I originally started writing this as a script for a Canadian tv series/comic, and I still want to pitch is as both. However, I couldn’t figure out where to go with the story. I am hoping that by working on it in here, I’ll be able to find my way again.
I’m not sure how long this is going to be, but if history has taught us anything, a trilogy is a good bet.
I don’t like violence, but violence sure as hell likes me.
I also watch too many gangster films.
This is my story. In someone else’s words for some reason…
It’s that transitional time between late afternoon and early evening. Long shadows are falling over this dark alley, making it seem much later than it really is.
A burly ruffian, late 20s, is going through the contents of an ‘old lady’ purse on the hood of a stripped El Camino. He tosses anything that doesn’t interest him. He pulls out a pair of fur-covered handcuffs and stares at them.
“Dude… She was sixty.”
Finally he finds the wallet he was searching for. As he counts the money he hears a strange sound. He looks around for a second but sees nothing. He goes back to counting.
A male voice interrupts, “Your purse doesn’t match your shoes. Or belt.”
“Keep moving, friend. This isn’t any of your concern.” Ruffian doesn’t even look up.
The male voice continues, “That’s never really stopped me before.”
The Ruffian looks up. He is surprised. Then he stifles a giggle.
“Well, well, well. I thought you retired.”
“Nope. And even if I had, I’d still come back to kick the ass of a punk like you.” The male voice persists.
The Ruffian puts down the purse and saunters over towards the newcomer.
“You? You are going to kick my ass? Dressed like that?”
“I don’t see what’s so funny.”
We now see, well, what IS so funny…
The Male Voice belongs to a man dressed in a red spandex tights/suit deal, with a white maple leaf in the middle of his chest. It also features a hood that comes around and covers the top half of his face.
He is… MANada.
Canada’s greatest ever super hero. He’s the Wayne Gretzky of crime fighting. He’s the Tragically Hip of defending the common man. He’s the Howie Mandel of — Well, you get the picture.
“Old man, your time has come and gone. You had your fifteen minutes, MANada. Or WOMANada.” The ruffian keeps giggling.
Ruffian continues, “What’s with that name anyway? MANada? It doesn’t even make sense. I’ve never heard of Man Super, Man Bat, or even Man Aqua.”
“I was trying to be original…”
“And your enemies?”
“Arch enemies…” MANada corrects him.
“‘The Nasty Newfie?’ The guy from Calgary… Oh, ‘The Oil Baron.'”
“He’s a slippery one.” MANada grins.
“And the puns! Sweet lord, the puns.”
“That’s a hero staple…,” MANada says defensively.
“Dude, you are a Much More Music hero in a Much Music world. Just look at that costume.”
“What’s wrong with my costume?” MANada looks down.
“Oh nothing… If you are riding a luge in the Olympics. Besides, it makes you look like you have a small ‘package.'”
“Hey, it’s cold and — Shut up!”
MANada punches the Ruffian in the jaw and knocks him out cold. Then he looks down at his ‘package.’
He grabs the furry handcuffs and cuffs the Ruffian to the car door frame. He looks around the alley — proud of what he’s done. He checks his watch.
He takes off running down the alley with everything he has. He stops when he reaches a Ford Escape. (Hybrid, baby.) He looks around to make sure he’s alone, then removes his mask. He is…
Joey Horton, late 30s, tall and dark. He actually looks like Paul Gross, of “Due South” fame.
Joey pulls clothes out of his car and puts them on over his suit.
Joey jumps in the car – still fixing his collar – and puts the keys in the ignition.
The Ford Escape purrs to life and peels out and down the alley.
Joey steers the car out into traffic. He is driving like a mad man. He weaves in and out and around other vehicles.
Joey is becoming increasingly stressed. He looks at his watch. He is white-knuckling the steering wheel.
“Come on. Come on!”
The Ford has run right smack dab into the middle of rush hour traffic.
Joey beats his head on the steering wheel.
Horns honk. Cars remain mostly at a standstill. More horns honk.
Joey leans back in his seat. His radio is on and he starts singing along loudly to Luba’s “Every Time I See Your Picture I Cry.”
Every time I see your picture I cry.
And I try to get on over you one more time, because…
Every time I see your picture I cry.
Oh I cryyyyyy.
Traffic finally begins moving.
Joey’s Ford comes zipping into the parking lot. He narrowly misses an old lady.
Joey yells out his window, “Sorry!”
She scowls and shakes her old lady fist at him.
Joey barely has the car parked when he jumps out and dashes for the front door of the building — straightening his tie as he runs.
He bounds up the front steps and through the door.
The elevator doors open and Joey is once again running down the hall. He stops at the final door. He pauses momentarily to fix his hair, before opening the door and entering.
As the door closes, we see that this is the office of “Dr. Sally Wexler – Relationship Therapist.”
Joey rushes in, flashing a sheepish grin to Dr. Wexler — mid 40s, attractive and very soccer mom-esque.
“Dr. Wexler, I’m so sorry. Something came up.”
A female scoffs nearby. Joey turns to face his wife, Stephanie Horton, mid-30s, and stunning. She is very well dressed and made-up. She looks like someone whose clothes would be afraid to wrinkle on her.
Joey turns to his wife, “Sweetie, I’m sorry. It’s just –“
Dr. Wexler interrupts him, “It’s okay, Joseph. Please take a seat. (He does.) Because its your first visit, I’ll quickly lay down some ground rules, okay? So, this is a ‘safe zone.’ Stephanie, do you want to start? And r
emember that we are all on the same team. No personal attacks.”
Stephanie sits up straight, clears her throat, “He’s impotent!!!”
Joey slumps forward and puts his head in his hands.