Spicy Chicken Wings
Spencer loathed spicy food. It makes no sense, he has told everyone. It’s just mouth pain.
At a restaurant, we see his family and friends chowing down on their famous SPICY CHICKEN WINGS. He looks disgusted, but also a bit left out as everyone around him praised the red-stained morsels. Topics of conversations for the rest of the night shifted to exclusively chicken-oriented retrospection. To chicken-filled analogies and metaphors. And, too soon, to chicken-themed inside jokes. This deluge of that awful spicy chicken is just too much for Spencer.
It makes no sense, everyone told him. It just tastes so good.
SMASH CUT to Spencer in the dark at home, standing in his kitchen, slouched and in misery.
He lives in a studio apartment, a simple four wall room with the bathroom fixed the corner nearest to the door (a small sub-room jutting out of the corner, if you will). In the leftmost corner near the front door is his kitchen, where, from behind his paper-cluttered breakfast counter, he can peer out through the two large windows on the opposite wall to watch the people along bustling avenues and narrow walkways of the city. Before the leftmost window, is a small, affordable television and a single white lawn chair. His bed, along with his desk, laid to the furthest wall from the door, under the rightmost window. The morning sun was always waking him up too early and he’s been meaning to move it last year, but he hadn’t found the time.
However, tonight, the countertop has been cleared of debris (or at least a circle of it) and placed in the center is his phone (and a few recently emptied bottles of alcohol). He is staring, deep in thought, at the phone. Silence. Maybe tranquility.
But, nodding to himself, he picks up the phone.
SPENCER
Uh, hi. [a momentary lapse in focus] Yes. [his posture fixed and ready] I would like to order 6, uh, 6 pieces of your spicy chicken wings. [listening] Yes. [listening] Thank you. [listening] Oh, yes my credit card number…[he fishes into his pockets for it, fumbling].
SMASH CUT to Spencer in the dark at home, standing in his kitchen, attentive and determined (blinking a bit too much to keep himself focused). A box of SPICY CHICKEN WINGS laid open on the counter, bordered by forgotten mail and random scribbles. Steam rises from the freshly made chicken. Silence. But nothing is calming about this.
He reaches his hand forward toward the box– suddenly, a hand emerges and slaps away Spencer’s grab attempt. It knocks him off balance a little, but he returns, annoyed.
He reaches again and– slap!
SPENCER
JUST. GIVE ME!
AGENT ORANGE
Don’t do it, Spencer.
SPENCER
What? [He takes the time to process and make out the figure in the dark, but he still has no idea] I’m. I’m calling the cops.
AGENT ORANGE
You can’t eat that spicy chicken.
SPENCER
Yes I can. [defiantly, without hesitation] And– and I want to. [a moment to catch his breath] In fact.
AGENT ORANGE
No, Spencer. You cannot.
SPENCER
Yes I CAN! I’ll show you… you bunch of sadists! You… I. I can handle it and I’m going to. [He repeats, brokenly, one of the spicy inside jokes.]
He reaches for the chicken, but his feeble attempt is meagerly pushed away by Orange. The alcohol is really getting to him.
AGENT ORANGE
I can’t let you do this.
SPENCER
Oh– OH! Well, now. Now you can’t even let me prove you wrong! You sadists. You hypocrites [he laughs]. You can’t stop me. I can do it if I want to!
He reaches for the chicken again, followed by the obligatory slap, but this time, Spencer forms his other hand into a fist and throws a drunken, but forceful punch.
Orange had not anticipated the blow and met it with full force, sending him to back towards the floor. Spencer takes the momentary respite and grabs a chicken wing, firmly between his fingers, ready for the sacrifice.
But before Spencer could coordinate his open orifice with his flimsy appendages, Orange lunges over and snatches the meat. He places himself firmly between Spencer and the Box, holding the chosen chicken as far away form the hell-bent, snapping jaws.
Fueled with anger, Spencer pushes Orange over the countertop, dragging both of them and all the various papers and utensils over the counter and out of the kitchen, into the television viewing area.
Orange pushes Spencer off of him and stands up. He steps back, tipping the lonely lawn chair out of his way, to reassess the situation, having hit his head on the hard floor. Orange feels his head and finds some blood. Spencer, heaving heavily, gets up as well, holding his newly rediscovered butter knife. There is only one way this could end.