[The camera closes in on cubicle land, where a teenage girl with a dull expression listens to her headset.]
[voiceover] That's me. I'd say I'm sorry to disappoint you… but I'm not. I excel at not giving a shit. Experience has taught me that interest begets expectation, and expectation begets disappointment, so the key to avoiding disappointment is to avoid interest. A equals B equals C equals A, or… whatever. I also don't have a lot of interest in being a good person or a bad person. From what I can tell, either way, you're screwed.
[Cut to a guy robbing a convenience store…]
[voiceover] Bad people are punished by society's law.
[… only to find the police outside. Bad guy is shot dead. Cut to a woman, standing precariously on a picket fence to lure a treed cat with food.]
[voiceover] And good people…
CWCat Woman
Who's the pretty kitty? Ooh, you are. Come on, sweetheart.
[The woman falls off the fence. Pan down to the dead woman…]
[voiceover] … are punished by Murphy's Law.
[… then over to the cat on the ground, eating the food. Cut back to the office.]
[voiceover] So you see my dilemma.
[An aggressively cheery middle-aged woman approaches the morose George.]
Hi, I'm Dolores Herbig… as in "her big…"
[She points to her eyes, grinning.]
"… brown eyes?" I'll be your Happy Time career counselor.
[As a toilet seat from the re-entering Mir station plummets through the sky, George is awkwardly moving through a city plaza.]
[voiceover] They say your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the moment before you die? That might be true if you're terminally ill, or your parachute doesn't open…
[She looks up to see the fireball heading straight for her.]
[voiceover] … but if death sneaks up on you, the only thing you have time to think is…
[seeing un-George for the first time]
Who decides what we look like?
I don't know. Maybe this is what our inner child looks like when it grows up.
If that were the case, it looks like my inner child's road to adulthood was paved with crack cocaine, ten-dollar blowjobs, and maybe even a trick baby or two.
Well, you really fucked the dog, Peanut.
What? You had an appointment.
I didn't make an appointment.
Doesn't matter who made the appointment. You had an appointment.
Correct me if I'm wrong but- mission accomplished.
You're wrong. That was me correcting you.
He's still in there, you silly bitch.
[Flashback to the dead man's soul screaming as he is forced to watch his own autopsy.]
Holy shit! Is he in pain?
Physically, no. He's dead. But emotionally, I imagine this sort of thing is pretty traumatic.
You like spaghetti, George? I like spaghetti. I like board games. I like grabbing a trifecta with that long shot on top... that ozone smell you get from air purifiers... and I like knowing the space between my ears is immeasurable... Mahler's first, Bernstein conducting. You've got to think about all the things you like and decide whether they're worth sticking around for. And if they are, you'll find a way to do this.
Then you go away, and you don't get to like anything anymore.
