The guy who took this went to prison, too. Funny how some people want to shame me for being a bachelor when those sex offenders on TV did so well with my bachelor humour. By the way, you know where you need to shoot this? Germany. It's very multicultural there now.
(At a table for two, a noisy quarrel between Hazy Banks and a woman indicates a crumbling romance. Finally, the woman gets up to leave.)
Narrator: Hazy Banks knew how to handle life.
Banks: Theresa, wait! (Exit Theresa.)
(In his underwear, stretched out on the sofa, a catatonic Banks stares at late night TV in his messy home, with bloodshot eyes. He is viewed directly from the front, with the screen out of the shot, presumably behind the viewer.)
Narrator: He knew that when the knowing got tough, the tough stop knowing, and flushed the whole depressing memory down the cerebral vortex of his amnesia machine.
TV: (Banks eyes widen. Sexy bass and thumping drums suggest models appearing in lingerie.) Are you a bachelor looking to immerse himself in a large group of sexually active young women? (Roused to full consciousness, he sits up.) Maybe Night School is for you! We offer a complete selection of stimulating studies, paying extra special attention to their platonic appeal - if you know what I mean. (Rapid drum fill.) So don't be late, your classmates wait! Call the number on your screen to enrol now! (He springs up and grabs his phone, trying to keep his eye on the number on the screen.)
(A school hallway. A pretty female student sits at a pupil's desk outside a classroom door. Enter Banks, checking the number on the door against a slip of paper in his hand.)
Banks: Is this the photography class?
Girl: (Smiling) Yes, it is. You must be the model.
Banks: (Flattered) Thank you, I'm sure you're just saying that because I'm the only boy.
Girl: No, it's because you look gay. (She titters at his frown.) Sign here to register please. (He abjectly complies, and she reads it over.) Is that your real name? Hazy? What's it short for? Hay's-a-loser? (He exits promptly through the classroom door, escaping her cruel guffaws, and reappears on the other side.)
Banks: (Facing a roomful of attractive women) It's true! It's true! (One of them, in spiked heels, approaches him seductively.)
Classmate 1: Hi, handsome. Want to come help me dry my negatives?
Banks: Sure! (She leads him behind a door into a darkroom.) So what's your name?
Classmate 1: You don't care about that, do you?
Banks: No, but I thought you would.
Classmate 1: Take off your shirt.
Banks: You're the boss. (He removes his shirt, revealing a laughable chest. She approaches him with handcuffs.) Ooo! Aren't we kinky!
Classmate 1: Don't be silly! These are just to help you hold still. (She cuffs him to a radiator, forcing him to his knees.) I'll be right back. (She disappears into the dark.)
Banks: This is a little low for me.
Voice of Classmate 1: That's the correct height, but if you're not up to a man's job, I can ask one of the girls.
Banks: No, no, I'm sure I can take it. (He looks up overhead and sees prints hanging to dry like sheets on a clothesline.) So, do you just hang them up over the rad?
Classmate 1: (Reappearing with a handful of prints.) Yes! You catch on fast. You'll do well in this class. (Her heels click against the floor as she advances on his buckled rear, and fall silent when they dig into his unsuspecting bare back. Groans of pain from her hapless footstool immediately follow.) Shush, now! Sorry about the heels, but I need them to reach this.
Banks: (Grunting) Ever thought of trying pumps? (He resumes groaning as she pins up her shots. At last, she steps down.)
Classmate 1: There, that wasn't so bad, was it?
Banks: (Panting) Are we done?
Classmate 1: Not just yet. You are such a man! (She pinches his cheek and disappears on him again.)
Banks: What else do you need to do?
Classmate 1: (Reappearing, clutching a sprawling tangle of loose 35mm film.) I just need to dry my film.
Banks: Do you need to step on me again?
Classmate 1: No, I won't have to touch you.
Banks: All right, then.
Classmate 1: That's my brave soldier. (She yanks on a chain and it pulls him forward into a submissive posture.)
Banks: What was that for?
Classmate 1: I need your back straight and no talking, okay? (She winds up and starts fiercely whipping him with the film, leaving a trail of pink imprints on his bent back as he howls in agony. Momentarily, she stops and runs the film through her fingers.) That feels dry enough now. Thanks! (Exit Classmate 1.)
Banks: Hey! Don't leave me like this! Help! Someone! (His cries draw a well proportioned classmate in a bikini and pumps.)
Classmate 2: Oh, you poor thing! Didn't they give you a key yet? (She pulls a little key out of her top and opens his cuffs with it. He struggles to his feet and is distracted by her beauty.) Should I call the nurse?
Banks: No, no, I'm all right.
Classmate 2: You must be a photographer. I recognize the pattern.
Banks: On my back? Yes, I was just helping a classmate with her prints. That's all the developing I can do tonight, though.
Classmate 2: Oh, I'm not a photographer, I'm a model.
Banks: Of course! I should have guessed. (Enter another shapely swimsuit model. His jaw drops.)
Classmate 3: We can't do the shoot.
Classmate 2: Why not?
Classmate 3: We don't have a man.
Classmate 2: Oh, dear! (Awkward silence.)
Banks: Could I help? (They smile.) Yee-haw.
(A studio.)
Teacher: (Behind tripod mounted camera) Okay, that was almost perfect. We'll try it again, and please be careful to keep your horsewhips inside the chalkline. (Classmates 2 and 3 stand on a sleigh in a fake winter scene, holding long whips and tugging on a bridled Banks.)
Classmates 2 and 3: (Cracking their whips against a yelping Banks) Mush! Mush!
Teacher: Not yet! I wasn't ready.
Banks: Why are they wearing bikinis in Antarctica?
Teacher: Because it's Christmas. Go on, girls, get cracking!
Classmates 2 and 3: (Cracking their whips) Mush! Mush! Mush! (As Banks weeps, a white husky strays in and lies on its belly to watch.)
(Lesson's end. The students have returned to their desks, facing the teacher.)
Teacher: And for his uncompromising realism, the Student of the Week Award goes to Hazy Banks! Come and receive your prize! (Applause. A shirted back, with chaotic blood streaks across it, rises up in the foreground and approaches her.)
Banks: What did I win?
Teacher: A free pail of iodine. (Applause. She picks up a pail of red liquid and splashes it over his back, causing him to buckle over onto her desk, eyes bulging.) Class dismissed! (The students rise and head for the door. Classmate 1 goes over to Banks and touches him gently on the shoulder from behind. He turns his head, sees her, and straightens his posture.) What do you want?
Classmate 1: I wanted to pay you back for your help.
Banks: (Face lighting up) You did? Well, that's very thoughtful of you. (They are about to share a romantic moment when they are interrupted by Classmates 2 and 3.)
Classmate 2: There you are! We wanted to pay you back!
Classmate 1: Why, did he do a favour for you, too?
Classmate 2: Yes! Isn't he nice?
Classmate 1: I know. Don't you just love nice guys?
Classmate 3: Yeah. And sushi.
Classmate 1: Oh, I adore sushi!
Classmate 3: You do? Well, we know a place that's still open...
Classmate 1: Perfect! Let's go! (Exit Classmates 1, 2, and 3. Abandoned, Banks shrugs and is about to go home when he makes eye contact with a good looking Classmate 4. Again, he senses hope.)
Classmate 4: Would you like a lift home?
Banks: I don't know. It's a long way.
Classmate 4: Not to my place.
Banks: Let's roll!
(Classmate 4's home sports a bed with shiny brass posts. The couple enters, laughing.)
Classmate 4: Have a seat and get comfy. Here, let me put a towel up for your back. (She pulls a towel off a rack and suspends it over the backrest of the sofa. He sits there, holding it in place.)
Banks: Thank you. By the way, my name's Hazy.
Classmate 4: Nice to meet you, Hazy. (He waits for more and then rolls his eyes at her silence.)
Banks: So, why did you bring me here?
Classmate 4: Because I need a big strong man. (She briefly steps out and returns with a jar.) Can you open this for me?
Banks: Pickles? Sure, no sweat. (He pops the lid off handily and hands it back to her proudly.) Anything else?
Classmate 4: Can you help me with my bed, too, please?
Banks: (Smiling slyly) What did you have in mind?
Classmate 4: I need to clean under the mattress. (His smile disappears.)
Banks: Oh. Is that all? (He gets up, his wounds having bled through onto the towel, goes over to the bed, and yanks off the mattress, exposing a metal frame with spring fastened metal bands across its length.) Ready to go.
Classmate 4: My, you are strong! Can you pull that cable out of the wall, too?
Banks: I don't know if I should.
Classmate 4: Please. It's such an eyesore.
Banks: Well, all right then. (He seizes the cable with both hands and snaps it loose. Angry sparks shoot out from its open end.) Hey, looks like a live one.
Classmate 4: (Slinging a camera around her neck) Yes, it should be perfect for my new flash filter.
Banks: Why do you need that?
Classmate 4: To capture the energy! (She pushes him onto the metal straps of the frame and grabs the crackling cable. Then, aiming her camera one-handed, she photographs him as she pokes the frame with the cable, causing bright flashes and desperate shrieks.) That's good. Keep your jaw clenched like that if you can. These are gonna be great!
(The Banks residence. Enter a destroyed Banks in the company of two police officers.)
Officer 1: Now, the young lady said she's not going to press charges. You're lucky, but don't let us catch you on her front lawn in your underwear again.
Banks: (Weakly) Yes, officer. (Exit officers. He sighs, flicks on his amnesia machine and crumbles onto the sofa.)
Narrator: Hazy Banks knew how to handle life. (Someone knocks on the door and he reluctantly gets up to open it. He is delighted to find Theresa on his front step.)
Banks: Theresa! You've come back!
Theresa: Sorry, I didn't think you'd be home.
Banks: But you knocked.
Theresa: Yes, I was just testing my door knocker. I came back for it. Do you mind? (She pulls a screwdriver out of her purse and goes to work. He sighs, shuts the door, and returns to the sofa, wearing a blank expression.)
Narrator: He knew that when the knowing got tough, the tough stop knowing, and flushed the whole depressing memory down the cerebral vortex of his amnesia machine.
TV: (His eyes widen. Sexy bass and thumping drums suggest models appearing in lingerie.) Are you a bachelor looking to immerse himself in a large group of sexually active young women? (He sits up.) Maybe Night School is for you! We offer a complete selection of stimulating studies, paying extra special attention to their platonic appeal - if you know what I mean. (Rapid drum fill.) So don't be late, your classmates wait! Call the number on your screen to enrol now! (He springs up and grabs his phone, trying to keep his eye on the number on the screen.)
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