Post by Bruce "The Beast" Richards on Mar 24, 2007 19:34:27 GMT -5
<Saturday Evening>
(Fade up; interior of a one-bedroom apartment. The living room is lit by a single floor lamp that sits in the corner. There are a few pizza boxes and empty two-liter bottles of root beer on the coffee table, and a well-kept bonsai tree on the side table. There's also a glass-doored cabinet that proudly displays an impressive collection of Transformers, all out of the boxes, each posed for maximum effect and resting on a special stand. The intercom rings. Bill Fleming steps out of the kitchen, licking a wooden spoon and wearing a red and white striped apron.)
BILL FLEMING: Yello?
TIFFANY: (From the intercom.) Bill, it's me. Can I come up?
BILL FLEMING: (Looking around at the messy table.) Uh, sure, come on in.
(He buzzes her up, and quickly gathers the cardboard boxes and plastic bottles in his arms and rushes them into the bedroom; a few bottles clunk on the floor as he runs, and he kicks them under the couch as he comes back to the living room. There's a knock at the front door, and he opens it. Tiffany McIntyre's standing there in a pink and grey sweatsuit and ball cap, her hair pulled out in a ponytail.)
TIFFANY: Hey Bill. Nice outfit.
BILL FLEMING: Yeah, well, I was making muffins. If you called before you came over, I might not have done three batches. (He gestures to the couch.) I was just putting the last few in the oven; come on in and I'll set you up with a drink. (He goes back to the kitchen and Tiffany examines his trophy case.)
TIFFANY: Milk's fine. (She lazily wanders over and sits on the couch.) You keep a clean place, Bill.
BILL FLEMING: Heh, well, you know, my mom always said, messy room, messy mind. (Tiffany pulls a two liter bottle out from under the couch, shrugs, and shoves it back. Bill comes out with two glasses of milk and some muffins.) So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?
TIFFANY: I need to know where Bruce is.
BILL FLEMING: Oh no. No, no, no. I'm sworn to secrecy on that one, Tiff.
TIFFANY: Come on, Bill. I just want to talk to him.
BILL FLEMING: He gave specific instructions. He did not want to be disturbed during his little retreat.
TIFFANY: But it's ridiculous, Bill. In the first place, Bruce isn't even Native American. He's Scotch-German. And secondly, what the hell is this going to prove? He's not going to have a drug-induced epiphany, and he's not going to gain any supernatural powers. This sweat is not going to give him the stamina he needs to outlast 29 other men, and it's not going to give him the strength he needs to tear Kyle Roberts in half.
BILL FLEMING: I know.
TIFFANY: You're his manager, Bill. How could you let him do this?
BILL FLEMING: Look, you're right. Bruce probably isn't going to get any lasting physical or psychological effects out of this. But he needed to do SOMETHING. He needs to throw away all the stuff he didn't need from the past two years. He needs to get away from everyone and clear his head. So, if he feels the best way to do that is to go out to the middle of the woods and sit in a sauna for eight or nine hours, then who am I to tell him no?
TIFFANY: It's not healthy.
BILL FLEMING: People have been doing this for thousands of years. Bruce isn't stupid. He's not going to hurt himself, and he's not hurting anyone else by doing it. Sometimes as a manager, you have to let the client go out and do what he feels he needs to do. Maybe nothing will happen. But maybe ritualizing everything like this is the only way Bruce can get his head around the situation. Maybe sitting in that shack and thinking about everything will help him figure some stuff out.
TIFFANY: ...but he's all alone out there.
BILL FLEMING: Not for long. I'm heading out there in a few hours; after a sweat, the guy's going to need some more water and something to eat. Plus, I need to make sure he doesn't pass out from heat exhaustion and burn the place down.
TIFFANY: (Anxious.) Not helping my nervousness here, Bill.
BILL FLEMING: I'll take care of him.
TIFFANY: Let me come with you.
BILL FLEMING: I don't know...
TIFFANY: You said he needed someone to look out for him. Well, that someone should be me. I won't make a fuss; I won't interrupt the stupid ritual or whatever. But I want to be there and sit through what he's going through, and when it's over, I want to see him. I want him to see me when he comes out of that shack and have him remember that he doesn't need to throw EVERYTHING away.
BILL FLEMING: ...all right. I've got to get some stuff done here, but I'll pick you up at your apartment in an hour and a half, okay?
TIFFANY: All right, Bill. (She picks up a muffin and gets up from the couch.) Mmm, these are pretty good, Bill.
BILL FLEMING: I'm a man of many talents.
TIFFANY: An hour and a half?
BILL FLEMING: You got it.
TIFFANY: All right. I'll be waiting.
(She walks out the apartment door and closes it behind her. Bill Fleming sighs and turns to go back to the kitchen.)
BILL FLEMING: I hope you're right about all this, Bruce.
* * * * *
(In the lodge, Bruce is sitting with a towel over his lap and a bucket of water with a ladle beside his feet. His face and upper body are dripping with sweat and condensed steam. There's sweetgrass smoking on the hot stones in the middle of the room; smoke and steam billow up and spread through the small space. He leans back and breathes deeply.)
BRUCE RICHARDS: Three hours. (Breathes.) Three hours and nothing. (Breathes.) This was probably a bad idea.
VOICE: Yeah, it probably was. But it's too late to turn back now.
(Bruce opens his eyes and turns to the left. The camera pulls out to reveal Coach Gordon Jago, in his grey sweatsuit and cap, not sweating in the least.)
BRUCE RICHARDS: Coach...?
COACH JAGO: Yeah?
BRUCE RICHARDS: How did you find me out here?
COACH JAGO: I got news for you, Bruce. (Leans in close and puts his hand to his mouth. He stage-whispers.) I'm not really here.
BRUCE RICHARDS: Ah. So I'm either having a psychotic break or that tea's just starting to kick in.
COACH JAGO: How many cups did you have?
BRUCE RICHARDS: (Thinks for a minute.) Three?
COACH JAGO: Yeah, it's probably the tea.
BRUCE RICHARDS: I hope so. So, Coach, what are you doing here?
COACH JAGO: I dunno, champ; you tell me.
BRUCE RICHARDS: Aren't you supposed to be some kind of spirit guide or something?
COACH JAGO: A guide? To your messed up head? Not likely, Bruce. I can give you a pep talk, or tell you to drop and give me twenty pushups. But I don't know anything about psychology. That's your department, I believe.
BRUCE RICHARDS: You're the worst psychic manifestation ever.
COACH JAGO: Well, you thought me up. What does that say about you?
BRUCE RICHARDS: Touché, Coach. (He stretches.)
COACH JAGO: So, what are you doing out in this crappy little shack anyhow?
BRUCE RICHARDS: Trying to change.
COACH JAGO: You know, you could have changed in town. It'd have been a lot more fun, and probably could have involved beer or pizza.
BRUCE RICHARDS: You don't get it, Coach. The whole ceremony of it. Building the shack, drinking the tea, sweating it out. It's symbolic. The symbols are important.
COACH JAGO: That's rich, coming from Mister Rationality. You're all against the thought of the supernatural or the idea of some higher power, you put all this faith in the power of science and the mind, but you're perfectly willing to go out here on a spiritual retreat, based on some ancient Indian magic?
BRUCE RICHARDS: It's not that hard to reconcile, anthropologicallly speaking.
COACH JAGO: But it is, Bruce. You are a walking set of contradictions. You're the rational, brilliant tactician and the brutal powerhouse. You're the guy who makes statistical analysis outside the ring and the Tasmanian Devil inside it. You're a cold, calculating bastard and friendly and warm to the fans. You're always walking a line between Bruce Richards and The Beast. But you don't know where that line is any more. Who are you, really?
BRUCE RICHARDS: I don't know.
COACH JAGO: And you think coming out here will help?
BRUCE RICHARDS: It has to.
COACH JAGO: (Gets up.) All right, Bruce. It's your choice. You want to sit and think about it a little more, or do you want to find out for yourself? (He walks to the door and gestures at it.)
BRUCE RICHARDS: (Getting up and walking towards the door.) I thought you said you weren't a spirit guide, Coach.
COACH JAGO: I'm not. I just sat here and asked you a few questions. I'm not taking you anywhere. I'm not showing you anything. I'm not even going to open that door for you. It's something you have to do for yourself. You need to decide if you can walk forward into whatever's out there. Are you ready to do it?
BRUCE RICHARDS: (Stares at the makeshift latch.) I can't stay where I am any more.
(He stands still. His face is a blank, but if you stare into his eyes, you can see a fire burning in them. He's making up his mind. Suddenly he reaches out and pushes the door open; a great gust of wind blows into the room; dirt, snow, and leaves batter his face and chest, but he steps out into the maelstrom. Fade to white.)
(Fade up; interior of a one-bedroom apartment. The living room is lit by a single floor lamp that sits in the corner. There are a few pizza boxes and empty two-liter bottles of root beer on the coffee table, and a well-kept bonsai tree on the side table. There's also a glass-doored cabinet that proudly displays an impressive collection of Transformers, all out of the boxes, each posed for maximum effect and resting on a special stand. The intercom rings. Bill Fleming steps out of the kitchen, licking a wooden spoon and wearing a red and white striped apron.)
BILL FLEMING: Yello?
TIFFANY: (From the intercom.) Bill, it's me. Can I come up?
BILL FLEMING: (Looking around at the messy table.) Uh, sure, come on in.
(He buzzes her up, and quickly gathers the cardboard boxes and plastic bottles in his arms and rushes them into the bedroom; a few bottles clunk on the floor as he runs, and he kicks them under the couch as he comes back to the living room. There's a knock at the front door, and he opens it. Tiffany McIntyre's standing there in a pink and grey sweatsuit and ball cap, her hair pulled out in a ponytail.)
TIFFANY: Hey Bill. Nice outfit.
BILL FLEMING: Yeah, well, I was making muffins. If you called before you came over, I might not have done three batches. (He gestures to the couch.) I was just putting the last few in the oven; come on in and I'll set you up with a drink. (He goes back to the kitchen and Tiffany examines his trophy case.)
TIFFANY: Milk's fine. (She lazily wanders over and sits on the couch.) You keep a clean place, Bill.
BILL FLEMING: Heh, well, you know, my mom always said, messy room, messy mind. (Tiffany pulls a two liter bottle out from under the couch, shrugs, and shoves it back. Bill comes out with two glasses of milk and some muffins.) So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?
TIFFANY: I need to know where Bruce is.
BILL FLEMING: Oh no. No, no, no. I'm sworn to secrecy on that one, Tiff.
TIFFANY: Come on, Bill. I just want to talk to him.
BILL FLEMING: He gave specific instructions. He did not want to be disturbed during his little retreat.
TIFFANY: But it's ridiculous, Bill. In the first place, Bruce isn't even Native American. He's Scotch-German. And secondly, what the hell is this going to prove? He's not going to have a drug-induced epiphany, and he's not going to gain any supernatural powers. This sweat is not going to give him the stamina he needs to outlast 29 other men, and it's not going to give him the strength he needs to tear Kyle Roberts in half.
BILL FLEMING: I know.
TIFFANY: You're his manager, Bill. How could you let him do this?
BILL FLEMING: Look, you're right. Bruce probably isn't going to get any lasting physical or psychological effects out of this. But he needed to do SOMETHING. He needs to throw away all the stuff he didn't need from the past two years. He needs to get away from everyone and clear his head. So, if he feels the best way to do that is to go out to the middle of the woods and sit in a sauna for eight or nine hours, then who am I to tell him no?
TIFFANY: It's not healthy.
BILL FLEMING: People have been doing this for thousands of years. Bruce isn't stupid. He's not going to hurt himself, and he's not hurting anyone else by doing it. Sometimes as a manager, you have to let the client go out and do what he feels he needs to do. Maybe nothing will happen. But maybe ritualizing everything like this is the only way Bruce can get his head around the situation. Maybe sitting in that shack and thinking about everything will help him figure some stuff out.
TIFFANY: ...but he's all alone out there.
BILL FLEMING: Not for long. I'm heading out there in a few hours; after a sweat, the guy's going to need some more water and something to eat. Plus, I need to make sure he doesn't pass out from heat exhaustion and burn the place down.
TIFFANY: (Anxious.) Not helping my nervousness here, Bill.
BILL FLEMING: I'll take care of him.
TIFFANY: Let me come with you.
BILL FLEMING: I don't know...
TIFFANY: You said he needed someone to look out for him. Well, that someone should be me. I won't make a fuss; I won't interrupt the stupid ritual or whatever. But I want to be there and sit through what he's going through, and when it's over, I want to see him. I want him to see me when he comes out of that shack and have him remember that he doesn't need to throw EVERYTHING away.
BILL FLEMING: ...all right. I've got to get some stuff done here, but I'll pick you up at your apartment in an hour and a half, okay?
TIFFANY: All right, Bill. (She picks up a muffin and gets up from the couch.) Mmm, these are pretty good, Bill.
BILL FLEMING: I'm a man of many talents.
TIFFANY: An hour and a half?
BILL FLEMING: You got it.
TIFFANY: All right. I'll be waiting.
(She walks out the apartment door and closes it behind her. Bill Fleming sighs and turns to go back to the kitchen.)
BILL FLEMING: I hope you're right about all this, Bruce.
* * * * *
(In the lodge, Bruce is sitting with a towel over his lap and a bucket of water with a ladle beside his feet. His face and upper body are dripping with sweat and condensed steam. There's sweetgrass smoking on the hot stones in the middle of the room; smoke and steam billow up and spread through the small space. He leans back and breathes deeply.)
BRUCE RICHARDS: Three hours. (Breathes.) Three hours and nothing. (Breathes.) This was probably a bad idea.
VOICE: Yeah, it probably was. But it's too late to turn back now.
(Bruce opens his eyes and turns to the left. The camera pulls out to reveal Coach Gordon Jago, in his grey sweatsuit and cap, not sweating in the least.)
BRUCE RICHARDS: Coach...?
COACH JAGO: Yeah?
BRUCE RICHARDS: How did you find me out here?
COACH JAGO: I got news for you, Bruce. (Leans in close and puts his hand to his mouth. He stage-whispers.) I'm not really here.
BRUCE RICHARDS: Ah. So I'm either having a psychotic break or that tea's just starting to kick in.
COACH JAGO: How many cups did you have?
BRUCE RICHARDS: (Thinks for a minute.) Three?
COACH JAGO: Yeah, it's probably the tea.
BRUCE RICHARDS: I hope so. So, Coach, what are you doing here?
COACH JAGO: I dunno, champ; you tell me.
BRUCE RICHARDS: Aren't you supposed to be some kind of spirit guide or something?
COACH JAGO: A guide? To your messed up head? Not likely, Bruce. I can give you a pep talk, or tell you to drop and give me twenty pushups. But I don't know anything about psychology. That's your department, I believe.
BRUCE RICHARDS: You're the worst psychic manifestation ever.
COACH JAGO: Well, you thought me up. What does that say about you?
BRUCE RICHARDS: Touché, Coach. (He stretches.)
COACH JAGO: So, what are you doing out in this crappy little shack anyhow?
BRUCE RICHARDS: Trying to change.
COACH JAGO: You know, you could have changed in town. It'd have been a lot more fun, and probably could have involved beer or pizza.
BRUCE RICHARDS: You don't get it, Coach. The whole ceremony of it. Building the shack, drinking the tea, sweating it out. It's symbolic. The symbols are important.
COACH JAGO: That's rich, coming from Mister Rationality. You're all against the thought of the supernatural or the idea of some higher power, you put all this faith in the power of science and the mind, but you're perfectly willing to go out here on a spiritual retreat, based on some ancient Indian magic?
BRUCE RICHARDS: It's not that hard to reconcile, anthropologicallly speaking.
COACH JAGO: But it is, Bruce. You are a walking set of contradictions. You're the rational, brilliant tactician and the brutal powerhouse. You're the guy who makes statistical analysis outside the ring and the Tasmanian Devil inside it. You're a cold, calculating bastard and friendly and warm to the fans. You're always walking a line between Bruce Richards and The Beast. But you don't know where that line is any more. Who are you, really?
BRUCE RICHARDS: I don't know.
COACH JAGO: And you think coming out here will help?
BRUCE RICHARDS: It has to.
COACH JAGO: (Gets up.) All right, Bruce. It's your choice. You want to sit and think about it a little more, or do you want to find out for yourself? (He walks to the door and gestures at it.)
BRUCE RICHARDS: (Getting up and walking towards the door.) I thought you said you weren't a spirit guide, Coach.
COACH JAGO: I'm not. I just sat here and asked you a few questions. I'm not taking you anywhere. I'm not showing you anything. I'm not even going to open that door for you. It's something you have to do for yourself. You need to decide if you can walk forward into whatever's out there. Are you ready to do it?
BRUCE RICHARDS: (Stares at the makeshift latch.) I can't stay where I am any more.
(He stands still. His face is a blank, but if you stare into his eyes, you can see a fire burning in them. He's making up his mind. Suddenly he reaches out and pushes the door open; a great gust of wind blows into the room; dirt, snow, and leaves batter his face and chest, but he steps out into the maelstrom. Fade to white.)