off the grass.
11.
Demidov whips a shrapnel shard, no larger than a pinky nail,
up to Fontaine’s approaching neck. Even a splinter can cut a
throat in the right hands.
Fontaine stops on a dime, frozen in an awkward back-bending
crouch, his fists clenched so tight, his rage palpable.
Demidov’s smile vanishes.
DEMIDOV
Down.
Demidov catches him by surprise with a kick to the groin.
Fontaine doubles up.
Demidov backs away, about to say something, chooses not to,
slips around the mansion towards the front. An engine starts,
sounds like a nice sports car, zooms away.
Fontaine climbs to his feet, races after Demidov.
FONTAINE
Loni? Loni?
No response.
Distant sirens approach the front of the compound.
Fontaine stops. He smashes a fist against the stone mansion,
bloodies himself. He looks to the sky with an anguished,
unspoken fury on his lips.
EXT. MARKET - NIGHT
Fontaine rockets over the wall, vaults to freedom.
He lands, cat-like, on feather toes. Flits off, disappears.
EXT. RIO - STREETS - NIGHT
Fontaine sprints for the ocean, oblivious to the crowds of
PEDESTRIANS, oblivious to traffic lights.
EXT. GUANABARA BAY (RIO) - NIGHT
Fontaine races to the shore. A normal man would stop.
He hurtles bodylong into the water, disappears.
ONLOOKERS shrug, look away. Just another night in Rio.
12.
EXT. RIO - DOCKS - NIGHT
Fontaine clings to the underside of a wooden pier. He
shivers, soaked. Only upper-body strength keeps him afloat.
He waits. Maureen’s picture melts into a pulp.
EXT. JOBIM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (RIO) - DAY
A figure stumps across the tarmac, coming from the sea. It is
Fontaine, and he is dripping wet. And alone.
He’s rolled the skinsuit down to his waist, looks like a
scuba-diver.
Fontaine shouts something under the screaming engines to a
group of BAGGAGE HANDLERS near a standing airplane. Baggage
Handlers stalk off to the terminal, argue amongst themselves.
Fontaine slips up into the luggage hold.
INT. AIRPLANE - LUGGAGE HOLD - DARK
Fontaine roots among the luggage, finds a giant steel trunk
at the bottom, a paid shipment with stickers.
Fontaine spins combination locks, opens the trunk.
INSIDE THE TRUNK - LATER
Engine noise. Unbearable.
Fontaine has put on street clothes, wraps blankets around
himself to stay warm. Holds an oxygen mask to his mouth.
A second oxygen mask, unused.
He looks asleep, but his eyes are open. Open and melancholy.
Shivers in the cold.
His gun, Peacekeeper, alone and small on the floor.
EXT. CHICAGO - SMALL HOUSE - DAY
An old, run-down semi-urban neighborhood. Houses right on top
of each other. Chain-link fences.
A small frumpy old car chugs at double the residential speed
limit, pulls up, parallel parks perfectly the first time.
13.
Fontaine gets out, slips around the back of the small house.
INT. SMALL HOUSE - BASEMENT ENTRY - DAY
Fontaine plods down the back steps, ducks into the entry, his
path blocked by a flat cement wall with a small heavy door.
He puts his thumb on a bio-reader, types a several-digit code
into a security box. Click.
Fontaine grasps the door, pulls it open with a soft hiss.
INT. SMALL HOUSE - BASEMENT - DAY
A simple square table. Four computers, one in each direction.
Three computers occupied by three COMPUTER USERS (30s),
frumpy, pudgy, parted haircuts, tapered dark blue jeans,
colorless buttondown shirts. Bland tapioca triplets stare
like automatons into loving data-covered monitors.
Fontaine pulls the door tight. No one looks up.
Fontaine plops down at the empty computer, logs in, opens a
word processing program. A small can of tomato juice waits
for him. He drinks it down.
COMPUTER USER #1
Had a job proposal from Apple.
COMPUTER USER #2
The Apple of Apple, Apple?
COMPUTER USER #1
But no offer of combat pay.
Fontaine types: “Agents John Fontaine, Loni Emery. Mission
Report #47722. Mission Successful.”
COMPUTER USER #2
It’s the little things.
Fontaine looks at his hands. Closes his eyes.
He types without looking: “Encountered Amnul Demidov. Agent
Emery missing.”
COMPUTER USER #1
Apple frowns on forgeries, too.
Fontaine bites his lip. A tear forms in one eye...
14.
THE REMAINDER OF THIS SCRIPT IS UNAVAILABLE FOR PREVIEW.
PLEASE CONTACT THE AUTHOR FOR THE FULL SCRIPT.

Wiggliness

Logline: "A free-spirited school bus driver dismantles the selfish dysfunction of the family next door, enlivening them with Wiggliness, a magical enlightenment manifested as an infectious dance."

My wife and I were recently lamenting the lack of quality family films that featured a "functional" family unit of two parents and children. So many of these genre films lack two-parent households or even rudimentary politeness.

My goal with this film, then, was to create something that I would be proud to take my four-year-old to see in the theater: a movie with arresting visuals for the kids, puns and jokes for the adults, and valuable everyday morals for after-viewing discussion.

Enjoy.

WIGGLINESS by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1333235 2. Sound: dogs snuffle and sniff. FADE IN: INT. CHEMICAL LABORATORY - DAY A human nose. Over a glass beaker of yucky green liquid. An uncertain sniff. Gains confidence, sniffs stronger. The nose belongs to MOM FAMILY (37), confident ditziness in a sunbather’s body. She wears a white labcoat over a polkadotted sundress, hair bobbed in ‘50’s style. MOM A little less black licorice, a little more anise. Holding the beaker: DR. MISTER (50s), eyeglasses falling off his face, name stitched onto his own white labcoat. DR. MISTER But, Mrs. Family, anise is black licorice. MOM Then it’s perfect! Dr. Mister pushes his glasses up his nose in confusion. INT. OFFICE - HOSPITAL - DAY A sickly smile etched on the face of DAD FAMILY (39), a muscle-bound jock in imagination only. Dad stands in front of a giant mahogany desk, holds up a small silver box in a trembling hand. DAD But don’t you even want to hear about all the new features in this year’s model-An imposing face thrusts toward across the desk: MRS. BOSS (60), a white-haired Amazon. MRS. BOSS What’s the cost, Mr. Family? Dad puts up a finger, tries to regain control. 3. DAD You know, I think, once you test the new rechargeable-The cost. Dad gulps. INT. CHEMICAL LABORATORY - DAY Mom walks along a high counter full of beakers and glasses, each filled with a different colored liquid. She sniffs each one. She blows air out through her nostrils after each one. MOM Too much like dandelion. Peach. Persimmon. Meaty. Antifreeze. Manure. Ah, ah, there it is! Mom lifts a beaker of black sludge. Gazes at it like gold. MOM Perfect citrus just like an orange! Dr. Mister shuffles over, pulls out a syringe of clear solution, squeezes out three drops into the sludge. The black turns a crystal-clear orange color, the consistency turns to water. Mom takes a deep breath. MOM Perfect! That’s the one. INT. OFFICE - HOSPITAL - DAY Mrs. Boss, eyelids almost closed in boredom. Dad speaks a million words a second, tries to win the sale. DAD Then this button on the side is a time-saving device that all your doctors can use, more time, you know. MRS. BOSS 4. DAD (CONT'D) It’ll pull the patient’s tongue out all by itself and, well, help them say aah without lifting a finger so then the doctor can look in and say, “All spiffy and spicky span”, and the patient will be happy and the doctors will be so happy that you bought them and you only-- Mrs. Boss raises a hand, a stern look, arched eyebrows. Dad pauses, worried. MRS. BOSS You say the doctors here will like me better? Dad nods, foreboding floods his face. MRS. BOSS I’ll take a hundred. DAD Oh, wow! Yes, Mrs. Boss, we’ll be sure to deliver those next week. EXT. SUBURBAN CUL-DE-SAC - FAMILY HOUSE - AFTERNOON Perfectly quiet. Empty wide-spaced homes. Not a car in a driveway, not a person in sight. A large yellow school bus pulls into the cul-de-sac, brakes squeak, stops with a huff. The bus door opens... CHILDREN flood out of the bus, cover the cul-de-sac with noise and color and movement, seem like thousands. Last off the bus, four kids who stick together: GRACIE FAMILY (14), pretty, prim, not-quite-popular; ALEXA FAMILY (11), chubby and lovely, thoughtful eyes; SOPHIA FAMILY (9), the smart kid, thick glasses; ETHAN FAMILY (7), a boy’s boy. The Family kids walk to their house in a clump, through crowds of active Children who pay them no attention. DR. MISTER (V.O.) So how are the children? 5. MOM (V.O.) Great, thanks for asking. Gracie’s really made a lot of friends. Gracie looks ashamed that no Children are talking to her. MOM (V.O.) Alexa’s not sure what she wants to be when she grows up, of course. Alexa’s backpack displays an Olympic figure skater. She wears leotards. She twirls and spins absently. MOM (V.O.) Sophia has such a sense of humor. Sophia’s intelligent eyes are serious. The Family kids reach the front door. Gracie unlocks it. MOM (V.O.) And Ethan, oh Ethan. I’m afraid he’s too influenced by the girls. Ethan jumps and bounces, hardly still for a second. Barks like a dog, howls at the sky. Ethan is yanked inside by Gracie’s arm. INT. CHEMICAL LABORATORY - AFTERNOON Dr. Mister and Mom clean up the lab counters, pour beakers into a slop sink. MOM They must be getting back around now. They usually beat me home. DR. MISTER My wife and I haven’t been able to have any. It must be great to come home to children. MOM (struck by thought) Why, yes, I guess it is. INT. OFFICE - AFTERNOON Dad pushes unending forms and papers across the desk. Mrs. Boss fills out all the forms, hundreds of signatures. 6. MRS. BOSS So what about you, Mr. Family? Do you really have a family? Hahaha. Dad rolls his eyes. He’s never heard that one before. DAD Yeah. Four kids. MRS. BOSS They must keep you busy. What do you do for fun? Fun? DAD The rest of this script is unavailable for preview. Please contact the author to view the script in its entirety. 

ZZZZZZZ

This playful, comedic short delivers a scathing lampooning. Of whom? Well, I guess you can make up your own mind on that.

Note that whenever Milady Threet interrupts, she always steals Fremayne's next syllable as the beginning of her statement, a subtle indication of her self-serving anti-others personality. Or at least, it was subtle until I just mentioned it.

ZZZZZZZ by Kyle Patrick Johnson An Original Screenplay KyleJohnsonScripts@gmail.com Represented by: Contact: Phone: Fax: Email: Website: Canton Literary Management Eric Canton 866.429.3118 888.843.7193 Ecanton@prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. CASTLE - DRAWING ROOM - DAY Tapestries hang from massive stone walls, flank small glassless windows. The ceiling is out of sight. MILADY THREET (40s), lies on luxurious satin cushions, on a sumptuous soft couch. She sleeps. Threet’s makeup is gaudy: lips too orange, eyelashes too long, eyelids too blue, cheeks too red. She snores. FREMAYNE (20s), a liveried servant, pops in at the sturdy wood doorway. FREMAYNE Milady Threet! Madame! Threet, startled, flicks her eyes open, noisily sucks in a short strand of drool from the corner of her mouth. MILADY THREET Whuzzahundawhoahhhh... She blinks, props herself on an elbow. Sees Fremayne. Straightens immediately. MILADY THREET Oh, it’s just you. What, what? FREMAYNE King Ganadine requests your presence in the throneroom, Milady. MILADY THREET It’s my naptime, Fremayne. FREMAYNE Yes, Milady. But the King has appointed this day to choose a new Steward for the Cas-MILADY THREET I’ll go down later, there’ll be time enough. That’s what a lady ought to do. 2. FREMAYNE Oh, Milady, but the position has such import-MILADY THREET Answer me this, Fremayne, why is it the King always wants me to come at his beck when he will not allow me to have my very own tailor? Fremayne’s right hand twitches. FREMAYNE Milady, I but carry the mess-MILADY THREET A gentleman would leave my sleep. Fremayne bites his tongue, bows his way out. Threet resettles herself on the cushions. Her breathing slows. She is again asleep. Her sleepy hand wanders up to her face. She snuggles, a full-body wriggle. She picks her nose. First the left nostril, then the right. A small wooden bowl of red grapes sits on a footstool. Her wandering hand flops on the fruit. Still asleep, her hand pulls a grape off the vine. The hand brings it up towards her mouth. Can she do it? In her sleep? It creeps closer, closer to her mouth. The mouth yawns open. The hand covers the mouth. The hand moves away, yawn over. The grape is not in the mouth. The grape is stuck in a nostril. She snores, now with a whistling wheeze as the grape rocks back and forth, in and out. FREMAYNE (20s), pops in again at the door. 3. FREMAYNE Milady Threet! Madame! Threet sits up with a start. The grape squirts out of her nose, pinging the doorframe just above Fremayne’s head. He takes no notice. Threet smooths her billowing dress. She looks up with a regal air. She sees Fremayne. She deflates. MILADY THREET Again, Fremayne? What, what, what? FREMAYNE I’m terribly sorry, Milady, but the King says we are under at-MILADY THREET Tact, Fremayne, decorum! Always say “His Majesty”. FREMAYNE Yes, Milady. His Majesty reports that the Hun hordes are encamped about the castle w-MILADY THREET All the King’s reports are gross exaggerations. The Huns couldn’t possibly be as gross or as exaggerated as all that. Threet inspects her fingernails, head aslant. Fremayne’s right arm twitches. FREMAYNE Milady, the King suggests that you pack your things for immediate ev-MILADY THREET Vacation? He’s trying to buy me off for not giving me my own tailor. She waves her hand, sending him off. Fremayne leaves, rolling his eyes. Threet plops backwards onto her cushions, looks up at the ceiling. 4. With an exasperated sigh, she heaves herself up, rolling over. She smacks at the cushions, making them evenly poofy. She settles back down slowly, savoring the luxury. She peeks at the door, sees no one, puts her thumb in her mouth, sucks. Her other hand plays with her hair, twisting it, caressing it. She sucks and plays. She plays and sucks. Her eyes close. Fremayne appears at the door, his right hand twitching. FREMAYNE Milady Threet! Madame! Threet jumps several inches off the couch, her thumb popping noisily out of her mouth. MILADY THREET What, what? Go away! FREMAYNE The Huns... the castle... breached... our men-at-arms fleeing, the captains and sar-MILADY THREET Aren’t you going to apologize for waking me up? How dare you! FREMAYNE No time for apologies, Milady. Time to r-MILADY THREET Under no circumstances will I take orders from you, twitnit! I’m a real lady! Fremayne’s whole right side twitches, eyeballs bulge. FREMAYNE The Huns are coming up the stairs! I’ve told you over and over ag-MILADY THREET Anyone is preferable to your rudeness, Fremayne. Begone. 5. Fremayne, relieved, bolts through the room. Threet’s hair is slightly mussed by the wind as Fremayne dashes by. Fremayne dives out a window. My hair! MILADY THREET Threet fusses and fixes her hair. She lies back on the couch. Threet closes her eyes. Several large HUN WARRIORS stomp in at the door. They hold battleaxes at the ready, snarling with bloodlust. Threet opens her eyes. The Huns advance, lifting their weapons. MILADY THREET You couldn’t possibly be my tailors. I never get what I want. FADE OUT.