------------------ PRE-PRE-PRODUCTION ------------------ P: Producer D: Director W1: Writer W2: Script assistant Over lunch at posh L.A. restaurant of your choice on Wednesday 7/13/94. -- P: Okay, give it to us in really-short form. W1: OJ is dead for sure; the prosecution has him cold in their sights and the murder one charge is seemingly inescapable. But then the young and brash assistant defense attorney, working alone-- he's a maverick type, a loose cannon, but with a love interest of course-- finds a crucial detail that proves OJ's innocence. Justice wins out in the end and OJ is saved. D: _A Few Good Men_ but the military becomes professional football. W2: Yes, exactly. W1: NO, that's not it at ALL. It's much DEEPER than that. P: I like it, though. It speaks to the underdog in all of us. W1: Yes! Yes! D: So the assistant defender is the protagonist and OJ is just a sympathetic supporting character? W1: Yes, OJ is a larger-than-life media figure, symbolising the epic forces which push our lives around like chess pieces. D: I dunno; still sounds trite to me. Conveniently happy ending. W1: He could be found guilty, too, I suppose. W2: Perhaps the crucial evidence is destroyed or lost before the young and brash assistant defense attorney can get it to court. D: Ooooh. P: Lost or destroyed? Like in a gunfight? W1: Well, sure, I guess. P: Excellent. D: I like that, too, but consider this: What if OJ were the villain? W2: We want him to be convicted? W1: Make it clear that he actually DID kill Nicole? D: Yes. What if the story is now about the struggle within the young and brash assistant defense attorney as he discovers evidence that would mislead the jury into setting Simpson free, when he knows down in his heart that OJ really DID do it? W1: That's terrible! I like it. P: Too thought-provoking. W2: Hm. W1: Yeah, true. D: It was just a thought. Let's go back to the lost-evidence-leaves-OJ- to-hang idea....
"Your honor, I request that I be excused from serving on this jury because..."
"...language of simple sentence structifying elusive that I find."
"...if I'm not there to receive a certain phone call every two hours, they are going to kill my daughter."
"...these seats are really uncomfortable and likely to aggravate my already very serious spinal whiplash injuries, plural, and thus I would have to sue. Again."
"...I find some of these other prospective jurors very sexually desirable and it is unlikely that I could prevent myself from harrassing at least a few of them."
"...I'm allergic to st-st-st-ACHOO! ...to stupid people."
"...I not only have serious ethical problems with the illegality of simple drug possession, I have a hard time just getting out of bed without a pretty serious speedball cocktail in my system."
"...I am currently, and have always been, a member of the communist party, who has advocated the violent overthrow of the United States by threats both foreign and domestic. Or do you only care about that shit if I'm applying for a job with the FBI?"
"...I had a dream about you and in it I saw your head split open and a hundred squiggly worms crawled out of it and all over me. Which I would find very distracting during this trial. Especially considering the way you sway back and forth. Your Honor."
"...the law is an ass. THE LAW IS AN ASS! YOU! YOU ASS!"
"...I work in software, and past experience has indicated that you people really don't like the way that software engineers think out problems, considering branching logic, and generally operate on contingencies. No, you always prefer those horribly anal hardware people, those EE types who think computers are nothing more than a few traces and the right choice of silicon. Yeah! I just BET you'd like to think that the law is nice and simple, slap it together and flip a switch, ta da, you're done! Well guess what, mister high and fucking mighty, it's not that SIMPLE! It's... hey... I'm not done yet! I have a few things to say about MARKETING, too! Hey!"
What a great idea that was, making the world scent-free. Now we don't have to cope with all the stinky people. I hate the stinky people. They were stinky and now they are not stinky. Nothing is stinky. Skunks are not stinky and cars are not stinky and gas leaks in my house are not stinky. A good non-stinky world it is! The loss of one of our five senses is a small price to pay, really, to be away from such an upleasant thing as stinkiness. Some people crybaby all day about the "nice" smells that they miss now, but I think they are just nostalgic for something that wasn't really that great in the first place. They just remember it being so great because they don't have it anymore. Dipshits would probably fondly recollect a Yugo if they'd had one. "Oh, it wasn't soooooo bad...."
Now they're all pissed off because they can't smell fresh bread and garlic red sauce and roses and a whole bunch of other lame stuff that, really, is all meant to be primarily enjoyed through some other sense. The point of a garlicky red sauce is to *taste* it, right? To *eat* it! Don't tell me taste is 50% smell, that's like saying yellow is 50% green! That's stupid! Stupid! Stop making stupid noises like a cow! It's too late, okay? Smell has gone away and that's that, just get used to it. You should be happy, dammit! There are no more stinky people!
Of course, some of those stinky people had other objectionable traits other than their mere stinkiness. Some of them are ugly. Nasty-looking. Unsightly. Obviously, we should take away vision next. Sure, you think you need it now, but you used to think you needed a lava lamp, too. You used to flip through the Sears Wish Book that came out before Christmas, certain that you would die if you didn't have that Betty Crocker Muffin Stamper Kitchenette or whatever. The vinyl Matchbox car parking garage playset. You didn't need those and you don't need your eyes, either; the only difference between the two is that you *got* your eyes but not the toys, so you treasure the former like some sort of childhood teddy bear. "I'll just *diiiiiie* without my eyes!" you cry, making more moo-cow sounds. Foolishness! You'll only die without your eyes if you walk into something stupid, like traffic, and you can *hear* traffic, so there's no excuse for stepping into it, is there?
You better stop whining. If you don't stop whining, I'll wave my magic sense wand and take away all sound so I can't hear your crap anymore. And touch, so you can't feel the sting as I slap you upside your head over and over. I'll just leave you with taste, only taste and no other senses, and you'll have to stumble through the rest of your life with nothing but your tongue to guide you. Ha ha ha! That would serve you right.
The hotel is surrounded. A sea of flickering red and blue outshines the sunlight that dances on the ocean. They're using a bullhorn.
Police: Just release one hostage as a show of good faith, sir. Psycho: Fuck you! I see any cops in here, I kill the kid! Police: Nobody wants that, sir. Let's find a peaceful solution.
They don't know what he's armed with. They're not sure what he wants. They've never been very good at this sort of thing. Quietly, they talk among themselves.
Chief: This is bad. We know nothing about the situation.
SWAT Coord: There are no clear shots from other buildings into that
room. We could put up two guys in a helicopter...
Chief: The moment a copter shows up, it'll be a bloodbath.
Disney Rep: If I may interject for a moment?
Chief: I'll listen to anyone at this point.
Disney Rep: Pull your men back. We'll handle it. This is a matter for
the Park to deal with.
The police pull back, separating like the Red Sea before Moses, as a figure emerges from among them in a cloud of mist... a trail of sublimating nitrogen still clinging to him from his cryogenic cocoon.
Walt Disney: Young man, you're being very naughty.
Psycho: Fuck you and... Wait. Walt? Is that you?
Walt Disney: Why have you disturbed my eternal rest, son?
Psycho: Oh, shit! Oh, I... Walt, you don't know what they've DONE
to me! You can't know what I've been through!
Walt Disney: I know all, child. Your sins. Your joy. You need not say
anything; I already understand. Just step out here and let
me take you in my arms.
Psycho: I... Oh, Uncle Walt, I missed you so much!
As the troubled young man throws down his guns and steps into the hallway, to head to the stairs leading down to the ground, the Clan Disney ninjas are already in place. Master Disney has trained them well for two generations.
Psycho: Walt! Oh, Walt! They told me you were dead! I'm here! I'm... Walt Disney: Now.
A hundred silent puffs of breath and the air is filled with invisible shards of glass. The sad, deranged young man slumps calmly, easily to the ground. He is peacefully asleep and will remain so until the second wave of toxin finishes him off. Disneycain is strong enough to kill a dinosaur. Uncle Walt knows that for an established fact.
The ninjas are never seen. The police retrieve the hostages.
Park Guest: What happened to that scary man? He fell over. Walt Disney: He's tired. He is taking a nap. Park Guest: Whee! I'm not tired! I want to ride some more rides! Walt Disney: Go, little one, and forget this day ever happened.
Soon, the world forgets. The Veil drops back into place. Uncle Walt returns to his Cerebral Cavern where his frosty body lies inert, but his brain continues to rule. A new ride debuts. Another great show. Better fireworks. The most magical place on Earth goes on as it always has, as it always shall.
She counts them off on her fingers, all the Hells I am going to. There are a lot of them.
The hell for greed, for wanting too much. For ninety nine days I will be made to take in more of everything than I can possibly stand, until I weep at the pain of my own abdundance.
The hell for carelessness, for treating important things too lightly. I will slip from great heights, have things casually fall upon me, be forgotten, be treated like a pet, like a toy.
The hell for lust, for letting desire overrule. A great icicle will be stabbed into my heart, stabbed and then twisted, and then it will change into steel and glow white hot, as if in a forge.
The hell for untrustworthiness, for saying something I won't follow through on. My closest-held beliefs will all turn into dogs which will savage my limbs and my face.
The hell for arrogance, for assuming I had the right. Shrunk to tiny insect size, I will be dwarfed by the common, by that which I had once taken for granted, and I will have to run to survive.
The hell for intoxication, for impurifying my body. Thrown into a sea of garbage and made to inhale excrement, drowning in a cloud of rancid smoke and choking ash.
And the hell for forgetfulness, for not remembering the truly precious things every minute of every day. Blinded, deafened, made to beg for change in a strange city I cannot ever come to know.
These seven hells are mine. She counts them off on her hands. Then, on the last three fingers, she counts off three more: The hells that will be hers. And I begin to weep as I hear them, but then the level is pulled and I begin the long, long fall that I deserve.