(Dude, I feel this way ALL THE TIME) :
The door rolls up slowly, but steadily. It is obvious the door is heavy.
The door rolls up to reveal the huge shop within, illuminated in bright light torn out of the fabric of the dark night surrounding it.
The camera moves in on the man, in through the door slowly and closes in on him as he works animatedly on some machine in the middle of this building: Tall, handsome, muscular, seething intelligence, he appears much younger than his XX years.
Camera closes in tight on his face, cheeks stubbled with coarse black hair, sweat beading on face, vein athrob on forehead, there is something dangerous in the set of his jaw as he performs some action, hands obscured in the bowels of some contraption.
There is no doubt: THIS is the principal character of this story. This is NOT the guest star, or an 'Also Starring' , or an 'Introducing' , or even a 'With' - THIS is the reason you are here, why you paid for the ticket in the first place. You can not take your eyes off of the screen, and you would trade ANYTHING to be him there, right now, in giant single-point relief.
Music begins to throb from the speakers, faint at first, unnoticed or mistaken for something else, then recognized as the score, then FELT like a sudden drop or rise on a roller-coaster, or a naked slap across the face. This music is AWESOME: evil, pounding, rhythmic, hypnotic, but there is something familiar about it as well, you know the words already, this song is old and redone and addictive and it brings your heart rate up a few points, you find your hand clutching the armrest of your seat like a vengeful parent would grab the throat of their child's killer.
The man on the screen is successful now! The wrong has been righted, he stands full upright at last, arching his sore back behind him to the left, to the right, accompanied by the noise of muted poppings as vertebrae and ligaments are once again properly aligned and home.
The man has a ridiculous bandana turned backwards on his head, upright, Aunt-Jemima-Style and with oversized bows like great bunny ears atop his crown. and he pulls this off in a triumphant gesture, and with it wipes of his hands and face, then installs it back on top of his head.
The music has begun to drop down now, and fade, and then silence entirely.
He leans back on the machine with his ass, and thinks about her for a moment, where she may be, what her hair may look like now, and then he spits on the floor. A beat passes. Another.
Suddenly, he turns around and fits the key into the ignition switch. He pauses just half a beat and closes his eyes before twisting the key to the right, and the empty canvas of sound is once again and immediately filled with the healthy regular idle of a very serious and threatening machine.
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