Soon to be a major motion
picture...

SPUD CRAZY

BLACK. SILENCE.
WORDS scroll slowly:

Papa, the Incas called it, pale
sacred tuber, gift of gods
who dwelt above.
The Spaniards brought it east,
across the sea, where other gods
dwelt above.
The chronicles give us the name:
Gonzalo Jiminez de Quesada;
the chronicles give us the year:
Anno Domini 1531.

As the WORDS scroll, a small, soft patina emerges from the BLACK, lower right. Slowly we see that this dim shimmering of light is the black-nylon-stockinged lower LEG of a woman. The camera closes on her ankle, slowly follows the rising curve of her calf, the bend of her knee, her thigh, moving ever closer, into the texture of the nylon itself.

Nylon, E.I. du Pont de Nemours
& Co. called it.
After ten years of toil,
they announced its creation to the world,
in 1938; and on May 15, 1940—a
Wednesday—the first nylon
stockings, like the breath of
the spud-giving gods,
caused the earth to tremble.

The slow-rising and closing ECU moves from the black denier of the stocking-top to the flesh of the woman’s thigh, magnifying soft hair and the topography of skin. Passing over this ghostly terrain, we vanish momentarily into a pore, emerge, and slowly see that the terrain is somehow different. As the camera pulls slightly away, we see that the ghostly terrain of the woman’s skin has become that of a potato’s skin. The POTATO revolves very slowly, like a misshapen globe on its access, a world unto itself in blackness. The camera closes into an eye of the potato, until all is BLACK.

Such is the sum of history,
such are the holy years.

The camera pulls back from the BLACK hole, emerges from the bore of a GUN-barrel: a .38-caliber revolver in a pale HAND amid shadow.

Sudden CUT to subway roaring, screeching loud into deserted, sinister station. We look down on subway car’s sole passenger: dark-haired GUY. From over his shoulder, we see him turn to look through the subway window. On the platform, there now stands a WOMAN, gazing at him through the window.

GUY’s POV: close-up of WOMAN’s face. Her eyes close slightly, her lips slowly part in strange, trance-like sensuality. Her mouth opens wider, and we glimpse the moisture of her tongue.

We hear the GUY’s HEARTBEAT. Louder.

...to be continued...