What? [screenplay in progress]

Narrator: It's What? It's an art flick, exactly.

Queensland- 4/4/2013 – Dusk on the badlands  

Dead Dingo. The ants surround it and eat away at it along with some other types of insects. A large spider twitches its legs free nearby of the insects climbing amongst them. The ants are shown more closely, and then followed in their trail underground in the dry dusty ground. The narrow walkway of the ants marching in a line falling over each other as they carry their parcels to their underground home opens to reveal a tunnel dimly lit with bare bulbs cheaply wired.

Nearby a worker in a brown coverall pulls a heavy crate to the side of the wooden brace holding the nearest turn in the tunnel. He grimaces in pain, and says solemnly in aboriginal language “poor fellow” at the pile of ants falling in from their feed.

Worker 1: ngaarrabang…

The narrator pipes in: Once, at a time I thought I’d lose my name for awhile. Figured I’d go by “Wind Way.”

Worker 2: What's the Wind Way?

Worker 3: There. See ya!

Narrator: Of course things don’t always work out as planned, and I had to obtain some legal verification for my gun license. Can’t be wandering the saloons at night without the proper effects. A rusty nail and two wire gun holders later I applied for the name change. Hang that one on your wall, but don’t forget your gun in introductions. I thought about just naming my laptop, but rusty nails corrupted me and lest I cut back on tattoos and break out the mothballs early I said what the heck.

Worker one: “That’s obscene!”

Worker two: What?

Worker three: Exactly.

New York City- Brooklyn- Temple Doors- 4/5/2013 7:34 PM

Hasidic Jew at the Temple stairs mounts his Harley Davidson with a sack full of groceries which he throws hastily in the luggage compartment.

Hasidic Jew: “It’s tomorrow again.” He smiles to himself.

A nearby wandering nun pipes in:

Nun 1: Well that’s news!

Nun 2: Oy vey for the Jew.

Hasidic Jew: There’s only one today. Have a good one.

Narrator: Yesterday all my troubles were floating in the Hudson River right next to the smelliest batch of trash I could have caught on my line. But that’s neither here nor there, I threw it away. I’ve always loved what I’ve caught with the exception of the flu I had last winter, but this was extraordinary. There she was, dead as a doornail. Lovely thing. I would have took her home, but she certainly couldn’t sing at this point.

A woman in a bright pink dress floating face first bobs along the tide next to a small barge. It pushes her out of the way as a hook comes into play to haul her onto a police boat. It’s spotlight drowns out the entire scene with a wide sweeping arc.

Narrator: I had seven up before my six up, and she was face up sometime before sunup so I had to wait for the cruiser patiently, but not uncomfortably.

Policeman 1: Don’t overkill.

Policeman 2: Just kill the light.

NYPD Homicide Detective: Vague and featureless. The fish got her eyes already. She won’t be looking back, whoever you are.

Policeman 1: Water log is gross.

NYPD Homicide Detective: Pinkest log I ever saw.

He pops a twinkie in his mouth.

Policeman 2: More like a log then she started yesterday. Judging by the tide, and her condition, I am full of absolute distaste for my job.

Policeman 1: Twinkie?

Policeman 2: What?

Narrator: We must make a plot map soon. Disjointed events lead to dismemberment, or at least bad recollection. I’ll fill you in.

Little boy by the riverside in a hushed whisper: She was murdered!

Little girl: They’ve got twinkies!

Narrator: She was murdered.

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