Magnum Opus

I haven't seen the sun in three damn days.

My liquid diet is coffee not blood so I am sure vampirism isn't my sickness. All I can taste are cigarettes and the overflowing ashtray gives evidence of why. There's an empty bottle on my desk and its labeled "Gineva's Ever-Waking Pure Engery Riot-tabs". That probably explains why my hands are shaking so bad I can't even manage to light a damn cigarette.

Nothing to worry about. I made deadline - barely. The messenger will be here in five minutes or less. But, there it is, fresh off the printer and stacked ever-so neatly. One-hundred-six pages of cinematic glory condensed into standardised textual format.

Not another damn adaptation, no co-writer(s), no "here, fix someone else's mess and you'll get a line in the credits", nothing. This one is my baby, my own thoughts and vision, a true original piece of work.

Its a story of love and hate and redemption set in a Brave-New-Worldian futuristic dystopia. Clones and automatons and cyborgs and the sad, sad fact that its not about racial minorities anymore - white numbers declining in America as blacks and hispanics and asian numbers rise - its about the slow eradications of the Human race, about us creating our own demise and being out-numbered by engineered individuals. Its like, The Island meets Terminator 2: Judgement Day meets American Beauty.

Its a mother-fucking masterpiece. I'm gonna get a fucking Oscar for this one, baby! Or at least a Golden Globe.

Unless the producers... mangle it... beyond recognition... like they did with my pilot... and- Every other writer's magnum opus.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Damn it.