What brings you here, love? Got tired of the virus? Got the virus? Don’t worry, we don’t discriminate here, we make everybody equally embarrassed for laughing when it is not appropriate. Like, now is certainly not appropriate. We know democratic backsliding, overall dumbness and lockdowns are funny. But we should not laugh, as after all it is not funny. To keep you entertained while you are gasping for breath (from laughing so hard), we have collected a series of outstanding film pitches by young European scriptwriters, one of which is posted below (also check volumes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6). If you are a movie director step aside, we will talk to you separately. If not, 5 euros, punk. Cash.
Popocatelypsis Now, by Hara Kiri
Richard Pitekantri is a dull man living in Northern England, an equally drab place. He has a wife but does not remember the circumstances which led to him marrying the counterparty. He does not have kids, so he does not need to go home after work. Especially given the cumbersome odds of meeting his wife somewhere along the corridors of their dreary old house. Richard likes the tranquility of late nights at the office when even the last yakking baboon has left the scene.
A curious development unfolds during one of those blessedly reflective vigils. It’s past midnight and Richard is slightly bored of streaming porn. It takes him longer and longer to find an acceptable video to masturbate to, and he has already hit transgender midget hazing. He has also already eaten the leftovers of his takeaway lunch, drunk about half a litter of coffee and checked all the news. Nothing even remotely interesting. The liberals have been kicked hard recently and they are not showing their ugly faces above the surface. The real men of the day are going strong and whopping ass.
At about 2 pm Richard starts packing. He goes to the bathroom and spends another half hour creeping on a colleague from the lower floors, who has delightfully shared all her pictures (who does that anyway). Ah, so she did go to the Caribbean with that dork. What does she find in this monkey-pig? He is nowhere near as appealing as Richard, does not appear wealthy, smokes and is generally unpleasant. Yet, his awful countenance haunts her pictures like a ghost. The universe is such a bitch.
An hour later Richard finally goes out of the building. It is an exceptionally calm night and there is no one in the street. The nearest 24 hour is a good fifteen-minute walk away. On the way there Richard still does not meet anybody. The 24 hour is also closed (bloody twerps) and when he thinks of it, public transport does not seem to be running either. Overall, there is no motion of any kind. Typical Wednesday night in God’s ass, where Richard lives.
Cheerful and happy, Richard goes home, and, to his delight, does not find his wife there. Maybe she has finally decided to leave. Godspeed. Richard switches on the TV and there is nothing there either. Bummer. He goes for a snack and there is nothing in the fridge. He blames himself for not finding the strength to order his favourite munchies to his wife. He is in a dire need of an open 24 hour.
Out in the street, Richard finally catches up with the fact that the world has ended. There are clowns with machetes running after buffalo and a demented general lurking in the bushes to give philosophical speeches. He runs until he is out of his breath, reaching a store a few blocks down. The entrance is blocked by some apparent buffoons, who have locked themselves in believing it’s full of monsters outside. Richard tries to reason with them, claiming that all he really needs is a beer and some chips. The negation does not yield results and Richard makes attempts to kick his way in. Someone from inside hits him with a steel bat and calls him a “fucking zombie”.
Out in the street, Richard finally catches up with the fact that the world has ended.
Disillusioned, Richard decides to go to back to work, his only home. He has trouble finding the way as someone has redesigned the city while he has been reposing on the sofa. He is also distracted by devolved humans walking on all fours, who believe they have mutated into a superior race by accidentally swallowing lethal doses of an anti-gay vaccine. This had been greenlit for release in the sewers by pragmatic leaders with more than twenty years of experience in eugenics and social engineering. However, some youngsters from the darkest underground dungeons had gotten hold of the stuff and snorted it in about five minutes. After not sleeping for about a month they could not maintain an erect posture anymore, an intended side effect.
Richard finally locates his office building which now has different shape and colour. Thankfully, inside everything seems fine except for the ceiling, which is missing. Richard knows a way to go to the basement, deep below the last stop of the lift. He passes several layers of empty parking lots, the experimentation rooms, level X and finally kindergartens, built to store children during family days.
Thankfully, inside everything seems fine except for the ceiling, which is missing.
Richard’s downward trip ends when he hits solid concrete, the very bottom of the corporation, and, some would argue, the world. But he does not stop there. He finds an entrance to an even deeper level, a staircase that leads down into a dark abyss. Richard hesitates for a moment and then plunges into the unknown. After what seems like an eternity of walking down multiple flights of stairs, he notices a thin light somewhere in the cavernous space below him. He follows the initially feeble light until it becomes clear and steady.
Several days after Richard hits solid ground again. There is sufficient light to discern the contours of what appears to be a massive cave chamber. On one side of it, he spots a door left slightly ajar. He figures that this must be the source of the light, which he realizes is more of a glow. A deep red glow. He approaches the door and looks inside.
Inside is his wife, napping on a couch. Richard enters the room and closes the door behind him.