Creature 1:6

FADE IN

INT THE TRAILER – NIGHT

The room is black, with the only point of focus being the glow of the gunman's pipe.

Don't move.

You just lay there. You stay calm and cozy. You get ready. You listen very closely to what I'm going to tell you and don't utter a word.

You don't think.

You turn off your internal monologue.

You listen real good, and if you listen good enough, you still die.

But it won't be tonight.

The sound of THE GUNMAN's revolver being sheathed is heard followed by a few smacks on his pipe as he lifts the apparatus to his mouth. Through the pipe's glow in the darkened room, a flat brimmed hat is apparent on his head. His eyes are piercing through the skull of our narrator as if the room were filled with sunshine, however they are sinister in demeanor and rest above a long pointed nose. THE GUNMAN lowers his pipe, once again darkening his face and pauses an uncomfortable moment before continuing.

Good. You're not talking. You're not thinking either. That's good too. Especially for a coward like you.

(pause)

Cowards like you, die quick when they think too much. You just let me handle the thinking right now and I'll let you get back to being a pathetic worm in a moment.

I'm really here you know. I'm not a dream. I'm not one of the delusions that parade in your mind. I'm not a fantasy even though I'm sure you could paint a fantasy in that warped head of yours that is every bit as awful as I am. You have a real talent for that, Boy, and I'm not going to deny it.

I admire your talent. I really do. All your talents. Every damned talent you have. It's just a shame they were wasted on a grub like you.

(pause)

I must not be a sane man.

A sane man that knew what I knew about you wouldn't let you're eyes rest in your sockets for another second. A sane man would remove them with a spoon. 2 heartfelt scoops and you're appropriate to your soul. You don't deserve those eyes that perceive so much so well. You deserve 2 festering sockets. You deserve it to hurt. You'd deserve that and anyone that knew what I knew about you would know it's true.

Yup, I must be out of my mind to sit in this room so calm with a maggot like you.

(pause)

So. I must be a real crazy.

He puffs his pipe and looks over the embers at our narrator as he continues.

You're still not thinking. Heh, that's good. Even that's bothering me though. It's just reminding me how cowardly you are. I don't think you're listening to hear me. You're just listening because you're a coward.

The gunman lowers his pipe, sets it on a nearby nightstand as sounds indicate that he has risen from his seat. The two steps it takes for him to reach the narrators bedside jingle indicating the presence of spurs.

I know you don't hate yourself. You really should, but you don't. You hate your life, but in that brain of yours, your ego wants you to wake up every morning.

You're just too chicken shit to do anything to turn it around.

Even too chicken shit to take her. That girl that makes everything right in your brain. All you'd have to do is take her, but no, the curse of you has to creep on her soul. Has to hurt her and all because your too yellow to be honest with yourself about who you are and what you want.

THE GUNMAN strikes the narrator with the back of his hand. The sound of blood hitting the wall is heard faintly after the loud crack of the slap. THE GUNMAN picks up his pipe, lights a match and relights his pipe as he leans close to the narrators face, the evidence of the strike is apparent as blood oozes from his mouth. His eyes are tearing and THE GUNMAN never removes his stare from the face of our narrator.

(pause)

THE GUNMAN offers a cruel chuckle as he finishes lighting his pipe and rises to his feet. After a few puffs he sets the pipe back down on the nightstand and begins to reach in one of his pockets. The clinking of a light metal object is heard as he continues his monologue.

I'm real asshole. As real as your pathetic pink trap here. I'm not a dream. I'm not you. No, I'm no overly clever Tyler Durden situation my boy. I'm in this room with you, you little shit heel.

In fact, that's the reason I'm here. We have a lot of work to do and it all depends on you knowing that I am a very real part of your life. No matter how short of a life it is.

THE GUNMAN springs his knee onto the narrator's throat. Gasping and choking noises are heard as the metal tool is fumbled with. In the darkness, THE GUNMAN grabs the narrator's face with his gloved hand and begins to pry his mouth open.

Know I am here. I know everything. Mine is the last voice you'll hear, but not tonight. Tonight, I get it through your head that I'm not a delusion or a manifestation or another Freudian nightmare. I. Am. Real. And Now, I want you to think.

I can't breathe. I can't struggle. He weighs everything. He has me incapacitated.

He is holding my face.

I. Am. Scared.

His gloved hand is a steel trap and it's squeezing my mandible. I can feel teeth rattling in his grip.

He wants me to open my mouth.

Resist.

I want with all of me to resist. I don't want him to do whatever he wants to do. He releases his knee's force on my throat just before I go unconscious. In this dark crypt he can read my breathing and knows the limit my consciousness can hold.

I fight for what seems like an hour.

I fight for what is probably a minute and change

I fight, before the metal contraption in his hand, wedges it's way into my mouth and clamps down on the rear most tooth in my bloody mouth.

His grip tightens and I am frozen in place. His knee lifts and I pant heavily, but I don't move. One move and he might rip the tooth from my mouth. I slowly surrender my hands.

I taste blood.

I feel pain.

I hear my panting through the blood in my mouth.

I smell his tobacco laden breath heavy on my face.

I see nothing.

But I know he's smiling. I know he's real and...somehow...he knows that I know.

I assumed that the pliers on my tooth would hurt as they ripped the roots from my mandible, but I was wrong. He wasn't pulling my tooth.

I have never felt more terror than when I realized that the pliers latched onto my tooth were not pliers.

They were vise-grips.

And slowly, they were tightening.