Here's a treatment for a short, surrealist/experimental film: camera cuts out from behind driver's seat, catches itself in the rearview, crisp ambulance siren rises from viewfinder's left, steadily, until ambulance passes and fizzles out into the horizon. Action at right is a phalanx of skinny/attractive African-American (or Asian-American, depending on availability and/or hourly rates) females in full ghetto get-up walking in line on nondescript, typical South Florida suburb sidewalk. Buzzing noise from unseen insect cuts as screen bleeds into hurting whiteness. Car is stopped when action resumes. Coughing noises interrupt low flamenco-styled guitar sound. Side-to-side slow shots of action beyond windshield. Intermittent wipers dragging bug juices across glass. Countdown backwards from ten in low, raspy, Hispanic voice. Shot bleeds back into hurting white as distant phone is heard. Right before it completely dies, Monarch butterfly cuts across screen fluttering lazily. Flutter sound rises as image is consumed by the light accompanied by theremin's crescendo. End. Finis. Pavement.
I love driving in the Magic City. I love hearing the latest reggaeton hits from neighboring cars. I love seeing people make their rounds like there is no evil in their hearts. I love knowing the price of my mortality. I love chasing deals even if they hide in fuckery most foul. Micronesia. Someday we'll be declared true Lions of Zion and the ash consumed will return to Palooka as good omens.
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