Hey
Picture this:
the next six
months of our
life, leading
up to - instead of some scripted, insipid, foregone conclusion
precipitating denoument, tempting anticlimax in a long and
increasingly anticlimactic series of sequels, and sequels,
by popular (or mutual)
demand -
How about this?
A Scorcese flick,
called The Intended
with you and I cursing like we never meant it,
like irritated cops and avuncular criminals
trading quips in brilliantly
written staccato bullet points,
trading shots
in a hollow-point, steel-jacketed barrage,
a heart-hardened world-burdened fusillade
of cynicism,
One of us, surely
is working undercover.
we aren't both sure who it is,
or it isn't, but
we commit:
to bring the world
to its feet - twist,
by twist, by
twist, and
end up
dead
together
in the final shot.
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