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A psychedelic Sci-Fi Crime Noir, graphic novel script. |
| O There are questions with answers I do not pursue. [Interwoven excerpts and captions spun] My jacket is still on, but the urge has hit me! I have to start, I can start, or i guess i am willing to. Alone, in my small, sponge painted purple room, with five and a half walls, and 12 off putting corners. Egor, hunched over a piece of paint splattered particle board, covering a scrap littered drafting table, in it's flat position. Watercolour pallets and assorted dishes caked with the mud of layers of acrylic, CD's teetering, bent safety pins covered in resin, this, a mostly empty bottle of perspiring water, that, two lab beakers nasty with coagulating water and paint sediment, a hole bunch of nonsense and implements of mark making lie with the life of memory before me. My clothes and male sense of cleanliness, cluster a piled disposition filling the cramped spare bedroom. A note book sits idol, three subject college rule, well put to use with a blue scratched at cover, revealing scars of white in the bent creases. An empty lined page opened, is beginning to be scribbled in. At the top of the page reads; PREFACE I know of several places that are beginnings, and others that are endings, and find it difficult to pinpoint a rite proper start. A side ways eight is something not unlike the endless loop of this stories structure. I will try hand at prospecting the confusion. There is no time line to encompasses it, the story that is. I can see it though, somewhere in the light excluded hollows of my introspection, the sequences play in frame, dialog and the characters to mouth each utterance reel 8mm against my person. The characters scuttle through their roles, over five years I've watched. The story unfolds and I have no control. An all most entirely blank note book page reads, in the scribbled hand of narration: "But time does not exist in a way previously conceived!" The statement spoken in my mind, but from the mouth of a Time. Oh! No? For as far as I know, as the story unfolds so does the structure and timing, and the unveiling of character. For you must understand that in this story, Time, is the joyous polliochi embodiment of a Pantaloon gutter punk, and he is my older brother. EON But he is only one character amongst many, E Plurbis Unum, In the play. The stage is quiet, the curtains are drawn shut. The lighting? Closed eyelids. The day of my brother's 28th birthday. We discuss the transcendence of his being into a new chapter of his book. For a moment, the light glows pink through the thick shut eyes and I see... "The Story"! Bob, which is one of my brother's many names, and I have often found ourselves in my car. Making the trip between the two cities that divide us... Talking of heavy things, to hard to lift up in social settings, but easy enough when a brother is there to help with the weight of the burden. As he leans back in the passenger seat, his face dissipates in the glare of the setting sun, as I stress, squinting through an astigmatism. He puts the bottom up, pulling from a tall can a bit more of its selling point. THE BEAST. The wind rushes through the a cracked window, sounding reversed, with chirps passing us on the Hwy. BOB- No, I feel good! Like everything is shifting back into place... Oooommmm...... Putting his hands together forming a temple ME/FAIRWHETHER- We (those our strange blood) live in a cycle of 7's, The harvest moon is going through an equinox. There is a beat, for a second, as Bob leans out of the glare, his face shaping from a formless blur, to say... BOB- The seasons are changing. It is no longer me in the car, I am not my self. I am watching from beyond the cement barrier, the car slowly enters stage right, a tracking shot, down the empty road. Only the two of them go. FAIRWHETHER- You know every seven years, every cell in our bodies will have been completely regenerated, and we will have transformed into a new self. And you are now entering your 4th skin. BOB- My fourth tri-mester, (He laughs fullheartedly) HA HAAAA (phlegm gurgling on the end of his howl.) I can feel it, like a rush overwhelming me, a black smoke trailing behind me (he spits out the window) has been cut off. My girlfriend gets out of jail in two weeks, I'm gonna be bangin' the neighbor tonite for me birthday, we'll be skiing. You're playin' a set. It's golden, wez golden. Fairwhether a response with a silent nod and grin. The window, becomes the focus, as Bob is singing to himself, "Just Run Run Run, as fast as you can...You cunt catch me I'm the, oohhhhhhhhhh..." The sky outside blurs, and the car and this moment that it inhabits, drift back to the blank world of my closed eyelids. I would like to lie, and say that the nite of Bob's birthday, we had painted every bar in town with the warm white plaster of our egos, sparing no women in our path of the same fate, but, in THIS place, the world of story, here if I am going to achieve what I must, here I must be honest. The day after. I open my flesh shutters, I am looking through the distorted vision of Fairwhether Paranoi, still. But I'm holding my breath. I am, I mean we, that is Fairwhether is somewhere else, the car ride? Forgotten about. The shit box in the corner of Bob's smoke stained flat, is dribbling the media's obligation to viewer distortion. Exhale, and Fairwhether's vision reorients it's balance. The sound equipment from the set I played the nite prior, sits in a small pile of box shapes like modernist architecture in front of the T.V.. The PA, speakers, the not needed 50 ft. cords, and my grandfather's old shotgun case, hugging my sequencers within the wooden rectangle. In it's black case my guitar leans lazily against the mattress on the ground, which presently doubles as a couch for a few of the space invaders, ripe with the insanity of their individual. Smoking endless cigarettes and swishing warm beer down the hatch in a thirsting guzzle. The five of us rest on the filthy furniture, in a derelicts circle around the the bong's flame. Through ghost eyes I scan the off coloured wood paneling, putting the images into a file of my mind. Tacked propaganda of punk shows, the sacraments of our social angst, placate the clouded space like disheveled banners forging our existence. A penis protrudes from the back wall, a grand exposition of it's mammoth elk's horn, dangling Martie graw beads and the links of a bondage strap. Video Cassets, DVD's, books, and collectibles of a varying matter, porn, all sit motionless in a library shielding a window, propping an air conditioner. All of the junk irrelevant! And beautiful. The condiments of heirloom, the consumerist life of the poor and crusty. Porno stuck some how to the wall- and I dare not to discover how, shivers in the cool air, forced into the flat by a box fan. I watch Bob, the ancient hair style of our American mutt lineage, standing on end in a hawk of orange quills. I take the smoke he passes me, and despite the stuffy world closing around this hallucination or memory or what ever this is, I enjoy it with a boundless pleasure. Until the brown of the filter. Bob looks me in the eyes and gives his response to a question from one of the invaders, I did not catch what it was thou... BOB- 'Have my brother hangin', some good eats from Grill Master B, (He takes a slam from his Milwaukee's Best, before continuing,) I don't work today! Do I? NO. So I'm just fuckin' chillin'. And the moment is caught on my spider web train of thoughts. It is only what I make of it. Time spent with my brother. Considering the irrelevance of time to those of my families strange blood, and the fact that one day, i will not die, but will forever be stuck in an endless looping of my life. Insanity. The room Fades out One thing my brother, and even my sister Esh, one thing we know, is that in this life all we have to look forward to is insanity. The crazy happening in our dreams, and how we are able to travel through them. And... MORT, that's what Bob calls it, millions of random thoughts. That is all we have to look forward to. The three of us see that apexical moment in our dreams, it is different for each of us. I had the dream first when I was 21. It was that day, my mind became a gate way. This document I transcribe, and the numbers spinning in my mind (3 & 7) are the tools to which I will a bait this collapse of my mind, fated upon my siblings and I through the blood of our father... The Human mind can achieve anything. And I am back in the small tomb? Womb? Doom?... of my bedroom: The note book before me on my rubbish heap drafting table is filled, with my squalor and opinions, Rant Rant rant, the individual is the key to social evolution, To think is to invoke the muse. Not being swept up into the pace of this! Contemporary strife, life of debt-drugz and the apathy of finding a proper mate. All lost in the zeros and ones of adult social networking. Remove human skin to skin contact, my voice is intensifying. mutilation of language in the age of information. Sheep herded by the Media shepherds ,I'm screaming! Don't be scared! No, go to work and shun creative thinkers. To think! RanT! Hate is a beautiful emotion we feel in denial. That bright neon sign with tits in your face is Saying BUY! The words fly out of me like that Meat Loaf album. Oh, trancei colors and poutty lips, her hands toss her hair while arms squeeze together accentuating her breasts! The true spokes model of selling your self short, Advertisements Buy Consume! SCREAMING! CONSUME! FOR THE BENEFIT OF YOUR NATION! CONSUME! O deep breath. IN through the mouth allowing comfort, deeply yes, good, now out through the... There is a confusion as to how it fits together? And I know that some where the secret is in "The Story". So I ask "look beyond, meddle your mind beyond western thinking processes. See that this up swept life of embarrassment, the mandatory marriage and more so, see that those depressed pale blue Grey matter lumps of flesh we've allowed our selves to mold into...See that those things no longer Sapien are cheaters, there is no easy way out of this life. Turn to the next page in that old note book... Try too see that it is all just... (And the scribbles that fallow, filling the whole page, are written in words you don't remember writing, those words say) A PLAY OF THE MIND Turn to the next page... It reads Act One of: A PLAY OF THE MIND CHAPTER 1 Absessing Abstraction. NARRATOR- I see "The City" MASSIVE, the nite is agape. A dull breaking of clouds, humid heat . The architecture of it, alive to the tune of capital circuitry, spires a flesh glow pink on sweating concrete. NEON ADD SIGNS WEBBING streets ebbing, a cramping cluster fuck of rubbish heaps. FAIRWHETHER(written on a water logged piece of scrap paper) The nite is cold, and the retched mustard taste that is secreted into my mouth just before vomiting, has been replaced with the tooth softening linger of green stomach acid. My brothers flat with the space invaders is lost some where in my head, but there I fear, I dare not go. I do not wish to dive deeper into that place, cavernous chasm, remember. But the nite is perfection when you've got the sweats. May be this punch to the guts is from something I ate. Or didn't eat. I had to get the fuck outta that apartment. NARR- Fairwhether makes his way down the less troden path, the alley ways of "The City". Around a bricked corner, in the shadows under a rusty fire escape, losing his feet, falling into the wall. Hidden in the shadow, his body slides limp to the ground. The garbage water seeping toward him is vile enough for him to force vomit like a vulture, in defense, the wet splatter of bile stretching over the face of this menacing shroud of confusion, and the twisting of his guts. It is then that he remembers. The withdrawal. He can't focus enough to think much beyond that, the lack of Zygamphetamine in his system is a lead pipe to the old throat bubble. Time burns slowly at the ghost end of a cigarette, shakily on the end of his wet lips. It could have been hours that have passed. The maze of brickwerk leading into the soft of nite and delusion, rising with the pale of the full moon at zero degrees aligning on the Equinox, Solaris hiding, a trail of pink wafts beyond the Equator. The the alignment of cardinal polarities taring Fairwhether apart as the moon doth rise. In his pocket he feels for the pills, the moon sways him nuasous, something evil is happening under his skin. His every muscle, stretches taught, convulsing his back bent, and arching. His stomach shifts, gravity is pulling him atom by atom into the cement of the alleyway. His every cell is denying this, his ribs pry open with the temptations of dark deeds. He fights back, knowing the aptitude of his own cephalic chasm. The pills, there, now in his hand, trembling at the edge of his palm. The weight of his body falling into the filth pool. An' fallow the small zip tight baggy containing three purple pills, sailing with the seepage of disease, towards the barred metal jaws of the gutter. The royal nite sky, the stars concealed within the congealed mass of smog. The full moon peaks dully through the chemical cloud. Reproaching from "The Ruins" , lightening on the hooves of a dark Knight/Nite, mourning his dead companions, a weeping ravens blanket shroud. A Strange juxtaposition of images: The full Moon against the city skyline. A black mist of a blurred beast in form, perched on the sharp cliff's edge of the Cities plato, smoldering wicked flames of no luminescence The moon, a dull glowing orb blurred through shifting clouds The obsidian shadow beast clipping a gradation of traciers across a buildings' face A surging of human traffic on a clustered skywalk below, Cloistered Suites with brief cases gleaming the hyper rainbow of Digit fed build boards and fiendish advertisements The light of an office complex reaching toward the heavenly negative gap over head Through the skyscrapers' translucent portal skin, looking in, a man sits at a desk over his work intently The side face of the sleek structure stories falling down and into the distance, refracting the perambulations of nimbus In an explosive eruption of plexy glass splinters, the all American late nite worker hurtles to his death crying like a banshee, a faceless human thing flailing The shifting dead space of the Shadow beast's vomit green eyes, trace a streak mark of delight. The gutter where pools of filth gather, junk food stuck in the metal grated teeth of the sewers rancid mouth. Close in on the Man's screaming soundless face Blood The sleek surface of the Shadow blackened beast, out lined against a fluorescent rendition of a twenty-foot naked woman, dancing, as brought to you by UmA Prime's new Fall Fashion line A blur of animal like instinct, a silent killing in spasms and spraying red splatter Segments of flesh trail blood droplets like the tails of rodents jumping ship The gutter with metal grated teeth, where the blood of a man is swallowed into the festering bowels of "The City" In the calm after the storm, glistening the fractured reflections of every lite A neon sygnette marks the concrete floor of this human zoo in fat sans: Alley Way #7 dash 3, ground Level waste disposal Area District G. Illuminating the ground, where the torn body will be found, facelessly maimed, for reasons 'Politically' unnamed. The morning peeks gaylly over the rigid spin man has construed/constructed as sacrament for Terra. The Tower, a thorn driven in the flesh of... (Terra) A still standing symbol of the concrete core/steel frame days, that ended with the rebuilding of society.One Hundred and Twenty-One stories of the American classism of a Cities power, our forefathers crumbling architectural constructs. Standing yet, despite the bombings 37 years ago or 67 years or maybe 3, the information long since fudged during the transition to the Renaissance of the Information Age; the rise of newer generations (Newer Powers). -There, atop the Tower, a strange eye. -It blinks and glistens with "The City" postulating, jubilant, a streak mark 'Dissolve' on the surface of the off-putting iris. Our Fair weathered character wavers in the mirage of street heat Tremendous vertigo ensued, no memory to elude to Reproach the ever imposing eye Between exaggerated walls, open corridors, The space between each high rise The florescene colours of distraction beckoning (Fairwhether)and grows weak around the purchased beauty Of young women The City? draped in 'em Hormones in the feed of we the sheeple, slim 'n'thin wasted big breasted naifs replacing people In his head, envious envisions real/reel A beauty of the past... Sleek coverings skittish in film grain, a close up The feline faint presence and thin wrists, a bird in a cage A white cigarette poised between two lose, velvet gloved twigs parting the secret tobacco flavor between two bright lips "That is what a women should be like," or so Fairwhether thinks. Elegant, a prism of odd intellectual delight. The attraction of soft skin, and tossed strands of hair, almost transcendent. What ever happened to the freedom hair once had, being thrown, or removed from ones face, a simple gesture, not congruent to the times... His mind tricks the wondrous scent of her on the wind calling out lust, Freckles, mark fairy kisses on the gently slopes of her visage Her imperfections against the blue open sky are revealed/revered by the look in his eye Their hands touch shyly seemingly for the first time, the foliage is dancing with the sneaking light between each far reaching tree FAIRWHETHER- (says to himself) Absconding this dream/fantasy, For it is dark here, in the ruins The streets jagged in despair, teetering under foot Here, where no current courses through optic veins His feet lead him down the roads where the lamps lite ends where the infectious vermin of poverty hide, the ratt wholes of the meek Deeper he descends The foundation of the tower is pinned to the bedrock the Phallic ..... Fairwhether disappears in the slumping doorway of the Tower His squat is an open concept of one of the upper floors Fairwhether writes on a pieced of paper he pulls from a leaning grey filing cabinet. In the Silent solitude, atop this jaunty decaying phallic of the past Tower! I Am Foe, to my own splendor The shadows of the still goblins of archive, collapse upon shadows that commence in wicked ways, taking a form of their own. (We see Balthyczar extending out of Fairwhether's shadow, cast against a decrepit wall) Every shuddering corner, ghost like in the ideals of Plato A Daemon watches me know Ancient puzzle of Pan, Entry through the gates of the individual Leviathan. Have you lost me in your Labyrinth?(MIND) BALTHYCZAR- Have you lost your self in the cities light? No. BALTHYCZAR- No one to hold? Better to hold tight to your own ego, 'fore it continually lets (you) go. Boredom seeks ways into the passive mind. Consuming focus, and bringing questions of sanity into doubt. NOTE: as the girl enters , pages of Fairwhether's thoughts are drawn over, collaged into the art, a transition from haphazard thoughts into the distraction and implacable sensation of lust. Refer to PAGE NIXIO, rant.- referring to a piece of paper to be collaged into the artwork. And There She Is In the door way, moving swiftly From a Blocked-out shot from this soully existent fantasy Enter- Sweet Colombina A low angle, with deep depth, In the foreground In the background Columbina's long legs Fairwhether sits, mouth agape A-frame the focus with a eyes hungry and wide, the ratty provocatively wide stance. throne he sits on is an obnoxious red. The urge to rise, and greet her at the threshold is choked down, trapped in a fist The want to run, and her wondrous leaning An off hinged blockade of soft grey eyes, blinking Two islands in calm dark pools of shadow Her feet glide one before the other on a tight rope of seduction until a gentle hand rests on his shoulder. Now the other hand, slow and close In a plea to flee this fantasy, inching off the decomposing checker red throne Her legs are enough persuasion to pin him Her smile parts to reveal warmth, determination, in keeping him from himself She smells of the seasons changing, Close in on her lips, a cute little nose, finding its way to it's prey The first time they kissed, their eyes are closed, and they miss. They taste life in the breathes they steal from each other. All questions of her juxtaposition to him disappear Their lips meet again shyly, until there is no restrain Impulsing their focus into one another His hands blindly archive her every inch, freckle and cell Together, exposed and naked in the cool nite air Flesh wet like sea gods, bodies rampant, pressing warmly in the relief of their conjoining musk, lust, a proper fuck, sex A long silence has crawled in around Fairwhether, white noise distant. As he hides in the dark, after what has just been done. The sedation of his animal like human nature. He feels it, pain, he denies himself of no justification. Only disgust, of his own will. The silence crawls over him, enveloping his being. FAIRWHETHER- Take me away. HE mutters. His familiar cradles his mind, in steeped images of self. And the sleeping drifts off, collapsing in to the hidden sovereign crevasses of dream. Absessing into Abstraction. This is probably the best place to begin.... I begin, with the End! |
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