RomCom:
Instead of an accident, the dead couple are killed in a fake protest. The necrophiliacs, pretending to be protesters and revolutionaries, walk into the mall with ski masks and start shouting for random freeing of things, such as "Free:
Tibet, China, taco tuesday, air, refills, milkshake with purchase of a happy meal and the coupon from this sundays paper, Willy (pointing out that he means his penis), lemons from their merengue prisons, hugs."
Upon reaching the couple, one shouts "free eyeballs" and licks the womans eye (held open with his fingers) and slits her throat. Male freaks out and n2 stabs him in the back saying "free love" and jiggles the blade spastically. Security/cops (whatever) arrive, n1 shouts:"Free freedom!"; officer points out:"That's not how it works!" They run. End prologue, essentially. Funeral irrelevant and only necessary to establish correct grave.
As time carries on, the necrophiliacs become increasingly paranoid as the corpses seem to talk back and disapprove regularly. Culminates in a breakfast scene where they're clearly on one side of the table and the bones (by this point) on the other.
n1: Look at them. Not even eating. What are they up to?
n2: They've been plotting against us, you know. You can tell from the body language. I don't know what's going to happen, but we need to strike first.
n1: Agreed. What do we do?
n2: Simple. We kill us before they manage to kill us. We can't lose.
n1: Brilliant! Proper precautions must be made, however. Guns?
n2: Guns, certainly. Outside too. Let's not leave a mess behind.
n1: Ofcourse. We're necrophiliacs; not savages. Now?
n2: Now.
They get up to leave. N1 attempts to kiss one skeleton, stops and mutters: "Frigid bitch." as they head to their car. N2 just goes for the forceful full skull-kiss. After they leave, the bones talk to each other:
b1: Can you believe those assholes?
b2: I know. Didn't even give me time to put on lipstick.
b1: What? How is that your main concern?
b2: Hey! Till death do us part, yeah? Face it, we're over.
b1: I can't believe I'm hearing this. Mother was right about you.
b2: Again with your mother! Is she dead too?
b1: No, but not for lack of trying on your part.
b2: So what would she know about being dead? And her sweaters were hide- Wait, what's that sound?
b1: Sounds like animals.
b1&2: WILD DOGS!
N1+2 return to find some scattered bones.
n1: What the fuck happened here?
n2: Looks like wild dogs. Don't worry about it. There's plenty left for one.
n1: I'll get to work on the note, then. Do what you can. Toolkit's in the bathroom.
They use rope, bolts and assorted chiquanery to attach all the remaining bones into a sort-of-human skeleton with bits of the spine missing, the broken jaw directly on the ribcage and the third foot replacing the left hand. Add wear and breakage to taste.
Scene: front porch
n1: Good a time as any, I suppose.
n2: Yeah. Ready to die?
n1: Suppose so... Hang on. Weren't we killing ourselves to beat them to it?
n2: Yeah. Can't let the grinning bastards have the satisfaction.
n1: Yeah. Right. But they're all to pieces now, so what's it matter?
n2: Right, but this way we can make them pay in the afterlife.
n1: I'm not sure I follow.
n2: Then lead. *shoots n1 and then self*
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
I probably shouldn't post this, but I've had the necessary amount of caffeine and alcohol.
So a twist on the idea of a romantic story, with or without comedy, best suited, visually speaking, for a comic book style.
Page 1 introduces two lead characters with swaths of text giving a quick description of each and a short history of their relationship. Some sappy gibberish about problems overcome, trials and tribulations and the remaining rot copyable wholesale from almost any movie. Then, on page 2, they die a swift-yet-not-too-disfiguring death and are buried together.
The remainder of the comic follows two necrophiliacs who dig up the corpses, drag them back to their shared apartment and continue to have sexual relations with said corpses (after, ofcourse, neatly reburying the graves. They're necrophiliacs; not savages. In fact, that should be their motto).
The tricky bit is that they've done quite a bit of research on these people pre-death and actually have 'conversations' with the corpses on account of not being of the soundest mental health. It is later established that they had in fact chosen these two after stalking them and finding out whatever they could about them. In fact, they actively created the 'accident' that killed the fake protagonists and it's made clear this isn't the first time.
Several romantic dinners, nights of cuddling and entirely fictional arguments with corpses in various states of putrefaction later, the necrophiliacs decide to kill themselves to join their dearly beloved in the afterlife. They, ofcourse, make sure to kill themselves in a neat and orderly fashion, but only after having left a letter explaining the matter in its entirety to whomever comes upon the scene. After all, they are, as has been established, necrophiliacs; not savages.
It then ends with an image of necro1+2 having intercourse of the unpleasant variety with their victims in the bowels of hell. The bottom of the page reads:"The End and Fuck You." Flipping it over, the very last page and back cover are used for a splash page representing a nightmare I once had:
Background: A giant tiger/man/horse with visible sewing, mutilation and rotting bits. 17 Eyes attached to the limbs. Vomiting a sea of hair.
Foreground: The giant, metallic face of Hitler chewing on infant corpses while a naked Japanese man runs circles shouting:"Me no fucky ducky!"
That's about as romantic as I get.
Page 1 introduces two lead characters with swaths of text giving a quick description of each and a short history of their relationship. Some sappy gibberish about problems overcome, trials and tribulations and the remaining rot copyable wholesale from almost any movie. Then, on page 2, they die a swift-yet-not-too-disfiguring death and are buried together.
The remainder of the comic follows two necrophiliacs who dig up the corpses, drag them back to their shared apartment and continue to have sexual relations with said corpses (after, ofcourse, neatly reburying the graves. They're necrophiliacs; not savages. In fact, that should be their motto).
The tricky bit is that they've done quite a bit of research on these people pre-death and actually have 'conversations' with the corpses on account of not being of the soundest mental health. It is later established that they had in fact chosen these two after stalking them and finding out whatever they could about them. In fact, they actively created the 'accident' that killed the fake protagonists and it's made clear this isn't the first time.
Several romantic dinners, nights of cuddling and entirely fictional arguments with corpses in various states of putrefaction later, the necrophiliacs decide to kill themselves to join their dearly beloved in the afterlife. They, ofcourse, make sure to kill themselves in a neat and orderly fashion, but only after having left a letter explaining the matter in its entirety to whomever comes upon the scene. After all, they are, as has been established, necrophiliacs; not savages.
It then ends with an image of necro1+2 having intercourse of the unpleasant variety with their victims in the bowels of hell. The bottom of the page reads:"The End and Fuck You." Flipping it over, the very last page and back cover are used for a splash page representing a nightmare I once had:
Background: A giant tiger/man/horse with visible sewing, mutilation and rotting bits. 17 Eyes attached to the limbs. Vomiting a sea of hair.
Foreground: The giant, metallic face of Hitler chewing on infant corpses while a naked Japanese man runs circles shouting:"Me no fucky ducky!"
That's about as romantic as I get.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Ideas had before and during work.
Waiting for the bus to work, I looked at the sign advertising a phone by way of showing people on vacation. Smiling white girls in trendy clothing next to a miserable looking old man holding a freshly caught fish. It occurred to me that vacations are basically rich people giving their money to poor people for overpriced accommodations and trinkets. Essentially, going on vacation is an unexpectedly socialist undertaking for being such a capitalist luxury.
As a believer in determinism, all human behaviour seems to fit in the natural order of survival of the fittest. A common mistake of people who believe in free will is to assume that determinism would only go into effect from the moment one begins to believe it, whereas everything up to that point just magically appeared outside of the natural order. Frequently heard is the counter-argument: “if people are going to do what they’re supposed to do, shouldn’t we get rid of our legal system?” This would only apply if this legal system hadn’t developed as a way for our species to regulate itself in accordance with the wishes of the majority. It is, as all things, simply a part of the current natural order. As such, judges serve as the ones who determine whether someone is sufficiently fit to be permitted continued membership of the human race.
Intending to use these together for a short play.
The point of it all.
In creating this blog, I am essentially replacing all the notebooks that have been filling up for a decade now. Most of the things I've written over the years would make me cringe if I attempted to read them today, but I'm not one to learn from my mistakes, so I've decided to start archiving my embarrassing ramblings on the internet.
As for my intentions, I have decided I shall post whatever thoughts pop into my head that I deem even somewhat interesting and shall express them in the manner most comfortable and understandable for myself. In other words, if you disapprove of my literary mannerisms and word usage: too fucking bad. I write as I think and I have no intention of translating my, perhaps excessively, verbose thoughts into common speech. Not only would doing so affect my own pleasure in writing, but it would force a translation of meaning into an essentially unfamiliar thought pattern. I may, at times, write in varying styles for any number of reasons; especially in the case of fictional pieces. Put simply: I can't make any stylistic guarantees.
As for actual content, I intend to write not only the eventual worked out versions of ideas, but also the primary thoughts and explorations thereof. This is as much for my own benefit as yours. With any luck, you'll enjoy reading the various steps from a simple idea to an actual story or more fleshed out theory. For my part, I will have a clearer overview of how I came to a conclusion. This is something I found problematically lacking in older writings, where a final product was frequently presented without much in the way of context or inspiration. I find it quite vexing to read my own older work and think:"What the hell was the point of this again?" only to realize there are no indications in the text itself and nowhere in the crumbling caverns of my memory do I even recall writing the piece.
Furthermore, I don't intend to limit this blog to either particular types of writings nor even internal consistency. I may use posts as nothing more than a way for myself to work out ideas for parts of other works I have on my pc or laptop or as depositories for the rambling theories that occupy my mind. Random chunks of stories without explanations or introductions to the characters may appear, but will probably be easily distinguishable by their titles and/or a preface stating as much. There may be opinions expressed which are my own, but it's equally possible that an opinion seems to me to fit the character or simply makes for a good excuse to write.
I think that covers the basics.
As for my intentions, I have decided I shall post whatever thoughts pop into my head that I deem even somewhat interesting and shall express them in the manner most comfortable and understandable for myself. In other words, if you disapprove of my literary mannerisms and word usage: too fucking bad. I write as I think and I have no intention of translating my, perhaps excessively, verbose thoughts into common speech. Not only would doing so affect my own pleasure in writing, but it would force a translation of meaning into an essentially unfamiliar thought pattern. I may, at times, write in varying styles for any number of reasons; especially in the case of fictional pieces. Put simply: I can't make any stylistic guarantees.
As for actual content, I intend to write not only the eventual worked out versions of ideas, but also the primary thoughts and explorations thereof. This is as much for my own benefit as yours. With any luck, you'll enjoy reading the various steps from a simple idea to an actual story or more fleshed out theory. For my part, I will have a clearer overview of how I came to a conclusion. This is something I found problematically lacking in older writings, where a final product was frequently presented without much in the way of context or inspiration. I find it quite vexing to read my own older work and think:"What the hell was the point of this again?" only to realize there are no indications in the text itself and nowhere in the crumbling caverns of my memory do I even recall writing the piece.
Furthermore, I don't intend to limit this blog to either particular types of writings nor even internal consistency. I may use posts as nothing more than a way for myself to work out ideas for parts of other works I have on my pc or laptop or as depositories for the rambling theories that occupy my mind. Random chunks of stories without explanations or introductions to the characters may appear, but will probably be easily distinguishable by their titles and/or a preface stating as much. There may be opinions expressed which are my own, but it's equally possible that an opinion seems to me to fit the character or simply makes for a good excuse to write.
I think that covers the basics.
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