Post by r2k on Jan 11, 2005 23:10:08 GMT -5
This one took a while. I had to do a little research. Forgive the beatnik slang in the flashbacks. It is pretty bad. I also could not find enough songs to fill in the flashbacks. Also, I tried to write some twisted poems. Like I have stated in the past, in the hands of a professional writer, this would be better. I can see why they don’t have as many cases as old as these. They are hard to do.
Goodbye Cruel World
June 13, 1956
(In a coffee house in Philadelphia, a poetry reading is going on in the backroom. A young man is reading a poem he has written.)
Jeff: This cold cruel world has nothing I need
For its sole purpose is to make me bleed
I find no reason to stay here in this cold cruel world
For it tries to tempt me with all of its greed.
(The audience applauses as the man smiles a little and walks off the stage. He looks somewhat unhappy. He sits down at a table as the poetry reading takes a break. A young woman sits down with him.)
Joanna: Jeff, that was great. You are so deep. Your poetry speaks to me in ways you’ll never understand.
Jeff: What good does it do? It reaches us. We’ve already been reached. Others need to know. Besides, I can’t read my real poems.
Joanna: You’ll get in trouble. The police are already looking for you. You’ve got to be careful.
Jeff: I can’t even read the poems I want to read. Too offensive for the common decency. Decent people don’t even come in here. They’re too afraid.
Joanna: Be patient, Jeff. The world will see our way soon. They are lost now. Lost in their ambitions. It takes time.
Jeff: Time we don’t have. We’re on the brink of nuclear annihilation and the middle class people living in their safe suburban homes don’t seem to care. If we wait any longer, there won’t be a world to reach.
(Another man comes over.)
Scott: Daddy ‘O, great poetry. You are an inspiration to us all.
Jeff: Thanks.
Joanna: Scott. Please help Jeff. He’s a little upset.
Scott: About what?
Jeff: People aren’t getting it, man. I feel like this world is hopeless.
Scott: People are misguided. They aren’t enlightened like we are. Give it time, Jeff. We know the way and soon more will see things the way we do. Well, I better go. It’s my turn to read.
(Scott goes up to read his poetry.)
(Later. The coffee house is closed. A waiter is cleaning up in the main room. The back room is closed. Inside the back room, Jeff is sitting in a chair. He has a knife wound in his chest. There is no murder weapon present. A trail of blood has dripped out of his mouth. He has been dead a while. In the cold case room, a box is being put away.)
J. Billings 1956
RETURN TO PRESENT
(Lily is sitting at her desk with Scotty. She is typing up some paperwork. Vera walks up to them both.)
Vera: Hey you two. Got another one for you.
Scotty: What’s the job?
Vera: Not sure. This came in the mail.
Lily: What is it?
Vera: A book.
Scotty: We can see that.
Lily: What’s in it?
Vera: Poems
Lily: Sweet.
Vera: I don’t think so. You haven’t read such filth in your life. This poetry was written by a beatnik.
Scotty: A beatnik.
Lily: You know, Scotty. Poetry Readings, coffee houses. Movement that began in the late ‘40s. Started to take hold in the ‘50s. Paved the way for the hippie movement of the ‘60s.
(Stillman joins the conversation.)
Stillman: Beatnik’s were a troublesome bunch. Broke dozens of laws, rejected middle class life. Pretty much hated everything a normal person likes.
Scotty: How do you know so much about them?
Stillman: I arrested a few in my day. In the ‘60s of course.
Vera: Of course.
Lily: There’s a note stuck in here in the inside front.
(Lily reads the note.)
Read his poems. For within them you will find that he was indeed tortured, just not the way everyone thinks. Be warned. You must read from front to back. Every detail you need is located in these pages. His name was Jeff Billings. These poems are his life and death.
(She then goes glances at some of the poems.)
Lily: Some of the poems are kind of sweet. (Turns the page.) Ooooogh.
Vera: Spoke too soon.
Scotty: Riddle me this, Riddle me that.
Vera: Whoever sent this is a big old nut.
Lily: That didn’t rhyme, Vera.
OPENING CREDITS
Goodbye Cruel World
June 13, 1956
(In a coffee house in Philadelphia, a poetry reading is going on in the backroom. A young man is reading a poem he has written.)
Jeff: This cold cruel world has nothing I need
For its sole purpose is to make me bleed
I find no reason to stay here in this cold cruel world
For it tries to tempt me with all of its greed.
(The audience applauses as the man smiles a little and walks off the stage. He looks somewhat unhappy. He sits down at a table as the poetry reading takes a break. A young woman sits down with him.)
Joanna: Jeff, that was great. You are so deep. Your poetry speaks to me in ways you’ll never understand.
Jeff: What good does it do? It reaches us. We’ve already been reached. Others need to know. Besides, I can’t read my real poems.
Joanna: You’ll get in trouble. The police are already looking for you. You’ve got to be careful.
Jeff: I can’t even read the poems I want to read. Too offensive for the common decency. Decent people don’t even come in here. They’re too afraid.
Joanna: Be patient, Jeff. The world will see our way soon. They are lost now. Lost in their ambitions. It takes time.
Jeff: Time we don’t have. We’re on the brink of nuclear annihilation and the middle class people living in their safe suburban homes don’t seem to care. If we wait any longer, there won’t be a world to reach.
(Another man comes over.)
Scott: Daddy ‘O, great poetry. You are an inspiration to us all.
Jeff: Thanks.
Joanna: Scott. Please help Jeff. He’s a little upset.
Scott: About what?
Jeff: People aren’t getting it, man. I feel like this world is hopeless.
Scott: People are misguided. They aren’t enlightened like we are. Give it time, Jeff. We know the way and soon more will see things the way we do. Well, I better go. It’s my turn to read.
(Scott goes up to read his poetry.)
(Later. The coffee house is closed. A waiter is cleaning up in the main room. The back room is closed. Inside the back room, Jeff is sitting in a chair. He has a knife wound in his chest. There is no murder weapon present. A trail of blood has dripped out of his mouth. He has been dead a while. In the cold case room, a box is being put away.)
J. Billings 1956
RETURN TO PRESENT
(Lily is sitting at her desk with Scotty. She is typing up some paperwork. Vera walks up to them both.)
Vera: Hey you two. Got another one for you.
Scotty: What’s the job?
Vera: Not sure. This came in the mail.
Lily: What is it?
Vera: A book.
Scotty: We can see that.
Lily: What’s in it?
Vera: Poems
Lily: Sweet.
Vera: I don’t think so. You haven’t read such filth in your life. This poetry was written by a beatnik.
Scotty: A beatnik.
Lily: You know, Scotty. Poetry Readings, coffee houses. Movement that began in the late ‘40s. Started to take hold in the ‘50s. Paved the way for the hippie movement of the ‘60s.
(Stillman joins the conversation.)
Stillman: Beatnik’s were a troublesome bunch. Broke dozens of laws, rejected middle class life. Pretty much hated everything a normal person likes.
Scotty: How do you know so much about them?
Stillman: I arrested a few in my day. In the ‘60s of course.
Vera: Of course.
Lily: There’s a note stuck in here in the inside front.
(Lily reads the note.)
Read his poems. For within them you will find that he was indeed tortured, just not the way everyone thinks. Be warned. You must read from front to back. Every detail you need is located in these pages. His name was Jeff Billings. These poems are his life and death.
(She then goes glances at some of the poems.)
Lily: Some of the poems are kind of sweet. (Turns the page.) Ooooogh.
Vera: Spoke too soon.
Scotty: Riddle me this, Riddle me that.
Vera: Whoever sent this is a big old nut.
Lily: That didn’t rhyme, Vera.
OPENING CREDITS