Been watching a lot of amazing video essays breaking down screenwriting, screenplays and writing, as of late – big shoutout to Nerdwriter1 and Lessons from the Screenplay – so inevitably the gravitational pull of Christopher Nolan and the millions of theses produced on his films reeled me in like a Corellian corvette into the belly of an Imperial Star Destroyer.

Now, I am a Nolan fan, but his movies do have flaws. Okay maybe not flaws – let’s call hang-on-a-sec moments. As in, “Hang on a sec, how can the entire police force of Gotham become imprisoned in the sewers beneath the city for months (the entire police force, not even a desk jockey is left behind), only to emerge with the same amount of facial hair and body fat when Bruce breaks them out again?” Hmmm, maybe they lived on rat burgers like the underground dwellers in Demolition Man.

When you’ve got an intricate narrative going on, it can be difficult to keep all them plates spinning. And as a viewer, I am very forgiving. But, great as it is, and I do love the movie, there is one aspect of The Prestige that leaves me scratching my head. Now maybe it’s the dent in said head from using it a brake in a cycling-related fall a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, and I’m missing something as a result of a latent brain injury.

But maybe not.

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‘I don’t think you need to highlight it for me with the big red circle,’ she said. ‘I mean, thing kinda stands out all on its own, don’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ Evan said, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I suppose I am.’
He tapped the screen. The circle vanished. He angled the display back at her again. The girl squinted and scrunched up her freckled nose and poked her tanned face into the phone’s screen like someone sixty years her senior.
‘What the hell is it supposed to be anyways?’
‘That’s what I came back to find out,’ he said.
‘Came back?’
‘Yeah, I rode through here a couple days ago. Was reviewing the helmet cam and tail cam footage-’
Evan stopped. The look on the girl’s face said it all, said she had no idea what the hell a “cam” of any description was. ‘A video camera, you know? I got a little one on my helmet and one on the back of the bicycle, facing rearwards. Just in case I get into an accident or something. Was going through the footage from the one out back and it picked this up. Lot of rocks along that trail, lot of bouncing up and down. This is the clearest grab I could get.’

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The fare slid in on to the backseat. The car dipped so hard, on what was left of the suspension, I thought it was going to do a back-flip. Whole lot of man for one man. “What’s up, buddy? Where to?”
“D.C.,” he said.
“No. I said D.C.”
“Yeah, I get that, heard you the first time. But it’s not as if I’m going to drive you the two-or-three-thousand-whatever-it-is miles there, so which airport we going to?”
“None of them, unless you think you need a runway.”
“Okay, I don’t have time for this. Get out of my cab.”
“Time, like so very many other things is something you have in plenty.”
“Fuck. What are you? A Jehovah? Scientologist? Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. Now out of my cab, now. Before-“
“Before what? You throw me out? Now wouldn’t that be something for all to witness.”
Dick had a point. When I turned around, it was clear, even sitting, that he was closer to seven feet than six, and was somewhere around three hundred pounds. Not the lard ass I pictured either. He was hewn from solid rock. Figuratively speaking.
“You don’t sound the way you look,” I said.
“Appearances. You can never can go by them. Take yourself, for example.”
He allowed himself a little smile.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. Who are you?”

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“Third one in a fortnight. Jesus Christ,” said Taylor. “I’m getting to know this area of woodland too well. Am I mad, or is this-”
“The same tree?” said Griffin. “Yes.”
“Any I.D. on the vic?”
“You don’t recognize him?”
“The light’s not so good here. Hang on.” Taylor changed his footing on the step and angled the flashlight better. “Sweet J- Is that Frank Quinn?”
“Was,” said Griffin.
“So what’s that? One serial rapist. One child killer.”
“And one gangland don.”
“Someone would appear to be clearing up shop.”

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I can hear one behind me somewhere, crashing through the bushes, giving chase. I can’t keep this up for much longer. I can’t run, have never been able to. But I have no choice other than to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
My lungs burn.
My sides hurt.
My throat is dry while sweat cascades down my face.
And I’m breathing so hard I think I could puke at any second.
Another branch hits me in the face and it stuns me. I stumble, my vision darkening, my blood-covered overalls snagging on a bramble… and then I’m in a clearing.
I have no goddamn idea where I am. But there’s a house in front of me, right in the middle of this leafy glade. That’s got to be good, right?
To my left, a laugh. Jesus, there’s more than one of them now.

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3 minutes ago:
“Did you make contact with the principal’s office yet?” Armstrong asked.
“Oh no,” interrupted Mitchell as they climbed out of the car. “Kids are already out.”
“Classes had just finished when they finally picked up,” the reply came back over the radio. “Students were already loose in the halls. Too late to try detain the boy.”
“Shit. Could they give you a description or a more up-to-date picture of what the kid looks like now?” asked Madden.
“There was no need.”
“How come?”

1 hour twenty-five minutes ago:
“Ever seen anything like this before?” Detective Armstrong said.
“Only when I worked in San Fran,” the chief firefighter replied. “Saw houses that looked like this after the big quake in ’89. Broken apart like they were Lego.”
“Minnesota is not exactly notorious for its seismic activity,” said Armstrong.
“Mystery solved, partner,” said Mitchell, jogging up to the two men. “Caterpillar parked up in the trees around back. Still got roof tiles, glass and chunks of brick in the bucket. Looks like someone took it to the house like they were cutting up a birthday cake.”
“Anyone inside the building?” Armstrong asked the firefighter, nodding at what was left of the once palatial home.
“No, no one in. But if you’re going to investigate, I’d be careful. Can’t tell how sound, structurally, the place is.”
“We’ll bring our umbrellas, just in case.”

1 hour 16 minutes ago:
“Jesus Christ,” Mitchell said, as the strip lighting in the garage sparked into life. “I’ve seen some vandalism in my time, but this is some next level.”
“Sacrilege is what this is,” said Armstrong. “The furniture, the TV, the clothes: all that stuff can be replaced, but this is a 1970 Ford Mustang Boss 302. Super rare. And this one was mint, until some asshole drove an angle grinder down the middle.”
“It’s the same M.O. throughout. Everything cut, or attempted to be cut in two.”
“Let’s find out who the homeowners are, and where they are,” said Armstrong. “Poor fuckers are going to come home to a nasty surprise.”
Mitchell let out a long whistle. “They’ve really cheesed someone off, whoever they are. This is some cold-blooded revenge right here.”

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“Hey,” said Ray. “Where do you keep the cable ties?”
The store keeper, stood at the far end of the aisle, barely acknowledged Ray’s question, scribbled something on a clipboard, then simply walked away.“Jesus,” Ray muttered. He didn’t want to call after the dude, that would be rude. In the same way pretending to not hear someone and walk away was. He went back to scanning the racks, up and down, left and right. Impossible to know if this was where the cable ties should have been. Or not. There was no discernible system to how the shit in this store was sorted. No signage overhead to say if this was the aisle for hand tools or plumbing supplies.
Place was a mish-mash, nothing in its right place.

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“Do I know you?” said Packer.
“No, you don’t,” said the man.
The stranger had stepped into the elevator just before the doors closed and fixed eyes on Packer. That gaze had not faltered.
“It’s just I swear this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you today,“ said Packer.
“You would have been stupid not to,” said the man. “I’ve been following you since I spotted you at the diner.”
“The diner? That was hours ago,” said Packer.
“It was. Four and a half of them, to be precise,” said the man.

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Nobody left the toilet unflushed last night.
Nobody left that empty milk carton in the fridge this morning.
Nobody used all of the bread.
I did.
Yeah. I did all of those things.
I am Nobody.
And there’s not one thing any of you can do about it. Because none of you have the slightest idea who I am.
Not one teacher could remember my name at school, or place me at parent teacher meetings for that matter. Speaking of parents, they often forgot to lay a place for me at the table, or acknowledge my birthday.
Waiting staff serve everyone around and behind me in coffee shops and bars.
When I speed, I don’t get pulled over. And when I find myself at a police checkpoint, I just drive on through as if the cops don’t even see me.
Hell, I haven’t paid for groceries in years, just walk on out the door with my cart full.
I’m the next best thing to invisible, even have to push my way through automatic doors.
Does it get me down?
Does it shit.
Better to be a nobody than a somebody.
Somebodies get noticed, get promoted, get awarded, get pay raises, get fast cars, get expensive wives, get big houses, get enemies, get prices put on their head.
By people who need a nobody like me.
The kind of nobody even an infrared camera can’t see, that two Doberman pinschers can’t smell, that can stroll into a master bedroom and squeeze the life out of somebody’s neck without somebody’s said trophy wife batting a well maintained eyelid.
So next time you get that feeling, as you leave your home or walk down that badly lit street, think twice when somebody tries to reassure you with words like these.
“Nobody is out there watching you.”
“Nobody is following you.”
“Nobody is going to hurt you.”
Because I am nobody.
And I’ve been put on this earth to do all of those things.


There are no sugary treats for this plague of ants to swarm over, so I have no idea what has brought these vile creatures here to this isolated, desolate part of the city. No statues or structures of historical importance, no famous breweries or distilleries, no birthplaces of long drank themselves to death musicians or now-derelict buildings where the still alive ones recorded their first albums as fresh-faced nineteen-year-olds. Yet, here they are, milling around, trapping me on this square foot of footpath, everything about their being grating on me like fingernails down a blackboard. The shrill, excited noises they make seem to pass for speech but their language is impenetrable to me. The squeaky sounds of their feet as they shuffle around sicken me to my core. But it’s the incessant clicking. That, more than anything else. I try to leave, but they follow, the clicking sound escalating, accelerating. The chatter intensifies and I realize that they are not ignoring me the way they were seconds ago. They have recognized my presence and have locked on to me. I have become the subject of curiosity and they will not rest. Not until I stop and, one by one, take each of the smartphones they’re clicking away on from them and photograph them with their friends, in front of a fence that backs on to waste ground strewn with scrapped kitchen appliances and broken pushchairs.

My heart sinks as I discover that I am smiling and that I am readily, willingly taking their phones and making polite, accommodating sounds. What is this? These wide-eyed locusts are eating away at me, stripping me of my self-respect. When they’re done with me, when they’ve reduced me to a husk, they will move on to the next feeding ground, forgetting me like I never existed, like I was simply a feature of the landscape. My dignity is one of the last things of any worth I have left. I am not prepared to let it go this cheaply.

They say that in the event of global thermonuclear war, only the cockroaches and rats will survive. But they forget about the tourists. And the fearless way in which these vermin descend into the most dangerous parts of the city with complete abandon, drawing as much attention as they can to themselves with unknown languages and misunderstood accents, getting in your way, blocking your path, disrupting your day, like bluebottles and wasps spoiling a sunny afternoon in the garden for everyone, just begging to be swatted out of the air and crushed underfoot.

The first one doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I hit her with her own phone. There’s half a smile there, but it vanishes when I slam it into the side of her head again, the handset snapping with the force. I drop it to the ground along with her as her boyfriend, I assume, steps up to defend her honor. He doesn’t get far. The next phone to hand is wrapped in a protective case that transforms it into the next best thing to a brick. It takes only one smack to the temple to ship him to the kerb along with her.

I’ve angered the rest of them now and they swarm, screaming angrily, circling, arms flailing, attacking. I drop the remaining phones and take the rolled-up newspaper from my pocket. It makes me laugh to think I could dispense with these annoying pests the same way I could their tiny, winged insect cousins, but once I roll the newspaper up even tighter, it’s surprisingly effective. Even five on one, these people are no match for me. I batter three of them into submission before stopping to catch my breath.

The last two do not seize the opportunity to exact revenge. Instead they stoop and tend to their stricken comrades, pleading with me to stop as they accept defeat.

I am magnanimous in victory. I take a knee, retrieve one of the operational phones from the asphalt, and give them the group shot they were looking for. Enjoy your holiday.