Screenwriting. Neo-noir. Crime. Tech. Thriller.

A picture of a stunning black woman posing with an iPhone. The product, an app-- HEXA! The platform for influencers.


INT. NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT

The advertisement shines on a massive screen, brimming yellow over a stage.

Techno-electro music blares as balloons soar over an antsy crowd of newly minted nerds, startup yuppies having the time of their lives.

Fluorescent bracelets, horns rocket into the air.

Back to the screen, a digital mascot BUZZER the bee! shows her skills at the disco.  Buzzer glances up and flies the hell out of the way before --

Large letters plunge from above: HEXA Q4 PARTY.

Angel investors in drab suits occupy the bar; one or two rounds for them, they have to make money tomorrow.

                    UNO (V.O.)
            I’m a parasite.

At a remote stool, a nervous foot patters on the stool leg.

                    UNO (V.O.)
            A stiff working through the nights
            so you can watch your energy-
            draining influencers--

The stool seat cups a pair of faded blue jeans.

                    UNO (V.O.)
            --and buy their overpriced merch
            without setting foot off your
            parents’ couch--
     
A backpack grips a man’s curled spine.  This man’s name is Bruno “UNO” Moralez, the forgettable high school geek now armed with a steely gaze.

                    UNO (V.O.)
            --until you drown in your debt.

Uno sighs, staring at the people of his age dancing with sweaty drinks in their hands.

Grey clouds roll over the blue sky.  Below it, a quiet sea of berets and medals stands static around the Cenotaph.

The morning wind hisses, the air knitting the Commonwealth flags together, the Union Jack snapping like a whip.

The veiny hands of a hatted man, the King, lay a striking red wreath at the feet of the memorial.

Next to a queue of silver foxes out of their Westminster caves-- a fresh, young face stands out.  BEN SHATTUCK, 30s, carrying a York charm on his looks like Richard III, a flawless and crafted King’s English on his lips.

                    BEN
              (to the camera)
          Remembrance.  You’ve got deep
          nihilism from right-wing 
          nationalists who don’t know
          nationalism is a left’s invention,
          and whine from left-wing top one
          per cent who say we should tax the
          rich, but don’t consider themselves
          rich enough to be taxed.  But today
          we all play dress-up and pretend
          we’re not at each other’s throats.
          The world has been far less of a 
          mess since those poor bastards gave
          their lives for the order we’re
          determined to squander.

A man in a sombre black suit and tie traverses to the Cenotaph.  STEPHEN KEISER, 50s, a Labour so allergic to Tory blue no one would even notice if he wore it.

                    BEN
          Stephen Keiser - a man with the 
          sympathy of a log, the soul of a
          spreadsheet, and the compassion of
          a parking warden.  He won the
          country by promising a kinder
          nation, but look at him...  he
          mourns the dead with the same grim
          efficiency he uses to balance a
          broken budget.  But the man who won
          a four-hundred-and-three majority
          over my party deserves my respect.

Ben sighs white through the freezing air, fixated on a woman in a black Crombie coat as she lays her wreath.

                    BEN
          I’ve never been invited to
          wreath-laying before though.  I
          wonder why...  Perhaps they’ve
          forgotten how I show my 
          appreciation for our soldiers --

Ben raises his red wreath, hooked by his middle finger.

                    BEN
      Welcome to London.