I've been on day-to-day jonesing alert for my MacArthur tank this week. If that wasn't painful enough, I'm in the same status with a bespoke brown tweed jacket.
FADE IN ON:
INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY
The room is a bit of a mess. A suit jacket across the back of a chair. A
pair of crumpled socks on the floor. And you can tell by the four different,
empty coffee mugs next to the laptop, the dregs in each sporting different
stages of mold growth, that the man of the house is in bachelor mode.
The DOORBELL RINGS... but no footsteps spring to answer. NO ONE'S HOME.
After a beat we HEAR the rusty sound of a mailbox lid being lifted, and mail
being stuffed inside. Bootsteps scrape the stairs and then a heavy tread on
the front lawn, fading quickly
EXT. SAME HOUSE - AFTERNOON
A blue MINI COOPER with white roof (the colors of the Saltire!) zips to a stop
in front of the house.
CLOSE on the MAILBOX
as we HEAR the car door slam and hurried footsteps scuff the brick stairs. A
MAN'S HAND reaches into the mailbox and pulls out the usual wad of JUNK
MAIL, two CATALOGUES, a COMCAST BILL and then...
A SMALL TAN SLIP OF PAPER, lots of official, small type... in the corner:
PS Form 3849. The other mail drops to the ground as the MAN'S HAND grips
this slip of paper... the paper trembles in his shaky hand.
The paper falls away as the MAN slumps to the ground in a dead faint.
INSERT ON THE SLIP OF PAPER: it reads: "Available for pickup tomorrow
after 8 am." Just below in a space labelled article number: two package
numbers listed in a scraggly scrawl...
That's right, both items, blocks away, locked in the post office until tomorrow morning.
Originally Posted by KFCarter
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