YATDSS – Mission 6 Briefing

(I gave you my heart, I gave you my soul, now I’m just another number at the centre for disease control.)

DAVE: Alright brahs, here’s the lowdown.

PETER: Hey, hippy, ‘aint the captain supposed to be doing this shit?

DAVE: As Science Officer I also happen to be second-in-command, and the Captain isn’t feeling too well, ya dig? So simmer down and let me do some talking.

PETER (mumbling): I’m surrounded by fuckin’ kids tellin’ me what the fuck to do…

DAVE: As some of you dudes may know, we’re headed into an area that can only be described as giving some baaad vibes. Some of the shit you’re gonna see here will make you swear you’ve been smokin’ grass.

SCOTT: Like, uh, space giraffes?

DAVE: Space giraffes are one the friendliest creatures known to man, dude! Nah, I’m talkin’ fuckin’ space penguins.

SCOTT: Space puh- what?

KAEDE: Don’t you know anything about space, Scott?

SCOTT: Well clearly years of science fiction have failed me!

DAVE: Space penguins are one of the most highly dangerous creatures in the universe. Not only are they deadly smart, but they’re ferocious, and fight to the end.

SCOTT: And we’re worried about aliens?

PETER: We made the fuckin’ penguins, kid. Scientists dickin’ around with shit they shouldn’t fuck with. Tryna make penguins that could form an army, yeah?

KAEDE: They’re the ultimate weapon; cute, but deadly.

DAVE: They liberated themselves, and liberated the government of some space ships. Took of into the great black and never came back.

SCOTT: Well, you know what they say…

DAVE: Anyway, we’re expected to hit a bunch of ’em through here. It’s gonna get like Hawaii in a thunderstorm out there man, so keep your wits aboutcha. Now everyone get out there.

-END OF SCENE-

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YATDSS – Mission 5 Transition

(Back on board the ship, Kaede’s room. Kaede is sat at her desk staring solemnly at a picture. Scott walks into shot and knocks on the wall next to her door.)

KAEDE: Whuh? Oh. You. Come in.

(Scott walks in nervously and hovers behind Kaede. He does this for a short while.)

KAEDE: Are you honestly just going to stand there?

SCOTT: Well, nothing else came to mind.

KAEDE: What, no sarcastic comment? Witty remark about the lack of revenge I got to deal? Not even some fucking sympathy?

SCOTT: You don’t need any of the bullshit sympathy that anyone can give you. You need this.

(He opens his arms wide. She smiles, stands up, and they hug.)

KAEDE: Thanks, Scott.

SCOTT: No problem.

(They hug for a short time, then separate. There’s a semi-awkward silence.)

KAEDE: Sooo…

SCOTT: Yeah.

KAEDE: Didn’t Dwayne want to see you about something?

SCOTT: Oh, shit, yeah, I totally forgot!

(Pause.)

SCOTT: Oh. Right. See ya!

(He leaves rapidly. Kaede smiles and sighs, shaking her head slightly as she does so. Cut to over Scott’s shoulder, arriving at Dwayne’s door.)

SCOTT: Hey, Dwayne, it’s Scott.

DWAYNE (from inside): Oh, hey man, come on in!

(Scott comes on in. Dwayne’s room is unassuming and not in anyway lazyily stereotyped, although Dwayne does have a few posters of jazz musicians around, and a picture of his mother by his bed.)

SCOTT: Nice decoration you’ve got.

DWAYNE: Don’t pull anything racial on me man, I’m in a good mood.

SCOTT: Why are you always so sure that we’re going to make fun of your race and culture?

DWAYNE: I wasn’t born yesterday. I know the shit you guys say about me behind my back.

SCOTT: Jeez, you need to stop being so fucking paranoid! Racism died years ago!

DWAYNE: Whatever man, I didn’t invite you over to get in your face about colour. I wanted to show you this.

(He steps aside, revealing a fishbowl on his desk. Inside is a goldfish. Scott is suitable unimpressed.)

SCOTT: …It’s a goldfish.

DWAYNE: ‘Aint he cute? I called him Dexter, cos he’s so smart. Look, he can talk!

SCOTT: Eh?

(Dwayne steps closer to the fishbowl.)

DWAYNE: Hey, Dexter! Say hello to my friend here!

DEXTER: You’re about to enter mortal peril!

(Scott freaks.)

SCOTT: Dude, what the fuck?! Did that fish just fucking talk?

DWAYNE: Heh heh heh, yeah man!

DEXTER: You’re all going to die!

SCOTT: Is there a speaker underneath or something?

DWAYNE: Nope, Dexter here has always been able to speak.

SCOTT: How long have you had Dexter?

DWAYNE: Well, while you guys were away on that mission with those space ninjas, I was cleaning some dishes, and he just came through the faucet!

SCOTT: Taps. They’re called taps.

DEXTER: It’s a trap!

SCOTT: Does he always predict the end of days, or should I be genuinely worried?

DWAYNE: He’s been like that since I found him. It’s just one of his many quirks.

SCOTT: Huh.

(Peter pops his head round the door.)

PETER: Sorry to cut short the fag fest, but Cap’n’s ordered us to the briefing room.

SCOTT: You’re a fag!

PETER: Takes one to know one kid.

(He leaves.)

SCOTT: Fuck! I always get caught out with that!

-END OF SCENE-

Fake Trailer – Remote Underground

Accidentally caught some RC Car championships tonight, and I watched about twenty minutes of The Fast And The Furious: Tokyo Drift whilst babysitting a coupla nights ago. And here’s what I got inspired to write.

(Montage edits of several things; car parks, both indoor and outdoor, close-ups of faces looking crazed/calm/angry and so on)

VO: In car parks across the world, young men meet at midnight for some of the most dangerous racing known to man.

(Close-up of a cocky looking guy smirking, cuts away to defiant dude (hero) looking calm back at him.)

GUY: You think you’ve got what it takes?

(Cut to sexy woman in little clothing walking between a wall of people on either side, typical drag race shit.)

VO: This summer… enter the world of…

(Camera tracks down to ground level, with two RC sports cars on either side of the screen; the wheels are spinning and guys are holding them down.)

VO: Underground RC racing.

(The woman drops her arms, cut to guy pushing both thumbs forward on a remote control, cut back to cars flying off.)

(More montage shots, now focusing on the RC racing, but when people are speaking, assume the camera is on them.)

HERO’S FRIEND: You see some of the pro’s on TV, right? They’re nothing. It’s all about the streets.

SEXY GIRL: RC cars are sexier than those big, ugly sports cars. And you know the driver isn’t compensating for something.

RIVAL: You think you’re gonna beat me with that store-bought piece of junk! Come on, let’s DO this!

STREET PUNK: Hey man… you’ve got some skill!

(Title card: REMOTE UNDERGROUND)

(HERO is preparing with HERO’S FRIEND)

HERO: Car, fresh batteries, remote control… anything else?

HERO’S FRIEND: Just your A-game baby!

(COMING THIS SUMMER)

-END-

Fake Review – BRGS Fashion Show

Apparently my choice of topic for the school magazine wasn’t appreciated. I hear the whole thing was crossed out. Lovely. So fuck ’em, I’m uploading it here, and to hell with their stupid magazine that currently has about four articles. Enjoy.

What can be said about the Fashion Show that has not been said already? Truly, this spectacle was something that will be spoken about from generation to generation. Grandparents will stare dramatically out of their kitchen windows as they regale the tale to their offspring’s offspring’s offspring, gently doing the washing up and dropping a mug on the floor as they wildly gesticulate in such a manner that causes crockery to leave one’s hand at a rapid pace. They will cry, “oh, how you should have been there! What a true gala of fantasia it was!” And the children will clamour for video footage (or probably a holographic projection given this will be in the distant future, and I think we all know our sci-fi well enough to anticipate holograms taking over from televisions) but the great-grandparents will say nay, for all footage was removed from existence by the great fire of 2013 (mysterious circumstances surround the event but it was all swept under the carpet by the government, those crafty demons). The only evidence of the night that shall remain will be a long forgotten Microsoft Word document that can no longer by accessed, and a decaying copy of a student created magazine that at the time of writing this article does not have a definite name (or at least it is unknown to this writer). Come children. Let us remember that glorious night one more time.

The fireworks. Who can forget the fireworks? As if the Chinese themselves had brought over their entire black market produce of high explosives, the evening really did go off with a bang. Some would say that setting off so many fireworks indoors would be foolhardy, and in fact they would be right, but clearly the production team were throwing caution to the wind on this night. The curtains set alight, the stage was aflame and the front three rows lost their eyebrows, but by the gods did the applause make up for it. With the flames subsiding the first act burst on to the stage, and in a flurry of legs and arms threw out one of the most amazing opening dances this writer has ever seen. To be sure, throwing arms and legs into the crowd may have seemed illogical and perhaps a little inhumane to begin with, but when the crowd came to realise the pure symbolism behind it, how it was really a display of how we are throwing ourselves away into a society that greets us with confused looks and moderate nausea, they began to really dig it. The first act finished, a couple who were clearly made for the stage quickly replaced them, sporting sparkling dresses that glimmered like a million diamonds in the worlds largest shop window. I mean the dance wasn’t particularly good, given it mostly consisted of a lazy re-hash of the can-can, but those dresses and the wearers were enough to send a ripple of applause through the crowd so animated it was like a wave in the sea crashing into land. And then, the first models hit the stage.

Oh, those strips of fabric covering their bodies! My, how they glimmered in the beautiful light, with its thirteen different shapes and thirteen different colours splattering off the walls! The models themselves with those steely faces of sheer indifference, like a tiger staring down its prey before tying on a napkin and settling down for a quiet three-course meal. The walk-two-three-four-turn-flick-flick and walk off, executed as if they had been walking down the catwalks of Milan for years and were earning six figure salaries purely based on their looks. Even the men got a chance to strut their stuff, and though I cannot comment on the attractiveness of said males, the women certainly seemed to enjoy it, throwing themselves on stage in such a manner that many a fellow nearly tripped up on a fair maiden.

The interval arrives, and the audience leave their seats to refresh themselves before the second act. Murmurs pass through the throng of people; is it true that the next act was really using live bears as part of their performance? Distant roars are mistaken for someone messing with the soundboard, and cries of “it’s got me” as a mere prank put on by the stagehands. The lights dim early; customers find it hard to find their seats but it is all part of the show, the glitz, the glamour and they buy it, they lap it all up, oh yes. They’re here for the show and they’re going to get one.

The audience were a little shocked at first to see a large grizzly in a cage take centre stage; some of those with nerves made of a lighter metal than steal (perhaps of a different element entirely, hydrogen maybe) run screaming for their lives. But if only they had been around for the rest of the show. A single man took to the stage, armed with an acoustic guitar and sang one of the best songs ever written. More bears joined him onstage, although they did not feature on the song. He seemed so calm and cool, and my word could he sing. When he was finished, the applause was minimal, but to be fair there were now about five grizzly bears on stage, and the cage doors had been opened so that animal rights activists wouldn’t get so darn antsy about the whole thing. With the ensemble cast ushered off stage it was time for the dancing to return, and my were the crowd in for a treat. Flashes of silver pierced the near black room, met with colours that complemented each other as though they were a young couple on their first date. Yes, the Wheelchair Society were back and better than ever, doing a jig to You Spin Me Right Round that would have made writers cry with the terrible pun being played and dancers reduced to green envy that they could not do with two legs what these fine young dancers could do with none.

The second leg of the catwalk part was a lot like the first one. In fact if memory serves it was exactly the same as the first one. Clearly the production team had run out of ideas at this point. In fact I seem to recall we were all kicked out rapidly after the models had left. Gosh, what a disappointing ending. Although there was that street brawl between a bear and a girl throwing some limbs she still had lying around. That was a good laugh, right? I mean we all got arrested for taking bets on who would win, but hey, that’s what random fights were made for! (By the way, Jimmy, you still owe me that fifty. I know where you live.)

Although that last part will be forgotten by future generations. Maybe due to Alzheimer’s, but probably because history is written by those who were there, and we’ll all be dead by 2078 (unless science catches up and we all end up as bizarre mutant cyborgs) so the crummy ending will be forgotten. But we’ll still have the story that we pass on, the tale we tell our children, and when they scoff at what we say, tell us that it’s utter rubbish and ask if we’ve taken our medication yet today, we can be safe in the knowledge that every word we say was true. And that bears are really good dancers.