💾 Archived View for midnight.pub › replies › 3242 captured on 2023-04-26 at 15:37:35. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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The bottle label read something on Japanese whiskey but all the scriptwriter saw in front of them was shimmy.
Carefully adjusted the glasses and reviewed what they had penned in the last hour, while the barflys had their embettering chat over a few beers and that great match (we love you Leeds United...) finished with a choir of fans chanting the anthem.
Leant above the pages and read to their innards.
'At the Sport Bar.
Inside a classic, darkened, run down old pub or dive bar, the owner, MO, wipes the counter with a wet cloth. He grabs the remote, turns off the TV broadcasting live sports, and walks to the end table of the bar, where, head lying down on his arms, a very intoxicated Ezekiel sleeps in the dark corner.
Mo slaps his hand hard down on the table, waking Ezekiel up.
MO
Go on, wake up, closing time.
EZEKIEL
дванаест белих пилића ...
Ezekiel mumbles 'twelve white chickens' in Serbian, lifts his face up to Mo.
EZEKIEL
One second.
Ezekiel gets up and hobbles towards the staircase near where's the gentlemen's room. Closes the door behind him and walks up the stairs.
At the middle of the stairs, his balance fails, and he falls all the way down the staircase.
The owner's teenage daughter, SUBNA, comes from the corridor casually with a glass of water in hand, finds Ezekiel on the floor and helps him up.
SUBNA
Are you sure you are all right?
Ezekiel grasps to Subna, who's wearing a fluffy white robe, white tunic and black hijab. She helps him hobble his way towards the outer patio, to which he descends trembling, leans on the wall outside and hurls a lot.
Mo sees the scene from inside, and goes out to the patio.
MO
Subna! Get the towel!
Mo goes to the tap, opens it and holding the hose, showers Ezekiel in cold water.
MO
This will help.
Mo takes the towel off his daughter's hands and throws it to Ezekiel, who wipes himself.'
The scriptwriter sighed, lay down the papers and looked outside towards the open door, fag in hand, and thought never in a million centuries is any magnate offering me royalties for my works to be made into a film. With my name and blood. What have they done to me.
But there were lives worse than hers, and they don't matter to anyone.
Downstairs a muted scuffle ensues dislodging a few warped floorboards in the process and making the pipes whistle. The mottled congregation flit their eyes momentarily from the fire in the corner to the barman, who sheepishly caves under the weight of their momentary stares and opens the trap door to investigate what is transpiring downstairs.
He inhales deeply, and then descends.