I wish I could apologise enough for this, he coughed through alate lungs. Choking on feathered perspective, a rising torrent of smashed flight and broken dreams.
INT. OVERTLY GREY WAREHOUSE, DUSTY WALLS FORGED INTO WORKABLE CORNERS FOR SPORTS OUTLETS, THE SCENE RECENTLY BOTTLENECKED INTO WHAT SHOULD BE A BASKETBALL COURT. ORIGINAL FEEL TO THE PLACE; APPLE BASKETS AS NETS, CHALK LINES OVER FORGOTTEN FLOOR-PLANS.
PANS TO CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HOPEFUL SOULS; RED JORDAN HI-TOPS, AND YELLOW LAKERS JERSEY'S RESPECTIVELY SPLIT THE DIVIDING FACTIONS OF PERSONA.
BANKS:
And like dreams floating on fucked up clouds we smash hope into ourselves.
JALL:
We be all up in this, the tyranny of shattered dreams and cold skull masks.
SHATTERED GLASS AS JALL AIMS ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE AGAINST THE WICKER RIM OF THE CHAIN NETTING MARKED AS THE MAKESHIFT GOAL.
BANKS:
God plays the puppeteer to these sports, Jall be killin' it.
JALL:
Y'all be killin' it.
BANKS:
Hollar motherfucker.
JALL:
Another real estate agent fuckin' wid'chall broken minds. For three!
ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE CAST INTO THE ETHER AIRBALLS; THE BOTTLE FLIES WIDE OF THE PSEUDO-NET TO SMASH ON DUSTY CONCRETE.
SLOW PAN ACROSS THE SHADOWED WAREHOUSE FLOOR, TO A GAGGED MID-FORTY YEAR OLD, STILL DRESSED FOR WORK, SALIVA POURING OVER HIS BALL-GAG, EYES WIDE WITH A MIXTURE OF CONFUSION AND FEAR.
MAN:
Mmmphuughl! (MUFFLED CRIES)
JALL:
And the crowd goes fuckin' wild y'all! Broken bottles and shit nigga! We be ballin';
chain be commandin',
niggas be wantin' ice on their stand in,
liquid kissin' on that cold b-boy stance 'n',
Banks be bustin' tanks-style these mans and-
BANKS:
-The fuck y'all be usin' my name?
JALL:
Witness!
BANKS:
Shit Jall, another sacrifice?
JALL:
God love 'em, right?
BANKS:
Maybe ain't all day, aight?
JALL:
Praise Allah, motherfucker.
BANKS:
Jall, y'ain't Muslim.
JALL:
Dayaam' Banks, suit never clocked that.
BANKS:
Ain't be clockin' the Glock in my low bats, gats is packing' names be flavour, fucker.
JALL:
Fuckin' balls deep in this shit nigga!
JALL, FINISHING ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE, PASSES IS UNDER HIS LEG, THEN ROUND HIS BACK IN ONE FLUID MOVEMENT BEFORE ATTEMPTING A PRECISION FADEAWAY SHOT AIMED AT GAGGED-MAN.
BOTTLE SMASHES INCHES ABOVE GAGGED-MAN.
GAGGED MAN RECOILS IN FEAR, CRYING.
BANKS:
'Ey Jall, enough;
And life is tough enough,
Without, niggas be actin' an ass.
Chattin' like Kanye meets Eddie Murphie on nitros gas.
JALL:
Haha, whitey's been trying to talk.
BANKS:
No shit.
JALL:
I'mma cross his white ass up.
JALL BRIEFLY EXITS INTO SHADOW, LEAVING BANKS GLEEFULLY BEATBOXING BETWEEN SIPS OF NATIONAL BOHEMIAN.
JALL REENTERS WITH A BASKETBALL.
JALL:
I'mma snap yo' ankles Mr. Whiley!
BANKS:
He'll fuckin' do it too, man.
JALL STARTS PASSING THE BALL ROUND HIS BACK, THROUGH HIS LEGS AND OVER HIS SHOULDERS WITH ALL THE PRECISION OF A SEASONED STREET-BALLER, THE FLUIDITY OF HIS ACTIONS CONTRASTING STARKLY WITH THE LINEARITY OF HIS SCENERY.
TERPSICHOREAN POETRY CAST BRIEFLY OVER ABSTRACT SHADOW.
WITH DAZZLING DEXTERITY JALL PASSES THE BALL OVER HIS SHOULDERS AND AHEAD OF HIMSELF, HE LEAPS FORWARD JUMPING ON MR. WHILEY'S ANKLE WITH BOTH FEET.
A SICKENING SNAP FILLS THE ROOM.
A GAGGED MR. WHILEY CRIES OUT.
BANKS:
He's on fire!
JALL:
I'mma be all star Mr. Whiley.
BANKS:
Yo Mr. Whiley, you want his autograph?
JALL:
Hahaa, yo Mr. Whiley, I'll sign yo' cast.
BANKS UN-GAGS MR. WHILEY AND LEANS IN.
BANKS:
Tell us about the fundamentals again Mr. Whiley.
INT. OVERTLY GREY WAREHOUSE, DUSTY WALLS FORGED INTO WORKABLE CORNERS FOR SPORTS OUTLETS, THE SCENE RECENTLY BOTTLENECKED INTO WHAT SHOULD BE A BASKETBALL COURT. ORIGINAL FEEL TO THE PLACE; APPLE BASKETS AS NETS, CHALK LINES OVER FORGOTTEN FLOOR-PLANS.
PANS TO CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HOPEFUL SOULS; RED JORDAN HI-TOPS, AND YELLOW LAKERS JERSEY'S RESPECTIVELY SPLIT THE DIVIDING FACTIONS OF PERSONA.
BANKS:
And like dreams floating on fucked up clouds we smash hope into ourselves.
JALL:
We be all up in this, the tyranny of shattered dreams and cold skull masks.
SHATTERED GLASS AS JALL AIMS ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE AGAINST THE WICKER RIM OF THE CHAIN NETTING MARKED AS THE MAKESHIFT GOAL.
BANKS:
God plays the puppeteer to these sports, Jall be killin' it.
JALL:
Y'all be killin' it.
BANKS:
Hollar motherfucker.
JALL:
Another real estate agent fuckin' wid'chall broken minds. For three!
ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE CAST INTO THE ETHER AIRBALLS; THE BOTTLE FLIES WIDE OF THE PSEUDO-NET TO SMASH ON DUSTY CONCRETE.
SLOW PAN ACROSS THE SHADOWED WAREHOUSE FLOOR, TO A GAGGED MID-FORTY YEAR OLD, STILL DRESSED FOR WORK, SALIVA POURING OVER HIS BALL-GAG, EYES WIDE WITH A MIXTURE OF CONFUSION AND FEAR.
MAN:
Mmmphuughl! (MUFFLED CRIES)
JALL:
And the crowd goes fuckin' wild y'all! Broken bottles and shit nigga! We be ballin';
chain be commandin',
niggas be wantin' ice on their stand in,
liquid kissin' on that cold b-boy stance 'n',
Banks be bustin' tanks-style these mans and-
BANKS:
-The fuck y'all be usin' my name?
JALL:
Witness!
BANKS:
Shit Jall, another sacrifice?
JALL:
God love 'em, right?
BANKS:
Maybe ain't all day, aight?
JALL:
Praise Allah, motherfucker.
BANKS:
Jall, y'ain't Muslim.
JALL:
Dayaam' Banks, suit never clocked that.
BANKS:
Ain't be clockin' the Glock in my low bats, gats is packing' names be flavour, fucker.
JALL:
Fuckin' balls deep in this shit nigga!
JALL, FINISHING ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE, PASSES IS UNDER HIS LEG, THEN ROUND HIS BACK IN ONE FLUID MOVEMENT BEFORE ATTEMPTING A PRECISION FADEAWAY SHOT AIMED AT GAGGED-MAN.
BOTTLE SMASHES INCHES ABOVE GAGGED-MAN.
GAGGED MAN RECOILS IN FEAR, CRYING.
BANKS:
'Ey Jall, enough;
And life is tough enough,
Without, niggas be actin' an ass.
Chattin' like Kanye meets Eddie Murphie on nitros gas.
JALL:
Haha, whitey's been trying to talk.
BANKS:
No shit.
JALL:
I'mma cross his white ass up.
JALL BRIEFLY EXITS INTO SHADOW, LEAVING BANKS GLEEFULLY BEATBOXING BETWEEN SIPS OF NATIONAL BOHEMIAN.
JALL REENTERS WITH A BASKETBALL.
JALL:
I'mma snap yo' ankles Mr. Whiley!
BANKS:
He'll fuckin' do it too, man.
JALL STARTS PASSING THE BALL ROUND HIS BACK, THROUGH HIS LEGS AND OVER HIS SHOULDERS WITH ALL THE PRECISION OF A SEASONED STREET-BALLER, THE FLUIDITY OF HIS ACTIONS CONTRASTING STARKLY WITH THE LINEARITY OF HIS SCENERY.
TERPSICHOREAN POETRY CAST BRIEFLY OVER ABSTRACT SHADOW.
WITH DAZZLING DEXTERITY JALL PASSES THE BALL OVER HIS SHOULDERS AND AHEAD OF HIMSELF, HE LEAPS FORWARD JUMPING ON MR. WHILEY'S ANKLE WITH BOTH FEET.
A SICKENING SNAP FILLS THE ROOM.
A GAGGED MR. WHILEY CRIES OUT.
BANKS:
He's on fire!
JALL:
I'mma be all star Mr. Whiley.
BANKS:
Yo Mr. Whiley, you want his autograph?
JALL:
Hahaa, yo Mr. Whiley, I'll sign yo' cast.
BANKS UN-GAGS MR. WHILEY AND LEANS IN.
BANKS:
Tell us about the fundamentals again Mr. Whiley.
JALL:
Triangles, Banksy, triangles.
CAMERA PANS BACK ACROSS WAREHOUSE.
FADE TO BLACK.
Wish we understood
Broken ankles and splints of wood
We could fly on these
Severed wings and ten foot dreams
God is, God is.
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