EXT. Day (Jerky handheld, running), a scene of chaos. The audio track is filled with a deafening screech. The shot is teeming with movement.
CALVITA (unseen): Ah, for the love of suffering Jaysus Mac Fuck! Yez fucking little whores yez. That’s my fucking futon! Bollicks anyway!
MVO: An immense swarm of locusts has descended overnight. It obscures everything in sight. The locusts are devouring CALVITA’s bivouac.
CALVITA: Three fucking months I’m gathering them fucking fronds, yez fucking–ouch! Jesus, Mary and fucking Jonah! In my fucking ear!
CALVITA: Ah, lads, I do not fucking believe it. NO! MY FUCKING MANTELPIECE WITH THE KNICK-KNACKS! Ah, Christ tonight!
EXT (CU) Day, four camel femurs are the ruins of CALVITA’S bivouac. He crouches among them, weeping and clutching his partly-eaten hair.
Dissolve to MS, later the same day. CALVITA is still sitting in the ruins of his shelter, rocking back and forth and keening softly.
MVO: On the advice of our production team’s doctor, Ivor has been given a mild sedative to prevent him from harming himself.
EXT. (CU) Day, the dune. CALVITA is lounging some distance from the ruined shelter, gnawing a femur and singing Gloria Estefan numbers.
CALVITA (to camera): Rhythm is gonna getcha, rhythm is gonna getcha. Going to get you, mister. Ah no, I’m only codding you.
CALVITA: How could a rhythm get you, anyway? Funny ould song. Grand looking girl, though. Woo hoo. I’d shake her fecking maracas for her.
CALVITA: But there again, you see, it comes back to agendas. How can a swarm that size do a thing like that without–what? An agenda.
CALVITA: Oh, yes. There are no coincidences in this world, my friend. I’m long enough in it. But it’s a long, long road that blows no good.
CALVITA: So, is Ivor Calvita gutted and dejected and downtrodden and what-have-you? Oh yeah. But is he beaten? Wait now one second.
CALVITA: Jaysus, I’m after getting a great buzz there. What was I saying? Oh, yeah? Is he beaten? Is he fuck. That’s a reticulated question.
CALVITA: So, tune in fucking next time, is all I’ll say. Yesterday is a hysterectomy, tomorrow is a misnomer. Words to live by, my friend.
Paraic O’Donnell 