Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

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  • Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

    Thanks to all who participated. We have 5 entries:

    A Nearly Terminal Case Of Death
    Bring Me The Head
    Throne Games
    Chilled
    Leviathan

    You know how it goes, PM or email me your 1st, 2nd and 3rd choices, preferably in the format:

    1st - title1
    2nd - title2
    3rd - title3

    How about aiming for Saturday? If I receive everyone's votes before then, I'll post the results early.

    Edit: I should have said, please don't vote for your own entry. If this was allowed then everyone would do it, so it would just cloud the voting.

    If you don't like the code boxes, which preserve formatting, try selecting Thread Tools > Show Printable Version instead.

    You're not required to enter the contest in order to vote, all members are welcome to join in the fun.

    If you make notes while reading and want to post comments on and/or discuss the entries, you can do this when the results thread gets posted.

    For posterity, the contest discussion thread is here and the results thread is here.
    Last edited by dpaterso; 07-16-2016, 11:40 PM.

    Nobody knows nothing, and I'm nobody.

    Oh Those Hot Summer Nights script contest
    5 pages, deadline next Sunday

  • #2
    Re: Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

    Code:
    A NEARLY TERMINAL CASE OF DEATH
    
    FADE IN:
    
    INT. DOCTOR'S WAITING ROOM - DAY
    
    JONATHAN PIFF, dusty, shriveled, age indeterminate, shambles
    anxiously, often bumping clumsily into chairs in the small
    waiting room. He looks at the clock -- half past nine.
    
    The receptionist, MISS WHITE, early twenties, prim, greets
    Jonathan with a sardonic smile when he comes to her desk.
    
                           MISS WHITE
               Can I help you, Mr. Piff?
    
                           JONATHAN
               My appointment was for nine. It's
               half past.
    
                           MISS WHITE
               Yes, thank you for reminding me, yet
               again. As I have said several times
               before, Dr. Inman will see you as
               soon as he is free.
    
    As if on cue, the phone intercom comes to life.
    
                           DR. INMAN (on intercom)
               You can send the patient in now,
               Miss White.
    
    She smiles again and points Jonathan in the right direction.
    When he's at the doorway she notices something on the floor.
    
                           MISS WHITE
               Mr. Piff, I think you dropped
               something.
    
                            JONATHAN
               What?
    
                           MISS WHITE
               A finger, I think.
    
    She retrieves it off the floor and gives him the finger.
    
                            JONATHAN
               Pardon me. That's embarrassing.
    
                            MISS WHITE
               Yes.
    
    When he leaves the room, her smile evaporates the moment the
    doctor's door closes behind him.
    
    
    INT. DOCTOR'S OFFICE - DAY
    
    The office is large and cluttered -- on one end there's a
    exam table and on the other a large desk, piled high with
    file folders and notebooks.
    
    Behind the desk, sits DR. INMAN, fifties and fit, a little
    gray hair and a little tired looking. He writes notes as
    Jonathan waits quietly but impatiently in front of the desk.
    
    Finally, Dr. Inman looks up.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Ah, Mr. Piff, sorry to keep you
              waiting. Please have a seat.
    
    Jonathan sits down as Dr. Inman finds a fresh notebook.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              What seems to be the problem?
    
                          JONATHAN
              I don't feel good.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Something specific?
    
    Jonathan thinks for a moment and silently counts on his
    fingers, noticing the missing one.
    
                          JONATHAN
              I'm falling apart, for one thing.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              In what way?
    
                          JONATHAN
              Things are falling off of me. I had
              to duct tape my head back on
              yesterday.
    
    Dr. Inman writes in his notebook.    Smiles at Jonathan.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Would you say this problem is getting
              worse or better?
    
                          JONATHAN
              Worse, much worse. Increasingly
              worse.
    
                             DR. INMAN
              I see.
    
    Again he writes in his notebook.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Anything else?
    
                          JONATHAN
              I don't have much of an appetite
              anymore. I can't really feel when I
              touch. I'm forever bumping into
              things and there's no pain.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Are you active in politics?
    
                          JONATHAN
              What?
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Are you involved in politics, a
              regular voter, that sort of thing?
    
                            JONATHAN
              Yes, but...
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Here, in Chicago?
    
                            JONATHAN
              Yes?...
    
    Dr. Inman grabs another notepad scribbles for a moment or
    two.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Would you like me to have Miss White
              bring in some delicious, fresh, raw,
              human brains for breakfast?
    
    Jonathan glares across the desk, like the doctor grew horns.
    
                          JONATHAN
              What the hell! Why would you ask
              that?
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Just a standard question in these
              situations. Had to ask.
    
    Now completely wound up, Jonathan eyes the exit.
    
    The doctor finishes writing, leans back in his chair and
    folds his hands in front of him.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              I think I'm ready to make a diagnosis
              now, Mr. Piff.
    
    Jonathan looks over at the other end of the office -- at the
    exam table.
    
                          JONATHAN
              But you haven't even looked at me
              yet.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              I think I've seen enough, Mr. Piff.
              You're decomposing. We really should
              get you checked into a facility.
    
                             JONATHAN
              A hospital?
    
                          DR. INMAN
              No, no, Mr. Piff, a morgue.
    
                             JONATHAN
              What?!
    
                             DR. INMAN
              You're dead.
    
    Jonathan lurches up, causing his shirt and shoulder to tear,
    exposing bone.
    
                          JONATHAN
              Ridiculous! I thought you were a
              doctor, not a quack.
    
    The doctor controls a brief flash of anger and smiles.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Mr. Piff, I'm sorry I'm the one that
              has to tell you, but you've been
              dead for quite some time.
    
    Jonathan stifles another angry response and sits back down.
    
                             JONATHAN
              How long?
                             DR. INMAN
              May I?
    
    He reaches out -- touches the back of Jonathan's hand.   The
    skin crumbles a little.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Probably around three years. Anything
              traumatic you can remember from then?
    
    A few moments pass.
    
                          JONATHAN
              Nothing much, other than when my
              neighbor pointed a gun at me and
              said he was going to kill me...
    
                          DR. INMAN
              There you go. He killed you.
    
    Jonathan leaps from his chair again, doing more damage to
    himself. His left knee bends at a precarious angle.
    
                          JONATHAN
              But this just doesn't make any sense.
              If I'm dead, how can I be standing
              here, talking to you?
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Best guess. You're still a registered
              voter. It happens now and again.
    
                          JONATHAN
              Can anything be done?
    
                          DR. INMAN
              I can try to get you off the voting
              rolls but that's near impossible.
    
    Jonathan collapses back into the chair. A little bit of
    dust rises and falls.
    
                          JONATHAN
              Well, this kind of bites. And I do
              feel a little embarrassed that I
              couldn't figure this out on my own.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Being dense is one of the symptoms
              of death, Mr. Piff.
    
    Dr. Inman checks his watch.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              Is there anything else?
    
                          JONATHAN
              No, not that I can think of, but I
              guess I'm a little dense.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              At least you retained your sense of
              humor.
    
                            JONATHAN
              What?
    
                            DR. INMAN
              Never mind.
    
    There is a moment of awkward silence. Dr. Inman checks his
    watch again, stands up, looks at the door.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              You have a rare opportunity, Mr.
              Piff. Not many dead people can pick
              their own burial accommodations.
              Treat yourself.
    
    He walks to the door and opens it, still smiling.
    
    Jonathan gets up out of the chair and stumbles on his bad
    knee. The duct tape around his neck lets loose on one side,
    causing his head to lean at an odd angle.
    
                          JONATHAN
              I think I'll kill my neighbor.
    
                          DR. INMAN
              That's not an option at this time.
    
                            JONATHAN
              Why not?
    
                          DR. INMAN
              You'll soon be immobile and not long
              after that, skeletal. You should
              concentrate on finding a comfortable,
              final resting place.
    
    Now near the door, Jonathan's knee collapses completely. He
    falls hard causing his head to pop off and roll through the
    door, into the waiting room.
    
    
    INT. DOCTOR'S WAITING ROOM - DAY
    
    Miss White types on a computer keyboard when she sees the
    head roll in. She rolls her eyes and continues typing when
    it rolls past her.
    
    The head stops with a thump when it hits the far wall.
                          DR. INMAN (on intercom)
              Miss White?
    
                          MISS WHITE (into intercom)
              Yes?
    
                          DR. INMAN (on intercom)
              Bring me the head of Jonathan Piff.
    
    She gets up slowly, straightens her uniform dress, puts on a
    pair of exam gloves...
    
                          DR. INMAN (on intercom)
              ...and some duct tape.
    
                                                         FADE OUT:

    Nobody knows nothing, and I'm nobody.

    Oh Those Hot Summer Nights script contest
    5 pages, deadline next Sunday

    Comment


    • #3
      Re: Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

      Code:
      BRING ME THE HEAD
      
      EXT. BACKYARD -- DAY
      
      Thick clouds, tree branches creaking in the breeze. Red-eyed
      crows roosting, staring down at a skeletal OLD MAN who is
      chopping meat on a butcher's block.
      
      The Old Man looks up, wipes his brow and sees RANDALL, nine
      years old, ragged blue jeans and a dirty t-shirt, right hand
      caked in dry blood, staring intently into the bushes.
      
      Wiping his brow and returning to his gory work, the Old Man
      coughs and rasps...
      
                            OLD MAN
                Bring me the head ...
      
      FLASH OF LIGHTNING
      
      
      EXT. ALIEN PLANET -- ENDLESS TWILIGHT
      
      Ominous swirling clouds, mounds piled high, stretching to
      all horizons.
      
      Zooming in, we see Randall, a tiny spec, crawling over
      mounds of skulls, millions of them piled high in various
      degrees of decay. Vacant eyes stare back at him as he moves
      from one to the next, searching desperately for the right
      one. The one that was thrown away before "THEY" could suck
      out its brains.
      
                            CRACKLING VOICE (O.S.)
                Bring me the head. NOW!
      
                            RANDALL
                I haven't ... I can't ... I ...
      
                            CRACKLING VOICE (O.S.)
                Your's will do then.
      
                            RANDALL
                      (screaming)
                No! Just one more minute... 30
                seconds. Please ...
      
      Streaking flashes in the sky. Silent alien ships circling,
      tightening the noose.
      
      Randall tries to burrow in under the skulls, gagging and
      retching as he forces himself under the putrid mess.
      
      They find him anyway.
      
      FADE TO BLACK:
      
      FADE TO WHITE:
      
      INT. MEDIEVAL CASTLE BEDROOM -- DAY
      
      Randall, dirty, in rough sackcloth, straw in his hair,
      stands, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot.
      
      The room is impeccable. Beautiful tapestry, a frilly four
      poster bed with shimmering embroidery rustling in the breeze
      from the open window. Dolls and toys line the walls.
      
      The door opens and a beautiful WOMAN enters, accompanied by
      a GIRL who's Randall's age. She's a small version of her
      mother in a fancy dress. They both smile and Randall bows
      awkwardly.
      
                            RANDALL
                My lady.
      
      The girl laughs at his stiff discomfort, but her MOTHER is
      more polite.
      
                            MOTHER
                Master Randall, this is CAMILLE,
                she wishes a playmate for this
                afternoon.
      
                            RANDALL
                Yes, my lady.
      
                            CAMILLE
                He'll have to bathe, mother. The
                smell of the stable is stifling.
      
      
      INT. MEDIEVAL CASTLE BEDROOM - LATER
      
      The shadows have shifted across the room and the sunset is
      visible through the windows. What remains of the children's
      meal, including a cake and pastries, sits on the small
      table.
      
      Randall, now clean and dressed in blue silk from head to
      toe, looks almost like a doll himself. He's no longer as
      uncomfortable and listens intently as Camille reads to him
      from her book.
      
                            CAMILLE
                ... And they lived happily ever
                after.
      
      Randall sighs.
      
                            RANDALL
                That was a nice story.
      
                            CAMILLE
                Yes. I think so.
      
                            RANDALL
                It's late ... they'll be expecting
                me ...
      
      Pause. A change in the mood.
      
                            CAMILLE
                Unfortunately real stories never
                end that way.
      
                               RANDALL
                They don't?
      
                            CAMILLE
                A stable boy becoming a prince? How
                absurd!
      
                               RANDALL
                I ... uh ...
      
                            CAMILLE
                Oh, I'm sorry. How tactless of me.
      
      Camille smirks.
      
      Randall shifts nervously.
      
      As if remembering something, Camille claps her hands loudly.
      She claps twice more and then ...
      
                            CAMILLE
                You haven't seen my collection!
      
                               RANDALL
                Collection?
      
                               CAMILLE
                Come!
      
      She grabs Randall's hands and pulls him along to the closet.
      
      She opens the door dramatically. Shelves and shelves ...
      Randall's eyes take a minute to adjust to the dim light.
      
      Rows and rows of young boy's heads mounted on poles, their
      eyes open, staring vacantly.
      
                            CAMILLE
                      (smiling sweetly)
                Aren't they lovely?
      
      Randall screams and tries run.
      
      Two burly men, one carrying an ax, are standing behind him.
      
                            CAMILLE
                Bring me the head.
      
      FADE TO BLACK:
      
      FADE TO GREEN:
      
      EXT. LUSH JUNGLE -- DAY
      
      Randall, in khaki explorer pants and shirt, is staring
      intently through a magnifying glass.
      
      Looking through the glass, he sees a tiny purple PREYING
      MANTIS with a bright red head. It appears to be waving at
      Randall. It makes a tiny, tiny sound by rubbing its legs
      together.
      
      EXT. LUSH JUNGLE -- LATER
      
      A much bigger version of the same creature. Nearly the size
      of Randall's palm. This one makes a distinctive "chirping"
      sound while it waves. Randall cocks his head side to side,
      trying to decipher the language.
      
      EXT. LUSH JUNGLE -- EVEN LATER
      
      The shadows have deepened. The sky is red in the western
      sky.
      
      Randall nervously approaches a very large version of the
      creature. It stands two feet high. It's definitely trying to
      communicate, repeating the same sound over and over again.
      Randall is frustrated ... and a bit spooked.
      
      EXT. LUSH JUNGLE - EVEN LATER THEN BEFORE
      
      Randall stares nervously. The jungle has closed in around
      him. He turns on his heels. Starts walking, then stops.
      Turns on his heels. Turns around again. Stops. Slumps to the
      ground, lost.
      
      EXT. LUSH JUNGLE - NIGHT
      
      Dim moonlight. Randall is surrounded by preying mantises of
      all sizes. They are all making the same, undecipherable
      noise in unnerving unison.
      
      Then they suddenly go silent.
      
      An eerie pause. Then ...
      
      Crashing through the jungle SOMETHING huge pushes its way
      nearer. The preying mantises fall back, opening a path ...
      
      It's a huge version of the mantises, fifteen to twenty feet
      tall. It stares down at Randall with its two huge,
      unblinking eyes, cocking its head. The other preying
      mantises look up to it ... waiting.
      
      It "speaks" by rubbing its legs -- four grating, mechanical
      syllables ...
      
                            HUGE MANTIS
                Bring - Me - The - Head.
      
      The mantises move as one body towards Randall.
      
      Randall momentarily smiles.
      
                            RANDALL
                Finally!
                      (then...)
                Oh, no.
      
      FADE TO BLACK:
      
      
      EXT. BACKYARD - MOMENTS LATER
      
                            OLD MAN
                Randall? Hey, snap out of it.
                Storm's coming. Got to get this
                done.
      
      Randall turns, blinks.
      
                            OLD MAN
                Bring me the head of lettuce so I
                can get the salad made while the
                steaks are broiling.
      
      Randall stares blankly.
      
                            RANDALL
                The ... lettuce?
      
                             OLD MAN
                       (shaking his head)
                Never mind. You're in la la land
                again.
                       (noticing the hand)
                What did you do to your hand? You
                better wash it before it gets
                infected.
      
      The Old Man, Randall's GRANDFATHER walks into the house.
      
      
      EXT. BACKYARD -- MOMENTS LATER
      
      A wee cough from the bush. Randall turns, looks into it.
      
      A small GNOME stares back at Randall.
      
                            GNOME
                C'mon, boy. Bring me the head.
      
                            RANDALL
                No.
      
                            GNOME
                He's old anyhow, boy, be
                reasonable.
      
                            RANDALL
                I can't. He's my grandpa.
      
                            GNOME
                Look, boy, we have ways of making
                you do what we want. Ways of
                getting inside your head.
      
      Randall has backed up to the butcher's block. He's holding
      something behind his back.
      
      The Gnome is too caught up in his haranguing to notice.
      
                            GNOME
                We'll get to you. It's just a
                matter of time.
      
      Randall nears.
      
                            RANDALL
                How would I do it? ... If I wanted
                to?
      
                            GNOME
                      (crooked smile)
                Come here, boy, I'll explain it to
                you. It'll be easy.
      
      Randall suddenly lounges, grabs the gnome by its hair and
      chops its head off with a meat cleaver.
      
                             RANDALL
                Yep. Easy.
      
      
      EXT. BACKYARD - MOMENTS LATER
      
      Randall's grandpa emerges from the house with the head of
      lettuce and the salad bowl.
      
      Randall draws his attention to bush.
      
                            RANDALL
                I got me another one, grandpa.
      
                            GRANDPA
                No ... Really?
      
                             RANDALL
                Yep.
      
                            GRANDPA
                Well, bring me the head. We'll burn
                it like the rest
      
                             RANDALL
                Okay.
      
                            GRANDPA
                Just put the body on the compost
                heap. It won't come back to life
                without the head.

      Nobody knows nothing, and I'm nobody.

      Oh Those Hot Summer Nights script contest
      5 pages, deadline next Sunday

      Comment


      • #4
        Re: Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

        Code:
        THRONE GAMES
        
        OVER BLACK
        
        Distant sounds of SAWING and HAMMERING.
        
        
        INT. PRISON CELL - DAY
        
        A filthy medieval hellhole.  The tiny room contains a low
        cot, upon which an unshaven figure lies.
        
        This is ROGER, a handsome nobleman, now a prisoner.  He 
        stares at the ceiling while he listens to the hammering.
        
        
        INT. TOWER STAIRWAY - DAY
        
        Heavy boots clump up the stone steps, followed by a pair 
        of sandal-wearing feet, flopping.  The sandals are too big
        for the feet.
        
        
        INT. TOWER LANDING - DAY
        
        A hand inserts a big key into a lock and turns it.  CLICK.
        
        
        INT. PRISON CELL - DAY
        
        Roger sits up on the cot, wary.  The door CREAKS open.
        
        A helmeted SOLDIER gives Roger a gap-toothed smile.
        
                              SOLDIER
                  Wakey wakey, rise and shine, "my 
                  lord."
        
        Sarcasm drips when he says the title.
        
                              SOLDIER (CONT'D)
                  You've got a visitor.
        
        The soldier steps aside to reveal a robed MONK who is bent 
        over with age and sports a wispy white beard.
        
                              SOLDIER
                  Five minutes, no longer.
        
                              MONK
                  Thank you, my son.
        
        The monk steps into the cell, the soldier slams the door 
        shut.  The key rattles in the lock.
        
                              ROGER
                  You're wasting your time, Father.  
                  I turned my back on God long ago.
        
                              MONK
                  When was this, my son?
        
                              ROGER
                  I can't remember.
        
        The monk stands at the door, patiently waiting.  Roger 
        becomes irked.
        
                              ROGER
                  Wasn't so bad when the war began.  
                  We were fighting the Blackharts on 
                  the battlefield.  It was man against 
                  man.  The strongest arm and the 
                  keenest blade deciding who lived 
                  and who died.
        
        Roger stares at the floor.  His voice grows bitter.
        
                              ROGER (CONT'D)
                  Then the butchering started.  Didn't 
                  matter who they were.  Women, 
                  children.  They were given no mercy.  
                  It's a war to the finish now.  The 
                  Montfalcons against the Blackharts, 
                  the Larkins against the Grints, 
                  the Woosters against the Flintpoles.  
                  We're all going to keep playing 
                  this bloody game until there's 
                  only one butcher left alive to 
                  claim the throne.
        
                              MONK
                  Then let's make sure it isn't a 
                  Blackhart, a Larkin, a Grint, a 
                  Wooster or a Flintpole.  Let's 
                  make sure a Montfalcon sits on the 
                  throne.
        
        Roger stares at the monk, bewildered.  The monk tears off 
        his false beard and straightens up, he's a young man.
        
                              ROGER
                  Henry! 
        
        Roger leaps up and embraces the monk, who is hereafter 
        known as HENRY.
        
                              MONK/HENRY
                  I had to wait until I was sure 
                  that bastid couldn't hear us. 
        
                              ROGER
                  It is good to see you.  But you 
                  have placed yourself in much peril.
        
                              HENRY
                  I hope not!  Hear me, little
                  brother, I have brought a dozen
                  trusted swords with me.  They're
                  holding a side gate open for us.
                  Had to cut a few throats on the
                  way in, but it's no more than
                  the bastids deserved.  Fresh
                  horses stand waiting outside the
                  walls.  We ride hard for Castle
                  Montfalcon!  There we shall
                  gather our forces and plan our
                  revenge against the Blackharts.
        
                              ROGER
                  Sounds good to me!  But how will 
                  we get out of this cell?
        
        Henry grins and pulls the key out of his robe sleeve and 
        shows it to Roger.
        
                              HENRY
                  Come, we must be swift, your jailors 
                  are already gathering below in the 
                  courtyard to witness your execution.
        
        Henry listens at the door.  He inserts the key and turns 
        it.  CLICK.  He pulls the door open an inch, looks out.
        
                              HENRY (CONT'D)
                  All clear!  Follow me!
        
        
        INT. TOWER LANDING - DAY
        
        Henry cautiously steps out onto the landing.
        
        He starts downstairs, but realizes Roger isn't following 
        him.  He turns and hurries back to the cell door.
        
        
        INT. PRISON CELL - DAY
        
        Henry stands in the doorway, looking puzzled.
        
        Roger's sitting on his cot again, staring at the floor.
        
                              HENRY
                  What madness is this, are you not 
                  coming with me?
        
        Roger turns his head and looks at Henry.  His expression 
        betrays his sadness and regret.
        
                              ROGER
                  I am sorry, brother, truly I am.
        
        Heavy footsteps echo as SOLDIERS rush upstairs, swords 
        drawn.  Before Henry has a chance to fight he's grabbed, 
        his arms are pinned.
        
        An OFFICER pushes through the soldiers.
        
                              OFFICER
                  Henry Montfalcon, known as "The 
                  Bloody," by the authority of Lord 
                  Blackhart you are charged with 
                  murder and reaving most foul.
        
        Henry stares at Roger with disbelief.
        
                              HENRY
                  You would betray me?  When I risked 
                  all to rescue you?
        
                              ROGER
                  I wasn't sure if you would come.
        
                              HENRY
                  Of course I would!  You are my
                  brother, damn you!
        
                              ROGER
                  I was your brother.  Until you put 
                  innocents to the sword.  Until you 
                  ordered wholesale slaughter and 
                  impaling.  You have stained the 
                  good name of House Montfalcon.
        
                              HENRY
                  You stupid little twerp.  A good 
                  name gets you nothing.  You take 
                  what you want in this world, and 
                  you keep it by killing those who 
                  would take it from you!  That's
                  the Montfalcon way!
        
                              OFFICER
                  Enough!  The executioner's axe 
                  awaits you, Henry the Bloody.  
                  Make your peace with your gods, if 
                  they will listen to you.
                       (to Soldiers)
                  Take him away.
        
        The soldiers bundle Henry downstairs.  Roger watches them 
        go.  The Officer remains.
        
                              OFFICER (CONT'D)
                  If it were up to me, you'd be 
                  joining him on the platform.
        
        Roger stares at the floor, not reacting. 
        
                              OFFICER (CONT'D)
                  But my lord gave you his word, and 
                  he will keep it.  A servant will 
                  come for you soon and show you to 
                  the stables.  You must ride from 
                  this castle and never return.
        
        The Officer exits downstairs, leaving the door open.
        
        Roger leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. 
        
        Loud cheers and cat-calls reach him from outside.
        
        A long silence.  Then Henry shouts:
        
                              HENRY (O.S.)
                  YOU WERE ADOPTED!
        
        The THUNK of an executioner's axe.
        
        A huge CHEER goes up.
        
        Roger sighs.
        
                              ROGER
                  Forgive me, brother.  But I promise 
                  you I shall restore House Montfalcon 
                  to its former glory.
        
        WHUNK!  A crossbow bolt goes through Roger's neck!  His
        eyes widen in shocked surprise.
        
        Roger slowly keels over sideways on the cot, leaving blood
        spatter on the wall.
        
        Standing in the doorway, the ARCHER who fired the bolt 
        casually leans his crossbow against his shoulder and grins.
        
                              ARCHER
                  What, you thought you was gonna 
                  get to walk away from this?  Nah, 
                  that just doesn't happen, mate.
        
        The Archer exits downstairs, whistling.
        
        Roger's open eyes stare into eternity.
        
        Pull back.  The ghosts of Roger and Henry stand looking down
        at Roger's body.  Henry is headless, he holds his own head
        under his arm.
        
                              HENRY
                  So much for getting revenge on the
                  Blackharts.
        
                              ROGER
                  I believed he would keep his word.
        
                              HENRY
                  As only an idiot would!
        
        Ghost Henry puts his other arm around Ghost Roger's
        shoulders.
        
                              HENRY (CONT'D)
                  Come, brother.  Let's go haunt the
                  bastids.  We'll give them cause to
                  fear the Montfalcons yet!
        
        The two ghosts turn and exit... through the wall.
        
        FADE TO BLACK
        
                              ROGER (O.S.)
                  Was I really adopted?
        
                              HENRY (O.S.)
                  Yes.
        
        Cue rousing theme tune, roll credits.
        
        FADE OUT
        Last edited by dpaterso; 07-14-2016, 04:26 AM.

        Nobody knows nothing, and I'm nobody.

        Oh Those Hot Summer Nights script contest
        5 pages, deadline next Sunday

        Comment


        • #5
          Re: Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

          Code:
          CHILLED
          
          FADE IN:
          
          EXT. MAIN STREET, TALKEETNA, ALASKA - DAY
          
          A thick coat of snow covers every visible inch of this sleepy
          town. The Sun kisses the horizon at the end of the street as-
          
          BOOM! Nestling blackbirds break from the far trees and
          disperse.
          
          Silence seeps back in, but a thread of smoke trickles up from
          where the birds just vacated.
          
          In moments the thread has bloomed into a dark cloud, lit by
          the glow of an unseen flame.
          
          BAM! The wooden door of a nearby building nudges open against
          several inches of snow. A CLOSED SIGN rattles on a nail in
          its upper center.
          
                                MAN (O.S.)
                     Aw hell.
          
          BAM BAM! The door presses out further, enough so that-
          
          JACOB YAZZIE (50s), a stubborn, honest veteran peaks his
          silver-stubbled face into the crisp morning air. Specks of
          loose gutter snow drip onto his bald head.
          
          He wipes it away and looks to the smoke. Frowning, he spits
          in the snow and disappears back inside.
          
          
          INT. YAZZIE'S BAR - DAY
          
          Jacob stands in his checkered long johns in the entrance of a
          modest, faintly lit BAR. Overturned chairs cover the half
          dozen circular wooden tables before him.
          
          One table is missing a chair, which is currently occupied by
          NAOMI YAZZIE (22), at least as stubborn as her old man. She's
          smothered in a navy blue cardigan and lime green sweatpants.
          
                               JACOB
                     It's daylight robbery. Literally.
          
                               NAOMI
                     They looked honest enough-
          
                               JACOB
                     Whatcha mean honest enough? You're
                     either honest, or you ain't.
          
          Naomi rises from the chair, bending at the waist to stretch.
          
                              JACOB (CONT'D)
                    And they ain't.
          
                              NAOMI
                    They can't have gotten far, we'll
                    get it back.
          
                              JACOB
                    Lady luck agrees. But there ain't
                    no we in this. You brought them
                    here, you can bring it back.
          
          She stands upright, her left arm stretching across her chest
          as she peers past him at the bright whiteness out the window.
          
                              NAOMI
                    Fine. But I'm taking the cat.
          
          
          INT. JAZZIE'S GARAGE - DAY
          
          Naomi flicks on the overhead garage light to reveal-
          
          An orange BOBCAT 610 FRONTLOADER, chains wrapped around the
          four sizeable tires.
          
          Naomi, now dressed in a thick parka and canary beanie,
          crosses the shed and slides open the wooden doors. The short
          steel spikes on her boots click on the concrete floor.
          
          She slips on some dark snow goggles to shield her eyes and
          strides back past the bobcat, kneeling beside a wooden
          workbench.
          
          Her gloved hands stretch into the shadows, emerging with-
          An overweight GINGER CAT, aptly named BOB.
          
          She plucks a pair of swimming goggles from her pocket and
          plants them over the cat's eyes. He's too lazy to care.
          
                              NAOMI
                    We're in this mess together chubs.
          
          Naomi climbs into the bobcat, with Bob the cat, and starts
          the engine. It roars to life and the unlikely duo plow
          through the snow and onto the street.
          
          
          EXT. MAIN STREET, TALKEETNA, ALASKA - DAY
          
          Snowflakes drift from the heavens as the bobcat trundles
          through the pale mush, wet white waves billowing in its wake.
          
          As the curious pair roll to the end of the street, they're
          greeted by a wall of white as far as the eye can see.
          
                              NAOMI
                    Well, ****. Thoughts?
          
          Naomi looks down at Bob, whose tongue is forming an intimate
          bond with his scrotum.
          
                              NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Insightful as ever, Bob.
          
          She wipes condensation from her goggles and scans the
          horizon. There-
          
          The smoke cloud is just visible to their left.
          
                              NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Fire in a blizzard. Brilliant.
          
          She guides the bobcat to the left and carries on her merry
          way into the storm.
          
          
          EXT. FOREST - DAY
          
          A charred, flaming husk is all that remains of an overturned
          PICKUP. The fire licks at the lower branches of the nearest
          yellow-cedar, adding to the dark smoke cloud.
          
          Parallel pairs of footprints lead away from the wreckage.
          
          The crackling fire is soon joined by the whir of Naomi's
          bobcat as she clears a path straight for it.
          
                              NAOMI
                    Hold tight, Bob.
          
          Instead of slowing, she plows straight ahead, quite
          literally, and SLAMS into the blazing truck. A wave of snow
          plumes forward, smothering the bulk of the flame.
          
          Naomi looks down at Bob, who dangles face first over the
          front of the seat. He looks up at her through his foggy
          goggles. Naomi beams.
          
                              NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Right?
          
          Naomi laughs aloud as she reverses the bobcat. She spots the
          footprints and stops the bobcat.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                     Still fresh, Bob.
          
          She reaches into a storage container and removes a rugged
          backpack, opening it for Bob. He just stares up at her.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                     You didn't think I'd leave you
                     here, did you?
          
          Nothing.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                     Tough, you're coming.
          
          She grabs him by his haunches and forcibly shoves him head-
          first into the backpack. He finally shows signs of life,
          rumbling inside his new home until his head pops out.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                     See? You're snug as ****.
          
          She swings the backpack over her shoulders, now resembling
          Luke Skywalker with a furry ginger Yoda on her back.
          
          She removes a PISTOL from the storage container, plucks the
          keys from the bobcat, and drops into the knee-high snow.
          
                                NAOMI (CONT'D)
                     Game on.
          
          With a small flame still flickering from the charcoal pickup,
          they follow the footsteps into the trees.
          
          
          EXT. FROZEN RIVER - DAY
          
          Naomi and Bob step out from the trees to see-
          
          A wide, crystalline river. A trio of shadows are visible
          through the snowflakes - two tall, one short and round.
          
          Naomi lifts her pistol and aims at one of the tall shadows.
          She squints and exhales, her breath hanging mid-air.
          
                                NAOMI
                     Ten...
          
          She steps out onto the river, her hand steady and true.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Nine...
          
          She picks up her pace to a soft jog.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Eight...
          
          Faster she goes, her steel spikes gripping the ice nicely.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Seven...
          
          She sprints now, the tall shadows slowly forming into humans.
          The short shadow isn't yet discernible.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Six!
          
          The tall shadows turn to face her-
          
          Mister left is CURTIS ROGERS (20s), a misguided hipster with
          more beard than sense. Miss right is his selfish hipster
          wife, TRINITY CURTIS (20s).
          
          They recognise Naomi. They see her gun. They run.
          
          Curtis loses his feet and bails hard. His right wrist breaks
          his fall with a sickening CRACK.
          
          He screams like a little bitch as Trinity runs past him.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Five!
          
          Naomi reaches Curtis, pistol aimed at the back of his head.
          
                               NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Four.
          
          Curtis rolls onto his back. Tears pool in his beard.
          
                              CURTIS
                    Please, we didn't mean no harm.
          
          BLAM! A crimson halo pools around his head. Naomi looks past
          him toward Trinity, who slips her way across the river.
          
                               NAOMI
                    Three.
          
          She runs after Trinity, who reaches the edge of the river and
          stops to catch her breath against a tree. She steals a glance
          back and-
          
          POP! Her right knee erupts and she crashes sideways, sinking
          into the soft powder.
          
                                NAOMI (CONT'D)
                    Two!
          
          Trinity gasps a muffled scream then crawls into the forest.
          It's agonizing, and utterly pointless.
          
          Naomi leaves the river and follows Trinity's scarlet trail
          through the trees, stopping before her.
          
          She lowers her pistol at her final target. Trinity keeps her
          head down.
          
                              TRINITY
                    You don't have to do this.
          
                                NAOMI
                    One.
          
          She steadies the gun and-
          
                                BOB
                    Mew.
          
          Naomi's grip loosens.
          
                              NAOMI
                    Not now Bob.
          
          She takes a breath.
          
                              TRINITY
                    It's not like we hurt anyone.
          
                                BOB
                    Meeew.
          Naomi drops her hand to her side.
          
                              NAOMI
                    Goddamit Bob. You're killing the
                    moment.
          
                              BOB
                    Meew. Meeeew.
          
          Naomi slips one strap off her shoulder and swings the
          backpack around, plopping it next to Trinity's head.
          
          She unzips the bag and waits. Bob stares at her, not moving.
          
                              NAOMI
                    Every time.
          
          She zips him up and swings the bag back over her shoulders.
          
                              TRINITY
                    I'll say Curtis died in the crash.
                    I'll help you burn his body and
                    everything.
          
          Naomi takes aim again.
          
                              TRINITY (CONT'D)
                    Just leave me at the edge of town,
                    you'll never see me again.
          
                               NAOMI
                    One.
          
                               BOB
                    Mew.
          
          Naomi throws her hands up.
          
                              NAOMI
                    ****, Bob! Do you want to be next?
          
                               BOB
                    Meew.
          
                              NAOMI
                    No, Bob. You're not ruining this
                    for me.
          
          She aims again.
          
                               TRINITY
                    I swear-
                               NAOMI
                    One.
          
                               BOB
                    Meeeew.
          
          BANG!
          
                              NAOMI
                    Eat ****, Bob.
          
          
          INT. YAZZIE'S BAR - DAY
          
          Jacob works beneath the bar, a toolbox by his shoulder.
          
          THUMP!
          
          Jacob ducks his head out, wrench in hand.
          
                              JACOB
                    Mi, that you?
          
          Something rolls across the floor, unseen. Something heavy.
          Naomi's boots click after it.
          
          Jacob props himself up and stands to see-
          
          A sweating STEEL BEER BARREL, scratched and dented.
          
                              JACOB (CONT'D)
                    Took you long enough.
          
          She rolls it past Jacob and beneath the bar, snatching his
          wrench as she goes. In a few moments she has it connected.
          
                              NAOMI
                    Glass.
          
          Jacob collects a pint glass from a tray and slides it across
          the bar. She catches it and tips it beneath the tap.
          
          Foam sputters from the tap, evolving into a stream of amber
          beer. She fills the glass, leaving a sizeable head as she
          stops.
          
          She lifts the foamy beverage to her lips and downs it in one.
          Jacob gives her a knowing nod, which she returns.
          
          
          EXT. YAZZIE'S BAR - DAY
          
          Jacob forces the door open again. More snow drops on his head
          and he scowls. Across the road, a pair of ELDERLY MEN take a
          tentative step toward him.
          
          He nods at them and flips the closed sign to OPEN.
          
          END

          Nobody knows nothing, and I'm nobody.

          Oh Those Hot Summer Nights script contest
          5 pages, deadline next Sunday

          Comment


          • #6
            Re: Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

            Code:
            LEVIATHAN
            
            BLACK SCREEN
            
            The sounds of LIGHT WIND through long grass and GENTLE
            WATERS lapping on a shore.
            
            SUPER:
                           "In that day the Lord with His severe
                           sword, great and strong, shall punish
                           Leviathan the twisted serpent"
                                                    ~ Isaiah 27:1
            
            FADE IN:
            
            EXT. MARSHLAND - DAY
            
            Mist creeps in from the sea. A pale sun setting on a broad
            no-man's-land of reed beds, dank ditches and dark pools.
            
            SUPER:
                           GRAVEWICK, ENGLAND, 1535
            
            The deep distant call of Bitterns -- BHOOOW! -- BHOOOW! --
            BHOOOW! -- haunt the gloaming.
            
            
            EXT. CREEK ROAD - DAY
            
            The rutted track runs through wetlands alongside a dead-
            straight waterway. Out of the mist appears a cloaked and
            HOODED MAN, stout staff in hand, his clothes sodden.
            
            He hurries past a small and deathly silent stone church --
            and disappears farther into the grey fens.
            
            A raven watches, hunched atop a roadside gibbet with its
            hanging corpse not yet picked clean. The fast dying light a
            pressing deadline -- the Hooded Man quickens his pace.
            
            Stopping abruptly, he peers along a side path. Lowering his
            hood reveals the stern face of ADAM SPEEDWELL, 42, a trusted
            serjeant-at-arms of the county. His keen eyes spy yellow
            glimmers through the mist.
            
            KAAARR! KAAARR! -- The raven strikes Speedwell's head. He
            cowers as the large black bird circles back and strikes
            again. It turns and dives for a third strike -- but
            Speedwell stands tall, swiftly scythes his staff through the
            air and smacks the cursed creature to the ground.
            
            The stricken raven flaps and squawks. Calmly, Speedwell
            pile-drives his staff straight down on the raven's head,
            killing it outright.
            
            Raising his hood, Speedwell steps onto the side path in the
            direction of those faint yellow lights.
            
            
            EXT. 'THE SUN' ALEHOUSE - DAY
            
            Set aside from a huddle of grim dwellings, the squat public
            house, thatched with rushes, is marked by a crude painted
            helios above the door, lit up between two burning torches.
            
            The noise of REVELRY ebbs and flows from inside.
            
            Speedwell scans the neighbourhood -- nobody in sight. He
            unfastens the front of his cloak, revealing the hilt of his
            longsword, and strides to the alehouse door.
            
            
            INT. 'THE SUN' ALEHOUSE - NIGHT
            
            The place is cramped, packed with commoners of every age,
            shape and size. A central fireplace boils pots of stew and
            roasts swine. Maids fill wooden mugs with flat brown beer.
            
            The patrons' carousing hushes to a murmur. Speedwell stands
            at a table occupied by three motly fellows. They know him
            and clearly resent his presence.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        Indictments have come from the King's
                        Counsel. The abbot Edwin Morton is
                        named. He'll have no trial, nor
                        torture. He's to die in Lychmere
                        Abbey.
            
            DANIEL BALHAM, 55, a mild stout man, puts down his mug.
            
                                    BALHAM
                        Our debt is paid, Speedwell. You've
                        no more claim on us.
            
            Sat beside Balham is BEN PERRY, 22, a ruddy hefty man. He
            grins, but his expression stays the same.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        By law, your probations hold just
                        such a claim ... less you wish to
                        contest your liberty with the
                        magistrate and a noose.
            
            Sat opposite Perry, THOMAS LOCKE, 37, a wiry rogue, sucks
            his teeth, disgruntled. A black dog, SHADOW, 4, lean and
            mean, slumbers at his feet.
            
                                    LOCKE
                        So, Serjeant, when do we crucify this
                        papist antichrist? Come next Good
                        Friday?
            
            Speedwell eyes Locke with weary disdain, then catches the
            arm of a passing maid.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        Beer, bread and meat, good lass ...
                        and no damned eels.
            
            Speedwell sits down on the bench next to Locke.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        The cross will never expel Satan from
                        these Lateran cenobites ... nor fire
                        purge them. His head must be severed.
            
            Balham and Locke exchange uneasy looks.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                              (removing gloves)
                        We leave at daybreak.
            
            
            EXT. CREEK ROAD - DAY
            
            Fog lies heavy on the marshes, no sun to be seen. Speedwell
            leads the way ... Balham and Perry follow ... Locke trails
            behind, eating an apple.
            
                                    BALHAM
                        Where be your horse, Serjeant
                        Speedwell?!
            
            Balham smirks and Perry sniggers.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        She is lost! Drowned in the mire
                        between Feversham and Gravewick!
            
            Shadow scours waterlogged ditches for carrion.
            
                                    LOCKE
                        Shadow! ... Shadow! Get up here!
            
            
            EXT. COAST ROAD
            
            Mid-morning, clear and bright on the high-banked road
            dividing marsh and tidal waters. KYOW! KYOW! -- gulls reel
            and squabble way overhead.
            
            Across the estuary's wide mouth, on the coast of another
            county, black smoke rises from a church.
            
            Balham, Perry and Locke sit on the roadside, sharing food
            parcelled in cloth and drink from water skins. Shadow
            paddles ashore, scrambles up the bank, and shakes himself
            dry right beside Locke.
            
            Speedwell stands apart, pissing, and gazes towards the
            distant walls and bell-tower of Lychmere Abbey, which sits
            back from the coast on the far side of a vast lake.
            
            
            EXT. ABBEY ROAD JUNCTION
            
            A branch off the Coast Road leads around the lake to
            Lychmere Abbey. PEEE-WIT! PEEE-WIT! -- a flock of Lapwings
            flitter over mirror-bright waters. Speedwell strides onward,
            but the three fellows hesitate before taking the turn. The
            fly-blown corpse of a horse festers on the verge. Locke
            calls Shadow to leave it be.
            
            
            EXT. ABBEY WALLS
            
            A towering spur of black cloud reaches over the darkening
            sea towards the monastery, and flashes with rumbles of
            thunderous lightning.
            
            Around the base of high stone walls, a wretched sprawl of
            half-derelict shacks, seemingly abandoned. Speedwell walks
            on, but the three fellows loiter. Shadow sniffs through
            scattered rubbish. Balham kicks at a dead camp-fire,
            exposing charred bones.
            
                                    BALHAM
                        Where in God's name are the beggars?
                        Does this damned abbot do no charity?
            
            Shadow WHIMPERS at a broken doorway. Locke investigates.
            
            
            INT. SHACK - DAY
            
            Locke peers inside the shambolic murk. A pitiful child, in
            rags and filth, cowers alone. Locke reaches out.
            
                                    LOCKE
                        Hey, don't be afeared.
            
            The waif recoils, HISSING wildly. Locke warily backs out.
            
            
            EXT. ABBEY GATEHOUSE
            
            A huge pair of solid gates hang open, unmanned. Speedwell
            leads his recruits into the abbey grounds.
            
            Watching from the bell-tower is a young NOVICE MONK with
            cowled head and a solemn stare. The bell TOLLS six times.
            
            
            INT. ABBEY REFECTORY - DAY
            
            Tall double doors open inward and the Novice Monk, BROTHER
            ENOCH, 14, leads Speedwell and the others into the high-
            vaulted dining chamber.
            
            Half-light from quarter-foil windows scarcely illuminates
            the long rectangular dining-table at the centre, with seven
            dour monks seated each side and a superior either end.
            
            At the end nearest Speedwell broods PRIOR RANALD, 47, a sour
            second-in-command. He turns, looks sharply, and moves to
            stand, but Speedwell places a firm hand on his shoulder.
            
            In a dark corner, Brother Enoch ducks out through a doorway
            beneath a macabre crucifix.
            
            At the far head of the table presides the ABBOT MORTON, 89,
            a withered husk of incumbent piety. He lifts his hairless
            head and stares down at Speedwell, a steel glint in his
            still bright eyes. Speedwell returns the abbot's gaze.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        Somewhat early for supper, Abbot
                        Morton?
            
                                    ABBOT MORTON
                        The feast day of Saint Anthony the
                        Great. It would be a grave sin to let
                        the bounty of our Lord's mercy go
                        unconsumed, would it not?
            
            Speedwell slowly paces down one side of the table, scanning
            the laden silver platters. He stops halfway. The monks' meal
            is almost entirely steaming dishes of weird meat.
            
            Perry glances at Balham and screws up his nose at the odious
            smell. Shadow follows close behind Locke as he examines the
            religious riches around the room.
            
                                    ABBOT MORTON
                        The fruit of our garden is truly
                        divine ...
                              (offers up his goblet)
                        ... can I not tempt you, Adam?
            
            Abbot Morton's inscrutable smile lingers.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        Speak my Christian name a second
                        time, deceiver, and I'll feed your
                        forked tongue to that faithful dog.
            
                                    ABBOT MORTEN
                        But why should a sovereign's loyal
                        servant fear to learn of truths
                        unholy?
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        I was taught such truths well enough
                        by your Catholic sisters ... and
                        their ready whip-hand.
            
                                    ABBOT MORTON
                        And yet, your righteous thirst
                        persists.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        Shut up your venomous pit. We come
                        with proper warrant to depose its
                        perverted capital.
            
            Speedwell nods to Balham and Perry in the direction of the
            abbot, and they approach him from either side of the table.
            Abbot Morton stands and drains his goblet.
            
            As Perry reaches out first to seize him, the abbot spews a
            mouthful of foul liquor in his face. Shadow BARKS then
            quails behind Locke. Perry staggers back, eyes shut tight,
            frantically wiping his face with bare hands.
            
                                    PERRY
                        Jesus, it burns!
            
            Balham punches Morton hard in the face ... but the old abbot
            still stands.
            
                                    LOCKE
                        I bloody knew it. The papist kunt
                        drinks from the serpent's cup.
            
            Prior Ranald and several other monks stand up. Speedwell
            reaches for his longsword.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        Sit you down, brothers!
            
                                    ABBOT MORTON
                        Please, brothers, be not disturbed.
                        It is gospel to forsake me ... and
                        the serjeant's vulgar treatment shall
                        prove itself an ill remedy.
            
            Abbot Morton sits, and the other standing monks follow his
            lead. Speedwell lets go his sword's hilt. The abbey bell
            TOLLS six times.
            
            
            INT. ABBEY CRYPT
            
            Deep gloom. Echoes of FLOWING WATER. Brother Enoch kneels,
            head bowed, WHISPERING a recitation. Rosary beads run
            through his clasped hands. Before him, in an arched alcove,
            is a small and strangely protean figurine that holds
            something like a cruciform trident.
            
            
            EXT. MONASTERY COURTYARD - DAY
            
            An inner square with east and west archways. Along each
            side, rows of columns support the dark cloister's sloping
            roof. The court is wide open to the blackened sky and
            torrential rain.
            
            Speedwell strides from the east archway to the centre of the
            courtyard, plants his staff in the soft ground, and looks
            skyward. The downpour washes over his face.
            
            Balham and Perry bring Morton. Balham appears anxious, but
            the abbot is calm. Perry seems oddly unsteady. He winces as
            rain splashes his bloodshot eyes, a spidery white stain in
            the pupils. Locke and Shadow wait by the archway they all
            came through.
            
            Speedwell nods to where he wants the abbot. Balham and Perry
            oblige, then back away on opposite sides.
            
                                    SPEEDWELL
                        By my grace, you may speak your Pater
                        Noster.
            
                                    ABBOT MORTON
                        And, by my eternal vice, may your
                        Vicar General's putrid seed quench
                        your thirst in hell.
            
            The old abbot, already drenched, kneels and bows his head
            with his arms down-stretched sideways. Speedwell crosses
            himself and draws his longsword.
            
            The abbey bell TOLLS six times. Balham and Locke look
            upward, unsettled by the bell's third time of tolling.
            
            Two handed, Speedwell raises the severe blade to the raging
            heavens -- mouths a brief lament -- and brings it down hard
            and fast. SHWOOOTH! -- a clean cut. The abbot's severed head
            hits the ground, but no blood flows.
            
            Instantly, the headless Morton grabs hold of the blade with
            both hands and, rising to his feet, wrenches the sword from
            Speedwell. Using the butt of the hilt, headless Morton
            strikes his executioner an almighty blow to the gut.
            
            Speedwell flies backward across the courtyard, slams against
            one of the cloister's stone columns, and lies unconscious.
            
            Balham and Perry step back from headless Morton. Locke
            dashes to Speedwell's aid, with Shadow close by him.
            
            Brother Enoch darts out from the cloister, grabs Abbot
            Morton's head, and hurries back into the darkness.
            
            Morton's body convulses. Bent double, his backbone protrudes
            from arse to vacant neck, then ruptures into a bony ridge
            that rips through his habit. From his neck stump, the
            severed end of spine jerks out several inches. Then again
            and again -- SHLOK! -- SHLOK! -- ratcheting longer and
            longer -- a thick twisted root of wedge-sharp vertebrae,
            flexing more like cartilage than bone.
            
                                    BALHAM
                        Holy Mother of Christ!
            
                                    PERRY
                        I can't see ... I'm blind.
            
            Perry staggers, terrified, both eyes completely white. The
            tip of headless Morton's snaking backbone slows and stops in
            front of Perry's face -- stabs into his slack mouth -- and
            bursts out the back of his head. Balham looks in horror.
            
                                    BALHAM
                        Ben!
                        
            Headless Morton's lethal spine jolts out from Perry with a
            spray of blood. Perry's lifeless body drops to the ground.
            Balham dashes towards his fallen friend, but headless
            Morton's serpentine spine -- now twenty feet long at
            least -- whips around and slices through Balham's neck,
            lopping his head clear off. Balham's headless body runs on a
            few feet, stumbling to the ground, blood gushing from its
            ragged neck.
            
            Headless Morton's open gullet throbs and peels apart,
            deforming into a monstrous gaping mouth studded with row
            upon row of barbed teeth. His torn habit hangs down, baring
            unnaturally sleek skin with an almost metallic glaucous
            sheen.
            
            Speedwell comes round, much to Locke's relief. Monstrous
            Morton lurches towards them, his searching spine reaching
            out for more.
            
                                    LOCKE
                        Have at him, boy!
            
            (Continued in next post!)

            Nobody knows nothing, and I'm nobody.

            Oh Those Hot Summer Nights script contest
            5 pages, deadline next Sunday

            Comment


            • #7
              Re: Entries - Bring Me The Head contest

              Code:
              LEVIATHAN ...continued.
              
              Shadow bounds SNARLING at monstrous Morton. Concealed in the
              cloister lurks Prior Ranald.
              
                                      PRIOR RANALD
                                (chanting)
                          The power of the Beast corrupts thee
                          ... the power of the Beast corrupts
                          thee ...
                          
              Shadow slows to an amble, ignores monstrous Morton, pads
              into the cloister, and lays at the feet of Prior Ranald.
              
              Monstrous Morton's spine coils tight around Speedwell's legs
              and waist, and drags him closer. Locke grasps hold of
              Speedwell, but Morton's protracted backbone hoists Speedwell
              up into the air, flinging Locke aside.
              
              Monstrous Morton's spine retracts into his gigantic jaws,
              hauling in Speedwell. Mid-air, he lunges sideways and grabs
              his upright staff from out the ground. His feet already
              inside, Speedwell thrusts the staff deep into Morton's
              cavernous throat, but the countless rasping teeth shred it
              to splinters.
              
              A rapid heave and Speedwell's body is devoured whole. The
              giant mouth contracts fast around his neck, crushing all
              life from him -- his deceased head now in place of Morton's
              With furious contortions, the grotesque figure reforms
              itself into a replica of Speedwell. The Leviathan's
              deception is complete again. Renewed as Speedwell, naked and
              with longsword in hand, his eyes open and glare at Locke.
              
                                      LOCKE
                          Shadow! Shadow! Get here, boy!
                          
              Locke turns and flees alone.
              
              
              INT. MONASTERY - DAY
              
              Locke dashes through darkest corridors, desperately seeking
              an exit. He turns a corner and at the end of a passage is an
              outside door, slightly ajar.
              
              Locke races towards his escape. From a side chamber, Brother
              Enoch steps in his way. Locke freezes.
              
              With outstretched arms, Brother Enoch holds up the old
              abbot's head -- a scowling skull draped in sallow skin.
              Locke is paralysed, and his painfully mortified face quickly
              starts to decay.
              
                                                            FADE OUT.
              
                                        THE END

              Nobody knows nothing, and I'm nobody.

              Oh Those Hot Summer Nights script contest
              5 pages, deadline next Sunday

              Comment

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