Post by Deleted on Oct 25, 2016 23:39:25 GMT -5
[Open to Camp Sunny Lake, home of the Brotherhood and their leader Kevin Bishop. A mid-90s Chevy Tahoe arrives down its gravel lane. Lester Parish steps out wearing a gray overcoat. Several members welcome back his towering presence. A camera follows him, unmasked, into the farmhouse. Seated at its dinner table awaits Sean Craven and their circus leaders. Silver Goldstein hides at the farthest end digging into a slice of rhubarb pie. Parish removes his coat and settles near the middle.]
“So is your brother getting help, Mr. Parish?”
“Opioids are a big problem, Solomon,” Parish says. “But he’s back in rehab as we speak.”
[Sean Craven folds his hands on the table. He looks pallid with dark circles around his eyes. Dumpy, sweat-stained clothes complete his grungy image.]
“Maureen makes the best rhubarb. So good.”
[Everyone looks at Silver. He shrinks back with a mouthful of pie.]
“Parish, I never thought I’d say this. But we need your help, badly.”
“My clowns have our own troubles. Everyone wants to be a scary clown. We hardly get crowds anymore. And no one wants to hire us for outside gigs. Mr. Parish, we need that extra money.”
[Solomon crosses his arms, making his chest pop behind a tight-fitting shirt.]
“We’ve got problems too,” Solomon says. “My freaks are at wits end.”
“That’s why I’m here today, gentlemen. The show is in St. Paul. So we have to keep this brief. Bishop shared your grievances on the flight back.”
“Brief... we clowns are a proud family. Fixing this problem will take months,” Sylvester says with a dire stare. “If we fail. It will be the death of our partnership.”
[Steven the keyboardist hands Lester a clipboard with an attached pen. Parish slides it over to Solomon and Sylvester. Key sections, highlighted in yellow, bleed through the other side. Each reach but Solomon snatches it first.]
“What the hell is that?”
“Wait a minute Sly. It’s the forms you promised us weeks ago.”
“You’ll find that we had to reregister the Brotherhood due its expansion. I know it’s a not popular topic, but our new supplemental healthcare plan will span into next winter. However, their window for open enrollment is small though.”
[Everyone but Parish laughs.]
“Solomon, get those papers to your performers. I want them all signed up before I leave in the morning. If they have questions about the premium—send them to me.”
“Well that’s one headache,” Sylvester says. “But what about our upcoming shows?”
[Steven gives them some hefty packet in a binder clip. Sylvester reads it while Solomon mulls over their options. Maureen sets a plate of toast and coffee in front of Parish.]
“Negotiations got rather heated. Frankly, the town’s turned pale by all these “scary clowns” stalking their neighborhoods and schools,” Parish says. “When I met with the City Council this morning, they had a new rule in place. It prohibits your performers from going into town wearing any manner of clown outfits. Although this ban only lasts from 6pm to 9am—unless given permission by the Council beforehand.”
“How is that going to help us?”
“Calm down Sly.”
“Both of you stop,” Sean says. “Parish, if they can’t be out late. What about the Halloween show? Or did Kev not tell you about it?”
[Parish takes a sip of coffee.]
“On the bottom of those regulations you’ll find permits. I need your signatures and those of your entire troop by tomorrow morning. Do that and the show will go on as planned.”
“But what about our image? It’s this damned clown pandemic!”
“You’ll also find that I arranged a hospital visit for your clowns—as well as some members of the Brotherhood. We can all use a bump in public perception. Teaming your efforts together will show the community we aren’t dangerous, nor are we part of this incorrigible epidemic. Through their smiles we’ll branch out and recruit more to the cause.”
“Say we do all of that,” Solomon says. “How do we keep the image going?”
“Have faith. Vesti la guibba—put on your costumes, your face paint and keep working. Are there any problems with that?”
[The circus masters shake their heads. Sean still looks skeptical.]
“Now Sean, how are the crops doing?”
“We’re disorganized. We might lose half of this month's grain.”
[Parish takes a pen from Steven and writes a note. He hands the torn scrap to Craven.]
“Call that number tomorrow. We’ll take stock today, but I can’t fix everything right now. We’ll get readings on the soil and do what we can to stymy its decay.”
“Who am I calling?”
“Someone I know. She helped me in the early months. Even poured some of the concrete. It’s been years, but if you tell her that Parish called then… she’ll come around.”
“Can we trust her?”
[Parish sips hus coffee. The circus men read and argue over their documents.]
“Sean, we’ve been down this road before,” Parish says over his mug. “Fine, her name is Kelly Dunbar. She’s… an old friend—and she’ll be yours too. Call her after I leave. She will get things back in order. Bishop and the others, we have to prep for Helloween. Fighting won’t get us anywhere. Now, I’m having my breakfast. I’ll be here if you need me.”
“All right,” Sean says while leaving the table. “Don’t keep us waiting.”
***
[Cut to a forested area, westbound on I-94, in rural Wisconsin. A Go-Pro camera sits on the hood of a truck. It faces a trench leading back to a wooded area. Lester Parish appears with a spade shovel over one shoulder. He’s dressed like a construction worker: jeans, white undershirt and an open flannel jacket. Lester stops in view, speaking over a windy afternoon.]
“The road to St. Paul tis a desolate path. Come autumn, trees bear themselves for winter. Yet we harvest what we can until the last fruit drops. Farming offers a new perspective of the season. I don’t see dying…. No, this marks progress.”
[Parish drives the shovel into the soil and presses it down with his foot.]
“From day One, I had plan to save the Brotherhood. Kevin Bishop emerged as this bright and experienced talent with more ideas than proven results. He pontificated to the chagrin of this roster. He promised a plague—something never seen before. People waved him off. They called their previous home Jonestown, and always asked when they’d serve “the punch.” Bishop persevered on an individual level: He pulled his own bootstraps—defeated some of the best talent in the WCF. Sadly, the Brotherhood was dying.”
[Parish digs an ankle-deep hole.]
“At the time, I was penitent—landlocked from everyone and everything. Passed time listening to static trasmissions all night long. The world chewed my family to bits, defecating their lives for what I deemed some hegemonic machine. Analogue methods went haywire. It forced me to update my infrastructure at the bunker: a modem and the internet came soon after. My brother Chet and I wrestled two decades ago. We sported mullets and Zubaz pants—he had the only fanny pack between us—and “the business” treated us right. Yet when wrestling gives, it takes by divvying out injuries. Chet’s career took a nosedive after that and the opioids soon followed. The rest is history.”
[Jump cut to Parish standing knee-deep in wider ditch, jacket removed to just a white T-shirt.]
“St. Paul… it seems so fitting now. In all my anger—I turned on this business. Walled myself in a living tomb. Toiling away with VHS tapes, canned food and a years’ worth of home-milled grain. Books saved those tepid days. Fast-forward to the day they installed DSL. My blindness lifted; from the ashes, I saw a world more vibrant than ever fathomable. I witnessed a rebirth--renaissance in action—spearheaded by a company not afraid to be different.”
[Parish digs into his pocket. He extracts a seed and shows it to the camera.]
“Behold this humble seed. One pea plant can feed a person for two days. If you eat half and plant the rest, your output doubles. Do this until your field becomes a garden. It takes time and preparation. For weeks, I studied these new competitors. I wanted to know how they found love in a sport that eats its young. Then I saw Kevin Bishop. He was vastly different from the others. Gold was not his drive—although he had an ego problem—as Bishop fed off the people instead. A champion whose work lauded the watcher, not himself. It was impressive. Thus, my eyesight returned in full. But one thing remained: I had to meet him.”
[Parish buries the seed and pats ground over top.]
“Negotiating a contract was easy enough. WCF welcomes unknown talent. Lerch, though misguided most of the time, likes to invest in “hidden gems.” Once inside, it took weeks for the Plague to notice me. We played a little chess game—quid pro quo—until a fire brought him to my doorstep. And I let them in. My bunker still has its inanimate storage, but we’re thriving now. Our production has quintupled anything I could have accomplished by these hands alone.
And I'm grateful for that.
Trouble struck beyond what the Brotherhood could help with. This business had come for my family once again. When the dust settled, I found myself mulling over when to return. Until Bishop called me on one of those ominous nights, saying that he needed “his monster” back. They had a problem—and that problem is you, Franklin. Those who’ve watched my matches know what to expect from me: hardnosed, relentless effort that ignores “style points” or prettiness. Don’t let my eloquence fool you, Frank, there’s another person inside when I enter the arena. He is the Enforcer of the Brotherhood.”
[Parish dons his coat and throws the spade in the back seat of his truck.]
“Bishop has other names for me: his professor, their teacher of words and his greatest mind. I imbue those young members of the Brotherhood with knowledge because it is my purpose. However, a shepherd also deals with wolves. As their enforcer, I am the sole gateway to Kevin Bishop and those whom follow his precepts. Frank, you are the weed in of our harvest—the usurper hiding in the King’s curtain. I will find you. I will stomp you from existence. Then, I shall salt the earth from which you grew. Our bout may have title implications, but gold cannot buy what the Brotherhood bestowed upon me. They saved my soul. I entered the WCF as the murderous Saul; by alliance, I became the merciful Paul. That said… my mercy is boundless until someone threatens our flock. Young minds grow under my supervision—untapped futures bound for glory.
Franklin, you will not stand in the way of their progress. Kevin Bishop awaits you up in the scaffolding—but not until you pass through my gates. I will break everything that was FPV. Your body will limp from the ring. Your heart will palpitate thinking of the match to come. Your soul will quakeat mention of his name… Kevin Bishop. You threatened my friend and his flock; now Frank, I have the displeasure of ending this chicanery. If you manage to leave our match intact—bravo! That’s how hamartia strikes and the hero falls. You’ve overplayed this time. Because you aren’t facing the Brotherhood—you’re fighting its bulwark. Give in and join our ranks. It’d be a real shame to destroy such a worthy legacy before it ever burns its brightest. Consider it Frank; truly, I’m speaking on your behalf. Otherwise, I’m going peel you off my boot. Times ticking... the Plague is on its way!”
[Parish shuts the video off just as the winds picks up.]
“So is your brother getting help, Mr. Parish?”
“Opioids are a big problem, Solomon,” Parish says. “But he’s back in rehab as we speak.”
[Sean Craven folds his hands on the table. He looks pallid with dark circles around his eyes. Dumpy, sweat-stained clothes complete his grungy image.]
“Maureen makes the best rhubarb. So good.”
[Everyone looks at Silver. He shrinks back with a mouthful of pie.]
“Parish, I never thought I’d say this. But we need your help, badly.”
“My clowns have our own troubles. Everyone wants to be a scary clown. We hardly get crowds anymore. And no one wants to hire us for outside gigs. Mr. Parish, we need that extra money.”
[Solomon crosses his arms, making his chest pop behind a tight-fitting shirt.]
“We’ve got problems too,” Solomon says. “My freaks are at wits end.”
“That’s why I’m here today, gentlemen. The show is in St. Paul. So we have to keep this brief. Bishop shared your grievances on the flight back.”
“Brief... we clowns are a proud family. Fixing this problem will take months,” Sylvester says with a dire stare. “If we fail. It will be the death of our partnership.”
[Steven the keyboardist hands Lester a clipboard with an attached pen. Parish slides it over to Solomon and Sylvester. Key sections, highlighted in yellow, bleed through the other side. Each reach but Solomon snatches it first.]
“What the hell is that?”
“Wait a minute Sly. It’s the forms you promised us weeks ago.”
“You’ll find that we had to reregister the Brotherhood due its expansion. I know it’s a not popular topic, but our new supplemental healthcare plan will span into next winter. However, their window for open enrollment is small though.”
[Everyone but Parish laughs.]
“Solomon, get those papers to your performers. I want them all signed up before I leave in the morning. If they have questions about the premium—send them to me.”
“Well that’s one headache,” Sylvester says. “But what about our upcoming shows?”
[Steven gives them some hefty packet in a binder clip. Sylvester reads it while Solomon mulls over their options. Maureen sets a plate of toast and coffee in front of Parish.]
“Negotiations got rather heated. Frankly, the town’s turned pale by all these “scary clowns” stalking their neighborhoods and schools,” Parish says. “When I met with the City Council this morning, they had a new rule in place. It prohibits your performers from going into town wearing any manner of clown outfits. Although this ban only lasts from 6pm to 9am—unless given permission by the Council beforehand.”
“How is that going to help us?”
“Calm down Sly.”
“Both of you stop,” Sean says. “Parish, if they can’t be out late. What about the Halloween show? Or did Kev not tell you about it?”
[Parish takes a sip of coffee.]
“On the bottom of those regulations you’ll find permits. I need your signatures and those of your entire troop by tomorrow morning. Do that and the show will go on as planned.”
“But what about our image? It’s this damned clown pandemic!”
“You’ll also find that I arranged a hospital visit for your clowns—as well as some members of the Brotherhood. We can all use a bump in public perception. Teaming your efforts together will show the community we aren’t dangerous, nor are we part of this incorrigible epidemic. Through their smiles we’ll branch out and recruit more to the cause.”
“Say we do all of that,” Solomon says. “How do we keep the image going?”
“Have faith. Vesti la guibba—put on your costumes, your face paint and keep working. Are there any problems with that?”
[The circus masters shake their heads. Sean still looks skeptical.]
“Now Sean, how are the crops doing?”
“We’re disorganized. We might lose half of this month's grain.”
[Parish takes a pen from Steven and writes a note. He hands the torn scrap to Craven.]
“Call that number tomorrow. We’ll take stock today, but I can’t fix everything right now. We’ll get readings on the soil and do what we can to stymy its decay.”
“Who am I calling?”
“Someone I know. She helped me in the early months. Even poured some of the concrete. It’s been years, but if you tell her that Parish called then… she’ll come around.”
“Can we trust her?”
[Parish sips hus coffee. The circus men read and argue over their documents.]
“Sean, we’ve been down this road before,” Parish says over his mug. “Fine, her name is Kelly Dunbar. She’s… an old friend—and she’ll be yours too. Call her after I leave. She will get things back in order. Bishop and the others, we have to prep for Helloween. Fighting won’t get us anywhere. Now, I’m having my breakfast. I’ll be here if you need me.”
“All right,” Sean says while leaving the table. “Don’t keep us waiting.”
***
[Cut to a forested area, westbound on I-94, in rural Wisconsin. A Go-Pro camera sits on the hood of a truck. It faces a trench leading back to a wooded area. Lester Parish appears with a spade shovel over one shoulder. He’s dressed like a construction worker: jeans, white undershirt and an open flannel jacket. Lester stops in view, speaking over a windy afternoon.]
“The road to St. Paul tis a desolate path. Come autumn, trees bear themselves for winter. Yet we harvest what we can until the last fruit drops. Farming offers a new perspective of the season. I don’t see dying…. No, this marks progress.”
[Parish drives the shovel into the soil and presses it down with his foot.]
“From day One, I had plan to save the Brotherhood. Kevin Bishop emerged as this bright and experienced talent with more ideas than proven results. He pontificated to the chagrin of this roster. He promised a plague—something never seen before. People waved him off. They called their previous home Jonestown, and always asked when they’d serve “the punch.” Bishop persevered on an individual level: He pulled his own bootstraps—defeated some of the best talent in the WCF. Sadly, the Brotherhood was dying.”
[Parish digs an ankle-deep hole.]
“At the time, I was penitent—landlocked from everyone and everything. Passed time listening to static trasmissions all night long. The world chewed my family to bits, defecating their lives for what I deemed some hegemonic machine. Analogue methods went haywire. It forced me to update my infrastructure at the bunker: a modem and the internet came soon after. My brother Chet and I wrestled two decades ago. We sported mullets and Zubaz pants—he had the only fanny pack between us—and “the business” treated us right. Yet when wrestling gives, it takes by divvying out injuries. Chet’s career took a nosedive after that and the opioids soon followed. The rest is history.”
[Jump cut to Parish standing knee-deep in wider ditch, jacket removed to just a white T-shirt.]
“St. Paul… it seems so fitting now. In all my anger—I turned on this business. Walled myself in a living tomb. Toiling away with VHS tapes, canned food and a years’ worth of home-milled grain. Books saved those tepid days. Fast-forward to the day they installed DSL. My blindness lifted; from the ashes, I saw a world more vibrant than ever fathomable. I witnessed a rebirth--renaissance in action—spearheaded by a company not afraid to be different.”
[Parish digs into his pocket. He extracts a seed and shows it to the camera.]
“Behold this humble seed. One pea plant can feed a person for two days. If you eat half and plant the rest, your output doubles. Do this until your field becomes a garden. It takes time and preparation. For weeks, I studied these new competitors. I wanted to know how they found love in a sport that eats its young. Then I saw Kevin Bishop. He was vastly different from the others. Gold was not his drive—although he had an ego problem—as Bishop fed off the people instead. A champion whose work lauded the watcher, not himself. It was impressive. Thus, my eyesight returned in full. But one thing remained: I had to meet him.”
[Parish buries the seed and pats ground over top.]
“Negotiating a contract was easy enough. WCF welcomes unknown talent. Lerch, though misguided most of the time, likes to invest in “hidden gems.” Once inside, it took weeks for the Plague to notice me. We played a little chess game—quid pro quo—until a fire brought him to my doorstep. And I let them in. My bunker still has its inanimate storage, but we’re thriving now. Our production has quintupled anything I could have accomplished by these hands alone.
And I'm grateful for that.
Trouble struck beyond what the Brotherhood could help with. This business had come for my family once again. When the dust settled, I found myself mulling over when to return. Until Bishop called me on one of those ominous nights, saying that he needed “his monster” back. They had a problem—and that problem is you, Franklin. Those who’ve watched my matches know what to expect from me: hardnosed, relentless effort that ignores “style points” or prettiness. Don’t let my eloquence fool you, Frank, there’s another person inside when I enter the arena. He is the Enforcer of the Brotherhood.”
[Parish dons his coat and throws the spade in the back seat of his truck.]
“Bishop has other names for me: his professor, their teacher of words and his greatest mind. I imbue those young members of the Brotherhood with knowledge because it is my purpose. However, a shepherd also deals with wolves. As their enforcer, I am the sole gateway to Kevin Bishop and those whom follow his precepts. Frank, you are the weed in of our harvest—the usurper hiding in the King’s curtain. I will find you. I will stomp you from existence. Then, I shall salt the earth from which you grew. Our bout may have title implications, but gold cannot buy what the Brotherhood bestowed upon me. They saved my soul. I entered the WCF as the murderous Saul; by alliance, I became the merciful Paul. That said… my mercy is boundless until someone threatens our flock. Young minds grow under my supervision—untapped futures bound for glory.
Franklin, you will not stand in the way of their progress. Kevin Bishop awaits you up in the scaffolding—but not until you pass through my gates. I will break everything that was FPV. Your body will limp from the ring. Your heart will palpitate thinking of the match to come. Your soul will quakeat mention of his name… Kevin Bishop. You threatened my friend and his flock; now Frank, I have the displeasure of ending this chicanery. If you manage to leave our match intact—bravo! That’s how hamartia strikes and the hero falls. You’ve overplayed this time. Because you aren’t facing the Brotherhood—you’re fighting its bulwark. Give in and join our ranks. It’d be a real shame to destroy such a worthy legacy before it ever burns its brightest. Consider it Frank; truly, I’m speaking on your behalf. Otherwise, I’m going peel you off my boot. Times ticking... the Plague is on its way!”
[Parish shuts the video off just as the winds picks up.]
