Dialogue and Scene Exercise....comments are welcome, any which way you
please. Got the idea after reading through a dialogue exercise I did back
in 11th grade; taking Huck Finn to an all new level. ;)
* * *
"Motherfucker." Pause.
"Eh?"
"Motherfucker."
"Oh. I thought you said something else?"
"What?"
"Eh?"
"I said motherfucker, what did you think I said?"
"Something else."
"What was it?"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"I mean, what did you think I said. I just want to know"
"What do you mean?"
"When I said 'motherfucker.' C'mon, just tell me."
"Well, why'd you say 'motherfucker?' "
"Me first. I asked first."
Pause.
"What did you want to know?"
"Urgmmmm....what did you think I said? I mean, what could you possibly
think I said besides motherfucker?"
"Brother Tucker?"
"Is that what you thought I said?"
"No, but now that you mention it, I do know a Brother Tucker."
"Really, where?"
"Mother Bunkert."
"What?"
"You could have said Mother Bunkert?"
"And how do you know a Mother Bunkert?"
"I don't. I just made it up."
Pause.
"What about this Brother Tucker?"
"Eh? You don't know about Brother Tucker?"
Pause...
Sunlight filtered in between the Venetian blinds as small wafts of smoke
from Sandy Priest's cigarette added to the seedy quality of the Mom and Pop
Breakfast Diner. A healthy helping of waffles, steak and eggs, and a
cupful of black coffee sat virtually untouched in front of him as Sandy
played with his spoon and mixed up his fruit bowl. Every now and then,
Sandy's hand would venture back under the booth table, down the side of his
leather jacket, and snuggle up against his waist. A Desert Eagle
handcannon tended to bring out some of Sandy's nervous tendencies. Every
now and then, as Willy wildly wolfed (ALLITERATION!) down gobs of scrambled
eggs dowsed in tabasco sauce, Sandy would utter an expletive as his eyes
went moved a full circuit between his virgin breakfast, his broken watch,
and the clock just above the bar to the left of them. Sometimes he'd kick
the duffle bag under the table, feeling the iron against the polymaterial
fabric with his sandled foot. Willy
--for the most part--ignored Sandy, and that was just fine for the both of
them. They hadn't known each other for more than forty-five minutes, and
they were already starting to get on each others' nerves. Talking would
just as soon make things worse.
"No, I have no idea who the fuck you're talking about." Sandy's hands fell
flat on the table as he began to wrap both hands' fingers against the
cheap, chipped finish.
"Brother Tucker. The Mormon."
"The Mormon?"
"Well, he used to be. Nigger from New Utah, heavy into that Fire from
Above, Snake Healing mumbo-jumbo bullshit. Heavy into all sorts of cult
shit."
Sandy snarled. Willy was a country white boy from some dirt water ball of
mud where, and he hated when white folks--especially those hick
motherfuckers used the N-words. Willy could shoot a squirrel dead in the
eye at sixty yards, though; Sandy wouldn't fuck with him. Yet.
"I heard some brother from out in the boonies was in town. Pete's?"
"Yeah," Willy continued, "that's why I thought you knew him. Biggest
black man this side of Antares, my man. Gums the size of the Habibie Dyson
Sphere, but he's got a bad set of teeth. Ugly yellow and all that shit up
in there...damn, he ain't seen the laser end of a plaque-zapper in years."
"Shit."
"Shit yeah, brother."
"So, what's he do?"
"What?"
"Brother Tucker. What's he do?"
"He's a Mormon."
"Yeah?"
"So, he's a Mormon. Religious guy. What you want me to tell you?"
"Fuck, man! What's he doing for Pete?!"
"Oh, shit. I keep forgetting, you ain't heard a damn thing. He's Pete's
spiritual guy."
The door suddenly swung open, and the pre-rigged chimes signaled the
arrival of another customer. Both men swung their head around and peered
closely as a hot young number--sporting a nice pair of legs and a revealing
two-piece--strolled past them. As soon as she disappeared on the other end
of the diner, Sandy and Willy once again turned back to each other.
"Advisor."
"Yeah," Willy said as his finger ventured into his nose. God, Sandy hated
that! "Whatever. Remember when Pete got shot?"
"Yeah, that business with the Laku."
"Well, somebody got to he head or something. Soon as he got out of the
hospital, he starts getting calls from God or somethin'. Gets all edgy
about life and starts walkin' around in he pajamas."
"It's 'his,' by the way."
"What?"
"His. You keep saying 'he' this and 'he' that. The possessive is his."
"What the fuck are you going on about?"
"You keep on saying 'he' when you should say 'his.' You said somebody got
to 'he' head. It's 'his' head."
"Oh fuck you."
"Yo, man. I'm just telling you like it is."
"Fuck you. You think you some kind of education-type boy, don't you?"
"Stop acting like a little bitch."
"What you call me, motherfucker?"
"Oooh, you a bad man now, shit-for-brains. 'Motherfucker?' I'm surprised
you can say it. You sure as hell can't understand it."
"This is stupid shit, Sandy." Willy backed off.
"What the hell did you think I said anyway?"
"Huh?"
"When I said motherfucker. What did you think I said?"
"Smother's Sucker."
"What?"
"Smother's Sucker."
"What the hell is that?"
The door sounded again, and this time it was a midget couple and their
ugly kids. Sandy snorted as he whipped his head back around. Willy didn't
even make the effort to look up.
Willy sighed. "It's a catfish."
"You're trippin', man."
"No shit. You don't remember those commercials when you were a kid?"
"I didn't have a HV when I was a kid."
"I did."
"No kidding." <Fried your puny, inbred brain...eh, pencil dick?> Sandy
didn't add. "So, what's this catfish?"
"Well, it's this big fucking catfish, and Smothers' is this seafood joint.
Just like Mickey-Dees."
"What?"
"McDonalds, man. McDonalds."
"Oh. So I ain't ever seen this Smothers' shit."
"They got canned or something. Somethin' about an old bitch spillin'
coffee on herself. Her ship was carrying some real nasty bio-shit. She
went fuckin' religious on her console and the next thing you know..."
"L'var 3"
"What?"
"I remember that. Ten years ago, somebody laced the air on L'var 3 with
some heavy toxic shit. Killed five million people."
"Yeah, somethin' like that."
"I ain't never heard of Smothers'."
"You ever eat there?"
"Obviously, no." Dickweed.
"Well then, no shit. I was workin' some shithole factory job in Scarsdale
back then. I was goin' back to the pad one night and I wanted a Catfish
Burger. Stopped back by home and bang. Guess what?"
"Smothers' was closed."
"Yeah."
"That's some shit."
"Ain't it?"
Pause.
"So, what about Pete?"
"What about Pete?"
"You were saying he was into religion and all that."
"Yeah. A real riot, that Brother Tucker. Pete called him in after that
mess with the Laku, help him get his head straight? I wonder if he's got
him doing that voodoo bullshit."
"He's a Mormon."
"What's the difference? My pappy didn't believe in God, and he got his
ass whacked by lightning. What's the chances of that? There's a God, and
he's all voodoo, my man."
"Mormon's don't do voodoo, it's just that simple," Sandy tried to explain.
As he looked at the blank cast on Willy's face shift into a nonchalant
expression of disinterest, he moved on.
"Well, I didn't hear anything about this. And Pete looks just fine to me."
"Fuck, boy. Where the fuck've you been?"
"Gawddamn it!" Sandy gritted his teeth. "I was making the fucking run
from Sudan to Vasser! Where the hell did you think I was for the past
eight months?"
"Listen, man. I just whack--"
"Yo, secure that shit, motherfucker."
"What?!"
"Listen, man," Sandy hissed as he drug his and Willy's heads together.
"We're in a public place. You want folks to hear shit like that?"
"No bro', I dig. Chill."
"Stop calling me 'bro'.' "
"Why?"
"Cause you're white, and you ain't my, bro'."
"Now what's that supposed to mean."
"Just what I said."
"So, just because I'm white, I can't be down."
"I don't give a fuck if your up, down, left, right, straight or queer like
a motherfucker. Just don't call me 'bro'.' "
"All right, *bro'.*"
"Man, you are pushing it."
"So what? Fuck you."
"Fuck yourself."
"Hey, why don't you go shove those flappin' gums of yours up your mammy's
well-laid--"
Just then, the bells chimed as another customer entered the diner. This
time, it was a six-foot-two motherfucker with slick, black hair--like out
of Wall Street or something--and a flat grey suit. Sandy and Willy eyes
locked onto the newcomer for a minute, and then they both whipped their
heads back to face each other.
"That's him," Sandy murmured.
"You sure?" Willy looked again. "I thought he'd be...short."
"Corpies ain't short, Willy." Sandy's fingers once again found solace
against his waist as he fidgeted slightly in his seat. "You ready for this
shit?"
"Yeah, man." Willy's hands were in his lap now. Slowly, he reached for
the duffle bag at his feet. A slit was cut along the short end of the Nike
sports bag, just large enough for him to fit his entire right hand in
comfortably. Slowly, he picked up the straps with left hand and hoisted
the bag onto his lap. His right thumb fumbled in the dark momentarily
before it hit on something mechanical. He rubbed against it briefly until
he heard and felt a satisfying snap and the sudden whir of a battery pack
releasing its juice.
"Let's do it, then." Sandy got up first and walked over to the cashier.
The guy that had just come in had sat down on the other end of the bar,
near the exit behind Sandy's seat. Willy just sat still, eyeballing the
guy like there was no tomorrow. The Corpie didn't notice it, not that it
mattered to Willy.
Sandy, on the other hand, forked over his credit card and watched as the
automated cashier zapped away 1217 nuyen. Great thing about Station;
Socalist pinko faggots here were so uptight about good wages and union
labor and everything they gave waitresses and other 'workers' a fair sized
Basic Living Stipend. Nobody had given a thought to tipping any waitress
here for sixty years. No prob for Sandy. Tipping wasn't his jive anyway.
The black hustler looked back over towards his partner, who was still
seated in the booth. "C'mon, Willy. We're out of here."
Willy lifted himself smartly out of the booth, hoisting the bag to his
chest in one swift motion. His right hand was now firmly attached the
mechanism inside. He quickly moved to the door, leaning up against it as
he watched his partner come up towards the front. Sandy picked his
cigarette out of the ashtray on their table, and then proceeded towards the
exit.
He stopped just short of it, right behind the Corpie at the bar. The
Corpie had his complete attention focused on a financial reader and his
cappucino. He never saw it coming.
Sandy's hand swiftly through back the right side of his leather jacket
while his left went for the Corpie's ear. The suited man yelped, but just
then Sandy's left elbow came smashing down on the back of the man's neck.
His grip was so firm that a piece of the Corpie's right ear tore right off.
"FUCK!"
Sandy brought the gun up quick as he whipped the Corpie around in his
barstool. The muzzle planted itself right on the Corpies forehead. Eight
pounds of pressure plus four and three seconds later, the trigger finally
gave way as 180 grains of doubled-dipped zinc and lead ripped through the
sonuvabitch's brains. Bone, flesh, innards and a whole lot of blood
splattered out onto the counter just as the back of the Corpie's head
exploded. Two more shots found their way to the man's midsection, ripping
through ribs, lungs and the heart before finding their way into the steel
backstop. Sandy's left hand went for the atrophied throat as he literally
tore the suit out of his seat, throwing the messy corpse to the ground.
He swung around to face Willy, who didn't even acknowledge him with a nod.
As Sandy ran to the exit, Willy executed his merciless task.
Willy's index finger found the trigger as the RLG-29 laser submachine gun
ripped out of the other end of the sports bag. Beams of directed energy
tore into bystander, furniture, windows and walls alike. Cauterizing as it
killed, it left a bloodless trail of heat death and physical trauma as it
visciously cut through the diner patrons. Swinging around, Willy let loose
several rapid bursts behind, around and in front of the bar area. The
kitchen went up in flames as screams of death suddenly flared up, only to
die down in sudden, unholy silence. In a matter of minutes, only Willy and
has partner remained standing--the burnt smell of the carnage still too
fresh to detect.
"All right, man. Let's get the fuck outta here..."
* * *
* * *
+-----------------+-<The Badass Reverend of Funk Prez>---+
| Presley H. | Political Science / Computer Science |
| Cannady II | and Electrical Engineering Undergrad |
|<revprez@mit.edu>| at the Mass. Institute of Technology |
+-----------------+-<Anime Manga Development Group>------+
+ Author of Liars and Dreamers, a Robotech fanfic +
+-------<http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/1731/index.html>-+
| MIDN 4/c A-2-2 SQD, MIT-Harvard-Tufts NROTC Battalion |
|_|"The art of war is of vital importance to the state"|_|