"omg! I read it like I was actually there watching, instead of reading!"
Ty has recently completed the screenplay adaptation. If you'd like to read it in its entirety in a Word doc format, just ask! (note: O.S. means "off-screen" and V.O. means "voice-over". B.G. is "background")
FADE IN
EXT. – DAY
A rolling, wooded countryside, the occasional cedar tree the only green save for the just-budding leaves on otherwise barren branches. Stray patches of melting snow dot spaces of brown earth.
The male NARRATOR has a mature, slightly-raspy voice, and a definite mid-western drawl.
Light TYPING is heard b.g. throughout as he speaks.
NARRATOR
Some folks believe that when you
die, you go to Heaven. I write
that with a capital “H” in case it
really does exist, and in case
there’s a chance in Hell I’ll ever
get to go there. Not real sure why
I capitalize “Hell.” Maybe for the
same reason I capitalize “Oklahoma.”
The wooded hills gradually become a grassy plain, then an empty field, a lone FARMER on a tractor slowly plowing even rows in the dark spotless soil.
NARRATOR (cont.)
This ain’t Oklahoma, though. This
is Wilson, Tennessee. It’s where my
story kinda ends. Of course, it’s
also where my story kinda begins.
The field leads to another patch of woods, which thins as it gives way to first one house, then a few, then a subdivision...
NARRATOR (cont.)
Apparently one of the main
requirements for going to this swell
place, Heaven, is that you have to
believe you’re going there. You
don’t just live a righteous life and
wind up there surprised, thinking,
well I guess this sure beats the Hell
out of nothing!
A suburban neighborhood street, rows of untidy, mainly brick houses on either side, driveways occupied by dirty late-model sedans and pick-ups.
A couple of KIDS on bikes are being chased by a mongrel dog, a FATHER and SON are playing catch in a shabby front yard.
NARRATOR (cont.)
And if I’ve understood what I’ve
read and been told, believing
you’re going there sometimes trumps
actually living a righteous life,
and there’s a little loophole whereby
you can sin like a motherfucker –
even using words like “motherfucker”,
torture bunnies, drink, gamble, have
sex with hookers, make fun of nuns,
maybe even send some righteous folks
to Heaven, and, if you ask for
forgiveness, you still got your
ticket.
One house on the street stands out – not because it’s neater in appearance, but because directly behind the junker pick-up in the drive sits a brand-new Ford F-150, next to a new Triton bass boat.
The front porch though, is typical redneck: a couple of dirty-white plastic chairs book-end a blue Igloo cooler.
NARRATOR (cont.)
Seems to me this would kind of give
an unfair advantage to those dying
long, slow deaths, and leave those
who get shot in the head or hit by
a train or a falling meteor sucking
everlasting hind teat, as it were.
INSERT – COMPUTER SCREEN
The Narrator’s WORDS are being typed out.
NARRATOR (cont.)
Trust me. I know the taste of hind
teat.
The b.g. TYPING stops.
INSERT – TV SCREEN
A sow lays on her side in the mud, nursing several young.
TV NARRATOR
A sow can give birth twice a year,
with as many as nine to ten piglets
per litter.
A MAN’S voice is heard.
MAN (O.S.)
Goddamn Elenore. What the hell are
you watchin’?
INT. – THE HOME
The light of the TV illuminates ELENORE. She is an obese woman in her early 40’s, lying on a large cushioned sofa in the living room.
TV NARRATOR
She will wean her young at anywhere
from four to eight weeks of age.
Elenore’s eyes don’t leave the TV screen.
ELENORE
It’s a document-ry about hogs.
She turns her head away from the TV and looks OS.
ELENORE (cont.)
Did you know hogs have been known
to eat a hog-farmer?
Standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen is MACK. He, too, is obese and in his early 40’s.
He holds a beer in one hand, a paper plate stacked with a sandwich and chips in the other.
MACK
Cool. They show that?
ELENORE
Nah.
Mack walks with a defined limp to a large recliner at the near end of the sofa, sets down his plate and his beer on the coffee table.
MACK
‘Cause if they did I might just have
to record the NASCAR.
ELENORE
You ain’t right.
As Mack lumbers out of the room and down a long hallway, at the end of which is a closed door, the b.g. TYPING resumes.
NARRATOR
On the other hand, there are those
who believe that death is an abyss,
the Big Nothing, that we make our
own Heavens or Hells right here on
Earth during whatever amount of time
we have allotted. Which is, at the
very least, a more convenient way to
look at it.
Mack looks at the closed door for a moment, listening, then shakes his head and turns into a room to his right, closing that door behind him.
NARRATOR (cont.)
There are even those who believe
that life is but a dream, and death
is an awakening from that dream.
Not sure I even understand that,
because it seems it would mean that
everybody would be havin’ the same
dream, and I’ve always kinda liked
to keep my dreams to myself.
A toilet flushes, and Mack emerges from the bathroom. He stops in the hallway, listening.
NARRATOR (cont.)
Besides, what would be the difference
between a dream perceived as reality
and true objective reality? If such
a thing exists.
Mack limps to the closed door, a puzzled look on his face. He puts his ear to the door.
He quickly limps back down the hall to the living room.
MACK
(whispers)
Elenore!
Elenore takes her eyes from the screen and looks at her husband.
MACK
I think Willard’s in their goddamned
typing!
ELENORE
Shut the front door.
Mack turns and limps back to the closed door, once again presses his ear against it.
NARRATOR (cont.)
I’ll leave that to the philosophers.
They’ve got more inclination to
ponder such things, although it seems
like I may have infinitely more time.
The b.g. TYPING stops as Mack throws open the door.
Sitting on his bed, his eyes staring straight ahead, his fingers on the keyboard of a laptop computer, sits twelve-year-old WILLARD. Like his parents, he’s overweight, though not yet obese.
Mack’s eyes are wide, his mouth open in surprise.
MACK
Goddamn boy! You don’t know how to
type!
Willard turns his head quickly toward his father as he slams the laptop shut.
He speaks as a child, but with the familiar drawl of the Narrator.
WILLARD
I can’t believe I fucking lost my
fucking capo again!
Ty has recently completed the screenplay adaptation. If you'd like to read it in its entirety in a Word doc format, just ask! (note: O.S. means "off-screen" and V.O. means "voice-over". B.G. is "background")
FADE IN
EXT. – DAY
A rolling, wooded countryside, the occasional cedar tree the only green save for the just-budding leaves on otherwise barren branches. Stray patches of melting snow dot spaces of brown earth.
The male NARRATOR has a mature, slightly-raspy voice, and a definite mid-western drawl.
Light TYPING is heard b.g. throughout as he speaks.
NARRATOR
Some folks believe that when you
die, you go to Heaven. I write
that with a capital “H” in case it
really does exist, and in case
there’s a chance in Hell I’ll ever
get to go there. Not real sure why
I capitalize “Hell.” Maybe for the
same reason I capitalize “Oklahoma.”
The wooded hills gradually become a grassy plain, then an empty field, a lone FARMER on a tractor slowly plowing even rows in the dark spotless soil.
NARRATOR (cont.)
This ain’t Oklahoma, though. This
is Wilson, Tennessee. It’s where my
story kinda ends. Of course, it’s
also where my story kinda begins.
The field leads to another patch of woods, which thins as it gives way to first one house, then a few, then a subdivision...
NARRATOR (cont.)
Apparently one of the main
requirements for going to this swell
place, Heaven, is that you have to
believe you’re going there. You
don’t just live a righteous life and
wind up there surprised, thinking,
well I guess this sure beats the Hell
out of nothing!
A suburban neighborhood street, rows of untidy, mainly brick houses on either side, driveways occupied by dirty late-model sedans and pick-ups.
A couple of KIDS on bikes are being chased by a mongrel dog, a FATHER and SON are playing catch in a shabby front yard.
NARRATOR (cont.)
And if I’ve understood what I’ve
read and been told, believing
you’re going there sometimes trumps
actually living a righteous life,
and there’s a little loophole whereby
you can sin like a motherfucker –
even using words like “motherfucker”,
torture bunnies, drink, gamble, have
sex with hookers, make fun of nuns,
maybe even send some righteous folks
to Heaven, and, if you ask for
forgiveness, you still got your
ticket.
One house on the street stands out – not because it’s neater in appearance, but because directly behind the junker pick-up in the drive sits a brand-new Ford F-150, next to a new Triton bass boat.
The front porch though, is typical redneck: a couple of dirty-white plastic chairs book-end a blue Igloo cooler.
NARRATOR (cont.)
Seems to me this would kind of give
an unfair advantage to those dying
long, slow deaths, and leave those
who get shot in the head or hit by
a train or a falling meteor sucking
everlasting hind teat, as it were.
INSERT – COMPUTER SCREEN
The Narrator’s WORDS are being typed out.
NARRATOR (cont.)
Trust me. I know the taste of hind
teat.
The b.g. TYPING stops.
INSERT – TV SCREEN
A sow lays on her side in the mud, nursing several young.
TV NARRATOR
A sow can give birth twice a year,
with as many as nine to ten piglets
per litter.
A MAN’S voice is heard.
MAN (O.S.)
Goddamn Elenore. What the hell are
you watchin’?
INT. – THE HOME
The light of the TV illuminates ELENORE. She is an obese woman in her early 40’s, lying on a large cushioned sofa in the living room.
TV NARRATOR
She will wean her young at anywhere
from four to eight weeks of age.
Elenore’s eyes don’t leave the TV screen.
ELENORE
It’s a document-ry about hogs.
She turns her head away from the TV and looks OS.
ELENORE (cont.)
Did you know hogs have been known
to eat a hog-farmer?
Standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen is MACK. He, too, is obese and in his early 40’s.
He holds a beer in one hand, a paper plate stacked with a sandwich and chips in the other.
MACK
Cool. They show that?
ELENORE
Nah.
Mack walks with a defined limp to a large recliner at the near end of the sofa, sets down his plate and his beer on the coffee table.
MACK
‘Cause if they did I might just have
to record the NASCAR.
ELENORE
You ain’t right.
As Mack lumbers out of the room and down a long hallway, at the end of which is a closed door, the b.g. TYPING resumes.
NARRATOR
On the other hand, there are those
who believe that death is an abyss,
the Big Nothing, that we make our
own Heavens or Hells right here on
Earth during whatever amount of time
we have allotted. Which is, at the
very least, a more convenient way to
look at it.
Mack looks at the closed door for a moment, listening, then shakes his head and turns into a room to his right, closing that door behind him.
NARRATOR (cont.)
There are even those who believe
that life is but a dream, and death
is an awakening from that dream.
Not sure I even understand that,
because it seems it would mean that
everybody would be havin’ the same
dream, and I’ve always kinda liked
to keep my dreams to myself.
A toilet flushes, and Mack emerges from the bathroom. He stops in the hallway, listening.
NARRATOR (cont.)
Besides, what would be the difference
between a dream perceived as reality
and true objective reality? If such
a thing exists.
Mack limps to the closed door, a puzzled look on his face. He puts his ear to the door.
He quickly limps back down the hall to the living room.
MACK
(whispers)
Elenore!
Elenore takes her eyes from the screen and looks at her husband.
MACK
I think Willard’s in their goddamned
typing!
ELENORE
Shut the front door.
Mack turns and limps back to the closed door, once again presses his ear against it.
NARRATOR (cont.)
I’ll leave that to the philosophers.
They’ve got more inclination to
ponder such things, although it seems
like I may have infinitely more time.
The b.g. TYPING stops as Mack throws open the door.
Sitting on his bed, his eyes staring straight ahead, his fingers on the keyboard of a laptop computer, sits twelve-year-old WILLARD. Like his parents, he’s overweight, though not yet obese.
Mack’s eyes are wide, his mouth open in surprise.
MACK
Goddamn boy! You don’t know how to
type!
Willard turns his head quickly toward his father as he slams the laptop shut.
He speaks as a child, but with the familiar drawl of the Narrator.
WILLARD
I can’t believe I fucking lost my
fucking capo again!