Tired Hiker's Screenplay.
Hey, what do you think of my short film that I'm thinking of making. I haven't spell checked it yet, nor have I tightened it up, but it's twelve pages long which should translate to about a 12 to 15 minute film. Hope you like it, and please give me some constructive criticism. Thanks.
-Hiker.
NOT YET TITLED:
ACT ONE. THE BEAST IN THE BREAKFAST NOOK.
INT. MESSY BEDROOM -- LATE AFTERNOON.
Evan, thrity years old, wakes up, stretching off his night's
sleep. He makes it to the bathroom and looks into the mirror,
with a pale sweaty gaze.
EVAN
****.
INT. KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER.
Even walks into the kitchen, wearing a suit, and grabs a
bagel from a basket on the counter. He sees a man his age
at the kitchen table. The man is painted all black with a
white circular nose ring made of bone. His head is shaved,
and he is wearing a loin cloth. The whites of his eyes
carefully stare at Evan. A spear leans against the wall
next to him as he sits, eating a bowl of cereal.
EVAN
Hey, Craig.
CRAIG
(chewing his cereal)
Yo.
EVAN
How's the Renaissance faire been
going?
CRAIG
(swallows)
Ah, same ol', same ol'.
Evan opens the refridgerator and stares blankly at it's
contents.
EVAN
I got fired from my job yesterday.
CRAIG
Oh man, I'm sorry.
Evan closes the fridge empty handed and turns toward Craig.
CRAIG
You worked there for like four years,
right?
EVAN
Yeah.
CRAIG
That sucks, man.
EVAN
I'm going now to this temp agency.
CRAIG
Okay.
(pause)
I'm going to probably drink all your
beer while your gone. But there's
plenty of whisky.
EVAN
(sighs)
Go ahead.
Evan walks out of the kitchen. Craig pulls an already opened
beer he was hiding, from under his chair. He takes a swig
to wash down his Raisen Bran.
INT. TEMP AGENCY -- LATE AFTERNOON.
A well dressed man walks into his office where Evan is sitting
by a large oak desk. The man, Mr. Walker, sits into his
fancy office chair and hands Evan a W-4 form and a pen.
MR. WALKER
So, you qualify for this one job I
just landed for you. There are
computers involved, and you gotta
hand out these passes.
Evan looks a bit worried.
MR. WALKER
It's a lettuce convention. You scored
an eighy on your computer skills.
That's . . .
(pause)
. . . you are over qualified. Don't
worry about it. They'd take like a
seventy. You can start tonight if
you want.
EVAN
I'll take it.
INT. HOTEL CONVENTION CENTER -- EVENING.
A crowd of wealthy vegetable growers and buyers swarm into
the large hall, wearing their passes around their necks.
Hundreds of voices echo out from the hall and into the roll
call area where Evan is distributing the passes.
EVAN
Iceburg and Rommaine to the left.
Make sure they see this.
He wraps a pass over an old woman's neck. She gives him a
warm smile. He returns the gesture. She moves on. Evan
carefully taps on a computer keyboard after handing out each
pass.
EVAN
Iceburg and Rommaine to the left.
Make sure they see this.
He wraps another pass around a sharply dressed man who is
younger than him. The young man looks intent on cutting
killer deals and taking the lettuce industry by a storm. He
heads into the hall and is greeted by a beautiful woman in a
dark dress, sipping red wine. Evan sighs a breath of relief.
The long line of people have been served, and now it is time
to rest. Evan sinks into his chair. He stares numbly at
the cieling. In his head he hears a faint sound quickly
becomeing a loud droning noise that increases in volume every
second. His eyes stare wide at nothing. The sound of people
chatting, and wheeling and dealing is flooded by the deep
vibrating drone. Suddenly all is completely quiet. Evan is
motionless. Sudddenly panting, he crouches over and begins
to cry.