Every Mother Has Her Day (PART 1)
Mar 6, 2016 16:14:46 GMT -5
Stuart Slane, Lilith, and 1 more like this
Post by 'The Shine' Brent Alpine on Mar 6, 2016 16:14:46 GMT -5
17TH SEPTEMBER 1995, 04.00 HOURS
Hush little baby, don’t you cry, Mama’s going to sing you a lullaby…
Rosemary Charlesworth, a pristine woman in her mid-60s, reassuringly sways a baby in her arms. He stops crying as she gazes onto him with adoration. Her husband Derek is in the front, navigating the streets of Bromley in his plush people carrier. He turns and looks at Rosemary whimsically.
Derek – Rosemary! Remember what we said.
Rosemary – I know. Still, one can dream…
Derek – There, there. As hard as it will be, we can’t pretend to be his parents. The boy needs to retain his heritage.
Rosemary (to the child) – You may be theirs but you’ll be ours for the rest of our lives. We’re nearly home now. Your forever home.
Rosemary kisses the infant on the cheek, leaving a lipstick stain. She places him tenderly into the baby seat.
Luke Nye marches down deserted streets after a heavy night in the local ‘establishment’. He is a picture of conventional thuggery – scars, a nose ring, an uneven buzzcut and cans of Stella beer in the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. He contrasts sharply with his beautiful blonde girlfriend, Willow Martins, who trails him submissively. Were it not for the weathering effects of a long-term heroin addiction, she would not out of place on the set of Baywatch.
Luke – Hurry up, you fuckin’ slag. You’ve been a proper tart tonight.
Willow – What did I do?
Luke – Don’t play little miss innocent with me. I saw you giving that lawyer bastard the slut eyes. Gold diggin’ cunt.
Willow – I never!
Luke – Hurry up bitch. I got work in 4 hours.
Willow (muttering under her breath) – Your fault for getting pissed up.
Luke – What did you say?
Willow – Nuffin’.
Luke turns and wraps his filthy, large hand around her throat. She shrinks and staggers, eyes bulging and body shaking.
Luke – FUCKIN SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN AND I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKIN THROAT OUT. LITTLE SLUT!
PRESENT DAY
Our flamboyant friend, Emeka Nnamani is in prison. Well, not IN prison but is being escorted through a secure unit by a burly guard. He is a fish out of water with his platinum blonde hair over thick black skin and eye catching attire of matching silver leather pants and jacket that flanks a Stuart Slane t-shirt. He strides brazenly through the intimidating aisle with catcalls and abuse emanating from those within the cells. Finally, he is led into a private room with dreary charcoal walls. His demeanour instantly softens as he sees the mystery convict through the glass panels just out of shot. He takes a seat, dismisses the guard with a grateful nod and speaks through a phone attached to the pane.
Emeka – Alright. Sorry I haven’t been around for a while. Thing’s been busy. (inaudible response) It’s going OK I s’pose. I won my first match but it was a major anti-climax. One of my opponents kept excreting a variety of bodily fluids around the ring and the other may as well have no showed. (inaudible response) Yeah exactly, I’m like a virtuoso in that ring. But what use are perfect melodies if the rhythm is off?
He bangs the visitation room desk in staccato.
Emeka – Amateurs. They don’t realise what they have. I see the opportunity… a blank canvas, a mat where we can bring our technicolour paints and make a masterpiece. Instead, they bring black biros and scribble like infants. The WCF has set a grand stage but too many of these guys don’t bring the magic it deserves.
As he listens to the unknown prisoner’s response, he peers down at his t-shirt.
Emeka – Well yeah. I haven’t met him yet but he would undoubtedly bring the dance. I’m one step away from his throne. (inaudible response) Shadowlove? Maybe. He’s a step in the right direction. There’s a certain loveable incoherence about him. He’s bizarrely endearing, I’d say.
Nnamani reaches down to pick up his coffee cup and takes a sip. It is branded with a familiar green and white siren. Emeka spots this and spits out his coffee in disdain.
Emeka – Starbucks?! Is this place not sacred? How the hell do Starbucks get into a prison? These global conglomerates get everywhere. They’re like cockroaches burrowing into the skin and mating endlessly, endlessly. That’s the problem with Shadowlove. His promo videos are a litany of product placements. Come to think of it, he mirrors most modern commercials. Baffle the audience with nonsense and grandiose, deluded claims, all the while interspersing a bombardment of far too expensive items that no one actually needs.
He empties the cup, pouring lukewarm coffee on the desk.
Emeka – I suppose it’s apt, then, that I should face him for a shot at the TV Title. (inaudible response) Well, sure but TV has never been the problem. It’s a means of communication. My issue lies with the majority of the inane paraphernalia that’s ON TV. So many wretched agendas are being pumped in the name of entertainment. (inaudible response) No, that’d be dreadful. Imagine what Shadowlove could do with that power? Never mind that freaky Ms. Miyamoto who is obviously the dominant figure in that relationship.
17TH SEPTEMBER 1995, 04.05 HOURS
The Charlesworths continue their journey home after a long period overseas. All is quiet and peaceful until the baby cries again, more vociferously this time. Rosemary quickly picks him up and cradles him. It doesn’t work this time.
Derek – Good gosh, what in heaven’s name is wrong with him?
Derek turns to face them in the back.
Rosemary – DEREK!!!!!!!!!!!
He snaps his head around to see two figures in the distance. He seizes control of the wheel again and swerves away from the couple.
Luke – Watch out TWAT!
Their car veers into a parked van. It crumples under the impact. Derek and Rosemary’s heads slam unforgivingly into the dashboard and front seat respectively. Blood cascades from their lifeless bodies. Willow screams and watches on in horror while her boyfriend bears a gleeful look of intrigue.
Luke – Should’ve watched where you were going, fucking nob! ‘Ang on a minute, CHA-CHING!
Luke walks over to the wreckage and drunkenly fumbles for his beer can. He uses it to smash the rest of the windshield. The glass shatters all over Derek’s prone corpse.
Willow – What are you doing?! Are they… DEAD?
He reaches through the windshield and manages to manoeuvre the front door open from the inside. He checks Derek’s pulse from his neck.
Willow – Is he…?
Luke – Ow, I’m fucking covered in glass. Yeah, course he’s dead. You check the bitch.
Luke opens the back seat where Rosemary is slumped. Willow shrieks as Rosemary’s body almost slides onto the cold road but she manages to support her and move her back into the seat. Willow is hyperventilating and supressing tears.
Luke – WAHEY! He’s LOADED!
Luke is sifting through Derek’s wallet and finds reams of twenty pound notes and assorted travel money. He pockets them.
Willow – Have some fucking respect! The bloke’s dead and we are the reason why!
Luke – We didn’t do shit. It was this dickhead’s fault for driving like a retard.
Although clearly reluctant to touch the body, Willow attempts to move Rosemary upright to preserve some form of dignity. As she does so, she spots the baby, motionless and as though rigor mortis has set in. Willow wails into uncontrollable weeping.
Willow – FUCK! A DEAD BABY!
Luke looks over nonchalantly.
Willow – NO! I can’t believe this is happening.
Willow instinctively pulls the baby into her chest and grips it mournfully. She suddenly becomes aware that her cries are not the only cries. The baby comes to life and is sobbing into her bosom.
Willow – He’s alive! Thank funk.
Luke – You are not taking that thing. Forget it.
Deeply relieved and smitten with the child, Willow pulls him closer into her embrace.
Willow – I’m not leaving him here to die.
Luke – You stupid cow! I aint wasting my wages on that piece of shit.
Willow – I’ll do what’s needed.
As she continues to hug the child in thankfulness, she spots a pink birth certificate resting on Rosemary’s blood drenched shoes. She reads the name inscribed on it.
Willow – Emeka Nnamani…
PRESENT DAY
We are back (or should that be forward? Damn chronology) in the prison visitation room with Emeka and his still mystery inmate friend.
Emeka – She said that I pretend to be mentally or emotionally disturbed. How wrong can she get me? They spent so long maintaining their ‘classic masculine and modern mussed, razor-textured, choppy finished dark brown hair’ and their bodies ‘built for sin’ that they neglect their capacity to reason and discern even the most basic character attributes. Whenever have I claimed to be mentally or emotionally disturbed? I don’t play that card, though it’s a card I have in my hand.
Emeka listens to his friend for a short while.
Emeka – Yeah, they know nothing about me. They don’t even know about you. They think they can rush to judgement and really know me but that’s just another by-product of their narcissism. Shadowlove claims deity status… not ‘THE GOD’ but ‘A God Tour 2016’. He talks about salvation, healing and exhaltation… yeah I don’t know about that. All religion is a human system. I bet, if God exists, he’s looking down on us thinking ‘wow, they’ve got me so wrong. And how dare Shadowlove even associate himself with me’.
He rolls up a sleeve of his jacket, revealing a burn of some kind on his skin.
Emeka – Remember this? Yeah, it’s my permanent reminder of the time I encountered ‘the devil’. Or at least he claimed to be the devil. The streets bring a whole host of characters. If he was indeed the devil, I am most disappointed. That, I suspect will be the exact same feeling I’ll encounter at Slam, facing yet another delusional freak claiming supernatural status. Handsome Halfbreed? Such bold claims will be to his shame and embarrassment on Sunday. Who has he beaten, anyway? (inaudible response) Rage Maxx and Mr. Holden? Who? Where are they now? (inaudible response) So you’re saying he lost to Rage Maxx first time around? Wow, exactly my point. Lots of words and chiselled abs but is there any real substance behind his boasts?
Emeka crushes the Starbucks cup, progressively more enraged.
Emeka – Oh you saw it? I could barely understand any of his gibberish. He said something about a box, obligations, dark gifts, my supposed materialism… as if he’s one to talk. I’ve seen this so many times. When someone is threatened and wants to convey the illusion that they are secure, they tend to ramble on about meaningless drivel. Warbird did it last week. It’s to make themselves feel more verbose and puffed up than their quality permits. However, Shadowlove exposes himself in the ring again and again. He lost in two Battle Royals and came out the wrong side of a triple threat against two men who are probably working in Walmart today. He only has one feeble win to his name in four matches. I want to be optimistic about him but I fear this will be another opponent that might as well be a puppet on a string. I will have to carry him to any semblance of a performance.
Feeling restless, Emeka stands up while still facing his friend.
Emeka – Look, there’s something I need to tell you. I saw THEM last week. My rea… err, biological parents. (inaudible response) Yes, in Nigeria. (inaudible response) What money? I’ve only been in WCF a week! No, it’s not like that. They seem… OK I guess.
He bows his head ruefully.
Emeka – Please never think that way. I love you and I miss you. I’ll be here.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Hush little baby, don’t you cry, Mama’s going to sing you a lullaby…
Rosemary Charlesworth, a pristine woman in her mid-60s, reassuringly sways a baby in her arms. He stops crying as she gazes onto him with adoration. Her husband Derek is in the front, navigating the streets of Bromley in his plush people carrier. He turns and looks at Rosemary whimsically.
Derek – Rosemary! Remember what we said.
Rosemary – I know. Still, one can dream…
Derek – There, there. As hard as it will be, we can’t pretend to be his parents. The boy needs to retain his heritage.
Rosemary (to the child) – You may be theirs but you’ll be ours for the rest of our lives. We’re nearly home now. Your forever home.
Rosemary kisses the infant on the cheek, leaving a lipstick stain. She places him tenderly into the baby seat.
Luke Nye marches down deserted streets after a heavy night in the local ‘establishment’. He is a picture of conventional thuggery – scars, a nose ring, an uneven buzzcut and cans of Stella beer in the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. He contrasts sharply with his beautiful blonde girlfriend, Willow Martins, who trails him submissively. Were it not for the weathering effects of a long-term heroin addiction, she would not out of place on the set of Baywatch.
Luke – Hurry up, you fuckin’ slag. You’ve been a proper tart tonight.
Willow – What did I do?
Luke – Don’t play little miss innocent with me. I saw you giving that lawyer bastard the slut eyes. Gold diggin’ cunt.
Willow – I never!
Luke – Hurry up bitch. I got work in 4 hours.
Willow (muttering under her breath) – Your fault for getting pissed up.
Luke – What did you say?
Willow – Nuffin’.
Luke turns and wraps his filthy, large hand around her throat. She shrinks and staggers, eyes bulging and body shaking.
Luke – FUCKIN SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN AND I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKIN THROAT OUT. LITTLE SLUT!
PRESENT DAY
Our flamboyant friend, Emeka Nnamani is in prison. Well, not IN prison but is being escorted through a secure unit by a burly guard. He is a fish out of water with his platinum blonde hair over thick black skin and eye catching attire of matching silver leather pants and jacket that flanks a Stuart Slane t-shirt. He strides brazenly through the intimidating aisle with catcalls and abuse emanating from those within the cells. Finally, he is led into a private room with dreary charcoal walls. His demeanour instantly softens as he sees the mystery convict through the glass panels just out of shot. He takes a seat, dismisses the guard with a grateful nod and speaks through a phone attached to the pane.
Emeka – Alright. Sorry I haven’t been around for a while. Thing’s been busy. (inaudible response) It’s going OK I s’pose. I won my first match but it was a major anti-climax. One of my opponents kept excreting a variety of bodily fluids around the ring and the other may as well have no showed. (inaudible response) Yeah exactly, I’m like a virtuoso in that ring. But what use are perfect melodies if the rhythm is off?
He bangs the visitation room desk in staccato.
Emeka – Amateurs. They don’t realise what they have. I see the opportunity… a blank canvas, a mat where we can bring our technicolour paints and make a masterpiece. Instead, they bring black biros and scribble like infants. The WCF has set a grand stage but too many of these guys don’t bring the magic it deserves.
As he listens to the unknown prisoner’s response, he peers down at his t-shirt.
Emeka – Well yeah. I haven’t met him yet but he would undoubtedly bring the dance. I’m one step away from his throne. (inaudible response) Shadowlove? Maybe. He’s a step in the right direction. There’s a certain loveable incoherence about him. He’s bizarrely endearing, I’d say.
Nnamani reaches down to pick up his coffee cup and takes a sip. It is branded with a familiar green and white siren. Emeka spots this and spits out his coffee in disdain.
Emeka – Starbucks?! Is this place not sacred? How the hell do Starbucks get into a prison? These global conglomerates get everywhere. They’re like cockroaches burrowing into the skin and mating endlessly, endlessly. That’s the problem with Shadowlove. His promo videos are a litany of product placements. Come to think of it, he mirrors most modern commercials. Baffle the audience with nonsense and grandiose, deluded claims, all the while interspersing a bombardment of far too expensive items that no one actually needs.
He empties the cup, pouring lukewarm coffee on the desk.
Emeka – I suppose it’s apt, then, that I should face him for a shot at the TV Title. (inaudible response) Well, sure but TV has never been the problem. It’s a means of communication. My issue lies with the majority of the inane paraphernalia that’s ON TV. So many wretched agendas are being pumped in the name of entertainment. (inaudible response) No, that’d be dreadful. Imagine what Shadowlove could do with that power? Never mind that freaky Ms. Miyamoto who is obviously the dominant figure in that relationship.
17TH SEPTEMBER 1995, 04.05 HOURS
The Charlesworths continue their journey home after a long period overseas. All is quiet and peaceful until the baby cries again, more vociferously this time. Rosemary quickly picks him up and cradles him. It doesn’t work this time.
Derek – Good gosh, what in heaven’s name is wrong with him?
Derek turns to face them in the back.
Rosemary – DEREK!!!!!!!!!!!
He snaps his head around to see two figures in the distance. He seizes control of the wheel again and swerves away from the couple.
Luke – Watch out TWAT!
Their car veers into a parked van. It crumples under the impact. Derek and Rosemary’s heads slam unforgivingly into the dashboard and front seat respectively. Blood cascades from their lifeless bodies. Willow screams and watches on in horror while her boyfriend bears a gleeful look of intrigue.
Luke – Should’ve watched where you were going, fucking nob! ‘Ang on a minute, CHA-CHING!
Luke walks over to the wreckage and drunkenly fumbles for his beer can. He uses it to smash the rest of the windshield. The glass shatters all over Derek’s prone corpse.
Willow – What are you doing?! Are they… DEAD?
He reaches through the windshield and manages to manoeuvre the front door open from the inside. He checks Derek’s pulse from his neck.
Willow – Is he…?
Luke – Ow, I’m fucking covered in glass. Yeah, course he’s dead. You check the bitch.
Luke opens the back seat where Rosemary is slumped. Willow shrieks as Rosemary’s body almost slides onto the cold road but she manages to support her and move her back into the seat. Willow is hyperventilating and supressing tears.
Luke – WAHEY! He’s LOADED!
Luke is sifting through Derek’s wallet and finds reams of twenty pound notes and assorted travel money. He pockets them.
Willow – Have some fucking respect! The bloke’s dead and we are the reason why!
Luke – We didn’t do shit. It was this dickhead’s fault for driving like a retard.
Although clearly reluctant to touch the body, Willow attempts to move Rosemary upright to preserve some form of dignity. As she does so, she spots the baby, motionless and as though rigor mortis has set in. Willow wails into uncontrollable weeping.
Willow – FUCK! A DEAD BABY!
Luke looks over nonchalantly.
Willow – NO! I can’t believe this is happening.
Willow instinctively pulls the baby into her chest and grips it mournfully. She suddenly becomes aware that her cries are not the only cries. The baby comes to life and is sobbing into her bosom.
Willow – He’s alive! Thank funk.
Luke – You are not taking that thing. Forget it.
Deeply relieved and smitten with the child, Willow pulls him closer into her embrace.
Willow – I’m not leaving him here to die.
Luke – You stupid cow! I aint wasting my wages on that piece of shit.
Willow – I’ll do what’s needed.
As she continues to hug the child in thankfulness, she spots a pink birth certificate resting on Rosemary’s blood drenched shoes. She reads the name inscribed on it.
Willow – Emeka Nnamani…
PRESENT DAY
We are back (or should that be forward? Damn chronology) in the prison visitation room with Emeka and his still mystery inmate friend.
Emeka – She said that I pretend to be mentally or emotionally disturbed. How wrong can she get me? They spent so long maintaining their ‘classic masculine and modern mussed, razor-textured, choppy finished dark brown hair’ and their bodies ‘built for sin’ that they neglect their capacity to reason and discern even the most basic character attributes. Whenever have I claimed to be mentally or emotionally disturbed? I don’t play that card, though it’s a card I have in my hand.
Emeka listens to his friend for a short while.
Emeka – Yeah, they know nothing about me. They don’t even know about you. They think they can rush to judgement and really know me but that’s just another by-product of their narcissism. Shadowlove claims deity status… not ‘THE GOD’ but ‘A God Tour 2016’. He talks about salvation, healing and exhaltation… yeah I don’t know about that. All religion is a human system. I bet, if God exists, he’s looking down on us thinking ‘wow, they’ve got me so wrong. And how dare Shadowlove even associate himself with me’.
He rolls up a sleeve of his jacket, revealing a burn of some kind on his skin.
Emeka – Remember this? Yeah, it’s my permanent reminder of the time I encountered ‘the devil’. Or at least he claimed to be the devil. The streets bring a whole host of characters. If he was indeed the devil, I am most disappointed. That, I suspect will be the exact same feeling I’ll encounter at Slam, facing yet another delusional freak claiming supernatural status. Handsome Halfbreed? Such bold claims will be to his shame and embarrassment on Sunday. Who has he beaten, anyway? (inaudible response) Rage Maxx and Mr. Holden? Who? Where are they now? (inaudible response) So you’re saying he lost to Rage Maxx first time around? Wow, exactly my point. Lots of words and chiselled abs but is there any real substance behind his boasts?
Emeka crushes the Starbucks cup, progressively more enraged.
Emeka – Oh you saw it? I could barely understand any of his gibberish. He said something about a box, obligations, dark gifts, my supposed materialism… as if he’s one to talk. I’ve seen this so many times. When someone is threatened and wants to convey the illusion that they are secure, they tend to ramble on about meaningless drivel. Warbird did it last week. It’s to make themselves feel more verbose and puffed up than their quality permits. However, Shadowlove exposes himself in the ring again and again. He lost in two Battle Royals and came out the wrong side of a triple threat against two men who are probably working in Walmart today. He only has one feeble win to his name in four matches. I want to be optimistic about him but I fear this will be another opponent that might as well be a puppet on a string. I will have to carry him to any semblance of a performance.
Feeling restless, Emeka stands up while still facing his friend.
Emeka – Look, there’s something I need to tell you. I saw THEM last week. My rea… err, biological parents. (inaudible response) Yes, in Nigeria. (inaudible response) What money? I’ve only been in WCF a week! No, it’s not like that. They seem… OK I guess.
He bows his head ruefully.
Emeka – Please never think that way. I love you and I miss you. I’ll be here.
TO BE CONTINUED…
