Just Some Dude

TITLE: JUST SOME DUDE

CHARACTER
One man. Late 20s to 40s. Could go either way.
A stool, maybe a table. Optional drink.

---

MONOLOGUE

This dude.

Yeah.

This dude who is he? Nobody knows. Just some dude.

Grew up here, there… wherever. Doesn’t matter.
One of those non-descript guys you wouldn’t look at twice.

Except

he liked to write.

Started when he was, what eight? Nine?
Silly s**t. Dumb stories. Cowboys, monsters, whatever the hell kids write when they don’t know anything yet.

Parents had this old Royal manual typewriter up in the attic.
Heavy thing. Loud as hell.

(mimics typing sound, lightly)

I don’t know mother, father, somebody used it in college. Term papers. Something respectable.

Anyway

kid finds it.

Starts writing.

And he doesn’t stop.

Writes all the time. Too much.
Neglects schoolwork. Teachers start calling. Parents get dragged into conferences.

You know the kind.

(mocking tone)
“He’s bright, but he doesn’t apply himself.”

Bullshit.

Kid just doesn’t care about anything except writing.

So

he barely squeaks out of high school.
Skin of his teeth. Like they just want him gone.

And now he’s… nothing.

No college. No plan. No skills. No ambition anybody can measure.

Just this… itch.

So he starts hanging around a pool hall.

Middle of the day. Middle of the night. Doesn’t matter.
Same guys. Same smoke. Same bad lighting.

Meets a few characters.

One in particular.

This guy introduces him to dope.

Nothing heavy at first just pot.
Then hash.
Then a little coke here and there.
Quaaludes why not.

Problem is

he’s got no money.

No walking-around cash. No hustle. No angle.

So his parents finally lay it down:

(flat, blunt)
“Get a job… or get out.”

So he gets a job.

Dishwasher.

Fish restaurant.

Grease, guts, smell that never comes off your hands. Ever.

He hates it.

(beat)
But what the f**k else is he gonna do?

Right?

So one night

he’s out back, or on break, or wherever
and he meets this recruiter.

Army.

Or Marines.

Probably Marines.

(half-smirk)
Because he loves that movie Taxi Driver… Travis Bickle… you know… whole lone-wolf thing.

That fantasy gets in his head.

So

he signs up.

Becomes a Marine.

And just like that

he’s not a nobody anymore.

Now he’s something.

Uniform. Structure. Orders. Purpose.

Ships out.

Iraq.

(beat tone shifts slightly)

Comes back with a few stories.

And a few things he doesn’t talk about.

Honorable discharge.

End of that chapter.

So now what?

Now he’s back where he started.

Except

that itch?

Still there.

Worse, actually.

So he writes.

Writes about the Marines.
Writes about Iraq.
Writes about everything he thinks people are supposed to care about.

He finishes a manuscript.

Big deal, right?

So he sends it out.

One publisher.

Two.

Ten.

Fifty.

A hundred.

All of them

(flat, rhythmic)
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“No thanks.”
“Not for us.”
“Doesn’t fit our list.”
“Try again elsewhere.”

So he drinks.

At first a little.

Then more.

Then a lot.

Wanders around.

Back to the pool hall but it’s different now.
Different people. Or nobody at all.

Time moved on.

He didn’t.

Then one day

he sees an ad online.

One of those vanity presses.

(mock enthusiasm)
“We’ll publish your book! Minimal cost! Your dream can be real!”

And he thinks

why not?

What the hell has he got to lose?

So he sends them money he doesn’t really have.

Mails the manuscript.

They print it.

It exists now.

A real book.

His name on it.

And

(beat)
nothing happens.

Nobody buys it.

Nobody reads it.

It just sits there.

Like him.

So now he’s not just a failure

he’s a published failure.

That’s worse.

That’s way worse.

(beat)

So he gets an idea.

A great idea.

He’s got a literary idol.

This writer this guy

wrote one book.

One.

And it blew up.

International bestseller.
Millions of copies.
Enough money to never work again.

So what does that guy do?

Moves out to Idaho.

Alone.

Like a hermit.

Doesn’t talk to anybody.

Doesn’t write another word.

Just… disappears.

And this dude

(leans in slightly)
loves him for it.

So he decides

he’s gonna go find him.

Yeah.

Travel all the way out there.

Knock on his door.

And ask

(earnest, almost pathetic)
“How’d you do it?”

So he goes.

Finds the place.

Middle of nowhere.

Knocks.

Door opens

and there he is.

The idol.

The genius.

The guy who made it.

Holding

a shotgun.

And he tells him

(cold, direct)
“Get off my property or I’ll blow your brains out.”

(long beat)

And something…

breaks.

Right there.

Because this is the guy.

This is the one.

And he’s just

another a*****e with a gun.

So now

he’s not sad anymore.

Now he’s pissed.

So he decides

he’s gonna kill him.

Yeah.

That’s the plan.

Kill the idol.

And here’s where it gets…

complicated.

Because every time he tries

it goes wrong.

Every time.

He’s got plans.

Detailed plans.

Poison. Traps. Accidents.

And every single one

(building rhythm)
backfires.
Misfires.
Falls apart.
Blows up in his face sometimes literally.

Like a goddamn cartoon.

Like the coyote chasing the bird.

Every time

he’s this close

and then

(clap)
gone.

Failure.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until finally

(quiet)
one day

he gets it right.

No plan.

No trick.

No cleverness.

Just

violence.

And it works.

Idol’s dead.

Just like that.

(beat)

So now what?

Now he’s done it.

He hides out.

For a while.

But not long.

Because they always find you.

And they do.

Police catch him.

Trial.

Prison.

End of story.

Except

not quite.

Because while he’s in there

he starts writing again.

Of course he does.

What else is3. he gonna do?

So he writes this.

This whole thing.

Sends it out.

And this time

(small smile)
people read it.

People love it.

It sells.

A lot.

Runaway success.

The thing he always wanted.

Finally.

(beat)

Only problem is

he’s not allowed to make money off it.

Law says so.

Can’t profit from the crime.

So the book sells.

Makes a fortune.

And he gets

nothing.

Not a dime.

(long pause)

So

yeah.

That’s the story.

Of this dude.

Nobody special.

Just some guy.

(slight shift almost a crack in the voice)

Who always wanted to be a writer.

(lights fade)