Post by Zevon on Apr 20, 2007 9:18:38 GMT -6
*Scene opens to a well kept Arby’s restaurant. The dining area shines under the bright artificial light. Zevon is sitting at a table enjoying a delicious Arby’s roast beef sub sandwich, no tomato. He has a look of joyous satisfaction on his face not seen in POW since his heartwarming embrace with Mr. Kitters. Stephie Campbell enters and Zevon gives her a warm nod. She timidly sits across from him, not knowing what to expect from the sometimes volatile Zevon. The video quality is excellent: Francis is obviously not behind the camera.*
Stephie Campbell: I know you don’t like appearing without Francis, but we heard he went home to Ohio.
(The delicious Arby’s has left Zevon very calm and pleasant in voice)
Zevon: You look lovely.
Stephie: Thank you and thanks for allowing us this time.
Zevon: Thank You for the delicious Arby’s! Please proceed with you questions.
Stephie (She asks out of respect, not because she wants to know): First, we would like to know what happened to Francis.
Zevon: Legal troubles.
Stephie: What exactly?
Zevon: Software piracy. Dumb sod was caught dolling out Photoshop on Internet message boards.
Stephie (She is half-smiling, she expected a cranky bastard): I’m sorry to hear that.
Zevon: Don’t be; serves him right for fooling with the damn Internet. It’s nothing but trouble… losers, geeks, and perverts… disgusting place the Internet.
Stephie: You do realize this will be broadcast on the Internet?
Zevon: Yes… but I am worthy of clogging the tubes.
Stephie: Tubes?
Zevon: The Internet is a series of tubes… that’s what Ted Stevens, R-Alaska, told me anyway. Crazy old bastard.
Stephie (Just making talk, she doesn’t know of Ted Stevens): He is a little off his rocker.
Zevon: A little? He makes Robert Byrd look sane.
Stephie (Obviously changing the subject away from a topic of which she knows little): Politics is exciting and all, but we really need to talk about your match on Sunday: Round two of the Lethal Lottery Tournament.
Zevon (Still placated by his delicious sandwich, half-eaten): Shoot.
Stephie: You will be facing one of three men: Eddie Buchalini Jr., Victor Bloodmoon, or Mick Cormac. Which of the three worries you most?
Zevon: No worries.
Stephie (Taken aback by his abruptness and smug confidence. The delicious Arby’s has created an unexpected creature): Well…what are your thoughts on Eddie Buchalini Jr.?
Zevon: He’s lost. He isn’t at ease with himself. He’s too worried about finding his purpose to pose any threat.
Stephie: What about Jay Mason?
Zevon: He’s a non-issue.
Stephie (She had not intended to prod, but Zevon’s Arby’s induced calm has emboldened her.): Have you paid him to work on your behalf as POW Rumors have suggested?
Zevon (Nearing the end of his sandwich, his radiant pleasantness is starting to fade): No.
Stephie: What about Nightkiller? His match with Eddie last week ended in controversy and Nightkiller has vowed to make sure that you become the champion. Have you spoken with him? Are you plotting anything sinister?
Zevon: I have spoken with Eric White.
Stephie: And?
Zevon (His sandwich is finished. The serene look on his face is noticeably fading. His speech is more aggressive than before): Mick Cormac is no threat.
Stephie: What about Eric and Nightkiller?
Zevon: Drunk bastard doesn’t even know who I am.
Stephie (Sensing Zevon’s mood swing, she is no longer feeling comfortable and deems it best to drop her line of questioning. She wonders if she should introduce another magic sandwich): Does this bother you?
Zevon: No, it just proves his stupidity… drunken Irish stupidity. Too drunk to think. Too drunk to pose a threat.
Stephie: What about Victor Bloodmoon. He’s an imposing competitor, and he had some strong words concerning you and your victory last week.
Zevon: It’s all blasphemy!
Stephie: Are you implying he’s a liar?
Zevon: He’s a blasphemer… Dirty blasphemer.
Stephie: But he only presented the facts.
(Zevon gives here a cold stare as he crumples the remains of his Arby’s)
Zevon: What facts?
Stephie: Your win was tainted. You had help from outside interference.
(Zevon continues his cold stare. Stephie has become quite fidgety, feeling as though she must squirm to stave off petrifaction from his Basilisk’s stare. Zevon stands suddenly and deposits his waste into the bin. He steps outside into the cool night. Stephie follows, the fact that the change of environment has finally matched the change of Zevon’s mood is not lost on her.)
Stephie: Zevon? What do you have to say about Victor Bloodmoon?
Zevon: Do you want be spew out mindless NAZI jokes? Is that what you want?
Stephie: No… I…
Zevon (singing in a dry, uninspired monotone as he marches towards his Taurus): And now it’s….
Stephie: Zevon?
Zevon: Springtime for Hitler and Germany…
Stephie (She senses that Zevon is more annoyed than angry, desperately trying to avoid her enquiries. She decides to take a stab and press on): Are you in league with Nightkiller?
Zevon: Deutschland is happy and gay…
Stephie: Have you made a deal with Jay Mason?
Zevon (Methodically entering his vehicle): We’re marching to a faster pace…
Stephie: What is your relationship with Nightkiller?
Zevon (He closes his door with little violence. His muffled singing can be heard as he fires his engine): Look out, here comes the master race…
(Defeated, Stephie stops launching questions and watches as Zevon smoothly pulls away. The camera fades as she wonders why she didn’t have the sense to give Zevon another sandwich.)
Stephie Campbell: I know you don’t like appearing without Francis, but we heard he went home to Ohio.
(The delicious Arby’s has left Zevon very calm and pleasant in voice)
Zevon: You look lovely.
Stephie: Thank you and thanks for allowing us this time.
Zevon: Thank You for the delicious Arby’s! Please proceed with you questions.
Stephie (She asks out of respect, not because she wants to know): First, we would like to know what happened to Francis.
Zevon: Legal troubles.
Stephie: What exactly?
Zevon: Software piracy. Dumb sod was caught dolling out Photoshop on Internet message boards.
Stephie (She is half-smiling, she expected a cranky bastard): I’m sorry to hear that.
Zevon: Don’t be; serves him right for fooling with the damn Internet. It’s nothing but trouble… losers, geeks, and perverts… disgusting place the Internet.
Stephie: You do realize this will be broadcast on the Internet?
Zevon: Yes… but I am worthy of clogging the tubes.
Stephie: Tubes?
Zevon: The Internet is a series of tubes… that’s what Ted Stevens, R-Alaska, told me anyway. Crazy old bastard.
Stephie (Just making talk, she doesn’t know of Ted Stevens): He is a little off his rocker.
Zevon: A little? He makes Robert Byrd look sane.
Stephie (Obviously changing the subject away from a topic of which she knows little): Politics is exciting and all, but we really need to talk about your match on Sunday: Round two of the Lethal Lottery Tournament.
Zevon (Still placated by his delicious sandwich, half-eaten): Shoot.
Stephie: You will be facing one of three men: Eddie Buchalini Jr., Victor Bloodmoon, or Mick Cormac. Which of the three worries you most?
Zevon: No worries.
Stephie (Taken aback by his abruptness and smug confidence. The delicious Arby’s has created an unexpected creature): Well…what are your thoughts on Eddie Buchalini Jr.?
Zevon: He’s lost. He isn’t at ease with himself. He’s too worried about finding his purpose to pose any threat.
Stephie: What about Jay Mason?
Zevon: He’s a non-issue.
Stephie (She had not intended to prod, but Zevon’s Arby’s induced calm has emboldened her.): Have you paid him to work on your behalf as POW Rumors have suggested?
Zevon (Nearing the end of his sandwich, his radiant pleasantness is starting to fade): No.
Stephie: What about Nightkiller? His match with Eddie last week ended in controversy and Nightkiller has vowed to make sure that you become the champion. Have you spoken with him? Are you plotting anything sinister?
Zevon: I have spoken with Eric White.
Stephie: And?
Zevon (His sandwich is finished. The serene look on his face is noticeably fading. His speech is more aggressive than before): Mick Cormac is no threat.
Stephie: What about Eric and Nightkiller?
Zevon: Drunk bastard doesn’t even know who I am.
Stephie (Sensing Zevon’s mood swing, she is no longer feeling comfortable and deems it best to drop her line of questioning. She wonders if she should introduce another magic sandwich): Does this bother you?
Zevon: No, it just proves his stupidity… drunken Irish stupidity. Too drunk to think. Too drunk to pose a threat.
Stephie: What about Victor Bloodmoon. He’s an imposing competitor, and he had some strong words concerning you and your victory last week.
Zevon: It’s all blasphemy!
Stephie: Are you implying he’s a liar?
Zevon: He’s a blasphemer… Dirty blasphemer.
Stephie: But he only presented the facts.
(Zevon gives here a cold stare as he crumples the remains of his Arby’s)
Zevon: What facts?
Stephie: Your win was tainted. You had help from outside interference.
(Zevon continues his cold stare. Stephie has become quite fidgety, feeling as though she must squirm to stave off petrifaction from his Basilisk’s stare. Zevon stands suddenly and deposits his waste into the bin. He steps outside into the cool night. Stephie follows, the fact that the change of environment has finally matched the change of Zevon’s mood is not lost on her.)
Stephie: Zevon? What do you have to say about Victor Bloodmoon?
Zevon: Do you want be spew out mindless NAZI jokes? Is that what you want?
Stephie: No… I…
Zevon (singing in a dry, uninspired monotone as he marches towards his Taurus): And now it’s….
Stephie: Zevon?
Zevon: Springtime for Hitler and Germany…
Stephie (She senses that Zevon is more annoyed than angry, desperately trying to avoid her enquiries. She decides to take a stab and press on): Are you in league with Nightkiller?
Zevon: Deutschland is happy and gay…
Stephie: Have you made a deal with Jay Mason?
Zevon (Methodically entering his vehicle): We’re marching to a faster pace…
Stephie: What is your relationship with Nightkiller?
Zevon (He closes his door with little violence. His muffled singing can be heard as he fires his engine): Look out, here comes the master race…
(Defeated, Stephie stops launching questions and watches as Zevon smoothly pulls away. The camera fades as she wonders why she didn’t have the sense to give Zevon another sandwich.)
