Five Long Fingers

2009-10-12 15:38:12 by Cauterised

Five Long Fingers
A script by Tyler Elk

Scene opens to a lonely paved road in the countryside of England. It is raining heavily and only one car is on the road. The car races recklessly, knocking into a mailbox and a cat on it's way.

Narrator: Harold Petrinski is not Russian. Never was, though his name might lead you to think otherwise. Regardless of his race, Harold had a bit of a, well, let's call it a gift. Harold was an excellent drunk driver.

Scene switches to Harold in the driver's seat of said car, nursing a bottle of vodka, one eye half-shut.

Narrator: He was a glorious drunk driver, to be exact. He was a 27 year old, single, alcoholic, insatiable drunk driver. If there were an Olympic competition for drunk driving, he'd be a gold medalist. *Clears throat* But I digress.

Scene returns to road. Car releases a sizeable puff of black smoke, swerves a bit, and eventually breaks down on the side of the road.

Narrator: But even a prize athlete can't rightly deal with a torn up timing belt.

Scene switches to Harold

Harold: Oi, Christ, hunk of shit!

Harold slams hand on the steering wheel, tosses bottle into backseat, hiccups.

Harold: Where the hell am I anyway?

Harold scans his surroundings slowly, at first seeing nothing.

Narrator: In his healthy, inebriated state of mind, Harold had a very difficult time seeing much of his surroundings in such a rainstorm as this. As he scanned the vast fields of the English countryside, his heart began to sink and his buzz began to wane.

Harold: Eh? Whassat?

Harold spots a large, albeit distant, building in the distance, off the road, with no beaten path leading to it. He looks around the interior of the car, grabs a jacket, turns towards the door, stalls for a moment, looks at the bottle.

Narrator: Harold considered the bottle for a few moments, but decided against taking it on his trek.
Harold reaches for the bottle... despite the narrator.

Narrator: He decided NOT to take the bottle!

The air shakes, and Harold drops the bottle with a sheepish look on his face. He continues towards the car's door and gets out. Scene switches to outside the car. Harold begins shivering madly and throws the jacket over his head to guard against the rain. Harold stands for a moment, swaying awkwardly.

Narrator: Harold may have had a certain talent, but he wasn't always the brightest man. He decided to run to the distant building to seek shelter and help.

Harold: Oh, right!

Harold clicks his heels and jets off lazily into the fields toward the building. Scene switches to field. Harold trips over a branch, gets up, continues running. Scene switches to front of building. The "distant building" is a dark monastery, epic in it's height, with ancient, gothic era windows and architecture. The front doors are immense, with knockers too big for most men to use with one hand.

Harold: Oi!

Narrator: Harold stood for a moment under a small awning, taking in the grandiose nature of this ancient monastery. The fearsome gargoyles, intimidating stained glass windows depicting torture and maddening toils of combat, the immense doors and their humongous knockers hanging proudly-

Harold: Oooh, huge knockers, eh?

Narrator: *Sigh* Harold decided to knock on the doors in hopes of some kind soul to offer him shelter from the storm.

Harold walks up to the doors and swings one of the knockers with both hands into the door. He waits for a few moments, and as he reaches again for the knocker, the doors swing open in a grand display of power and terror. Harold's eyes grow terrified as a small silhouette emerges from a cloud of smoke. An intense fanfare of horns and strings plays an epic crescendo as the small figure emerges from the smoke, revealing itself to be no more than a small man wearing a friar's robe.

Monk: Yes? Hello? Who's there?

Harold pokes his head out from behind a small wall he decided to hide behind.

Harold: Oh, yes, hello.

Harold brushes himself off and approaches the monk.

Harold: Er, uh, sorry to bother you, your, um, holiness, or whatever. My car broke down on the road out yonder. Was just wonderin' if ya had a phone I could use to call a tow truck?

Monk: Oh, no phones here, son. Yer' welcome to come in out of the rain though, come in! Ye'll catch yer' death out here!

Harold nods, and the monk leads him inside. The doors slam behind them. Smoke mysteriously disappears. Scene moves to main hall of monastery.

Monk: Lord! Yer' soaked to the gills, sonny! Here, get that jacket off.

Harold: Oi, alright, thank ya' sir.

Monk: No need for yer' formalities, call me Tim.

Harold: Alright then, Tim. I'm Harold. You said you didn't have a phone here?

Tim: Right ye are, sonny. Never have. Nary an electrical wire 'round here. We prefer the ways of old, we do. Candles and torches and such. Here, let's get ye some dry clothes, I'm sure we have some donations around here somewhere.

Tim walks behind one of the pews and heaves out a large box full of random clothing items. He dives in, tossing items out left and right.

Tim: Here we go!

Scene cuts to Harold wearing his new clothes; trousers that are obviously too large, cinched with a shoestring, bunny slippers, a t-shirt that reads "I'm with stupid" with an arrow point straight up, and a cotton bathrobe.

Harold: Er, I suppose this'll do.

Tim: I'll have one of the other monks get yer' clothes dried out. Follow me, boy, I'll show ye to the spare room.

Harold: Spare room?

Tim: Aye, no way yer' getting anywhere this evening with the storm as it is. We can put you up until it passes, then help ye get to town.

Harold: Alright, I suppose. Oi, ya got any vodka 'round here?

Tim: Haha oh no, son, not fer us old men. Bad for the heart, they say. I can get ye a hot meal though.

Harold follows Tim down a short walkway to the side of the main hall. The walkway leads to a small courtyard with many doors lining the outside wall. Tim stops at one particular door, unlocks it, and swings the door open.

Tim: Here ye are, son. I'll come for ye in the morning and we can figure out yer situation.

Harold: Alright then, thanks Tim.

Tim: Of course, boy. Have a good evening, sleep well and all that, I'll send a meal to ye soon.

Harold: Right, g'night.

Harold steps into the doorway, and stops dead in his tracks when Tim clutches his arm with a vice grip.

Tim: But ye must know one thing, boy, before ye enter that room.

Harold observes a hideous, terrifying glint in Tim's eyes, and shivers. Tim stares directly into Harold's eyes and continues.

Tim: Many of us have been in this monastery for most of our lives, boy. Many of the men here have grown much older than even I, and the madness has set into them. So you lock yer door, sonny, shut that bolt like ye were running from monsters. Terrible things can happen to a young boy like you in a place such as this. If ye hear anyone at yer dooor this evening who isn't me, ye act as if ye were a ghost, ye understand, son?

Harold: Um, er, I, um...

Tim's demeaner returns to a jolly, lighthearted one

Tim: Good! Well then, night night, boy!

Tim kicks Harold into the door and shuts the door after him, walking away as jolly as ever. Scene switches to inside of Harold's room. Harold locks all the latches to the door.

Narrator: And with that, Tim left our poor Harold to his own devices in the semi-comfort of the Monastery's guest room.

Harold: *Yawns* I could use a good rest anyway.

Harold nods off for a few before hearing a loud, ominous knock on his door, which wakes him. He's startled and somewhat afraid. He creeps to the door and peers out the peephole for a few moments, seeing no one at first. After what seems like far too long to be looking through a peephole, Tim pops his exuberant face into view of the peephole.

Tim: Soup's on, sonny!

Harold: Agh!

Harold falls back on his ass, panting and sweating slightly. He jumps up, dusts himself off, and laughs at himself for being so worrisome. He undoes about 8 different latches on the door and opens it. Tim stands with a plate of fruits and bread outstretched in Harold's direction.

Harold: You scared me, old monk.

Tim: Aye, sorry 'bout that, lad. Here's yer dinner, hope it'll suffice. Here's a carafe of the wine we make here, in case 'yer thirsty.

Harold's eyes light up at the mention of wine.

Harold: Wine, eh? I could use me a drink...

Harold takes the plate and carafe eagerly. He then spins around and slams the door on Tim, far too excited about his wine.

Tim: Sleep well, laddy!

Harold grumbles off and takes the food and wine to his bed and begins eating greedily and chugging the wine. After he finishes his meal and laps up the last of the wine, he falls backwards onto his bed, thoroughly satisfied. Just as his eyes close to sleep, he hears another loud banging on his door. Not so afraid this time, Harold walks towards the door.

Harold: What's it this time, Tim? More wine, perhaps?

Before Harold reaches the door, he is stopped dead in his tracks by a new, hideous, horrible voice whispering through the cracks of the doorframe.

???: Do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

Harold stands, petrified, for a moment. This new person tries for the locked door handle, rattling it violently.

???: Do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

Harold tries replying to the voice in a very nervous tone.

Harold: Oi, um, fuck off sir! Please?

???: Do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

Harold: Um, no! Please piss off, old monk!

Narrator: And with that...

Door handle stops rattling, slow, uneven footsteps are heard outside walking away from the door.

Narrator: ... the old, senile monk kindly *ahem*, fucked off.

Harold wipes sweat off his forehead, double checks all 8 locks on the door, and crawls back off to bed, passing out almost immediately.

Next day

Harold wakes to yet another loud knock on his door. His eyes snap open and he begins shivering, clutching his blanket.

Harold: Fuck off, I said!

Tim: What was that, boy? You awake in there?

Harold runs to the door, fumbling with the latches until he can open the door. He swings the door open and clutches Tim by the collar.

Harold: What kind of monks do you have here, Tim? I almost got *gulp* "violated" last night by one of your brethren!

Tim: Oh, was he talking about his lips or some nonsense?

Harold: Yes! Dear god man, how do you -

Tim: Oh that's Paul. I think his name's Paul, at least. Been here since before my time.

Harold: Has he always done this?

Tim: Oh yeah, he's mostly harmless.

Harold: Mostly? Whatd'ya mean "Harmless?"

Tim: Don't you worry about that. I've got news of the storm!

Narrator: Harold forgot about his traumatizing experience for a moment in hopes that Tim would get him the hell out of this whole mess.

Harold: Yeah?

Tim: Oh yes, sonny. Bad news, unfortunately. Seems it's raging harder than last evening, might go for the rest of the day.

Harold: Mother of Christ, man, I can't stay here forever!

Tim: Calm 'yerself, child. Should pass soon. In the mean time you can peruse the monastery grounds. Remember that wine I procured for ye last eve?

Harolds eyes light up... again.

Harold: Yeah, yeah!

Tim: *Chuckles* Got a hankerin' for the drink, do ye?

Narrator: Harold certainly had a "hankerin' for the drink".

Tim: Well, to make ends meet 'round here, we make wine for the town a few miles down the road. Not the greatest fermented mixture, mind ye, but it certainly helps keep the candles lit.

Harold: And whatever would you suppose I do all day with that knowledge?

Tim: Wine tasting sound like a decent enough time for ye?

Break to a montage of Harold drinking profuse amounts of fresh wine. Harold doesn't understand the concept of "wine tasting", and ends up just swallowing every gulp instead of actually tasting it. The montage ends with Harold stumbling erratically back to his room, slamming the door behind him, falling into bed, and forgetting to lock the door at all.

Narrator: And so Harold drank. He drank like he was preparing for the Olympics of his favorite pastime, inebriated auto-operation. Or "Drunk Driving" to you amateurs out there. Without noticing the unlocked latches on his door, he fell to sleep like a log.

Harold: *Snoring*

An uneven set of steps begins manifesting itself outside of Harold's room. As Harold continues to snore and sleep off his drunken stupor, the steps get closer and closer. As the steps reach their crescendo, Harold continues to sleep and ignore the impending trauma. An immense knock comes from the door.

Paul: Do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

At first Harold doesn't react, but instead just stirs in his sleep. Paul tries for the door knob almost violently, rattling the knob loudly.

Paul: Do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

Harold finally wakes up, terrified once again.

Paul: do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

Harold: No! Fuck off, damnit!

Harold turns over in bed, trying to get back to sleep despite the crazy monk beating at his door. Paul tries for the door once again, finally turning it all the way. His voice become a bit louder.

Paul: Do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

Harold: Fuck off! Leave me alone, you lecher!

Paul opens the door and enters the room. His face is shrouded in the hood of his robe. All Harold can see are the long, hideous fingers emerging from the sleeves of Paul's robe.

Harold: Jesus H. Christ! Go away! Don't you come any closer!

Paul steps slowly and erratically towards Harold's bed. Harold clenches his blanket and begins shivering in fear.

Harold: Dear god, man! Just do it! Get it over with! Get your hideous work done with!

Paul continues towards Harold bed. Harold closes his eyes, expecting the worse. When he opens them again, Paul is in the bed with him with his horribly old, pale face showing.

Harold: No! Tim! Help me!

Paul: Do you want to see what I can do with my five long fingers and my wet, juicy lips?!

Harold: NOOOOOO!!!!!

As Harold closes his eyes once again, he awaits the horrible, ungodly things Paul is undoubtedly going to do to him. He finally opens his eyes after a moment to see paul simply twiddling his fingers over his lips, making raspberries into his jostling fingers. Paul Immediately gets up from the bed and exit's the room.

The End.


Loves it!

2009-10-02 23:16:30 by Cauterised

Trainwrecks
Description:
Grace is a fledgling fashion designer in a large city. While she can be a sweet girl, the night life has swallowed her alive; she party's far too often (nightly) and has a bit of a prescription problem. Wade is an illegal Irish immigrant who makes ends meet by picking pockets, gambling, and getting in trouble. He is on a first name basis with a few cops and, more importantly, one of the largest loan sharks in town. They meet after Grace finds Wade bleeding half to death after a "Hit and run" which ends up being a biit more sinister than he lets on...

Sample:
"Do a girl's makeup and she'll be pretty for a night, teach a girl to do her makeup and she'll be whoring it up in no time."
"You're full of this shit, aren't you?"
"It was a good book! I'll let you borrow it when I'm done."
My best friend Paula met me at the apartment just after I woke up from a well deserved nap. She was already dolled up in a cute black mini with painful looking heels and appropriately tousled hair to match. The fishnets were a little much I thought, but at least they matched her tattoos.
"Grace, I don't know why you always do this, can't you be ready before midnight for once?"
"Sorry, hun, some of us work jobs to pay rent."
"Whatever, do you have any wine?"
"Wine? Why?"
"So I can drink it, Grace."
"I mean since when do you drink anything but liqour?"
"I'm trying to get a little class in my life."
"Paula, you have knuckle tattoos, you're beyond class."
"Fuck you!" She laughed, sifting through my fridge, looking for some coke.
"There's Kettle in the freezer." I shouted as I walked back into the bathroom.
I must have tried putting my hair up at least 50 times before just letting my blonde locks fall where they wanted. I skipped over to my closet and let my dress fall off my tiny frame and onto the floor. Skirt or jeans? Boots or heels? Why did I care? Something or someone would happen to me out there either way, and it was sure to be at least somewhat entertaining.
Standing in my underwear I decided I'd decide what to wear later, after I decided how I wanted to wear it. Decisions, decisions. I fell onto my bed and reached under the bed stand to pull out a little plastic bag.
"Time to powder my nose." I giggled to myself.
I took the bag, a pair of cute little black jeans, a torn up Motley Crue shirt, and some unnecessarily tall boots into the kitchen to join Paula. She was pouring vodka cranberries into mason jars.
"Jars? Really Paula?"
"What? You own them. Put some clothes on, skank!"
We laughed and I squeezed my tiny legs into tinier distressed denim. She took the coke and cut out a few lines on the kitchen table with some credit card. She turned those little chunks of powder into a fine dust that probably would have gone to waste if I had a window open.
"Not on the table!"
"Hush, I put it on the table, and I can get it off. Help me out, 'kay?"
I walked behind her to hold her hair back as she pulled a little metal straw out of her clutch. As if we'd rehearsed the move hundreds of times before, and we had, she leaned down and I held her mass of Italian princess hair above her as she took three of the lines, leaving three more for me. We repeated the process with my hair and my nose and Paula wiped the table clean with her pinky, rubbing the excess on her gums.
"Classy lady." I said.
"Yeah, I'm one classy bitch."
We laughed and drank our oversized cocktails as I put the torn up shirt on. The holes had gotten much bigger than I remembered, and were starting to get rather revealing.
"Bra?" I asked Paula.
"Your boobs are small enough, you could pull it off without." She replied, chuckling and gulping at her drink. I gave her a narrow-eyed glance and walked into the bedroom to finish getting dressed.
Ready to go wherever, we laughed and we drank and we talked about boys and art and where we should "totally move to". I loved Paula because no matter what happened to me, or how bad things got, I could count on her for three things: To be absolutely no help in getting me out of a bind, to make it worse by getting involved, and to make me feel amazing again after I was back on my feet.
"We have to go to Barcelona, Grace. I don't know what it is, but that place just has this kind of THING!"
Paula was a 28 year old college drop out with a morbidly rich family and fake tits. She was thick and beautiful and dressed mostly like a whore. She was my dark side, and my release, and amazing in every way I didn't want to be, for my own safety. No matter how much of a mess I thought I was, she could always find something endearing about my horrible little hissy-fit of a mind and make sense of it for the world to see.
We were train wrecks, very shiny train wrecks with cute butts and too much money invested in narcotics.
"What are we doing tonight, Grace?"
"I called a couple people, it sounds like we're going to," I pointed at Paula, who made the noise of a drum roll.
"Shake Lounge!" I shouted, far too excited to go to my regular bar and see the same faces I'd been seeing since I moved to the city.
"Woo! Let's go, finish your drink, babe."
"Hold on, I'll meet you in the hall, I have to pee."
"Alright, hurry up!"
I ran into the bathroom with the last of my drink, rattled my bottle of aderol, and downed the last two with my vodka.
"Let's go to New York, Grace!"


This is Great

2007-08-11 16:23:42 by Cauterised

I've actually gotten to the point where I can tell my mom when I get laid, without her freaking out or me feeling awkward.