we sail tonight for Singapore.

FADE IN:

INT. ROGER’S BEDROOM -- MORNING

ROGER is lying in bed, sprawled out, diagonal, alone. He’s a narrow late twenties guy, and by the look of the place he’s single. A blanket blocks the light from spilling in through the curtainless window. The clock by the bed reads 7:36 a.m.

Clothes and food containers decorate the room in lieu of knickknacks. Draped across a chair in front of a closed laptop is a white button down, tie still knotted loosely, hanging from the collar.

The clock changes to 7:37. An imperceptible whine starts to issue from it. The whine grows louder slowly and Roger turns on his side.

The whine grows louder and Roger, eyes still closed, wraps a pillow around his head.
The clock is screeching now and Roger sits up slow and awkward. He rolls over toward it and flails toward the button that will make the noise stop.

He misses and leans up more, stretching out over the divide between bedside table and mattress. He reaches for the clock, slaps clumsily out at it. He misses.

The momentum takes him, with a cry, tumbling out of bed. All the sheets come off with him as he falls off the side of the bed, the alarm still screeching away.

Beside the bed, where Roger and his sheet ought to be, there is nothing but dirty floor.

EXT. OCEAN -- DAY

Waves lap against the hull of a ship. Despite the fact that the material comprising it resembles nothing so much as cast iron, the ship is, otherwise, a pirate vessel. It sails effortlessly on a gentle wind over the calm seas and under the clear blue sky.

The Iron Boat is sailing alone on the open ocean, no land in sight.

Suddenly, from far up in the sky, something falls.

The object is too far to be clearly discerned as it falls, though it falls from a great, great height. It does look to be human-shaped, though. And it appears to be trailing bed sheets.

It stop abruptly as the silhouette of falling object is intercepted by the Iron Boat. A thud is heard.

MUSIC: the decemberists: california one/youth and beauty brigade

(P.S. the preceeding is the beginning, finally, of what I've been getting ready to write for two months.)

(P.P.S. "We're lining up the light-loafered and the bored bench warmers, castaways and cutouts, fill it up. Come join the youth and beauty brigade.")