EXT. ABANDONED CITY – DUSK

 

A decaying urban environment at dusk. Weeds have overcome what remains of a street. A lone streetlamp stands crooked, its glass bulb broken long ago. Refuse and loose papers are littered about. In the background, a pedestrian bridge has collapsed partially into a dirty canal.

 

The distant sound of an engine accelerating, gradually growing louder as it draws near. A 1986 Kawasaki GPZ1000RX hurtles into view. A portable audio cassette player has been crudely mounted to the left handlebar; it is playing at peak volume an oversaturated ferric recording of Dream Machine by Des Rocs.

 

Sat uncomfortably on the motorcycle’s saddle is BANSHEE, two hooves resting precariously on each footpeg, his 2000s Scene kid haircut billowing in the wind.

 

While his mane is usually dyed black with red highlights, it is currently a natural white colour—perhaps he has depleted his hair dye budget, having blown his funds on the sweet rims currently fixed to his bike?

 

The strapping stallion is clearly far too large to be riding this vehicle, but he simply doesn’t care. The vintage engine sputters in protest of his substantial mass, further encumbered by his heavy plot armour. The bike’s exhaust mingles with smoke from the Lucky Strike cigarette lolling between his lips.

 

He is tailed by a throng of galloping equine, each displaying various symptoms of an ambiguous sci-fi infection. A green ooze drools from their mouths and nostrils; the capillaries of their irises bright red. Maybe they are irradiated or something. You get the gist.

 

Speeding toward an abandoned gas station, Banshee the Veilhorn checks his six. He can’t see anything because it’s dusk and he’s wearing Ray-Ban® sunglasses. Making use of his telekinetic mind-powers, he raises them to his horse-forehead.

 

BANSHEE (staring directly into the camera) Ray-Ban®: Never Hide™.

 

With restored vision, Banshee the Veilcorn peers into the dusty wake of his bike, furrowing his horse-brow as he notices that he is still being pursued.

 

BANSHEE (croaking, voice raw from smoking) Damn, you guys just don’t give up.

 

WRITER’S NOTE: One could remark that his voice sounds a bit hoarse…

 

Thinking quickly, Banshee the Veiled Unihorse identifies a steel jerrycan propped up against a dented gasoline pump, and assumes it must be full, because that possibility would be most narratively-convenient for him at this moment. Manoeuvring his bike so that he may collect the jerrycan, Banshee the Corned Horse-Veiler has no time to ponder how it is feasible for gasoline to be so readily available in this generic post-apocalyptic setting—what is he, a nerd?

 

Popping a sick wheelie, Banshee the Horsed Cornveil takes off, encircling the horde of groaning equine as he decants the contents of the jerrycan. Satisfied, he swerves to an abrupt halt, launching the jerrycan and its remaining gasoline into the swarm.

 

BANSHEE Enough horsin’ around.

 

Banshee the Cornhorse Veil-Hosier roars off, dropping the lit Lucky Strike from his mouth.

 

KA-BOOM!

 

Gore and viscera splatter across the gas station exterior, but he is unaware of this, because he is too cool to bother watching the explosion.

 

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FADE TO: EXT. BADLANDS – AFTERNOON

 

A sprawling desert in an unnamed fantasy world. Distant mountains are visible on the horizon. A meandering dirt track approaches a sparsely-populated settlement, featuring haphazard architecture.

 

DISSOLVE TO: INT. SMALL TAVERN – AFTERNOON

 

A greying bartender horse-person wipes glasses, humming to himself a melancholic horse-tune. Suddenly, a magical rift materialises in midair, through which our protagonist enters on his bike.

 

BARTENDER (startled) For fuck’s sake, Banshee! How many times have I told you to stop doing that? You’re gonna give this old draft horse Cushing’s disease!

 

Banshee withdraws a propane blowtorch from his plot armour, and lights three cigarettes simultaneously.

 

BANSHEE Relax, Gramps. Why the long face?

 

Banshee takes a pull from the three cigarettes as the magical rift closes behind him.

 

BARTENDER Funny. That’s usually my line.

 

A laugh track plays.

 

BANSHEE Say, how about pouring me the in-universe fantasy equivalent of a Scotch?

 

BARTENDER Not until you pay off that tab, you ass…

 

BARTENDER (glancing at motorcycle) … or did you blow all your ‘in-universe fantasy equivalent’ of money on those sweet rims?

 

BANSHEE やれやれだぜ…

 

BARTENDER Speaking of your bike, it looks as though it was designed for a creature with two legs, rather than four… I thought we were supposed to visit only realms inhabited by other equine?

 

BANSHEE Who’re you, a lore-enforcement officer?

 

A laugh track plays.

 

BANSHEE Anyway, this is for the tab – something I picked up for you on the road.

 

Banshee passes to the bartender a concealed object wrapped in a dirty rag.

 

BARTENDER (unfolding the rag) What the hell is this?

 

The bartender’s horse-eyebrows raise in surprise.

 

BARTENDER Oh my in-universe fantasy equivalent of God, is this what I think it is?

 

BANSHEE See for yourself, Old Man.

 

The bartender gawks in abject disbelief.

 

BARTENDER A new, sealed, 2013 Rainbow Dash™ Mimobot® USB flash drive (8GB)? I’m speechless.

 

BANSHEE Knew you’d like it, Gramps.

 

BARTENDER Finally, somewhere to store my extensive “Weird Al” Yankovic MP3 collection! You sure are a diamond in the rough, Banshee. Have a drink on me.

 

BANSHEE (winking into the camera) Don’t mind if I do.

 

An anime-style eye-shine sound effect plays, followed by a laugh track with applause.

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