Author: Steve Arviso

A COMIC SHOP. THE SHOP IS LITTLE MORE THAN A NEWSSTAND LOCATED IN THE CLAUSTROPHOBIC LOBBY OF A BUILDING OTHERWISE OCCUPIED BY ALL SORTS OF VERY REAL, VIABLE BUSINESSES IN IT.

A SINGLE, WHOLLY APATHETIC CLERK SITS BEHIND THE COUNTER, HARDLY PRETENDING TO WORK.

CUSTOMER ENTERS.

CUSTOMER: Hi. I called about the (INCOMPREHENSIBLE COUGH).

CLERK: Got it right here… (PULLS OUT A SMALL BOX) Feel free to take a look before you pay.

CUSTOMER CONSIDERS THIS FOR A MOMENT, OPENS THE BOX, THEN SCREAMS A LITTLE SCREAM.

CLERK: Something wrong?

CUSTOMER: Is this what I think it is?

CLERK: If not, I suppose we’ve both committed a felony for nothing.

CUSTOMER: What, a felony? I didn’t come here for this!

CLERK: You didn’t?

CUSTOMER: No, of course not.

CLERK: I’m sorry. What did you come here for?

CUSTOMER: I called about an hour ago about the (INCOMPREHENSIBLE COUGH).

CLERK: Oh, yes, the (INCOMPREHENSIBLE COUGH).

CUSTOMER: Yes, that’s right.

CLERK RETRIEVES A SIMILAR, YET WHOLLY DIFFERENT BOX FROM BENEATH THE COUNTER AND SETS IT DOWN BESIDE THE FIRST.

CLERK: Anything else?

CUSTOMER: No. No, I don’t think so.

CLERK: Would you maybe like what’s in the first–

CUSTOMER: No.

CLERK: No judgment.

CUSTOMER: No, thank you.

CLERK: (SHRUGS) Suit yourself. (MINDLESSLY RINGS UP A SALE) Can’t believe anyone would want something this stupid.

CUSTOMER: Wasting money is a guilty pleasure of mine.

CLERK: And mine to take it.

CUSTOMER: Yes. Right. Well. I was admittedly a bit upset when I heard they were going to adapt this into a live-action movie after all these years.

CLERK: Is that right?

CUSTOMER: I mean, how do you even begin to translate something like this to a movie, ya know?

CLERK: I certainly do not.

CUSTOMER: And you know they’re going to mess it all up.

CLERK: I do?

CUSTOMER: Of course. The studio is probably handing over the whole thing to some incompetent, visionless parasite who will suck the fun and color out of everything.

CLERK: The son of a bitch.

CUSTOMER: What can you do, right?

CLERK: (CONSIDERS THIS) Follow me.

CUSTOMER: Excuse me?

CLERK WALKS OVER TO A SMALL DOOR JUST A FEW FEET AWAY, PULLING OUT A SMALL RING OF KEYS.

CLERK: I think you might be interested in our premium membership.

CUSTOMER: I’m afraid I don’t live in the area, and I really only came out all this way for that. Kinda surprised anybody–

CLERK IGNORES THIS AND UNLOCKS THE DOOR ANYWAY.

CLERK: Follow me.

CUSTOMER: What? No, I just want the…

CLERK DISAPPEARS THROUGH THE DOOR WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD.

CUSTOMER EVENTUALLY FOLLOWS, BUT PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVELY COMPLAINS ABOUT IT UNDER THEIR BREATH WHILE DOING SO.

CUT TO:

A BASEMENT BENEATH THE SHOP.

A SWEATY LARGE MAN IN A TATTERED SCREENPRINT TEE AND MATCHING BLAZER IS PREOCCUPIED WITH THE VIOLENT BEATING OF AN EQUALLY SWEATY, YET MUCH SMALLER MAN IN SOME SORT OF COSTUME.

CLERK AND CUSTOMER ENTER.

CUSTOMER: What the hell is this?!

LARGE MAN STOPS WITH THE BEATING.

LARGE MAN: (TO CLERK) Hey, I’ve still got… (CHECKS HIS WATCH) …ten minutes.

CLERK: (SHAKES HEAD, GESTURES TO CUSTOMER) Potential member.

LARGE MAN: Is that right? (TO CUSTOMER) Honest opinion? The premium membership is totally worth the extra money.

SMALLER MAN: (SPITS OUT TOOTH) I’m sorry. Was this beating canceled like some hack comedian with shit opinions masquerading as attempts at humor? (SPITS OUT SEVERAL MORE TEETH…) Or are we simply out of gas, like Lucas Stevensberg after the original Celestial Border Dispute trilogy?

LARGE MAN EAGERLY RESUMES THE BEATING.

A BEAT. THEN…

CUSTOMER: (TO CLERK) Okay. We have to call the police, or something. Right?

CLERK: Nah. (GESTURES TO SMALLER MAN) He does this for a living.

CUSTOMER: You’re pulling my leg.

CLERK: No, really. Poor guy’s some kind of unemployed actor. It’s a shame, too. He’s actually very talented. Really stirs our Premium Members into a frothy rage.

SMALLER MAN: (SERIOUSLY HURT) Children’s programming isn’t for you! Superheroes have always been political! You can joke about anything so long as it’s actually funny!

CUSTOMER: Oh, he is good. But couldn’t he just get a real job – slow-roasting children, building bears, recycling blood? Anything but this…

CLERK: (SHRUGS) Seems he prefers getting the shit kicked out of him for money.

CUSTOMER: (NODS) This can’t possibly be legal, though… (PUZZLES THIS) Can it?

CLERK: While we do like to keep our premium services on the down low, I assure you everything is on the up and up. In fact, every comic shop is legally required to be built over a basement for this exact purpose.

CUSTOMER: What? No. No, I’ve been to plenty of shops that weren’t…

CLERK GESTURES TO A FRAMED CERTIFICATE ON THE WALL.

CLERK: See for yourself.

CUSTOMER: (READS) “This certificate of authenticity hereby, thereby, and whereby certificates the authenticity of this comic shop, video rental store, and/or slot-car racing facility…” (TO CLERK) This has to be some sort of joke.

CLERK: A joke, is it? And I suppose the First Great Fanboy War of 1945 is a big bowl of laughter with a side of toasted hilariousness and a refreshing glass of freshly-squeezed silly.

CUSTOMER: No, I didn’t–

CLERK: No, of course you didn’t. (SCOFFS) It never even occurs to people like you that such a bloody rampage – scores dead, hundreds emotionally wounded, countless more in dire need of a shower and antiperspirant – might demand some degree of government intervention and oversight.

LARGE MAN STOPS WITH THE BEATING…

LARGE MAN: Uh-oh… (INSPECTS SMALLER MAN’S POSSIBLY LIFELESS CORPSE. He’s gone all limp…

CLERK: No refunds!

END SCENE.

BLIFFEN SCRAGGMEISTERMAN minds his own farting business.

JEFFERNY BOWELSCRAPINGS enters.

JEFFERNY: Bliffen?

BLIFFEN: Yeah?

JEFFERNY: Got a minute?

Bliffen considers this, then checks his watch for an uncomfortable length of time.

BLIFFEN: No. Why?

JEFFERNY: I wanted to run some of my new bits by you before I hit up the open mic tonight.

BLIFFEN: The one at that dive bar in the bad part of town with all the skinheads, or the one at the perpetually empty pizza joint that smells like unwashed feet?

JEFFERNY: No, this one’s inside the unisex restroom at the cougar bar.

BLIFFEN: You’re not going to do more of that self-deprecating topical nonsense, are you?

JEFFERNY: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

BLIFFEN: You know damn well what I mean – “Have you read a newspaper?”; “What’s the deal with hair?”; “Did I mention my lackluster genitals and failed personality?”

An uncomfortable silence.

JEFFERNY: Do you want to hear it or not?

Another silence.

BLIFFEN: Come with me.

Bliffen leaves, Jefferny follows.

CUT TO:

Somewhere else. But this place has a full, possibly horse-sized SACK in it.

Bliffen and Jefferny enter.

JEFFERNY: What is this?

Bliffen hands Jefferny a stick.

BLIFFEN: Here.

JEFFERNY: What’s this for? Why is there a full, possibly horse-sized sack in here? Do you have a dead horse in there?

BLIFFEN: Don’t be ridiculous. Where would I even get a dead horse?

JEFFERNY: Then what is it?

BLIFFEN: Look. I’m not a rocket biologist. All I know is that we live in a perpetual Hell of endless news updates, instant gratification, and people’s need to masturbate in public about things they don’t even understand. (gestures) Also, I found him that way.

JEFFERNY: You could just say you don’t want to hear my bits.

BLIFFEN: Jefferny… If I didn’t want to hear your bits, I’d go down to the mic and ignore you to your face like everyone else.

JEFFERNY: Fair enough.

BLIFFEN: By the time any of us drives out to some show in an abandoned industrial park or a shiatsu laundromat that serves tree bark smoothies, millions have already pleasured themselves into a frothy rage over headlines to news stories they never read. They don’t have the energy to laugh at your reheated takes on cold, stale topics.

JEFFERNY: Uh-huh.

BLIFFEN: So, I came up with this. Whenever I feel the bubbling urge to excrete some pithy, yet witless thought on something topical, I come here and have at it for a bit. If I haven’t forgotten what I was going to say by the time I’m done, then I’ll go down to some dark, depressing place and tell a joke.

JEFFERNY: Does it work?

BLIFFEN: More so than my topical humor.

JEFFERNY: (shrugs) Worth a shot.

Jefferny hits the sack with the stick.

SACK: (pained grunt)

JEFFERNY: (yelp)

BLIFFEN: What?

JEFFERNY: It made a noise.

BLIFFEN: And?

JEFFERNY: I thought you said you didn’t have a dead horse in there.

BLIFFEN: He’s clearly not dead.

SACK: (grunts)

BLIFFEN: See?

JEFFERNY: How is this any better than topical humor?

BLIFFEN: It’s not. But at least this way I don’t have to go outside.

A depressing local zoo located beneath a freeway. DOUGLBY, an exhausted, underpaid zoo employee, leads us through the cramped, ill-fitting cages.

DOUGLBY: Good morning, everyone. Welcome to the Santa Carla Zoo, the only zoo located beneath a freeway, adjacent to a water treatment plant, and built atop the mass grave of local indigenous people.

I’m Douglby. And unfortunately for me, Brennifer called-out… again. Something about her uterus climbing out her throat. I’m not sure. So, I guess I’m your guide for the day.

(looks around)

Uh… This way. I think.

(waves us over)

Yeah. This is fine. It’s fine.

(gestures) This is Alex, our endangered Moronikan Sexually-Frustrated Dolphin, best known for his offensive language and history of sexual assault. (considers this) Probably has something to do with living in a tank the size of a budget, above-ground hot tub.

Anyway. On we go…

(moves on)

(gestures) This is Charlie, our Idiotican Ook-Ook. Everyone, Charlie. Charlie, Everyone. Fun Fact: Charlie weighs only ten pounds, yet operates the largest car-theft ring in all of Santa Carla.

(moves on)

(gestures) Terry and Brenda, our perky pair of Jiggly Maguppies, both of whom have become global internet sensations thanks to their podcast where they spread conspiracy theories and violent, late-night domestic disputes. (considers this) Maybe it’s better if we just keep moving.

(moves on)

(gestures) And this is Terry, our thirty-something American Male with a Masters degree in theoretical business and several-hundred thousand dollars in debt that will haunt him until the day he dies. He currently works from home, selling his body for nickels and dimes.

Now. Some of you might be wondering why Terry lives in this cramped, inhumane cage of concrete, shame, and artificial light and food. That’s because people like you can afford to go to the zoo on a work day while people like Terry have to make do on a teacher’s salary.

An alarm BEEPS.

Sorry. That’s just me. Looks like my shift is up. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go hose down my cage again because Charlie is the roommate from Hell.

Douglby leaves.

MR. VICTIM sits on a park bench.

MR. VICTIM: You’re a little late, aren’t you?

MR. KILLER rises from behind the park bench, gun in hand.

MR. KILLER: Sorry. I got caught up in traffic.

MR. VICTIM: Uh-huh. Well. I suppose you’re here to kill me, then.

MR. KILLER: If that’s alright with you.

MR. VICTIM: I’d rather you didn’t, but I’m sure Mother has already paid you.

MR. KILLER: Actually, she talked me down to store credit.

MR. VICTIM: (scoffs) Typical. But that’s Mother for you. Can’t even be bothered to properly compensate her own son’s killer.

MR. KILLER: To be honest, I’m not even sure what I can do with two-hundred dollars in cat lingerie. I don’t even have a cat.

MR. VICTIM: Focus, please.

MR. KILLER: Right. Sorry.

Mr. Killer aims, pulls the trigger. The gun goes CLICK.

MR. KILLER: What the Hell?

MR. VICTIM: Something wrong?

Mr. Killer pulls the trigger again and again. No BANG-BANG, only CLICK-CLICK.

MR. VICTIM: You’re not very good at this, are you?

Mr. Killer inspects the gun.

MR. KILLER: This gun has no bullets.

MR. VICTIM: Pity.

MR. KILLER: Damn budget cuts.

An uncomfortable silence.

MR. VICTIM: Should I get going, then?

MR. KILLER: No, no. Give me a minute. I’ll figure something out.

MR. VICTIM: I’m sure you will.

Mr. Killer hands the gun to Mr. Victim.

MR. KILLER: Here. You do it.

MR. VICTIM: Do what?

MR. KILLER: Do it yourself.

MR. VICTIM: You want me to execute myself with an unloaded gun?

MR. KILLER: You could bludgeon yourself with it.

MR. VICTIM: Aside from that being a very stupid idea, why don’t you do it yourself?

MR. KILLER: Look. I don’t go around telling you how to do your job, so don’t go telling me how to do mine. Besides, I don’t get paid enough to work up a sweat.

MR. VICTIM: At this point, I’m wondering why they bother paying you at all.

MR. KILLER: I’m sorry?

MR. VICTIM: I mean, you’re hardly earning that two-hundred dollars of cat lingerie.

MR. KILLER: You know what? Forget it. I don’t have to take this.

MR. VICTIM: Mother won’t be happy about this.

MR. KILLER: What do you mean?

MR. THIRD-PARTY wanders in, gun in hand, misguided by his phone’s GPS.

VOICE: (phone) You have arrived at your destination.

MR. THIRD-PARTY: Mr. Killer?

MR. KILLER: You can’t be serious.

MR. THIRD-PARTY: Deadly, I’m afraid. Nothing personal, though. Strictly Business.

Mr. Third-Party aims at Mr. Killer, pulls the trigger. The gun goes CLICK.

MR. THIRD-PARTY: Son of a bitch…

NOT IMPORTANT tenderizes their hand with a hammer.

Then…

Not notices the audience, stops with the hammering.

NOT: (to audience) Oh. Hello. I’m Not Important.

People often tell me that violence is never the answer. But, what if it was?

We at “Violence Is Sometimes the Answer” are dedicated to solving the unsolvable with our unique brand of not giving a shit.

Our panel of Violence Engineers worked long hours for little pay in the pursuit of unlocking the secret of solving even the most benign issue with swift, painful, and inexpensive hammer-wielding justice. And once our engineers realized that they all had hammers and middle-management did not, they now work just as long, but marginally more flexible hours for slightly, albeit trivially more pay.

Whether it’s a discussion leading nowhere, a cold, uncaring economic system crafted and upheld by affluent slave-owners disguised as cold, uncaring bastards, or crippling arthritis left untreated due to wholly unaffordable healthcare, it turns out there really isn’t much you can’t, on occasion, solve with a bit of tender, loving violence and a good hammer.

Goodnight.

Not returns to hammering their hand.

SONATHAN composes a letter, as one does.

SONATHAN: Father…

Reconsiders this, but it’s fine. It’s fine.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since you left. Last month, I investigated the refrigerator myself. There was milk to spare. I’m starting to suspect you didn’t go to the store.

A depressingly pathetic, yet pathetically depressing beat. Then…

Repressfully yours… Sonathan.

STEVE: The most utterly depressing thought I can manage at the moment is… in knowing all this suffering is, quite literally, pointless. All of it. The [insert current hot topic], the [insert recent hot news story], [insert worthless, yet utterly stupid whatever] – all pointless tragedies of equal measure, sure.

And all in the face of certain death. And following that, likely cosmic heat death.

Bit of a hat-on-hat, if you ask me.

I mean, how much deader can it get?

Makes you question the whole divine plan thing. Just a little.

What’s divine about anyone who can’t sort out a decent ending to their work, huh? That’s just sloppy craftsmanship. No love or passion at all. It’s lazy.

And you can’t blame humanity for having to fill in all the blanks. We’re curious things.

I suppose that’s why we always have to touch the fire or attempt a [insert the latest sensitive cockup of discussion] before you realize you’ve made a big oopsie. Or watch someone else try first. See how it goes.

“Oh, [latest sensitive cockup of discussion]? Yeah. Turns out it burns something nasty. Not too bad though – leaves you a bit raw for a day or two. Unless you’ve record it like some flaccid halfwit.”

Anyway. I finally got around to watching [insert literally any film with actor Bill Hader]. I think it disappointed me some.

Bill Hader’s a dream, though.