INT. APOCALYPSE APARTMENTS – LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
The room is in darkness. A shadowy figure moves among broken toys, scattered like dead soldiers on a battle field. Is this a ninja or a child gliding across the living room as if it wasn’t there? The only sound is the creaking of wood, the occasional beep of a Buzz Light-Year; a tiger growls from a puzzle, the last lights from a robot flicker, flicker. The batteries dying.
How are you doing?
A very tired child sits, hugging a teddy bear. It’s too dark to make out who it is.
I’d say all my toys are broken Keyser.
The sound of Apocalypse Mommy and Apocalypse Daddy stiring is getting more vivid.
THE CAMERA PANS UP to an expensive looking vase, on the edge of a chest of drawers directly above the child’s head.
Can I have a magnum?
I don’t see why not. It’s the last one.
The shadowy figure takes the ice-cream out of the wrapper and drops it at the child’s feet.
The child eats the ice-cream as the vase comes tumbling down and smashes into a thousand pieces.
lights flicker on and off. Doors bang open and closed.
Suddenly an explosion as the living room door slams open. Every light in the house is on.
Apocalypse Apartments. Two nights ago. A supermarket bag loaded with glucose corn syrup and monosodium glutamate got jacked from by the front door. Pringles, Dorritos, Ice-cream, Oreos. There was enough for six weeks of good times in that bag of tricks. The Apocalypse Parents didn’t see anything, they were too far gone, they messed up. They heard a voice though. Sometimes, that’s all you need.
INT. ALICE AND LUCA’S BEDROOM – EARLY MORNING
It’s a blur of action as Apocalypse Mommy and Apocalypse Daddy crash into the bedroom. Alice lies comatose, half on the bed, half up the wall. Crystalline sugar solution has hardened into a pool at one end of the bed. She has a crazy sugar smile on her face. Luca lies completely upside down in his cot, his nappy by his ankles, his baby bottle full of coke, his legs twisted around the bars like an uncomfortable contortion artist. His cherub like hands clutch tightly to a handful of sweet wrappers. His little feet twitch like a baby kangaroo. These cats are still high.
Wake up sleepy heads. It’s time to face the music.
Alice twitches. Breathes heavily. And sighs.
Not Daddy music. Please.
Luca does a fart in his sleep. Burps. Stirs.
Get up, the both of you. Somebody has broken my best vase, spilt sticky juice all over the piano, mushed a banana into the carpet, painted on the wall, broken my little china figurines and smashed your dad’s priceless 1963 Fender. And we want to know who.
It was Luca.
It was Alice.
How’d we know you two were going to say that?
Get your stories straight.
Lineup. Kitchen. Now.