It might be too many zombie movies, but I think I’ve hatched the perfect scheme for revenge. Expect it to hit theaters in the summer of 2012. It’s true, given my unconventional line of thought, here’s how I suspect how a scene in my self-directed horror movie is going to play out, and those with weak stomachs should stop reading now. To make it easier, I’ve taken a first person point of view on this story.
I’m at a nightclub, and someone wrongs me in some way (smudging my white Pumas, stepping on my toes, spilling some beer on my shirt, etc.)—I back him up into the corner, pretending to dance the entire time. At first it seems like, “Oh haha, I’ve already brushed it off and now I am dancing!” Wrong. The strobe lights are flashing, I raise my hands in a festive manner. Strobe, strobe, strobe. I bring both elbows down on his head—crack, crack, crack. Strobe, strobe, strobe. The music blares, the light obscures any movements. Strobe, strobe, strobe. With his body slumped over my shoulder, I take him out of the club.
Someone comments, “Man, he’s definitely had enough tonight. You’re a good friend for taking him home. Hm, I wonder how much he drank?”
I look him straight in the eyes with an understanding glance, “Ugh, he always does this—probably 14-15 shots, it’s his 21st birthday.”
“Ohhh,” everyone comments with a knowing tone.
Later on, miscellaneous anesthesia is administered and subsequently, amateur surgery commences. He wakes up in a daze, only to be blinded by the fluorescent hospital lights that hover above him.
“Where am I?” he stammers, still numb from the anesthesia.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—relax. You blacked out last night and we took you to the hospital. You’re all right.”
“I don’t remember anyth—” He blacks out again as the nerve block in his neck takes effect.
Later on that night, he wakes up by the most magnificent scent he’s ever smelled in his life. On the side of his hospital bed, he spots the two most delicious hams he’s ever seen in his life. He’s still numb, but he immediately gobbles down his food, licking his plate clean. As soon as he swallows his last bite, I enter, “How ya feeling, champ?”
“Full, but I still can’t feel my legs,” he responds energetically.
I motion for him to uncover the sheets that hide the lower half of his body. He does so and he screams, “Where are my legs?!”
I respond curtly, “You just ate them. Dust yourself off, you’re a paraplegic now.”
Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Nomination for best overreaction of the year? I think so.
