From the mind of Welvyn Z Porter

Mimic

Mimic

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-Transcript-
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You know, this isn’t where I pictured my life twenty years ago.

I’m unemployed, living in a car, and shoving my way through the mall on…

…Christmas Eve. Ugh, out of all the days.

I guess it’s my fault for not doing my shopping earlier, huh?

After all, you know what they say about the early bird?

It doesn’t have a drinking problem.

Besides I’m strapped for cash. I was going to do my Christmas shopping the week of refunds.

But god forbid my bitch ex-wife SUSAN, show ANY accommodation.

I mean after all, not only did that she sleep with Ron, the family accountant!

But somehow got the kids, the house, and half my crap in the settlement.

At least the kids still love me.

That’s all that matters.

They’re good kids too. Don’t take after their mother or father at all.

Must be the private school.

Or something they’re watching on TV.

Which is why they deserve nice things for the holidays, whether dead beat dad can afford them or not.

And since it’s “drop the present off now because we’re not telling the kids Santa was late again this year.”

I guess I gotta swing something.

Anything.

So, I’m standing in “Game – Stop”.

The people in here are savage, grabbing at things like the world’s ending.

Shelves are almost completely empty.

I get that pit in my stomach that tells me dear old dad fucked up again.

But it doesn’t hurt to ask.

“Hey, I’m looking for the new PlayStation.”

“Yeah, you and everybody else in the city, bubby. We’re sold out.”

Damn it, that kinda hurt.

“Can I interest you in a powerup rewards card?”

Well, what the hell now?

That’s when in the corner of my eyes I spot the employee’s only door swing open.

And there one is. Right under a big red sign that says “returns”.

Doesn’t look damaged, box is okay.

The employees look burnt out, shouldn’t be hard to slip away.

Just need a little distraction.

(Child is pushed, slamming into a shelf they being to cry.)

The brat has a set of pipes like an alarm system.

Everyone’s attention is instantly on the kid.

So, I walk in the back like I belong there.

Shove the box under my arm.

And walk out of the store with the kid still milking it for the attention.

Now not only do I have a home-run present for under the tree, but I didn’t even have to spend my liquor money to get it.

Happy holidays to me.

Tis the season, am I right?

Time to go and tell the kids Santa got my address by accident.

Can’t wait to see them smile.

It hasn’t always been like this.

Believe it or not, I used to be a successful hedge fund manager.

And not to have my dick in my hand or anything but…

…on my A-game… it was like I was psychic.

Knocking the ball out the park each time I came up to bat!

Can’t exactly remember if I started drinking before or after I lost my touch.

It was definitely before I lost EVERY single penny.

(Animalistic noises.)

What the hell?

What was that noise?

(Animalistic noises.)

There, there it is again!

I glance around in the back, but nothing pops out at me.

Might be rats.

Maybe it’s the firewater.

Either way…

I think it stopped.

My phone’s blinking.

It says I have one missed call and a voicemail from my beloved Susan.

I wonder what she has to say.

“Harvey, it’s Susan.”

No shit.

 “Listen change of plans. We’re leaving early to Ron’s parents. The kids are staying with them, and Ron and I are going on vacation to the tropics. We won’t be back until after New Year’s.”

Mexico? Must be nice this time of year. Hope you don’t get kidnapped.

“I’m just calling to say, don’t bother dropping by, we don’t have time, I already told the kids you’re busy.”

You bitch!

“Oh, and Harvey, like I said last time. I don’t feel like making up some story about Santa Clause being late with some of the presents this year. So just forget about getting them anything.”

 Wow.

“Is that everything? What? Ah, Ron says you should consider calling him about your taxes later. The divorce might make things, complicated. Happy holidays!”

Well then. I’m at a loss for words.

Right as I’m pulling up too.

(Exits car and begins walking.)

What really is the point?

I’ve got nothing.

My bank accounts are empty.

Debt collectors are looking for me like sharks.  

Every time I start to sober up, I feel like blowing my fucking brains out.

And she’s doing everything to poison the well with my relationship to my kids.

The last thing keeping me sane in this world.

What else does a man have to lose?

Crows…

They’re bad luck or something, right?

Can’t get any worse.

(Sound of a rock breaking window.)

(Parrots squawking.)

Oh god, I forgot about those dumb birds.

Better do this quick.

First things first. My gift is going under that damn tree.

There.

Since I’m already here, I should do some remodeling!

(Sounds of house being tossed.)

How’s this for “a change of plans”, Susan!

Fuck!

Quiet!

(Birds go silent.)

That’s right.

If I’m going to jail, I might as well give you a mess to clean.

Not that you’ve ever cleaned anything in your life!

Now, where’s the bedroom.

Upstairs?

I wonder if you still keep cash tucked away with your panties.

Might be able to at least buy some nice liquor before I get locked up.

Let’s see.

Wait a second, wait a second, what do we have here?

(Vibrator buzzes.)

Well, well, Ron, she’s hard to please now, isn’t she?

I could have told you that, buddy!

Come on, come on.

Bingo!

10, 20, 40, 60, 110!

Not bad.

Gonna get some nice booze with this.

(Single bird squawks in distress.)

What the hell is wrong with that bird?

I have to see if can shut the thing up somehow.

I get downstairs and see one of the parrots cowering in the corner of its cage…

…while the second one remains perfectly still.

Hey Buddy.

You, okay?

Hello?

(Sounds of cage being rattled.)

Rattling the cage does nothing.

The one bird just stares dead ahead with a glossed-over expression, motionless.

What’s wrong with your friend?

(One parrot growls.)

Whoa there.

Polly no likey?

Huh.

Maybe it’s sick?

Good riddance.

Annoying little shhhhh…

Wait a minute.

Where the hell’s the gift?

I glance at the tree.

I swear I left the box right there at the base.

But somehow it’s gone. There’s nothing.

(Wings flutter.)

The flutter of wings causes me to turn back towards the cage.

It sways around empty, the little door wide open.

Before the thoughts finish processing in my drunk head.

The cupboard begins to rattle.

And out pops a single ceramic cup…

…falling to the floor.

But strangely, didn’t shatter.

Must have been at least a 6-foot drop onto a hard surface.

But I walk over to pick it up and…

Huh… not a mark.

For a second, I get a feeling this is a sign I should probably brew some coffee.

Maybe sober up.

Maybe find that present…

And maybe clean some of this mess up.

Nah.

I put the cup away.

Just as I close the cupboard, I hear dishes clanking around inside.

I open the doors back up again to find all the cups missing…

…except for the one I just put back.

What on god’s green earth?

On second thought, coffee sounds nice.

I put the stove on and start boiling some water.

Where the hell did I put that present?

Did my drunk ass take it upstairs?

No… I don’t think so…

Huh.

The kettle starts to sing.

I lift it to the mug and start to pour the scolding water in when suddenly I hear the same sound I heard in the car.

(Animalistic noises.)

Now, crazy as it sounds, the cup begins to shift around in my hand like play dough…

My immediate thought is it’s melting.

But then it wiggles its way out of my grip and hops onto the floor.

Its contours malleable like a lava lamp as it struggles to keep the shape of a cup.

Shaking the hot water off like a dog, it screeches that gremlinish sound, and skitters into the basement.

I need to quit drinking.

(Takes shot from flask.)

Rolling pin at hand, I make my way downstairs after the creature.

A million thoughts run through my mind.

What the hell is that thing?

Did it turn into that cup?

What did it do with the other cups?

Can it transform into anything?

Jesus Christ. It ate the birds.

That means…

It could be anything down here.

(Smash.)

Nope.

(Smacks.)

Nah.

(Crash.)

Not that.

A bucket rolls out from under one of the shelves.

Well, hello there.

Not very good at hiding are we.

I lift the rolling pin overhead and…

(Crack.)

Huh, that wasn’t it either.

Out of nowhere, a soccer ball nails me in the face.

(Thud.)

It socks me so hard it knocks my fake tooth out.

Takes a second for the ringing to stop.

Then ricocheting off the floor the ball turns midair and comes flying at me a second time.

Not so fast.

I wind up and swing.

(Thud.)

Strike.

Smashes into my head again.

My vision doubles, I start feeling nauseous.

What are the symptoms of a concussion?

No time to think, it starts to boomerang around for thirds.

But this time I smack the bastard clear across the basement.

I hear it wail as it crashes against a tool-shelf.

Watching it writhe around feels satisfying.

That’s when I witness it shifting.

The soccer ball loses all its color and begins separating into shapes which rise and fall.

Wobbling around.

Suddenly its gelatinous body splits open, and in the gap reveals spiraling lines of teeth.

Its shapes aren’t of this earth.

It doesn’t match anything I’ve ever seen anywhere.

Then it springs at a nearby paint roller…

Shoving it in its mouth…

Eating it…?

But also…

Becoming it…

Luckily the roller’s softer than the ball.

(Light smacking.)

Ow, ow, ow.

After batting at me a couple times, it retreats, this time swallowing a cordless drill.

Pfft - How much damage can you do with a Philip’s head?

Batter up.

(Ding of a bat.)

No match for the rolling pin.

It panics and starts consuming one thing to another.

Transforming itself from a drill to an old phone, then a beat-up shoe, and again into a broken Halloween decoration.

Before finally chomping down and changing into a pair of garden shears.

The scissors aim their blades at me.

They lift upwards and start cutting at the air menacingly.

I’ll admit. It found something a little dangerous.

And it seems to know… as next it pounces at me.

I dart up the stairs faster than the wind and slam the door behind me.

(Springy boing of metal hitting wood.)

Close call.

I should be safe up here.

What’s the worst thing it can change into down there?

(Chainsaw roars on.)

Oh no.

I run for the car as quickly as my legs can manage.

But instead of the driver’s seat, I go for the trunk.

There’s one thing I made sure to keep in the divorce.

(Shotgun click.)

I run back and kick the door down like I’m in an action movie.

But that confidence disappears quickly when to my surprise, all the furniture not affixed to the wall or floor is gone.

Only the refrigerator stands ominously out of place between the living room and kitchen.

This thing is pretty bad at hiding.

And it seems to know it.

The fridges door swings open, inside are mounds of wriggling flesh, covered with jagged needle-like teeth

A large purple appendage slicks its way out and feels around in the air.

Suddenly, it lunges at me.

I fire a shot dead into its gaping maw.

It recoils, the buckshot piercing right through, hitting the stove on the other side.

The hulking appliance falls onto me.

I manage to cock the gun

And pull the trigger another time.

This time point-blank.

Bits of its body tear off and splatter against the wall, painting it red.

But it doesn’t stop.

Instead, it starts to mold itself over me.

Melting over my body like wax.

I feel the prick of teeth hooking themselves against my skin.

Some sort of slime burns at me.

This is what being eaten alive feels like?

Shock grips me like a cold hand.

I go limp and dumb like a caught animal.

This is how I die.

That’s when I smell the distinct odor of gas lingering in the air.

The shotgun must have hit a pipe or valve or something.

Lucky for me.

Smoker's a smoker when the chips're down.

and my chips are down, pretty much.

(Match strike.)

This’ll teach you to grinch my presents.

(Explosion.)

Cold. I feel cold.

Maybe cause I’m lying in the snow but…

The fire feels nice.

I think… I think I’m okay.

I’m so shitfaced the blast just rag-dolled me outside.

I guess car accidents aren’t the only things drunks live through unscathed.

There are the sirens.

What am I going to tell Susan…?

At least the jails warm.

Happy Holiday’s to me.

The Siren

The Siren

The Tell Tale Dance

The Tell Tale Dance