User:Spuds1/UnScripts:When A Moron Calls
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“I heartily endorse this event or product”
An UnScript by Spuds1 writing as Einstein Q. Knickerbocker Jr
ACT I: The Prelude
A lounge room. A man (Simon) sits on the couch watching TV. The phone rings.
SIMON: (Picking up the phone) Hello
The caller's voice is deep and guttural.
SIMON: Who is this?
CALLER: Wouldn't you like to know?
SIMON: Well...Yes. Yes I would.
A painfully long pause.
CALLER: Well, um, i'd rather not say.
SIMON: Why not?
CALLER: Well, um, you see, it's...um, I kind of, want to , you know, kill you, i mean, if that's alright.
SIMON: Well, to be honest, this really isn't a good time for me. I've got friends coming around soon for a bit of a dinner party.
CALLER: Oh. Oh dear. Not going my way at all is it?
SIMON: No, quite.
CALLER: I couldn't just kill you a little bit could I?
SIMON: I don't think that would work. I mean i'd still be dead wouldn't I?
CALLER: Yes, I, uh, suppose you would. Would it be that bad though?
SIMON: Indeed it would. What kind of host would I be if I was dead when my guests turned up? That would be the height of rudeness.
CALLER: Couldn't you cancel?
SIMON: Well, it'd be a bit late notice, but I suppose I could do that.
CALLER: Good, that's settled then.
SIMON: Okay then. Well, how do envisage killing me?
SIMON: Stabbing? That's a bit cliched isn't it? Couldn't you try something more creative?
CALLER: Yes, I suppose so, it's just bought this new knife and, well...
SIMON: Oh, well in that case, stabbing by all means.
CALLER: Good. I'm glad we've got that settled. I'll be around soon.
SIMON: Okay then, bye.
ACT II: The Beginning Of The End
SIMON: (On phone) ...and so I'm going to have to cancel tonight's soiree. Very sorry about that, but it couldn't be helped, bloody pyscho killers, they're worse than telemarketers. Anyway, I have to go now, call wating. Okay. See you in the afterlife.
Simon switches to the other line.
SIMON: Hello? Oh it's you. Are you at the house yet?
CALLER: Actually, I'm at the gate. I can't seem to get it open.
SIMON: Yes, trickly little bugger, that gate. You have to lift then push.
CALLER: (Grunting) Okay...nearly...not quite...got it! Okay I'm heading to the front door now.
SIMON: Front door's locked. Try the back.
ACT III: Death Wears A Bedsheet
The Caller, wearing a bedsheet over his head, enters the lounge room.
CALLER: Okay, ready?
SIMON: Yes, yes.
CALLER: Do you want to say any final words?
SIMON: Um, oh, ah, I'm not really good at speeches, maybe just forget about it.
The caller raises his knife.
CALLER: Here I go.
SIMON: Okay (inhales deeply) go.
The caller stabs Simon.
SIMON: Oh, oh my that stings. That's gonna hurt tomorrow...(slaps himself on the forehead) Oh, idiot.
CALLER: I did it. I actually did it! Thank you Mr Jones.
SIMON: (In great pain) What? Mr Jones? My name isn't Mr Jones.
CALLER: It isn't? (Examines mobile phone) Oh my good lord! I dialled the wrong number.
SIMON: (Struggling to speak) Oh...that's...just...hil...ari...ous.
CALLER: I'm most dreadfully sorry.
SIMON: (Dying) Think...nothing...of...it. (Slumps forward, dead)
CALLER: Fucking cell phones.