Work Text:
A STUDY IN BLOOD
Original screenplay by Lucas Wahl
Fog rises thick as smoke in the damp London night. Somewhere in the distance a horse's hooves clatter against the deserted cobblestone streets. A man's body lies sprawled in a circle of dim light under a flickering gas streetlamp.
Nearby, Jo Adler, a dark-haired woman with olive skin dressed in scarlet satin struggles with Mike Lestrade, a black-haired police detective. Surveying the scene with a keen gaze, Sherlock Holmes, a tall erudite man in a deerstalker hat, confers with Dr. Henry Watson, a smaller mustachioed man carrying a doctor's bag, as they both examine the body.
SHERLOCK (with a sweep of his hand in Jo's direction): Let Miss Adler go, Detective Lestrade. She clearly isn't our killer.
LESTRADE (tightening his grip on Jo): Are you kidding me? We caught her red handed with the knife. What more do you want? I say we lock this dame up and call it a night. I need to get home to Karen and the boys.
SHERLOCK: Use your reasoning, Lestrade. Observe the crime scene, examine the clues and think, man, think! You'll see she couldn't possibly have murdered this man. In fact, my calculations prove conclusively and without a shadow of a doubt that the killer had to be at least 6 feet tall and 250 pounds.
WATSON: That's amazing, Sherlock! How in heaven's name did you deduce that?
SHERLOCK: Elementary, my dear doctor. I simply triangulated the vector of the stab wound with the direction in which the man fell and the height of the surrounding buildings.
Sherlock puts a large pipe in his mouth and surveys his audience.
Jo, still struggling, kicks Lestrade in the shins. He releases her and she rubs her wrists briskly.
JO ADLER (pointing to the body): Not to mention that the guy's blood is pooled all over the pavement but my hands are clean and there's no blood stains on my dress.
SHERLOCK: Uhm, yeah, that too.
Dr. Watson, who’s still examining the body, plucks a long coarse black hair from the dead man’s shattered head with tweezers then observes it with a magnifying glass.
WATSON: I say, Holmes, I’ve found a hair. It’s quite coarse and jet black. Hold on, there’s more….
Watson picks tufts of hair from the dead man’s wound. Sherlock grabs the tweezers with the hair and the magnifying glass. He studies the evidence intently.
SHERLOCK: Ah, yes. As I suspected. These hairs are much too coarse to belong to our victim. No, our killer had to be hairy. Very, very hairy.
Suddenly, a buxom dark-skinned woman of middle-age and dressed in a cream crocheted shawl and yellow bonnet runs up to Sherlock. This is Mrs. Joanna Baker, Sherlock's faithful housekeeper.
SHERLOCK: Why here's steadfast Mrs. Baker! Have you news of yet more evil doings afoot tonight?
MRS. BAKER: We’ve had reports of two more murders. The first on Flower and Dean Street, then a second over on Thrawl Street.
SHERLOCK: Hmm, based on the violence and speed at which these murders are occurring there's only one possible conclusion: the zombie apocalypse has begun!
MRS. BAKER: Or the wild gorilla that escaped from the zoo has gone on a rampage.
SHERLOCK: Exactly my point—the zombie gorilla apocalypse has begun!
DR. WATSON: Astonishing deductive work, Holmes! Your intelligence is second to none. It’s no wonder you cut such a dashing, debonair figure with the ladies. If only I had the same mental acumen as you possess. But alas, I am only a mere mortal, not a giant intellect such as you.
SHERLOCK: Tut tut, my dear Watson. Had you but made the study of zombies your life’s work as I have, you too would possess the knowledge of their infinite variety and the vehemence of their never-ending search for more brains….
At this very moment Jo, Lestrade and Mrs. Baker give blood curdling screams as the prostrate figure on the pavement begins to twitch and jerk.
DR. WATSON: My God, Holmes, that man is a zombie! But how?
SHERLOCK: Elementary! Clearly the gorilla zombie virus has mutated …
Sherlock pulls an axe from under his cape and neatly decapitates the now fully upright zombie as it heads for Mrs. Baker.
SHERLOCK: ...and is now able to jump from gorilla to human. We must hurry, the game’s afoot! But first…
Sherlock produces a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wipes away a drop of blood from Jo Adler’s cheek.
SHERLOCK: Allow me to restore you to your most beauteous self.
JO ADLER and MRS. BAKER (together): Oh, Sherlock! Ever the gentleman!
Lucas sat back, took a swig of his Flying Dog Pale Ale and another drag off one of his special "cigarettes."
He stared at the screen as the power chords of Into Elysium’s death metal symphony, Ozymandias, crashed in the background. This was good stuff, really good.
Though perhaps he should tone down some of the supporting characters. Sherlock was the main draw, after all. But that gorilla zombie apocalypse angle was exactly the right hook he needed to elevate his work.
He took another puff and stared at the screen. Zombies, yeah. Apocalypse, hmmm. Another swig of ale. But maybe not gorillas. They were a bit limited as characters in the dialogue department. Far two-dimensional for his vision. No, he needed much more colorful characters, with a flair for dramatic action and swashbuckling adventure. Swashbuckling. Yeah, that was it!
He jammed a slice of anchovy-pineapple-jalapeno pizza into his mouth and opened a new document.
ZOMBIES OF THE CARIBBEAN
Original screenplay by Lucas Wahl
A burning waterfront town. Smoke rises thick as damp fog in the heavy tropical night. Somewhere in the distance the clatter of blades smashing against each other rings out, as women scream and doors are battered in.
In the harbor, a massive black galleon with the topless figurehead of a pale-skinned mermaid with red eyes and blood streaming down her chin spews ragged crewmen onto the docks. On its mast the stark white and black of the Jolly Roger streams in the wind in silent witness to the turmoil below.
Nearby, Jo, a dark-haired female pirate dressed in crimson breeches and cream colored shirt, struggles with a burly red-eyed adversary.
Suddenly, a tall, lithe, masculine figure swings into view from the billowing mast of a crimson and gold schooner. This is Dreadnaught Lucas, scourge of the Spanish Main. Dressed in over-the-knee boots of the finest black leather, breeches of claret velvet and a snowy white silk shirt, he lands neatly on the dock and addresses the struggle with a sweep of his cutlass in Jo’s direction.
DREADNAUGHT LUCAS: Unhand her, you dirty monster! No miserable undead pirate will ever best a member of Dreadnaught Lucas’ crew!
ZOMBIE PIRATE (tightening his grip on Jo): Arrrrrgggh!
DREADNAUGHT LUCAS: Challenge me, will you? Allow me to show you why I’m known as the most feared pirate captain this side of Tortuga! En guard, zombie scum!
ZOMBIE PIRATE (tossing Jo to the ground and advancing on Dreadnaught Lucas): Brains, arrrrrgggh! Brains, me hearties!
A whole raiding party of pirate zombies follows the first as he attacks Dreadnaught Lucas. Our good captain has not earned his heroic reputation for nothing, though. With a flashing cutlass, he spins, leaps, twirls and lands, over and over again. Mere moments later, the ground is littered with headless zombie bodies.
In the fracas Jo is freed but hits her head and falls to her knees. Up from behind a pile of sea chests, Dr. Morgan comes running up.
DR. MORGAN: Dear heavens, Dreadnaught, never have I seen a man—pirate or no—wield a cutlass with more deadly efficiency or distribute justice more keenly!
DREADNAUGHT LUCAS: Why Dr. Morgan! How good of you to come out of hiding. Now attend to our fearless Jo and remind me of why I kept you alive after I captured your ship.
DR. MORGAN (scurrying over to Jo): Most certainly, Dreadnaught, at once!
DREADNAUGHT LUCAS (wiping cutlass on trousers): That will show the mongrels. I’ll not rest ‘til all of these zombie abominations have met their maker. To me, men, to me!
A buxom dark-skinned woman of middle-age, dressed in bottle green breeches and yellow homespun shirt, runs up to Dreadnaught Lucas, quickly followed by a tall dark-haired man in brown-striped breeches and dingy, torn shirt. These are two of Dreadnaught Lucas’ fiercest fighters, his first mate Reece and his bosun Hanson. Both are brandishing cutlasses.
REECE: At your service, Captain! Let's take that tavern at the end of the quay. Once it's cleared we can set up our headquarters there.
Reece illustrates her words with sweeping gestures as yet more pirate zombies begin to shuffle at them.
REECE: I'll take the three on the right, you take the three on the left and Hanson can come after and fight clean up.
DREADNAUGHT LUCAS (nodding his agreement): Yet another superb attack plan, my fierce Reese. You are indeed my right hand and a warrior of the finest sort, even if you are... ah... you know, kinda a woman.
Dreadnaught shuffles his feet a bit as Reece narrows her eyes at him and growls. The first zombie builds up speed and rushes our group. Both Dreadnaught and Reece attack, slicing him cleanly through the neck and abdomen simultaneously.
HANSON (pointing to the zombie body parts flung about the dock and oozing slimy green fluid): Awwww, you gotta be kidding me. Lookit this mess. Somebody's gonna have to clean that up. Where's that Henry dude?
DR. MORGAN: Here, sir!
Dr. Morgan finishes bandaging Jo's head wound and stands to meet Hanson.
HANSON: Clean this up pronto or I'll split you from stem to stern, you lily-livered....
DREADNAUGHT LUCAS: Enough! Save your ire for the zombies, Hanson. And now, we ATTACK!!!
Dreadnaught runs headlong into the advancing zombie pirates. Screaming at the top of their lungs, Reece and Hanson follow on his heels, cutlasses flashing.
Jo rises from her seat on a sea chest and makes to go after her shipmates. She gets a few wobbly steps, then puts a hand to her wounded head. Dr. Morgan rushes over and adjusts her bandage.
DR. MORGAN: You know, my dear, as your doctor, I must encourage you to rest and regain your strength. There's another tavern in that alley behind you—not that I'm all that familiar with such establishments you understand—but I do suspect there may be some rum there. And honestly, there is no better restorative than good rum, in my medical opinion. Will you allow me to escort you?
He offers her a steadying arm, raises an eyebrow and smiles at Jo, who waves him away emphatically.
JO: Never, doctor! It was only a momentary lapse. My place is fighting by my captain's side and it would take far more than a zombie hoard to separate me from Dreadnaught. He's the finest man I have ever known and I would follow him into the very mouth of Hell!
Oh, man, this was good. Colorful and action packed. It just needed the right kind of soundtrack to highlight the bloodcurdling zombie battles. He relit the remains of his “cigarette” and took a long drag, surveyed the glowing monitor. Maybe something in the Baz Luhrmann vein. A period piece with updated music would have that awesome surreal aspect.
Hmmmm, metal? Nope, too predictable. Country? Certainly unexpected, but maybe too vanilla. After all, his work was cutting edge, the music had to reflect his cinematic vision as well as the action. And his vision was razor sharp and edgy.
Edgy, hmm. Rap! Yeah, yeah. A zombie pirate movie with a rap soundtrack. Lucas nodded his head and took another swig of ale, stuffed an entire Entenmann’s honey bun into his mouth. Yeah, rap would totally rock. A rap soundtrack would bring some gritty reality to the pirate horror genre.
He chewed slowly on the honey bun and continued nodding at the screen. Yeah, reality, man. That was it. Cinéma vérité and all that. Gritty, dirty reality. Strong men and sexy women.
Sex! That’s what this was missing. His storyline needed some erotica to heighten the emotional experience for his audience. Oh yeah, he was onto something now….
FIFTY SHADES OF ZOMBIES
Original screenplay by Lucas Wahl
It's hot in the morgue. So hot. The air is thick with the heat of anticipation... and lust.
Detective Anastasia Martinez, a dark-haired beauty with olive skin is standing, backed up against the rows of stainless steel doors to the cold storage compartments.
In front of her paces a tall man, dapper, elegant. Dressed in a silver grey suit, smoke-colored shirt and charcoal tie, this is Mr. Lucas Wahl, the incredibly handsome, brilliant M.E., billionaire, international playboy... and zombie hunter.
The sounds of a battle rage somewhere outside this room. But in here the only battles raging are in their bodies... and their hearts.
MR. WAHL: Are you sure, Detective Martinez? I need you to be sure. My offer is for a lifetime commitment and once accepted, you can never refuse me again.
Anastasia puts her arm out to stop his pacing. She is clearly aroused and intrigued by the growling intensity of this man.
ANASTASIA MARTINEZ: Yes, Mr. Wahl, I am sure. I want to be yours. I NEED to be yours! Never before has a man awakened my inner goddess with such fierce desire!
MR. WAHL (undoing his tie and backing Anastasia up even further): And you understand that I am... not like other men? That I am demanding and my tastes are... singular?
Mr. Wahl pulls Anastasia's arm up and begins to bind it with his tie to the handle of one of the cold storage units.
Suddenly the main door opens with a bang and in rushes Henry Morgan, Mr. Wahl's faithful assistant. An average-looking man with dark, curly hair, he's a smart enough fellow and, if he pays close attention to Mr. Wahl, has the makings of a fine M.E. someday.
MR. WAHL: Henry! Haven't I told you never to disturb me when I'm having a... private conversation?
HENRY: Oh yes, I know, sir. I am so sorry. It's just that you're needed urgently, sir. The zombies are gaining ground. Reece and Hanson are holding them off as best they can, but you know, sir, they don't have your fighting skills or encyclopedic zombie knowledge.
ANASTASIA MARTINEZ: It's true, Mr. Wahl. Though my body burns for you, it would be selfish of me to hold you here. No, you must go! Hanson and Reece are no match for that zombie hoard. You are our only hope!
MR. WAHL (sighing): You're right, of course, my dear. Once again I must put the greater good before my own needs.
Lucas calmly opens a cold storage drawer and extracts his trusty axe and flamethrower, which he lights carefully.
As his back is turned two figures suddenly burst through the door. The first is a buxom dark-skinned woman of middle age, the second a tall dark-haired man. These are Lt. Reece and Detective Hanson, second only to Mr. Wahl in their zombie-hunting zeal.
At the moment, though, they are looking the worse for wear. Reece's normally coifed hair is disheveled, blood drips down her arm, which is limply holding an axe. Hanson's clothes are torn, his face scratched. He holds pistols in both hands.
Surprised, Lucas turns with the flamethrower on low. Hanson's hair begins to smoke.
HANSON: You singed my hair!
MR. WAHL: Yeah, uhm, sorry about that.
Lucas turns off the flamethrower while Reece helps Hanson pat out his hair.
MR. WAHL: But you know, Detective Hanson, those guns are useless against these zombies. No, you need weapons that are much more... visceral.
Lucas hoists the axe and flamethrower.
MR. WAHL (said with obvious relish): That's why I use these! I like to get into the thick of things and get my hands dirty! And now, stand back. I'd hate for one of you to get in my way during the heat of my fighting rage.
As Lucas heads for the door, ready for battle, Anastasia Martinez runs over and throws her arms around his neck.
ANASTASIA MARTINEZ: Oh, Mr. Wahl, thank God for you! If anyone can save us, you can. Now go, crush that zombie hoard. But be safe, my love, for when you return I want you to be the father of my children!
Lucas blinked at the words on the screen in the silence of his apartment. His playlist had long since ended, but he'd been too caught up in his story to notice. Now his head bobbed—once, twice, three times—before falling gently backwards. His body sank in his chair. His long limbs sagged. As sleep overtook him, he snored gently, blowing uneaten crumbs of Sweet Chili Doritos from his mouth.
And in his dreams, his stories continued.