Gummi Hendrixx, Ep. 2THE GROOVY ADVENTURES OF GUMMI HENDRIXX: EPISODE TWO
GUMMI and ARTIE (the kid with the iPod in page 2 of episode one) sitting in an enchanted forest. GUMMI is helping ARTIE practice his guitar-playing. The EMO EMU stands nearby, chilling or whatever. Melody comes from ARTIE's guitar as he plays.
GUMMI: "Hey, there, Artie! That tune's really groovin'!"
ARTIE (flattered): "Heh, thanks."
GUMMI: "Now why dontcha try one o' them crazy riffs I was tellin' ya 'bout."
ARTIE: "A riff? Well, okay... I guess I could try."
GUMMI: "Yeah, man! That's tha spirit!!"
ARTIE plays his guitar, but the music is visibly broken and awkward. Comics don't have audio so be creative.
GUMMI: "Now, hold on, brother. Yer fingers are all in tha right places, but your heart ain't."
ARTIE: "My... heart?"
GUMMI: "Yeah! If you wanna riff, you gotta learn ta move the strings wit' yer heart 'n' soul."
ARTIE starts plucking the strings.
ARTIE: "...with heart and soul.
Goldie's Amazing JourneyPage 1>>
Ron is a young, white, American male adult. Jet black hair, some facial hair, average size and clothes... pretty average, really, besides that he's sort of a loser. He's reclining on a couch, slouching, bored out of his mind. He's in his house, or what would constitute the bare minimum of a house. It's a place to call home, but not much more than that. The walls are bare aside from their gruesome battle-scars caused by the previous owners doing who-knows-what. The couch isn't in much better shape. This is what it's like to be enough of a failure that an incredible and miraculous event can turn Ron's life completely around.
1, front-view: Ron gazes sleepily at the TV screen, remote in hand.
A voice beams from the television set:
"And now, it'sa time to choppa the tomato!!"
2, profile: Uninterested, he presses a button, changing the channel and making a little clicking noise.
3, front view: same as before.
"That's right, *BEEP*, you stole my *BEEP* lawn
Orange Revolution v2.0, Ch. 11>>
1.1: Television-shaped panel.
A busy, cluttered, and homogenous array of Skippy embryos in bottles moving up, down, and around through a series of conveyor belts.
1.2: Four televisions, arranged 2x2.
Each television has similar content to the television in 1.1.
Front-view of a Skippy sitting and watching the monitors, sleepy and completely bored out of his mind.
Large panel. Wide-view, rear, showing the Skippy sitting in front of a large wall completely covered in television screens, each showing various similar sections of the embryonic belts.
Skippy (front view, excited): "Oh, snap! Flying Pigs is starting soon!!"
Group of TV's on the wall. All are of more embryonic belts, while one is displaying the Flying Pig Show, which is basically just two flying pigs being goofy.
Pig 1: "Oink!"
Pig 2: "Hey! You sound just like a pig!!"
Skippy (amused): "It's funny because it's really a pig saying it!! I love it!!"
2.3: Another shot of
Orange Revolution, Ch. 2: BurnPage 22>>
Where Ch1 took place at night, Ch2 takes place during the day. As such, the lighting should generally be brighter. Not exactly sunshine-y, but there's so much pollution in the world of OR that the sky is never more than a dismal gray.
Orangenius has a pretty sadistic, almost demonic, mood here. Probably some of it (or a lot of it) is him taking his anger at losing to Limeboy out on the defenseless Skippies.
1: Orangenius holding up a car over his head, obscured by its shadow, perhaps in an exaggerated way. A Skippy cowers in fear in the foreground.
[This world rejects me.]
[This world threw me away.]
2: He violently hurls the car, crushing the cowering Skippy and revealing the horrified Skippy passengers inside as they're also killed by the impact.
[This world NEVER GAVE ME A CHANCE.] [[note: all capitalized narration indicated an increasing text size, which you won't have to worry about since you don't do the lettering. I just like to be thorough.]
[This world's gonna hafta
Orange Revolution, Ch. 1: The AssassinUrban area, nighttime.
Panel 1- [You hear that?] [I don't either] ['cause there's nothing there to
Scene is a dark and dirty urban street, littered with battered corpses of
Skippies. A streetlight lays on the ground, snapped in half. A car is
overturned on its side. Broken glass from shattered windows litters the
Panel 2- [I still wear headphones with music blasting in my ears] [to drown
out the voices.] [I used to scream so I didn't have to listen.]
More destruction, and closer-up. We're getting closer to the source.
Panel 3- [Until, those voices:] [they could cut through concrete] [ten feet
We see the shadowy outline of Orangenius in the distance, holding up a
Skippy. Other Skippies are either dead or running around in panic.
Panel 4- ['cause they come from the inside now.]
Close-up of Orangenius (still a shadowy outline) destroying a Skippy
(possibly by ramming his knee upwards, or maybe ripping him in half with his
hands) and splattering its blood upward
LightsI follow the red lights. I see billions of little lights. They look like Christmas lights. Davis says to only follow the red lights. Davis says the other lights are bad lights. Davis says I'm happy when I follow the red lights, because I smile.
Davis says not to remember how long I've been following the red lights. Davis says I wouldn't follow the red lights anymore if I knew how long I've been doing it. I don't remember how long I've been following the red lights. I don't remember much about anything. Davis says I like Davis. I like Davis.
Davis says he has a friend named Brown. Davis has a friend named Brown. Davis says Brown used to follow the red lights. Davis says Brown doesn't follow the red lights anymore. Davis says Brown can't see any lights anymore. Davis says Brown is blind. Davis says Brown likes Davis. Davis says I like Brown.
I like Brown.
When I follow the red lights, I see people covered in red lights. Davis says to hurt the people covered in red lights. Davis says red
The Life of an ArtistThis is the story of how I became a famous painter. I thought the way it happened was kind of strange so I'll tell you about it.
I've always loved to paint. When I was a kid, I would get home from school, lock myself in my room, and create. I used a set of paints my grandfather gave me. He once was an artist, too, but he joined the Army and killed a few people, and said he couldn't focus enough anymore to make anything decent.
Anyway, I used to lock myself in my room and paint all day and night and go to sleep in the early hours of the morning knowing that I had made something beautiful. It was like this most nights. I didn't get much sleep, but how could my parents object when I was bringing in so much prize money? I had already won three scholarships.
I had obtained a reputation as sort of a "child prodigy" as they called it in the art magazines. I took art classes in college. Some of my stuff was put in museums, which made me pretty happy. I graduated, got my paints and brushes, sat
DaydreamWith the pillars of fume rising, the corny radio talk-show host talking, the bagel too stale and coffee too weak, this isn't my first choice of places to be. "Absolutely not," says the Mother and I think, it's not that bad. I could be at a zoo cleaning up after smelly, dirty, stupid animals -- no, actually, I could be one of the animals, in some little fake world, my fake world -- and everyone that points and watches, safe in their anti-ozone anti-animal cars, would be dead in an instant if they crossed the line into my domain. "There's no way I'll let you skip with the grades you had in your progress reports." That's the Mother speaking. These words, mixed up with the phony commercials on the radio, are not what I want to hear. I think about the zoo, and I'm really more like the guy selling popcorn to fat kids, already fiddling with his watch and he still has eight hours left to go. I'm saying, "Yeah, okay." I'm saying, "Sure." Talk-shows and commercials, it's easy to talk you're not
The Wheels on the BusSTOP
I drive the short bus. I'm not supposed to call it that, but that's what it is, and I'm not gonna call it something it isn't. I used to ride it, but now I drive it. Everyone on the bus is here for a reason. Everyone on the bus is special in their own way.
The kid that sits behind me is Anthony. Anthony is angry because his parents beat him. He kicks my chair to make me angry, and it works. He's kicking it right now. I want to beat him, too, like his parents do, only worse, much worse. I want that seat to be drenched in blood, coming from the orifices of that little shit's face as I pound his skull until he finally stops breathing. Then I'll hang his legs from the ceiling, and no one will ever sit in the seat behind me again. But I don't do those things...
I don't because the seat behind me doesn't get crushed in the crash, and Anthony will grow up and save a child from a burning building. Anthony's wife stabs him to death.
In the seat next to Anthony is Christopher. Christopher