Interview

Here’s a short piece I wrote as an exercise in dialogue and scene building. I’m trying to figure out screenplays, and finding I have to learn them the way I learned novels – short stories to long form. It’s been an interesting lesson.

[FADE IN]

INT WAREHOUSE

KINKADE sits on a simple metal chair. A white backdrop hangs behind him. His hair is shoulder-length, hangs in his eyes. Every now and then he shakes his head and sweeps it out of his face. He fiddles with an unlit cigarette. He is tense – everything about him is sharp, all hard angles. He’s a switchblade waiting to spring.

KINKADE
I don’t think anyone thinks “When I grow up, I want to be a villain.” I mean, it’s a learned response.

INTERVIEWER (O.S.)
How so?

K
You know, the usual causes. Your parents were shitty, so you’re angry. Poor impulse control. Economic uncertainty. Make shitty decisions, win a shitty life.

I (O.S.)
Aren’t those just excuses?

Kinkade shrugs, pops the cigarette in his mouth, chews the end.

K
Sure, they could be. Or maybe they’re catalysts.

I (O.S.)
So tell me about yourself.

K
Me? (scoffs) Not a lot to tell. My parents were normal. Mom was a teacher, Dad was a – salesman? Some fucking thing. It was boring. I got average grades. I did average things. Sports, band. You know, the little shit that means a lot then, and nothing later. If kids realized how little all those things mean, we’d have a goddamn revolution on our hands. (laughs) Can you imagine? Che Guevara, ten-year-old.

I
So, what was it for you? You didn’t wake up one day and decide “This is what I’m going to be,” did you?

Kinkade shakes his head, his hair flopping. He scrapes it back, and pulls out a match, flicking it to life with his thumbnail. The head flares, and he sets fire to the smoke. He inhales, and blows out a plume. He raises one eyebrow.

K
You’re not going to tell me I can’t smoke in here?

I
Nope.

K
Huh. Anyway, what was it you asked?

I
How you got to be-

K
Right, why I’m fucked up. Sure.
(leans in)
So, you got your heroes, right?

I
Sure, there’s –

Kinkade waves a hand.

K
No, no need to give them airtime. They get plenty of that. Anyway. Look, these assholes in their suits with all their gadgets – how many people have that kind of money? Where do they get it? You think the city just gets patched up for free after they get into a brawl? You think there aren’t families out there getting hurt?

I got a theory. I think the same pricks who are ‘saving’ us are the same jackasses who make money from the cleanup. Take me, I ain’t got the best education, or a million dollar penthouse. You know I’m not one of them. Bet you can name at least three people who might be, though.

Money does stupid things to people. It makes them mean. It makes them selfish. It makes them weird. Ever ask one of the bystanders or their family if there’s a fund for widows and orphans? Fuck no. But there’s an orphanage. Guess who owns it?

You ever try to get a stable job in this city? Forget security or first responder. Those guys get the twelve-inch. Only real security’s in construction. How many times a week do these guys tear down at least one monument? Fuckin’ assholes. Too much work to go fight in the corn fields.

He takes a deep breath and chews on the end of the cigarette.

I
You mentioned family. Did you know someone who got hurt?

K
I know lots of people who got hurt.

I
You personally, though?

K
Yeah, me personally.

I
Who?

Kincade sits back and eyes the interviewer. His eyes are cold – almost black. The room seethes.

K
Someone important. That’s the last of those questions.

I
(clears throat)
What are you going to do?

K
Hold on. I’m curious. You’re broadcasting this, right?

I
Yes.

K
So, if I tell you, one of those caped idiots is going to swoop in and stop me, don’t you think?

I
I-maybe.

K
Interesting. You know what’s more interesting?

I
No.

K
They won’t do anything if I don’t do anything. Sure, I can say I’ll do something, and they might show up, question me, make my life hard. Maybe they stick me on a psych hold. But most – no, almost all – of them are Boy Scouts. At least until the actual fight. Then all those oaths and mottos and merit badges go out the window in the pursuit of justice.

(he takes a breath)
You ever see someone with a shattered pelvis? You ever see the way they weep?

I
No, I…no.

K
It’s like watching a wounded kitten. Sometimes they try to keep moving, to get away from the thing that hurt them. They cry and they crawl and they drag themselves inch by fucking excruciating inch until they can’t.

I
Did you see this? Is this what happened?

Kinkade ignores the question.

K
The ambulance is too slow. They’re crying – it’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard, a kind of wounded animal that can’t get enough breath.

I
What did you do?

K
What I had to.

There’s silence for several seconds. Kinkade tosses the cigarette away and crushes it out on the floor. He clears his throat, and picks up a bottle of water from off-screen, takes a sip.

I
What did you have to do?

K
That. Yeah. I’ll show you.

Kinkade stands, and moves – fast. The camera tracks him enough to see him wrap an arm around the interviewer’s neck. There’s a twist, and a loud snap, and the interviewer goes limp. Kinkade walks over to the white backdrop and pulls it down, revealing a wall of C-4. He sits down, picks up a detonator and lights a cigarette, then looks in the camera.

K
Come and get me, fuckos.

[FADE OUT]

 

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