Words of advice from November 2006, past self to future self, my self to my self: Pacing is important, whether you’re robbing a house or telling a story that goes from slow to frenetic very quickly.

“WRONG ADDRESS”

Page 1 (of 4)

Ill. 1:
Mail Robot stopped in front of a sliding door, pushing a buzzer with one extended arm, the other holding up a plastic box with its small forklift hand. The Mail Robot is a pale blue museum-quality machine with extending arms, morphing hands, and a transparent dome head, the glowing eyes and mouth formed by sparks inside; the whole appearance is topped off by a white Baseball Cap with the word “MAIL” in big blue letters across the face of it. This Mail Robot in particular looks like it has missed a few maintenance cycles.

CAPTION: “Another relaxing day at Rocket Avenue. . .”

BUZZER: buzzing SFX
MAIL ROBOT: whistling SFX.

Ill. 2:
Spaceboy standing in the door frame, still wearing his checkered pyjamas, looking on wearily at the Mail Robot.

SPACEBOY: “Hello, Mail Robot.”
MAIL ROBOT: “Voice authorisation required.”
SPACEBOY: “Authorisation giv-er-anted.”

Ill. 3:
From behind Spaceboy, well inside the room: Mail Robot’s extensible arm setting down the box inside Spaceboy’s apartment. Spaceboy stands sideways and just aside of the arm, eyes on the box, a curious expression on his face.
What little of the interior of the apartment that we see suggests that Spaceboy is not the most organised person in the world. To the left of the sliding door is an inactive display panel, used for checking who is at the door or taking calls. A puffy chair positioned strategically nearby has a bubble helmet, grey spacesuit, and several Acapulco / Hawaiian shirts resting on the seat of it, all appearing to have been thrown there haphazardly. One spaceboot rests on its side near the door, another under the chair, though this pairing of boots is completely mismatched. Complete the scene with a few more miscellany space items scattered around: a floating scale model of a red rocketship, a glowing space rock, a pair of gold Elvis sunglasses, so on.

MAIL ROBOT: “Package delivered. Good afternoon to you.”

Ill. 4:
Spaceboy standing over the package, looking down at it, a bit of a wry expression on his face. We can now see why he is so unimpressed: the name on the package (”Professor Emeritus, No Bones”), writ in bold, sharp letters, is not his.

SPACEBOY: “This isn’t me.”
SPACEBOY: “No, of course it’s not for me. Why would anyone send me a package?”

Ill. 5:
Spaceboy, visibly annoyed, poking his head out the sliding door, but the Mail Robot is long gone.

SPACEBOY: “Mail Robot, this package isn’t for. . .”
SPACEBOY: “Hey! HEY!”
SPACEBOY: “I HAVE BONES! I CLEARLY HAVE BONES!”