Darkness absolute.
A desolate wind howls.
You get flashes of your life.
There's the sky.
Now it's gone.
There's a set of warm, parental faces looking down on you: parents flanked by two sets of grandparents.
Now all of that is gone.
You get a tantalizing glimpse of a really great looking chair posed against a backdrop of a setting sun-not even really a chair-for-sitting, but more like a chair constructed to be lit and filmed for maximum sex appeal.
It's gone, of course.
Now you're in a first person slasher POV, striding across a finely manicured lawn, poltergeist-powered sliding glass doors open all on their own to admit you, and now you're stalking into a showcase gleaming kitchen, here's a huge shining steel refrigerator looming before you, the poltergeist-powered door swings open to reveal gluttonous abundance of groceries-
Refrigerator lights flare into nuclear whiteness, all is obliterated.
Black text comes zooming at you from within the blazing pale obliteration . . .
IT'S JUST TOO FUNCTIONAL.
Onscreen text passes through you.
Now an oven fresh Thanksgiving turkey cruises towards you, passes through you.
More text zooms forth . . .
ALL TOO FUNCTIONAL.
A procession of things cruises towards you from within the pale obliteration right into your face, through your face: spoon, fork, knife, oven mitts, spatula, a bowl, a pot, a nonstick pan, a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white wine, carton of eggs, bottled mineral water, artisanal pasta, a colander, clusters of grapes, an espresso machine, a power drill, a rolling pin, a cheese grater, a First Aid kit, a Samsara-6 Service Revolver . . .
FUNCTIONS FOR DAYS.
The Samsara-6 Service Revolver comes floating back before your eyes. Sound of shattering glass. Samsara-6 floats before your eyes. Sinister laughter. Sounds of a struggle. Gunshot. Crashing pots and pans. Dull meaty thud. Samsara-6 floats before your eyes.
FUNCTIONS TO KILL FOR.
The pale obliteration resolves itself into a view of a beach towel, upon which the Samsara-6 rests. Gentle lapping of waves.
WHY NOT GIVE FUNCTION A REST?
Beach towel and gun slide to one side like a curtain to reveal a stylized storage room filled with artfully arranged jars of some unknown product or substance. As one, all of the jars rotate to present their true product name: NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER.
IT'S NOT A SUPPLEMENT.
Jump cut and then a snap zoom into the refrigerator from earlier.
IT'S NOT A MEAL.
Jump cut and then a snap zoom into a dead man in a ski mask bleeding out on the hardwood kitchen floor. Burglary tools and broken eggs and the Thanksgiving turkey lie artfully scattered all about the corpse.
IT'S NOT A DRUG.
Jump cut and then a snap zoom into that sexy chair posed against the setting sun.
BUT IT SURE DISPLAYS WELL.
Jump cut and then a snap zoom into a pyramidal grocery store display of jars of NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER just as they're all rotating to display their labels.
GET BEYOND FUNCTION.
Low angle shot of plate glass window exploding into the grocery store as ski mask man leaps through it, powered by PCP and avarice. Ski mask man goes into a roll, and comes up firing a Bolty-12 compact submachine gun from the hip. Close-up of ski mask man's eyes wild with the delight of battle. Potato chip bags burst. Cereal boxes blast corn flakes all over the place. Punctured soup cans make a big damn mess. The blazing Bolty-12 chops down entire shelves. Shoppers and employees writhe and twitch and pop off squibs full of crimson corn syrup and chunks of raw hamburger. The blazing Bolty-12 contains a wild, vital power which is no doubt the master of the ski mask man. The lobster tank explodes to flood the seafood aisle with pincered monstrosity. Ski mask man's eyes squint as he shoots the little rubber restraints off the lobster claws freeing the sea monsters to properly raise some hell. Soon enough, the grocery store is totally rubbled. The only thing left standing is the pyramidal display of jars of NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER. The ski mask man's eyes light up with desire. He approaches the pyramidal display. Ski mask man holds his arms wide as if to embrace the world like a sentimentalized version of Atlas, starts thrusting his crotch towards the pyramidal display. A lobster expropriates a Samsara-6 Service Revolver from the holster of a dead security guard, fires the gun into the pyramidal display. The jars of NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER explode, piercing the ski mask man's body with many shards of glass, putting out his eyes, shredding his tendons, Bolty-12 dropping from nerveless fingers, his body hitting tiles at the last. The lobsters swarm the ski mask man's corpse. The lobster wielding the Samsara-6 supervises the unarmed lobsters. All is covered in NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER.
GET BEYOND FUNCTION.
Shot of a complex, many tiered breakfast nook table as an athletic looking woman sitting at the table spoons NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER into a coffee cup. She brings the cup to her nose, inhales the scent, closing her eyes, blissfully smiling, and then putting the cup back down on the table. She looks at a screen built into her left wrist. With her right index finger she pokes and swipes at the screen. From legion secret compartments throughout her house militarized lobsters emerge to take up highly ritualized defensive formations all throughout the table's interlocking tiers with a resplendently tuxedo clad killer elite surrounding the coffee cup full of NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER. We cut to the athletic woman running for hours in the global broiling summer heat until her body catches fire, but she keeps on running. A ski mask man leaps out of some bushes to assault the athletic woman, but he catches fire as soon as he lays hands upon her. The burning ski mask man flails about wildly, destroying himself when he tries to use his Bolty-12 to shoot the flames off his own body. The athletic woman is now a creature of pure fire. The fire creature lady runs towards the sexy chair posed against the setting sun, engulfing it-it's basically a 'fire in the sun' moment. As a topper, we then have a shot of the sexy chair exploding in spectacular slow motion.
DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER FUNCTION?
Back in the athletic woman's kitchen, we do tragic panoramic vistas of the lobsters slaughtering each other with pincers and guns in artful Sam Peckinpah-esque slow motion. We conclude with a low angle shot of the jar of NON-FUNCTIONAL POWDER proudly displaying its uniform trade dress, towering over us all as we are enveloped in the churning sounds of gory battle.
Nuclear whiteness obliterates all sight, the frame itself, Function-
