Lost fang

FADE IN:

EXT. PARK POND - NIGHT

Benches and trees in the darkness. The still water of a small pond is disturbed by a splashing BODY falling into it.

DOYLE, apparent age 32, hovers over the pond. His body moves at unnatural speed, his eyes flash red. He flawlessly flies on top of a tree, sits like a giant cat and looks down at the pond.

A distressed middle-aged drenched mess, STILMAN, resurfaces from underwater.

STILMAN

You're mine this time!

Stilman stands, holds a crow bar in his hand and awaits.

Doyle, on top of the tree, opens his mouth. His eyeteeth grow into a magnificent pair of

SHINY SHARP FANGS

Doyle prepares to jump when his left fang falls from his mouth. Baffled, he scoops it in his palm.

DOYLE

What the...?

Stilman gets out of the pond, brandishes the crow bar in the air.

STILMAN

I'm here, you coward! You hear me?

Doyle's red eyes set on Stilman. He pockets his fallen fangs and flies down. He attacks Stilman from behind, his last fang pierces the jugular. Stilman fights back.

STILMAN

Is this all you have?

Stilman hits Doyle on the head with the crowbar. Doyle rolls away, promptly gets back on his feet. Stilman has

ONE LITTLE RED DOT

On his neck.

DOYLE

Shit.

Stilman touches his neck.

STILMAN

Cat got your tooth?

Stilman throws himself at Doyle. Doyle dodges him, grabs Stilman's neck and tries to bite

him again. Stilman hits his face with the crow bar.

STILMAN

Come on!

Doyle's left cheek bleeds.

DOYLE

That's enough.

Doyle flies over Stilman, locks his neck between his arms and breaks it with a eerie CRACK. Stilman drops down, dead. Doyle drinks the drip of blood pouring out the one tiny hole on the dead's neck.

Doyle stands and exhales, content. The cut on his cheek heals. He opens his mouth and touches his upper teeth with his fingers.

The right fang retracts to a normal eyetooth. The left eyetooth doesn't grow back.

INT. DR. O'HARA DENTAL STUDIO - DAY

Doyle fidgets on the dental chair. DR. O'HARA (45), clean cut with mustache and glasses enters the studio. A moderate pot belly pops out of his white lab coat. TANYA (24), his assistant, follows him.

DR. O'HARA

Nice to meet you, Mr. Doyle.

Doyle shakes his hand.

DOYLE

As I said to your assistant, I just need my left eyetooth back--

DR. O'HARA

Of course.

Tanya hands Dr. O'Hara two X-RAY slides, then leaves. Dr. O'Hara grabs a stool and sits next to Doyle.

DOYLE

How long is it going to take? It's a matter of life and death.

Dr. O'Hara smiles.

DR. O'HARA

Sure. But first we need to intervene with a couple of root canal.

DOYLE

What?

Dr. O'Hara points to the X-RAY slides.

DR. O'HARA

See here? These two roots seem dead.

DOYLE

Tell me about it.

Dr. O'Hara leans closer to Doyle.

DR. O'HARA

We must stop the infection before it spreads.

Doyle ogles the doctor's neck close to his mouth, vibrant with life and running fresh blood.

DOYLE

Can you replace my tooth or not?

DR. O'HARA

I see you're very upset right now. Is there anything I can do to help? Answer any question?

DOYLE

Yes, my eyetooth!

Dr. O'Hara stands up.

DR. O'HARA

Tanya will prepare you right away for the root canal. Now, if you excuse me.

Before Dr. O'Hara leaves the room, Doyle grabs him from behind and breaks his neck. CRACK! Then uses his only fang to open his jugular and sucks his blood.

Satisfied, Doyle grabs a pitch black overcoat, a huge pair of dark sunglasses, a black umbrella and leaves.

INT. DR. MARONI DENTAL STUDIO - DAY

DR. LIZ MARONI (48), slightly overweight, moans on the dental chair as Doyle bites her neck. Doyle hopelessly look at the single bloody dot on her neck.

DOYLE

Why me?

DR. MARONI

Please, don't stop!

Doyle draws back, she grabs his arm.

DOYLE

(to himself)

I just want my tooth back.

Dr. Maroni's flirty eyes feast on Doyle.

DR. MARONI

All thirty-two, sugar. Anything you want.

She slides her hand on his crotch.

DOYLE

Fucking hell!

Doyle pushes her away, gets his anti-sun gear and flies out.

INT. MANSION - NIGHT

Wild party. People in old costumes and masks dance and congregate. Doyle, in plain clothes, keeps to himself and gets a shot of fresh blood at the bar.

GERALD, apparent age 21, dressed in a bright red dandy costume, approaches and hands him a business card.

GERALD

Here. He's sympathetic to our cause.

INSERT BUSINESS CARD

Dr. Bodie dental services - New teeth, new life

Doyle pockets the card.

DOYLE

Did you try it?

Gerald winks at him.

GERALD

Never needed one.

INT. DR. BODIE DENTAL STUDIO - NIGHT

Doyle paces around the dental chair when DR. BODIE, apparent age 30, flows in the room. He smiles at Doyle, displaying unnatural white perfect teeth then motions for him to sit.

Doyle sits.

DOYLE

I'm impressed with your working hours.

DR. BODIE

I'm all about my customers, Mr. Doyle.

DOYLE

Can you help me?

Dr. Bodie hovers over him.

DR. BODIE

Certainly. But first... is it safe?

DOYLE

What?

Dr. Bodie shakes his head.

DR. BODIE

Too young. Nevermind.

Doyle leaves the chair, Dr. Bodie freezes him with a single stare.

DR. BODIE

Please be seated.

Doyle goes back to the chair.

DOYLE

I've never had any trouble with my eyeteeth.

DR. BODIE

Did you hang out around the canal lately?

DOYLE

Why?

Dr. Bodie washes his hands in the sink, dries them carefully then wears a pair of latex gloves.

DR. BODIE

There seems to be a virus spreading over there.

DOYLE

Have you seen my condition before?

Dr. Bodie chuckles, sounds like nails on a blackboard.

DR. BODIE

Million times. And I have the perfect definitive cure for you.

Doyle relaxes on the chair.

DOYLE

Finally.

Dr. Bodie hands him a glass of red fluid and three little rounded blue pills.

DR. BODIE

Let's make it easier for both of us.

Doyle downs the pills.

DOYLE

Let's do it.

BLOODY CARD ON SCREEN: TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Doyle awakens in the chair, stretches. Dr. Bodie smiles at him.

DOYLE

Funny. It seemed very fast.

DR. BODIE

How do you feel?

DOYLE

I feel great!

Doyle opens his mouth and runs his tongue on his upper gum. A horrific scream explodes. The right eyetooth is now gone as well. Dr. Bodie chuckles.

Doyle springs from the chair and attacks him. Dr. Bodie pushes him away with one hand, his red eyes shine. Doyle rolls on the floor, squats by the wall.

DOYLE

Why?

Dr. Bodie opens his mouth in a glorious smile, showing two perfectly sharp white fangs.

DR. BODIE

Competition is tough these days.

Doyle gets up.

DOYLE

What should I do now?

DR. BODIE

Enjoy your new life. Get a straw.

His laughter echoes into the night.

Paul vs Cactus

FADE IN:

INT. HOUSE - DAY

A white curtain blocks the window’s view.

PAUL, stout and tanned, moves the curtain and surveys the outside

GARDEN

Desolate, dry and lifeless except for a giant cactus in the middle of the yard.

Nasty, green, vaguely phallic, it displays a freaky pink flower on top. Opposite to the cactus glitters a mailbox.

HOUSE

Paul pulls the skin on his cheeks, grabs his big gun.

He kneels in front of the door, opens it and crawls outside in the

GARDEN

Like a majestic cobra, on his belly, gun stuck in the belt on his back.

Paul crawls to the mailbox, stands up to open it when

WHOOSH!

The cactus fires a thorn at him. Paul crouches down.

He checks inside the open mailbox from the ground and tries to keep his head down when

WHOOSH!

The cactus fires again.

PAUL

Son of a --

The thorn sticks in his left cheek.

Paul draws out his gun, stands and aims at the cactus when

WHOOSH! BANG!

Another thorn sticks in his hand, the bullet misses the cactus.

Paul falls on his back like a reversed turtle. He kicks the mailbox closed, rolls on his belly and crawls all the way back inside the house.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The thorns fly over his head and impale the door.

INT. HOUSE - LATER

Paul moves the curtain from the window. The thorns fired are grown back on the cactus.

Paul shakes his head and sits at the small desk under the window. He opens a

LAPTOP SCREEN

E-mail sender: Maria

Subject: Help is on the way

Message: Wait for my sign.

BACK TO SCENE

Paul checks the bullets in his gun then throws it on the desk.

PAUL

Bloody Eyetalians with secret codes!

Paul seizes his gun and dashes to the window. The cactus’s flower catches his eye. He aims at it, opens the window and

BANG! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The pink flower explodes. Paul slams the window, the glass blocks the thorns.

PAUL

There you go, old man!

A big smile opens on his face. He closes the curtain, throws his gun away and presses play on a CD player.

“Bad boys bad boys whatcha gonna do...” cheers up the house. Paul dances like a warrior around a bonfire.

EXT. GARDEN - DAY

Paul crawls to the mailbox.

WHOOSH!

The cactus misses him. Paul opens the mailbox and retrieves a postcard.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The cactus misses him.

BANG! BANG!

Paul misses the cactus then crawls back to the house with the postcard.

INT. HOUSE - LATER

Paul sits at his desk and examines the

POSTCARD

On the front, an immaculate beach in Sardinia.

On the back, one word: WATER

BACK TO SCENE

Paul turns the postcard in his hands, again and again.

PAUL

Bloody Eyetalians!

He drops the postcard, stands up and spies outside the window.

Paul scratches his head as he sees the exploded flower and the missing thorns on the now naked cactus. His teeth shine.

Paul recharges the gun.

EXT. GARDEN - LATER

Paul confronts the cactus. It has no more thorns to fire.

PAUL

Is that all? Come on, bring it

on!

Paul points the gun to the cactus.

A strong wind brushes his hair with an eerie sound.

Paul looks around him, perplexed. He points the gun again and the wind cries.

Paul lowers his gun. He looks at the mailbox then at the cactus and back.

The wind cries again.

The eerie note gives Paul goose bumps on his tanned arm.

He looks at the mailbox.

LATER

Paul confronts the cactus armed with a plastic bottle. He waters the cactus and waits.

The pink flower grows back on top of it, as well as its thousand deadly thorns.

Paul swallows.

The wind blows. No thorns fired.

Paul lowers his head, smiles and shuffles back inside the house with the empty bottle.

FADE OUT.

Wish I had the time to write

I bet this must be the number one mantra of every (unpaid-unproduced-unwanted) screenwriter. Or any other writer, for that matter.

People like me, who have been stuck with a flat day time job, while working on writing projects on the side, hoping to get an extra day off, counting the minutes until the long awaited weekend, just to concentrate, relax and finally write the script that's going to change your life.

People like me, who used their lunch break (1 hour tops) to write one scene per day.

The importance of having a routine.

I was normally taking my lunch break along the Thames, in Old London. The forementioned one hour was reduced by the time it took to walk there, so we're probably talking about 45 minutes, but I never failed to write down one tiny little scene. Every day, little by little, the scripts were coming out on paper.

Now I have all the time in the world, since I'm starting a new life in a different country and I don't have a job (yet) and what do I do instead of writing?

Bullshit.

The TV pilot I'm working on is still on page 7.

None of the scripts I have completed seems to be in good shape to be considered by anybody.

In the last desperate attempt to break the creative stasis, I entered a "one-scene" competition, that run along a main screenwriting contest. This is the comment I received on my effort:

Scene opens with solid pop and good character business. We know who these people are from the get-go. Would've loved to know what Eric's deception actually was. It's never made clear. It sounds like it leads somewhere cool, but we never find out. Breezy style is a plus. Nice work!

Mmm, maybe I can still write after all.

Nope.

There was also a numeric score associated with the feedback, in my case 88. The minimum to pass was 94, so in a nutshell to quote Kenny Powers, I was fucking out.

No worries, who needs $3.000 and a little gratification, right?

I had some more time to think and rethink this whole new scenario of my life, with lots of time, and zero writing and suddenly I had a revelation.

What if a writer to write needs a challenge? An incentive?

My challenge was: complete the scene before the lunch break is over. I was under pressure, because I know that moment in time during the day was perfect. After work, with all the stupidity I had to go through the entire day, writing anything good was going to be much more difficult, almost virtually impossible.

The incentive: any paid writer should be able to get all the incentive to write from the check in the mail.

So after proper consideration, I guess I'm going to find another day time job here in Texas, see if something changes in the equation. See if this is the push I need.

I had my chance to play the writer 24/7 (thanks to my husband generosity) and I blew it.

Discipline.

And a little challenge.

A new job.

A new life.

Whichever works, I don't care.

Rain

"I can't stand the rain 'gainst my window..."

I'm thinking about the version by Graham Central Station.

When I moved from London, UK to Texas, I was expecting (hoping) to leave the rain behind. Not that I pretend not to see the rain again but...

Must be the weather spell (la macumba meteo) following me around the globe.

Like the hurricane in Amsterdam, while we were trying to walk around with a free tour. (Caitlin, if you're reading this, you now what I'm talking about)

Like Xmas in Egypt, back in 2006, the coldest in the last 20 years. The local tour guide told me in disbelief: "It's actually snowing in Jerusalem right now, can you believe it?"

Like the million times I went back to Sardinia, bringing all the rain with me, didn't matter if I was flying over from Bologna or London, same effect.

My mom suggested I should try to go to central Africa, to bring water to the people that need it the most. My brother said something like: hey, I mean, I'm happy to see you again but everytime you come back, it rains-don't come back often :)

Whenever a trip was around the corner

BANG!

The weather spell was striking.

A small black cloud, pretty much similar to the Fantozzi's cloud that followed our hero everywhere.

Now, the question is: who put the spell on me? And the question after that is: should I be so paranoid to think my presence on the planet in a specific location is controlling the weather?