tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-123227152011-12-20T06:34:26.573-06:00A collection of written works by the one and only EsotericWombat All works herein are Copyright © 2005 Patrick Desmond... I'm cool with reposts, as long as they're attributed... in the extreme case that anyone finds anything here worth repeating.Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.comBlogger91100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-82169895441415017162008-10-07T11:36:00.003-05:002009-01-30T16:46:43.990-06:00

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Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1114051847993341022005-04-20T21:41:00.000-05:002005-04-20T21:50:48.016-05:00

BRIAN’S APARTMENT: A decidedly chaotic dwelling, where the only thing that isn’t in total disarray is the bookshelf and his books. BRIAN slouches on the couch, reading one such book. There is a knock at the door. Brian at first seems not to notice. The knock comes again. MARIE (offstage) Open the fucking door! BRIAN suddenly becomes alert, and walks towards the door BRIAN

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1114051241809892482005-04-20T21:35:00.000-05:002005-04-20T21:40:41.836-05:00

COMIC BOOK STORE: A typical hive of geekery. BRIAN, who manages the store, is behind the counter, from which hangs a poster with the Parental Warning emblem, idly paging through a comic and talking to KEVIN, his coworker. A few CUSTOMERS are perusing the merchandise, including a young boy and his mother. KEVIN I just can’t fucking believe it… since when did you grow balls?

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1114050405492128302005-04-20T21:24:00.000-05:002005-04-20T21:29:36.416-05:00

A BAR: BRIAN is sitting at the bar, drinking a gin and tonic and trying to make conversation with a WOMAN. He’s had a few already. BRIAN I’m just abysmal at meeting people for the first time. I just keep fucking shit up. This one time, a while ago, at some party, one of my friends introduced me to his new girlfriend. For some reason I still don’t remember (the evening was at the

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1116800547807069822005-04-20T21:23:00.000-05:002006-01-13T14:25:16.370-06:00

Note- I'm not quite sure where I'm going to fit this in. Also, I have a few more scenes that aren't done yet. What I think I'm going to do is when the play is done is put my email up and let anyone who wants to read the final draft email meBRIAN Maybe I've just been playing Don Quixote all this time. KEVIN You’re not fucking Don Quixote. You don’t fight windmills, you just try to

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1114050019426182522005-04-20T21:14:00.000-05:002005-04-20T21:33:48.273-05:00

The following is a scene/sketch I wrote the day Hunter S Thompson shot himself. I never intended to expand upon it EW The eternal waiting line. Several SPIRITS stand in wait to be judged. ST PETER is sitting at a desk, lazily working through the line. It is abundantly clear that he simply doesn’t care how long it takes. Most amongst the line seem resigned to the wait, but the MAN next

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1114049142949293882005-04-20T20:58:00.000-05:002005-04-20T21:05:43.033-05:00

Things had once again gotten way out of hand. The young man looked through the one-way glass into the padded room where several straitjacketed men were sitting motionless, staring intently at each other. He turned to face the doctor sitting beside him. “What the hell is going on in there?” “Begging your pardon sir, I did just as you said. So far, your

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1114048581180264532005-04-20T20:43:00.000-05:002005-04-20T20:56:21.193-05:00

I had failed twice before. This time, I would not be stopped. I opened my closet and moved the various articles hanging there aside. My selection was vast, but most of it useless for the circumstances. I needed to do the job quickly and quietly. A simple blade, leather gloves, and a pair of silenced glocks. If the time came where I'd need anything louder, I would already be a dead man.I stepped

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12322715.post-1114273432557675842005-04-19T11:14:00.000-05:002005-04-23T11:23:52.576-05:00

His hunger never ceases. It is fear he craves, and his palate is broad. The frightened shrieks of young children. The final wave of terror that stops an old man’s heart. A mother’s fear as she sees her son playing with the power outlet. The general constant fear of the paranoid. Every phobia in the dictionary. He feeds off of them all. It is fear from which he draws his strength, through

Patrick Dnoreply@blogger.com2