Post by D! on Jan 14, 2006 6:24:43 GMT -5
[Fade in.]
---The crowd outside New City parts violently as a frantic young man pushes his way right through them. Desperately, he runs full tilt down the avenue to the jeers and catcalls of the people he's shoved aside. The toe of his fancy boots snags violently against a rise of uneven sidewalk--he lurches forwards, skins his hands, then hauls himself up in one motion to continue running. He scans everything and everyone around him in the night . . . the sour-looking bottle-pickers, passing taxi cabs, the crowd behind him, the skyline of tall buildings that tower all around him. His fists are balled, purely out of instinct.
He hears the revving of a motor and the blaring of a car horn . . . without looking back, he bolts away from the street and into a nearby alley. His eyes tell him he's lost the crowd and a certain amount of illumination, but his brain refuses to deal with this information. He gets to the end of the alley, and sees that immediately to his left and right, dumpsters have been moved cutting any progress off. "There should never be dumpsters here," he tells himself, and runs to grab one. The wheels are gone--snapped off--and nothing short of a machine could move them out of the way now.
He turns around, just as a large shadow falls over his face.
"Leave me alone!" he shouts. "I've never done ANYTHING to you! I'm INNOCENT, for God's sake!"
His neck blooms violently and red as an arrow pierces his throat---
(It's Jasper Avenue, early evening. Seemingly the only person on the sidewalk walking his direction, the man summed up as One Letter, Said Real Loud, D! steps his way purposefully across the downtown crowd, his attention semi-caught up in a conversation into his cell phone.)
D!: . . . look, I'm just saying, if he came back from Japan, really, you'd think he would have, I dunno . . . called . . . 'Cause he and I are friends, Marce . . . well, look, he's got all of the time in the world to hang with Crusher, and fine for him, but he came back from Japan awful damn early, and I'd love . . .
(Sneaking a peek in the window of a used book store.)
. . . I don't know Crusher's real name, no . . . well, I know Khaos isn't his real name, but I'm calling him that, and besides . . . listen, Marce, be reasonable. If I told him what I was doing half of our locker room would have heard. And it's not like him to hold a grudge . . .
(Crossing the street.)
. . . yes, him and I were supposed to shoot something before the holidays. I kinda got my ass beat by three guys in that cage . . . yes, Khaos went through a table . . . okay, listen, I don't need this right now. I've got a tag match to prepare for this upcoming Monday, against that Casino douche that wrecked me up and his boy Lobo, and my partner's . . . The Predator . . . yeah, like the movie and everything . . . no, he's not, of course he's not, he's a strong wrestler, but he's just so messed up . . .
(Looks up.)
(Wait a minute.)
(The unmistakable form of a man--and a large one at that--hurling himself from the roof of one building, across the gap of an alley, and onto the roof of a slightly lower building.)
(Wearing a silver mask.)
D!: (Off his phone.) You have got to be shitting me. (Into his phone.) Marce? I'm gonna call you back. Tell him I've called if you see him, okay?
(He flips his phone shut, shoves it in his jacket, scans the nearby buildings, then runs for the nearest alley.)
(Cut. On a Jasper Avenue rooftop, we see a single solitary figure cutting a path across the building's width . . . he is crouched low, about as low as you can get on your own two feet, and is in the act of moving slowly, deliberately . . . slowly, methodically, The Predator shifts his head from side to side by degrees, scanning as much of the night air around him while attempting not to stand out. Slowly, ever so slowly, he inches his way towards the building's roof access . . . the door is just five feet away from him now, but to rush at this point would undo all of his hard work . . . a little further . . . a little further . . .)
D!: (Shoving the door open, then kneeling with jazz hands.) MAMMY!
(Predator instantly jumps back, lands nimbly on his feet--for a big man--and a large blade audibly slides out of his gauntlet, jutting out past his hand in a straight line. He remains coiled in position, unsure as to what to do next.)
D!: (Stepping through the door frame.) Jobber, please. Don't tell me your reaction to everything is to whip out forearm blades.
(Predator does not move.)
D!: I mean, something scares you, CLAWS! Lose a match? CLAWS, by Gawd! Annoying phone calls by telemarketers? You've earned a CLAWIN'!
(He stays ready to pounce, but with a slight motion of his fingers retracts the blade back into his fore-arm bracer.)
D!: See? That's better! You don't threaten me with your claws and I don't destroy you with my deadly eye-beams.
PREDATOR: What . . . do you want?
D!: To be Rose McGowan's bidet. But I'm also well-known for my stances on world peace, modern American fiction and winning against the Rat Pack on Monday! We have to talk, peanut!
PREDATOR: Chris Casino and Lobo will fall on Monday. I don't have time to discuss this with you right now.
D!: Don't have time to--I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?
PREDATOR: There's a Hunt. Now get out of here, and we'll discuss this on Monday.
D!: No! No, we won't. We'll discuss this now.
PREDATOR: There is a Hunt.
D!: There is a match, and it's just moved to the number one slot on your priority list. Do you now what Casino and Lobo are doing right now? Boozing. But what happens when that's done? I'll tell you what: Whoring. Anyways, its entirely possible that they might somehow get some training done, too, and that'll be more than we've got tagging together.
PREDATOR: Stop talking! Why must you talk so much?
D!: Oh, sweetie, sorry to get in the way of your Hunt.
PREDATOR: You don't understand.
D!: I understand perfectly! You track someone down that reminds you of your NAPW opponents, then you worry them like a mouse and stick that completely not illegal sword of yours into them.
PREDATOR: Damn it! Will you keep it down!
D!: No I will not keep it down! I'm not the kind of guy who would let something terrible happen if he knew that he could prevent it, and I'm not going to let you terrorize or even end someone's life--and if you do I will ape-raping get you bounced outta my match and take The Rat Pack on solo--
PREDATOR: You stupid fool! You'll give us away!
D!: GOOD! LOUD NOISES! HEY, UNFORTUNATE TARGET! YOU'RE BEING STALKED BY THE PREDATOR! YEAH, THE PREDATOR'S COMING TO GET YOU!
(Predator lunges forward, grabs D! by the collar and starts forcing him towards the door. D! brakes with his foot.)
PREDATOR: You little idiot--you've ruined everything!
D!: And you, "partner", are gonna have to deal. What poor sap did you plan on cutting up? Another shot-putter? Another gambler? Who's the oh-so-creative victim of "The Hunt"?
(An arrow whistles between both of their heads, and stops, trembling, in the door behind them.)
PREDATOR: I am.
D!: What!?
(And then, with no warning--a manriki-gusari, a bola weapon made with chain and weights--whirls through the air and wraps itself forcefully around D!'s legs, toppling him. Predator turns towards the source of both attacks, and re-introduces his blade.)
(Through the darkness, we see three large men walk towards the camera. They are all almost the same size. Silhouettes only. And carrying weapons . . . one with a bow and arrows, one with a long length of chain, and one carrying what seems to be a two-handed sword.)
PREDATOR: I swore to you three I'd kill you if it came down to it.
ARCHER: Oh, our Nameless One . . . it's so good to see you again.
PREDATOR: Don't ever call me that again! I! AM! THE PREDATOR!
D!: (Thrashing his legs to free them, but finding the chain too tight.) Oh, so, everyone's been introduced?
SWORDSMAN: Oh, it hasn't been that long, D! We remember you.
ARCHER: You see, we're very close to your friend "The Predator" . . . not so fast!
(An arrow ricochets off of the roof where D!'s hand was going, reaching towards the chains to get them unwrapped.)
SWORDSMAN: And we've been just waiting for a proper family reunion.
(All three of the attackers come forward. We see they are dressed completely in black, and all three wearing familiar-looking masks . . .)
PREDATOR: (Growling.) Bio. Kar. Pain.
BIO: (Drawing another arrow.) We've got a score to settle, "brother".
D!: Uh, Predator . . . correct me if I'm wrong, but . . . didn't you wipe the floor with these clowns last time?
(Pause. Kar and Pain are starting to walk a flank around Predator, who pivots to keep all three men in his peripheral vision.)
BIO: Yes, he did, but--
PREDATOR: --but things have changed.
----------
With permission from The Predator.
Predator writes Part Two!
---The crowd outside New City parts violently as a frantic young man pushes his way right through them. Desperately, he runs full tilt down the avenue to the jeers and catcalls of the people he's shoved aside. The toe of his fancy boots snags violently against a rise of uneven sidewalk--he lurches forwards, skins his hands, then hauls himself up in one motion to continue running. He scans everything and everyone around him in the night . . . the sour-looking bottle-pickers, passing taxi cabs, the crowd behind him, the skyline of tall buildings that tower all around him. His fists are balled, purely out of instinct.
He hears the revving of a motor and the blaring of a car horn . . . without looking back, he bolts away from the street and into a nearby alley. His eyes tell him he's lost the crowd and a certain amount of illumination, but his brain refuses to deal with this information. He gets to the end of the alley, and sees that immediately to his left and right, dumpsters have been moved cutting any progress off. "There should never be dumpsters here," he tells himself, and runs to grab one. The wheels are gone--snapped off--and nothing short of a machine could move them out of the way now.
He turns around, just as a large shadow falls over his face.
"Leave me alone!" he shouts. "I've never done ANYTHING to you! I'm INNOCENT, for God's sake!"
His neck blooms violently and red as an arrow pierces his throat---
(It's Jasper Avenue, early evening. Seemingly the only person on the sidewalk walking his direction, the man summed up as One Letter, Said Real Loud, D! steps his way purposefully across the downtown crowd, his attention semi-caught up in a conversation into his cell phone.)
D!: . . . look, I'm just saying, if he came back from Japan, really, you'd think he would have, I dunno . . . called . . . 'Cause he and I are friends, Marce . . . well, look, he's got all of the time in the world to hang with Crusher, and fine for him, but he came back from Japan awful damn early, and I'd love . . .
(Sneaking a peek in the window of a used book store.)
. . . I don't know Crusher's real name, no . . . well, I know Khaos isn't his real name, but I'm calling him that, and besides . . . listen, Marce, be reasonable. If I told him what I was doing half of our locker room would have heard. And it's not like him to hold a grudge . . .
(Crossing the street.)
. . . yes, him and I were supposed to shoot something before the holidays. I kinda got my ass beat by three guys in that cage . . . yes, Khaos went through a table . . . okay, listen, I don't need this right now. I've got a tag match to prepare for this upcoming Monday, against that Casino douche that wrecked me up and his boy Lobo, and my partner's . . . The Predator . . . yeah, like the movie and everything . . . no, he's not, of course he's not, he's a strong wrestler, but he's just so messed up . . .
(Looks up.)
(Wait a minute.)
(The unmistakable form of a man--and a large one at that--hurling himself from the roof of one building, across the gap of an alley, and onto the roof of a slightly lower building.)
(Wearing a silver mask.)
D!: (Off his phone.) You have got to be shitting me. (Into his phone.) Marce? I'm gonna call you back. Tell him I've called if you see him, okay?
(He flips his phone shut, shoves it in his jacket, scans the nearby buildings, then runs for the nearest alley.)
(Cut. On a Jasper Avenue rooftop, we see a single solitary figure cutting a path across the building's width . . . he is crouched low, about as low as you can get on your own two feet, and is in the act of moving slowly, deliberately . . . slowly, methodically, The Predator shifts his head from side to side by degrees, scanning as much of the night air around him while attempting not to stand out. Slowly, ever so slowly, he inches his way towards the building's roof access . . . the door is just five feet away from him now, but to rush at this point would undo all of his hard work . . . a little further . . . a little further . . .)
D!: (Shoving the door open, then kneeling with jazz hands.) MAMMY!
(Predator instantly jumps back, lands nimbly on his feet--for a big man--and a large blade audibly slides out of his gauntlet, jutting out past his hand in a straight line. He remains coiled in position, unsure as to what to do next.)
D!: (Stepping through the door frame.) Jobber, please. Don't tell me your reaction to everything is to whip out forearm blades.
(Predator does not move.)
D!: I mean, something scares you, CLAWS! Lose a match? CLAWS, by Gawd! Annoying phone calls by telemarketers? You've earned a CLAWIN'!
(He stays ready to pounce, but with a slight motion of his fingers retracts the blade back into his fore-arm bracer.)
D!: See? That's better! You don't threaten me with your claws and I don't destroy you with my deadly eye-beams.
PREDATOR: What . . . do you want?
D!: To be Rose McGowan's bidet. But I'm also well-known for my stances on world peace, modern American fiction and winning against the Rat Pack on Monday! We have to talk, peanut!
PREDATOR: Chris Casino and Lobo will fall on Monday. I don't have time to discuss this with you right now.
D!: Don't have time to--I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?
PREDATOR: There's a Hunt. Now get out of here, and we'll discuss this on Monday.
D!: No! No, we won't. We'll discuss this now.
PREDATOR: There is a Hunt.
D!: There is a match, and it's just moved to the number one slot on your priority list. Do you now what Casino and Lobo are doing right now? Boozing. But what happens when that's done? I'll tell you what: Whoring. Anyways, its entirely possible that they might somehow get some training done, too, and that'll be more than we've got tagging together.
PREDATOR: Stop talking! Why must you talk so much?
D!: Oh, sweetie, sorry to get in the way of your Hunt.
PREDATOR: You don't understand.
D!: I understand perfectly! You track someone down that reminds you of your NAPW opponents, then you worry them like a mouse and stick that completely not illegal sword of yours into them.
PREDATOR: Damn it! Will you keep it down!
D!: No I will not keep it down! I'm not the kind of guy who would let something terrible happen if he knew that he could prevent it, and I'm not going to let you terrorize or even end someone's life--and if you do I will ape-raping get you bounced outta my match and take The Rat Pack on solo--
PREDATOR: You stupid fool! You'll give us away!
D!: GOOD! LOUD NOISES! HEY, UNFORTUNATE TARGET! YOU'RE BEING STALKED BY THE PREDATOR! YEAH, THE PREDATOR'S COMING TO GET YOU!
(Predator lunges forward, grabs D! by the collar and starts forcing him towards the door. D! brakes with his foot.)
PREDATOR: You little idiot--you've ruined everything!
D!: And you, "partner", are gonna have to deal. What poor sap did you plan on cutting up? Another shot-putter? Another gambler? Who's the oh-so-creative victim of "The Hunt"?
(An arrow whistles between both of their heads, and stops, trembling, in the door behind them.)
PREDATOR: I am.
D!: What!?
(And then, with no warning--a manriki-gusari, a bola weapon made with chain and weights--whirls through the air and wraps itself forcefully around D!'s legs, toppling him. Predator turns towards the source of both attacks, and re-introduces his blade.)
(Through the darkness, we see three large men walk towards the camera. They are all almost the same size. Silhouettes only. And carrying weapons . . . one with a bow and arrows, one with a long length of chain, and one carrying what seems to be a two-handed sword.)
PREDATOR: I swore to you three I'd kill you if it came down to it.
ARCHER: Oh, our Nameless One . . . it's so good to see you again.
PREDATOR: Don't ever call me that again! I! AM! THE PREDATOR!
D!: (Thrashing his legs to free them, but finding the chain too tight.) Oh, so, everyone's been introduced?
SWORDSMAN: Oh, it hasn't been that long, D! We remember you.
ARCHER: You see, we're very close to your friend "The Predator" . . . not so fast!
(An arrow ricochets off of the roof where D!'s hand was going, reaching towards the chains to get them unwrapped.)
SWORDSMAN: And we've been just waiting for a proper family reunion.
(All three of the attackers come forward. We see they are dressed completely in black, and all three wearing familiar-looking masks . . .)
PREDATOR: (Growling.) Bio. Kar. Pain.
BIO: (Drawing another arrow.) We've got a score to settle, "brother".
D!: Uh, Predator . . . correct me if I'm wrong, but . . . didn't you wipe the floor with these clowns last time?
(Pause. Kar and Pain are starting to walk a flank around Predator, who pivots to keep all three men in his peripheral vision.)
BIO: Yes, he did, but--
PREDATOR: --but things have changed.
----------
With permission from The Predator.
Predator writes Part Two!