I did six Irish Carbombs in about twenty minutes the other night. Man, they hit me like a fat lady's shit hits dirty toilet water: hard and messy (I would have said hard and wet, but that would allow you to imply I wet myself. I didn't wet myself). As a newly aspiring drunk I don't like to mess with the trivial matters of spilling drinks and hitting on unattractive females with sloppy boobs hanging out of their halter tops. Rather, I like to work for the sudden blackout. Unfortunately I guess I have too much Irish blood in me (read: I'm tubby) and it takes quite a bit to make me hit the floor with the grace of a beached walrus. I walked six blocks to the hotel, drunk texted a couple people, gave a homeless man five dollars because he promised to try and impress Jodie Foster before January 20, 2008 and wrote. I worked on new ideas for a screenplay until about 4am. That went a little better, as I thought of a brand new way to kill people: death by flaming brick in the face. Okay, so that makes no sense. Lemme explain:
I had a dream Thursday night. I took some notes in semi-script form....
Opens outside. Clear blue skies, bright sun but clouds give some cover.
A little league baseball game. A pitch, a swing and a hit. The ball sails through the air. Players, coaches and supporters all crane neck and turn bodies to follow the ball as it hurtles through the air.
A huge GUST sweeps across the field. The flying baseball stops dead and drops a hundred feet to the ground, plopping in center field.
We PULL WIDE to show the entire field, the surrounding fields – we see the specks that are players – blue, red, green, black and white uniforms, little specks in the distance, all standing still.
The following disaster is nearly impossible to describe.
A warm wind follows – like the warm breeze one feels moving from an air-conditioned house into the August air outside.
The tops of the trees bend, then break.
The sound of a thousand trees snapping in one instant, like dry twigs under the feet of a black bear. The forest seemingly collapses in on itself.
Seventeen seconds of silence.
A flash of orange light. Gray smoke. Blackness.
Twenty-seven minutes of night at 11:30 on a Saturday morning and all hell breaks loose.
The sounds of missiles whizzing through the atmosphere on their way to the ground – explosion after explosion without fire or the booms! one expects from bombs, missiles or any other explosive device. Like single passenger airplanes smashing into the ground.
Screaming and plenty of it.
It felt like I had been shot in the thigh. I reach down. Burning hot, wet.
Still, blackness accompanied by the sounds of flesh and bone being pounded into the ground, as if by a mallet wielded by a mythological giant.
When the smoke and dust and dirt wafted away, when the sun reappeared I saw what the explosions-with-no-sounds really were.
Trees and branches of trees stuck in the ground as if sharpened pencils into soft clay. God know how far in. Uprooted from the ground, balls of dirt, roots and grass sticking up thirty, forty feet in the air facing the sky.
I looked around. Dozens and dozen of people injured. I didn’t know then but only sixty some people had dies in the entire park, only two hundred were injured – of those only about fifty needed to have limbs amputated. Good numbers when you look back.
I don't know who it was, but someone was sprawled out on end of the infield, a brick embedded in his skull. I looked to the only brick structure in the park -- the brand new restroom facilities, a football field away. It wasn't there anymore. What a lucky kid.
I looked at my leg. Disgusting was the only word. The feeling came up from my bowels and quickly made it’s way past my teeth and onto the grass at my feet.
The incessant buzzing of large machines surround us. Steady humming, whirring. All around me.
I don't think we're alone.
I had a dream Thursday night. I took some notes in semi-script form....
Opens outside. Clear blue skies, bright sun but clouds give some cover.
A little league baseball game. A pitch, a swing and a hit. The ball sails through the air. Players, coaches and supporters all crane neck and turn bodies to follow the ball as it hurtles through the air.
A huge GUST sweeps across the field. The flying baseball stops dead and drops a hundred feet to the ground, plopping in center field.
We PULL WIDE to show the entire field, the surrounding fields – we see the specks that are players – blue, red, green, black and white uniforms, little specks in the distance, all standing still.
The following disaster is nearly impossible to describe.
A warm wind follows – like the warm breeze one feels moving from an air-conditioned house into the August air outside.
The tops of the trees bend, then break.
The sound of a thousand trees snapping in one instant, like dry twigs under the feet of a black bear. The forest seemingly collapses in on itself.
Seventeen seconds of silence.
A flash of orange light. Gray smoke. Blackness.
Twenty-seven minutes of night at 11:30 on a Saturday morning and all hell breaks loose.
The sounds of missiles whizzing through the atmosphere on their way to the ground – explosion after explosion without fire or the booms! one expects from bombs, missiles or any other explosive device. Like single passenger airplanes smashing into the ground.
Screaming and plenty of it.
It felt like I had been shot in the thigh. I reach down. Burning hot, wet.
Still, blackness accompanied by the sounds of flesh and bone being pounded into the ground, as if by a mallet wielded by a mythological giant.
When the smoke and dust and dirt wafted away, when the sun reappeared I saw what the explosions-with-no-sounds really were.
Trees and branches of trees stuck in the ground as if sharpened pencils into soft clay. God know how far in. Uprooted from the ground, balls of dirt, roots and grass sticking up thirty, forty feet in the air facing the sky.
I looked around. Dozens and dozen of people injured. I didn’t know then but only sixty some people had dies in the entire park, only two hundred were injured – of those only about fifty needed to have limbs amputated. Good numbers when you look back.
I don't know who it was, but someone was sprawled out on end of the infield, a brick embedded in his skull. I looked to the only brick structure in the park -- the brand new restroom facilities, a football field away. It wasn't there anymore. What a lucky kid.
I looked at my leg. Disgusting was the only word. The feeling came up from my bowels and quickly made it’s way past my teeth and onto the grass at my feet.
The incessant buzzing of large machines surround us. Steady humming, whirring. All around me.
I don't think we're alone.
-----
If any of you fuckers makes a comment about this being a rip-off of Signs, do kindly stick a fist in your ass and keep it there. Anybody in the know can clearly see I'm ripping off Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Uh, derrrr.
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