Slab City sc. 1

EXT/ESTABLISHING, SLAB CITY – SUNSET
Grey and yellow clouded sky.
A sign: Slab City – You’re Almost There”.
A motorcyclist zooms past, through-
Bleak clumps of trailers.
A rotting school bus.
The cross on Salvation Mountain.
The Doric arch of Court Argos.

CASSIE/THE WATCHER (VO)
Every night for twelve months, thirteen moons…

EXT. COURT ARGOS – CONTINUOUS, NIGHT
Through the Doric arch of trailerpark, “Court Argos”.
The Watcher, silhouetted at entrance.
The trailers seem asleep.
Except at the back of the court, a red orange light glows from the big doublewide window.

CASSIE/THE WATCHER (VO)
Tethered like a dog. Time to release me.

The watcher, arms and face thrown upward to the dark sky.
He wears running shoes on skinny legs, and a day-glo Speedo mostly obscured by his bloated gut.
He mouths with Cassie’s VO.
Then it’s just his voice.

CASSIE/THE WATCHER (VO) (CONT’D)
Sick of the heavens, sick of the darkness.

INT. DOUBLE WIDE TRAILER – CONTINUOUS
Flicking candlelight.
Tight slash of red lips around a straw.
Raccoon eyelashes.
KYLEEN heats meth on a light bulb with the top broken off.

THE WATCHER (VO)
Everything’s changed in this palace.

Kyleen sucks the straw stuck in the light bulb.
It glows bright.

THE WATCHER (VO) (CONT’D)
No dreams.

Smoke curls from Kyleen’s nostrils.

CASSIE/THE WATCHER (VO) (CONT’D)
No sleep.

The trailer door slams open.
In the doorway, IGGY.
He wears greasy leathers,
German style motorcycle helmet, and gas mask.

IGGY
Kyleen Baby – I’m back!

KYLEEN
Iggy You scared the shit out of me. Take off that mask, you stupid ratsucker!

IGGY
Kyleen baby, time to move – there’s a twister out there.

KYLEEN
I’m busy.

Kyleen takes another hit.

IGGY
Gotta go. Now.

KYLEEN
Alright! Alright! Alright! I heard ya!

IGGY
And gimme that. It’s no good for you.

Iggy yanks the paraphernalia from Kyleen.
He lights it up.

KYLEEN
You stink.

Iggy takes another hit.

IGGY
Not so bad.

KYLEEN
Like I need you to tell me that! Our guys make the best.

EXT. ENTRANCE COURT ARGOS – CONTINUOUS

Rain pours down.
Black columns in the clouds.
Iggy rides his motorcycle.
Kyleen on a small All Terrain Vehicle.
Their headlamps illuminate the Watcher.

WATCHER (VO)
I wait.

Kyleen stops her bike.
The Watcher stands in her headlamp beam.
His naked belly, glows.
He clenches both fists above his head.

WATCHER (VO) (CONT’D)
The light never comes!

Kyleen looks at Iggy.

KYLEEN
What the fuck is this?

WATCHER (VO)
I sing, weeping! The signs are here…

Iggy holds his hand up in “who knows?” gesture.
The Watcher half dances, half lurches toward them.

WATCHER (CONT’D)
Look for the flame! The beacon!

Kyleen’s gloved hand revs the accelerator.

KYLEEN
Gimme a goddam break.

The watcher rolls his eyes skyward, prancing around.

WATCHER
The king comes from the east! I shall be releas-

The watcher’s silhouette in Kyleen’s headlamp.
She smashes into him.

KYLEEN
Mush mouth mumblin’ sonofabitch.

Kyleen and Iggy ride away.
The watcher’s body shudders into a corpse.

A black tornado in the distance.

INT. BIKER STRIP CLUB

Leather jacket back: BORDER LORDS MC, AZ CHAPTER.

Eye level at the biker strip club stage, Cassie, 18, hangs upside down on a pole, looking directly at us. Positioned like the tarot Hanged Man, Cassie looks very Goth, in a black g-string, fishnet finger-less gloves and high-heeled patent leather boots. She wears heavy black eye make up, dark red lipstick and long blue-black hair – sort of a stripper Morticia vibe. Her small stage is made from a giant tractor tire. Behind her, the club, smoky and dimly lit. Several stages like Cassie’s have dancing girls on them, and bikers sitting around the table. The entire joint crawls with tough looking 1%s, the kind of outlaw bikers that give Harley a bad name. Emblazoned on their backs, a hog death’s head with flaming wings, and rockers that say: BORDER LORDS MC, AZ CHAPTER. More strippers hang out around the bar. Motorcycle paraphernalia, pin ups and beer signs dangle across the walls. Cassie addresses the camera.

CASSIE
You bored yet?

Advertisements

cynics, canines, wine-crossed visions in the stars

1173769_10151896957311057_1125523346_n
The young man, the vanity bloated, insecure-would-be-conquerer of the known world seeks audience with the man who lives in a barrel, reeking of wine, stained by the purple sediments in the great jar of his housing.

Diogenese, in his drunken half remembered labors, gave the finger to Alexander. The sun blotted from the sky and Mr D rolled his eyes to the heavens, waving his hand to helio’s glory. The vain boy casts a shadow, and the philosipher is losing valuable tanning time.

Laika would come to understand another side, the dark side of the celestial realms, the flip side of the philosopher’s heaven. But thats getting ahead of ourselves.

But in this moment, the scales fell from the eyes of the callow stripling, Mssr A the Great, who sits aloft the great bellowing Bucephalus. “Now I understand!” Alexander exclaims, “It’s all about destroying the Temple. Leveling the world. Constructing giant repositories of knowledge, and building the vast playground on the backs of skin stripped slaves. This, in my three and thirty years, I can do. So now, to conquer the known world… And beyond.” The strapping youth, presaging the son of man by many score o’ years, proceeded to hack away at the world’s most profound mysteries, knots unfurling in flames, like tendrils around Persepolis and associated hanging gardens. To the terror of mathematical genius, screams of desert djinns and fearful lamb soaked smoke then filled the land(s).

But first, Alexander’s eye turned inward for further revelation. “How might I have not seen this before? I must rebuild the universe after mine own countenance.” Jesus never had it so good. And thus the feminine locations dotted the geography, all the way galloping towards the gymnosophists, humming the lilting melodies of Satie all the way.

You bet your sweet bottom, this is a legend born. Borne. Bjorn.

Mean while, back at ye old ranch, the bear, old Bear, dear cuddling great bear with a red sickle of despair, claimed the title of Alexander’s inheritor – and in more recent years, claimed the heavens.

Ach, the canine of dear Diogenes, sitting dapper in laced suits, waiting for oxygenated pods, fettered and locked while the terror of flashing stars and exploding rockets, dim doggie senses. Laika ah laika oh darling balalaika, sing a sleepy lullabye in the stars.