Premiere

Act One; Scene One; Take One.
Action.

Fade in to a practically deserted rural highway in plain centre of the Albertan countryside where shrubs and ghosts of trees dot the scenery here and there and the main vegetation is made up of long grasses and reeds. Pan across the farmer’s field, across where in daytime, cows and bulls and horses roam and ruminate, past where they defecate and make crude animal love in mating season, past that. Pan over the barbed wire fence that catches and gouges whatever it makes contact with, past the fallen leaves gathering in small heaps in the ditches, past that, past that. Pan over to the abused neck of concrete, the road which makes our scene, stay, by the cracks, by the rocks. Stop.

Pan up, pan up, slowly, slowly to the moon in the sky which is just days away from being full, to the sky that is darker than darkness itself, to the stars that there make their home. Still – and watch the gloomy clouds that streak across in broad brushstrokes, some that beckon rainfall in distant places; some that remain an empty threat shrouding the all-powerful moon.

Pan down, down, and gaze across the open landscape, stare across the endless valleys and hills and make out the snow-capped Rockies, so close and yet so far away.

Pan all around, to the absence of city lights, to the dearth of human life. Linger here, and watch.

Pan back down to the highway where we ground ourselves and approach a pair of solitary vehicles on the roadside. Low angle…low angle.

There is no soundtrack; the low whistling wind is all that can be heard.

Zoom in on a premature winter tire stuck on a low-raised car, where in the background we can make out another blurry set of tires – cheap tires on a standard vehicle. To our right, black leather lace-up loafers grinding small stones into the ground as they approach, making small crunching noises along the cement as they come lazily like hoofs. Crunch… crunch… crunch…. Linger on them for a second as we listen to the pneumatic hiss of a lowering window.

Line.

“Is there something wrong…Officer?”

Cut to the interior of the vehicle, where we linger on a nervous pair of feet, size eight, caressing leather flip-flop sandals. Focus in on the glistening red toenails. Focus in on the sheen of sweat clinging to the slight golden hairs. Focus.

“Ms., are you aware of how fast you were driving?” That bored, jaded tone.

“Um—”

“The posted speed limit here is one hundred kilometres per hour. You’ve been going one-forty.”

“I’m – I’ll have to apologise, Officer, the speed dial in this car just doesn’t keep up with the engine sometimes…”

Focus on the feet as they tap against the dusty carpeted interior, focus as they move uncomfortably from side to side, and as those painted toes curl up defensively into their leather platforms. Focus.

“Ms., how old are you?”

“Six - sixteen.”

“I’m going to assume you haven’t had your license for long then. Are you aware that you’re driving past curfew?”

“Yes! See, that was, I guess, the reason I was speeding. Big open road, I live really near here, I just wanted to get home and –”

“Have you been drinking tonight, Ms.?”

“Well, you see, that’s why I was out late. I was just, you know, out with some friends this afternoon celebrating my one girl friend’s birthday, and I thought I’d better wait until… well, just wait to sober up completely, and I figured it wouldn’t matter because driving past curfew has got to be the lesser of two evils, don’t you think…Officer? You have to understand that, I mean, I know I’m not legal age, but… who is? I mean…”

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and trust that you are no longer intoxicated. That set aside, I also noticed your one taillight is busted, Ms. The vehicle you’re driving isn’t street legal. I’m going to ask that I see your driver’s license and registration now.”

“What…I – This car’s not mine. It’s my da – my father’s.”

“I’d still like to see your registration, please.”
“Oh, but, couldn’t you just let me off on a warning or… something?”

“Ms., I would just like to see.”

Cut back to the outside street, to the black lace-up loafers, now standing perfectly still against the pavement. Unmoving as British guards. A night time moth, blurry, landing on the ground in the distance with its owl-brown wings twitching lightly in the breeze. Crawling about, slowly.

Focus.

“All – all right. Hang on, Officer. It’s just in my purse, see, right there on the seat…and my registration is in the slot by the door….”

“That’s fine.”

Watch as the loafers begin to pad back and forth, turn around at a ninety degree angle, possibly looking up and down the road for traffic that simply isn’t there. Grinding against the rocks as they march back around to face the window, waiting, just waiting. Impatient black loafers, dancing about some more, tapping sometimes -- restless as leaves in the wind. Refocus.

“All right, here’s my license – oh!”

The light, flitting sound of a laminated card hitting the pavement, and the owl-brown moth in the distance, frightened, takes flight. Focus in momentarily on the shoes as they scrape the road in irritation, in foreshadow of the policeman’s bend.

“I’m so sorry, Officer…. It’s just, nothing like this has ever happened to me before –”

“It’s all right; I understand, Ms. I’ll just get that, and we can get on with this and then we can all go home…”

Pan over to our left several inches, where we and the rugged tire treads become one, and all fades to black again, and all we can do is stretch our senses to listen. The dank, heavy breathing; the sighs and moans of the rustling wind. The crunches of black lace-up loafers against worn pavement. The fear clinging to the light, unsure voice.

“I’m… I’m just so ner...”

Cut into total obsolete darkness, and listen as a conversation is cut short by the rapid succession of two bullets leaving the muzzle of a gun that has not been manually silenced. The sound as they propel through the air in slow motion and burst into flesh, like a wet balloon popping. Listen to their vorpal speech.

“…vous.”

To the pistol’s echo in the barren wasteland, reaching no one and nowhere, all at once, becoming the proverbial tree in the forest without a soul around to hear it crash to the ground.

To the squelching sound of a penetrated corpse, collapsing in a heap upon the cold pavement.

In the movies, this sound is never quite accurate. What they neglect to include is the bubbling, pulsing sound the blood makes, as it exudes from the body.

However, luckily for us, this is not a movie.