found drama

A morning scramble.  A fancy coffee maker that won’t play by its own rules.  Supposed to be a space saver; you store the filters and grounds inside one compartment of this double-hulled slow-drip monstrosity.  But when I follow the instructions, it leaks water everywhere and refuses to actually drip out the bitter brown nectar.  I try again, winging it this time but about halfway through the process I hear a crash.

Quick cut to an underground scene.  Hollowed out Earth?  Metro subway stops with the lights half busted out and half off.  A threat that me and my crew are well aware of.  One of our guys is packing a digital camera and snapping pictures like mad.  There’s a tunnel at one end of the space that we’re trying to advance on, make our way down.  They come out of apparently nowhere.  Skimming quick through the dark.  They reek of zombies but they’re not.  They’re too fast.  And cognizant.  They make smart-ass remarks.  They slash with claws and drawn blades, glazed yellow eyes.  Slick looking, all of them.  Puffed up and big.  Super hero big.  I notice we’re not armed with guns; they’d do no good anyway.  The crew brings their own baldes out, still advancing on that tunnel.  Slow and steady.  You can make out movements of thing advancing but it’s difficult to pin down shapes.  They’re huge, whatever they are.  Our man with the camera blurts out: “They’re pure style!”  I cut back to see what he’s talking about.  He’s right.  Each picture he takes looks like a panel out of a comic book.  Vivid colors, lurid costumes, visible energies.

My blade comes back up.

About Rob Friesel