01-08-2018, 12:10 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-19-2018, 01:02 PM by King Ghidorah.
Edit Reason: missing letters, missing words
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Quote:Channel 719 - The Pork Channel - Night of the Wild Boar (Cold Open). Title Card in Bold PurpleWe are looking at the back of a skinny, clean cut young man in a polo shirt and khaki slacks standing on the white linoleum concourse of the meats isle of a supermarket. His black hair is combed, and his brown suede shoes look new. A red plastic grocery basket with a black handle dangles from his hand, containing a bottle of milk, some green onions, and various cans. The man is facing a row of wall-mounted refrigerator-cabinets with glass-fronted doors bordered by black plastic. They contain white wire-mesh shelves furnished with various organically-produced meats in sealed plastic packages bearing the logos of various farms, labeled by section with yellow price-stickers. Everything is eerily quiet.
The man opens the door in front of him and reaches towards the highest shelf for a package of premium bacon. Off-screen, something grumbles and snorts. There's a suggestion of froth in that sound, and of great size. The man freezes. The camera cuts to his face, which is as skinny as the rest of him and has a sparse mustache. His eyes shift to his right.
The camera cuts to a side-view , positioned at shoulder-height about ten feet to the man's left. We are now looking down the aisle. There is the man, with his arm extended, clutching its bacony prize, frozen apprehensively half-way between himself and the open refrigerator door. A row of waist-high freezer-bins runs down the center of the aisle, dividing it into two lanes, only one of which we can really see. They are piled full of plastic-wrapped chicken breasts, frozen fish, and various cheap cuts of meat. A forest of yellow paper signs on wooden sticks emerges from the bins, naming the meats and giving their prices. Purplish florescent bulbs line the unfurnished ceiling.
The aisle appears to go on forever. There are no other customers. And standing in the middle of the lane, not twenty feet beyond our nameless protagonist, is a wild boar.
The pig is huge - three feet tall at the shoulder, as wide as it is tall, and at least five feet long. It's skin is gray and covered with a thick coat of bristles as thick as copper wire. A crest of red hair runs down the center of its muscular back from the top of its head, and its yellowed tusks are so long, thick and pointy that they look like they could be used to mine coal. Its snout twitches ceaselessly, but its black piggy eyes are laser-focused on the sole human being in sight.
The camera cuts to a closer shot of just the pig. It shuffles its trotters, and knots of porcine sinew can be seen shifting beneath its skin - this is not a fat animal, its just really, really big. The pig's feet clack on the linoleum, and it grumbles angrily.
We cut back to our original perspective, facing the wall of refrigerators, but a wider shot, containing both the man and the pig. The heaps of meats with the signs sticking out of them are just visible at the bottom of the screen, though they're in the near-foreground and out of focus.
The man slowly turns his head to look at the pig, and slowly begins to put the bacon back on the shelf, not making any sudden moves.
The pig bellows like the air-brakes on a piece of heavy machinery shaking apart from rust and improper maintenance. The man drops his bacon, and his grocery-basket, and bolts.
We cut to a shallow-angle overhead view as our hero runs for all he's worth. Cans, green onions and milk spill across the floor where he dropped his intended purchases. The porcine avenger grunts purposefully and runs after him.
New shot. A row of checkout counters appear in the middle-distance - countertops equipped with little black conveyor belts in front of dirty off-white cash-registers feeding into scuffed chrome bagging stations. Wire magazine and candy racks and glass-fronted black mini-fridges filled with coca-cola products delineate the individual checkout aisles. Beyond them lie an impenetrable tange of supermarket shelving, mostly bare. Same linoleum floor, same stark overhead lighting. Bored-looking teenagers in aprons are milling around behind the registers, doing nothing productive. There are no customers.
The sound of pounding feet slapping against the tile slowly rises from somwhere in the distance, getting louder as it grows closer. One-by-one the bored register-jockeys stop their conversations, and their magazine-browsing, and their making out, and turn to look towards the unseen depths of the store.
The man from earlier erupts from between two rows of shelving, wild-eyed and sweat-stained, his short-cropped hair sticking out in all directions and pant-legs torn, and crashes into a magazine rack, sending the National Enquirer and the Weekly World News fountaining into the air alongside dog-eared copies of Time, Newsweek and Life Magazine. He bounces off, looks around frantically, and charges between two checkout counters, past the edge of the entry foyer and out of the shot. We hear the thud of him hitting the front door, the groaning hiss as the automatic doors opens for him a couple of moments later, and the pounding of his feet as he runs out into the parking lot.
No wild boar appears.
The store employees stare in the direction of their only customer's flight. One of them says, "What the hell was that about?"
Smash-cut to title card, a black-screen with flickering purple text, set to roaring violins and the grunting of a pig.