[Scene 1]
Imagine, if you will, a television, preferably an old tube television. The screen flickers, full of static. The television sits within the waiting room of an older funeral parlor in the outskirts of Harper Rock. A young man, maybe in his early twenties, slams a hand against the side, to bring it to life, though to no avail.
"No luck, Mr Bone. I still think you need to get it replaced. I haven't seen a tube television in a while, anyway. This thing is a dinosaur."
Shrugging, the young man slams his hand against the side again, a picture showing for a brief moment, before it withers into the static. Shrugging, he turns, to face the other half of the one-sided conversation. As if it were a show on that television, the camera cuts over, through a doorway, to a desk. A slow pan across, the desk is orderly, neat. Behind sits a haunting fellow, his face seemingly emotionless. Tidying up his paperwork, the man slowly stands, with the assistance of a simple wooden, possibly cherry or maybe even oak, cane. A slow, methodical pace, he moves out of the office, into the waiting area, where he regards the television.
"Such a pity, Jeremy. I do not suppose we could ring a repairman, mm? Do be a good lad and do that for me, yes? I know I don't hire you just to assault my furniture, and I definitely didn't hire you for your lack of insight. Ring up the repairman, Jeremy. I've the dead to attend to, or at least their paperwork."
With that, Jeremy is left to his phone call, and the camera fades to black for a moment.
The scene fades back in, to Mr, or Doctor, Bone, the vulture of a man. He's seen perching in his chair, going through the paperwork for a funeral in the near weeks.
"Dear Mister Alexanders, you left your family in quite a mess, haven't you? Luckily you left enough to afford what they're doing for you, mm? A pretty wife, she's now a widow... Shameful display, sir. Then again, death grips us all, no? And in such.. demand, it seems, in this town. I would complain about the amount, but my good sir, you lot keep me employed."
Shaking his head a little, Bone seems to relax, only minutely, before he straightens the paperwork, signs, then slips it into a folder, filing it away. A knock on the door, he looks over as Jeremy peeks his head in, somewhat flustered.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Bone, but the repairman can't make it in until next Monday. Are you sure you don't want me to just.. get the parlor a new television?"
Scoffing a touch at the notion, Mr Bone waves Jeremy out.
"No, no, we can wait. We all can. What's the worst that will happen, without a television working for the moment? Life will be sucked out of us? I doubt it very much."
Death Of A Salesman
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Julien Bone (DELETED 9899)
- Posts: 4
- Joined: 06 Oct 2017, 15:04
Re: Death Of A Salesman
[Scene 2]
As the picture fades in, we can hear the chorus of God's Gonna Cut You Down, the camera panning to the desk. Another neatly stacked pile of papers, as well as a photograph. Another deceased member of the Harper Rock citizenship. Unlike the previous man, who seemed in his early thirties, this woman, Cecilia Forbe, was much older, even older than it would appear Mr Bone was. As he appears to mull over the information at hand, the phone rings, causing the camera to pan down a moment. A black phone of some antique, it is still rotary. Taking the phone in his hand, Bone puts it to his ear, his facial expression still rather stoic.
"Good day, who may I be speaking with, and how may I be of assistance?"
Once he asks, the camera fades, to the other end of the line. It's a dimly lit room, cigarette smoke giving somewhat of an ethereal haze to it. It appears to be one of the local police officers, judging by the badge on his hip, and he's pacing. A younger man, though he seems somewhat portly, a ginger beard somewhat tanglec.
"Mr Bone, it's Paul, from the precinct. I hate to be a bother, but it seems we have another body, and the coroner is out on holiday. Would you be able to... come in and take a look?"
A low sigh can be heard, albeit a bit static.
"Of course, Officer Livingston. Do you require me straight away?"
The portly officer nods, as if he was in the same room.
"Please, sir."
The camera pans back to Bone, who stands up slowly.
"Very well. I will leave promptly."
That said, he hangs up, then grips his cane. Moving through the room, he grabs his pork pie hat and coat, putting them both on. Brushing himself off, he makes sure that his attire is neat and orderly, before leaving, Jeremy still not back yet. It doesn't seem to phase Bone, the absence, as he exits the building. Out front, an older vehicle pans into view as the scene changes. Sitting covered in some leaves sits a Cadillac Hearse, it dating probably somewhere in the early 60's. Moving in a slow, methodical pace, the camera seems to slow for dramatic effect, the music picking up, now cutting to the Rolling Stones' Sympathy For The Devil.
The hearse's lights kick on, as the engine turns, the camera pointing more towards the front of the vehicle than anything. It pans out to a side view, where the hearse begins its trek toward the police station. As Bone drives, it is an eerily surreal scene, the man at peace, though still a stoic face. Onlookers stared a bit at the sight, including a few prostitutes, one being pick pocketed by a school punk as they seem distracted. The camera cuts to the hearse again, as it parks what seems to be minutes after, then panned down to the license plate. D34D M4N.
As the picture fades in, we can hear the chorus of God's Gonna Cut You Down, the camera panning to the desk. Another neatly stacked pile of papers, as well as a photograph. Another deceased member of the Harper Rock citizenship. Unlike the previous man, who seemed in his early thirties, this woman, Cecilia Forbe, was much older, even older than it would appear Mr Bone was. As he appears to mull over the information at hand, the phone rings, causing the camera to pan down a moment. A black phone of some antique, it is still rotary. Taking the phone in his hand, Bone puts it to his ear, his facial expression still rather stoic.
"Good day, who may I be speaking with, and how may I be of assistance?"
Once he asks, the camera fades, to the other end of the line. It's a dimly lit room, cigarette smoke giving somewhat of an ethereal haze to it. It appears to be one of the local police officers, judging by the badge on his hip, and he's pacing. A younger man, though he seems somewhat portly, a ginger beard somewhat tanglec.
"Mr Bone, it's Paul, from the precinct. I hate to be a bother, but it seems we have another body, and the coroner is out on holiday. Would you be able to... come in and take a look?"
A low sigh can be heard, albeit a bit static.
"Of course, Officer Livingston. Do you require me straight away?"
The portly officer nods, as if he was in the same room.
"Please, sir."
The camera pans back to Bone, who stands up slowly.
"Very well. I will leave promptly."
That said, he hangs up, then grips his cane. Moving through the room, he grabs his pork pie hat and coat, putting them both on. Brushing himself off, he makes sure that his attire is neat and orderly, before leaving, Jeremy still not back yet. It doesn't seem to phase Bone, the absence, as he exits the building. Out front, an older vehicle pans into view as the scene changes. Sitting covered in some leaves sits a Cadillac Hearse, it dating probably somewhere in the early 60's. Moving in a slow, methodical pace, the camera seems to slow for dramatic effect, the music picking up, now cutting to the Rolling Stones' Sympathy For The Devil.
The hearse's lights kick on, as the engine turns, the camera pointing more towards the front of the vehicle than anything. It pans out to a side view, where the hearse begins its trek toward the police station. As Bone drives, it is an eerily surreal scene, the man at peace, though still a stoic face. Onlookers stared a bit at the sight, including a few prostitutes, one being pick pocketed by a school punk as they seem distracted. The camera cuts to the hearse again, as it parks what seems to be minutes after, then panned down to the license plate. D34D M4N.
