1UP Show Finale (Fan Fic)

On December 17, 2008 -- the date's important -- I posted my 1UP Show Finale treatment on my 1UP blog. Basically it amounted to fan fic, but it could be seen as PROPHECY! I've copied/pasted it here from my 1UP blog simply to preserve it. Enjoy!

---

I submitted this screenplay to Demian Linn prior to his departure from 1UP and I held hope that the screenplay might be turned into an episode of the 1UP Yours Show. Matt Chandronait tells me that it won't be used leaving me free to post it on my blog. (It has a surprise ending and I wouldn't want to ruin it if it was going to be used on the 1UP Show.) It was setup as a finale episode, so keep that in mind, and written purely as a creative exercise to keep my brain active. (And please forgive the formatting!)

So, here we go!

INT. ZIFF DAVIS 1UP OFFICES – SHANE BETTENHAUSEN’S OFFICE – DAY

DONAHOE crouches at SHANE BETTENHAUSEN’s desk, rummaging through the detritus and tchotckes underneath the desk.

DONAHOE
He said it was here.  How the hell does Shane find anything in this mess?

SHANE walks into the office housing his desk.

SHANE
You’re going to clean that stuff up, right?

Not Quite a Short Story: Free Fall

I wrote this almost two years ago and it was kind of inspired by a level in the game "Wet" and a particular scene from the Bond flick "The Spy Who Loved Me." It was cool to play another scenario like the one below in the opening minutes of "Saints Row: The Third."

---------------------------------

I can hear wind. It's whistling and it feels like I'm falling. I open my eyes in a squint.

I am falling and I grab my chest, clawing at a rip chord that isn't there. It's then that I notice debris falling with me. A fuselage of some kind of plane matches my speed. I point myself toward it. I inch closer to it on the wind and in the dim moonlight the interior becomes visible.

I reach the jagged edge of the fuselage and hold on to it, using what little leverage I have to haul myself in. It's dark so I fumble the walls, floor and ceiling or some order of the three. My fingers touch something familiar.

I strap the parachute to my back and kick off one of the seats to get myself clear of the debris. The ground is so close, I can easily make out features of the city below framed in the glow of streetlights and vehicle traffic. I pull the chord and there's a dull flapping sound and the world jerks up with a punch. My broken ribs scream and my breathing struggles in ragged chunks.

The debris begins to the hit earth.

So very close to the ground, searchlights suddenly hold me. It's quickly followed by a sputtering of gun fire. A massive explosion rocks the area above me, another one a hundred feet to my right.

I steer myself toward a black area and hope for the best. At the rate I'm falling, I should be able to make it, unless the fireworks from the ground manage to punch a hole in my salvation.

Not Quite a Short Story: Hitting the Mat

I can taste dust and blood. My eyes won't open and my ears are pounding with my heartbeat. Somewhere it sounds like a crowd is cheering.

I manage to pry one eyelid apart. Everything's out of focus but it's clear enough that I can see the ropes of a boxing ring and a large splotch of red on the canvas. My whole body aches but I do what I can to get to my lead-filled feet. I try opening the other eye. Nothing. It's either swollen shut or I've been blinded.

A ding loud enough to cut through my pulse brings two men to my side and they help me to a small stool in the corner of the ring. A gush of water hits me in the face. The world starts to focus. There's a snap and the cavity behind my nose burns, clearing my eye but I can barely hear the men.

"C'mon, just another round! Just stay conscious for another round!"

"Gotta remember, that when that pug leans back you gotta watch for the feet!"

That doesn't make sense to me until I see that the team in the opposite corner is working on a gray kangaroo.

"Funny, I don't 'member going to Australia." I realize something has come loose in my mouth. I spit into the offered bucket. A couple of teeth clink into the bottom of it. I'm vaguely aware that I'm wearing boxing gloves.

The bell dings again and the other men slide out of the ring. The crowd begins to roar again.

The kangaroo cocks his head. I take a couple of experimental steps; my legs should keep me upright for a little longer. He bounds forward and lashes out with his right foreleg. Only the fact I stumble in surprise saves me. The punch goes wide, exposing his side. I put as much weight as I can bear behind the punch and sink my left hand into his gut. It registers and he's pushed off balance. I throw an uppercut with my right, hoping to hit him in the head. It sails wide and now I'm off balance but the kangaroo has hopped back so there's no follow-up.

We start making wide circles around the ring. The crowd is screaming.

The kangaroo feints right and like a chump I go for. It's a wild swing and he's ready for it. As I try to right myself, he's leaning back.

I see the feet coming but there's so little that I can do to prepare myself that both connect solidly, one to my face, one to my right side. The crack of bone, which is almost a nice staccato to the sound of pumping blood in my ears, sends me reeling. A web of pain stabs up my side.

He seizes the advantage. I can see the blurry punches coming but my arms aren't working. I can't get my hands up to ward off the attack. Can't even move my head.

The last blow starts the world turning and black around the edges. The canvas comes up and hits me in the face.