Lotto

Extreme close up of an older mans face as he reads the evening newspaper. His thoughts are interrupted by the grating sound of his wife’s voice.




Wife: Three hundred.



The mans eyes jerk from the paper and look upward at nothing in particular.



His wife sighs.





Wife: Three hundred. Three hundred Melman, do you believe that?



Melman closes the paper and releases a breath of hot air.



Melman: Three hundred what dear?



Wife: Three hundred million dollars Melman. Oh if only we had three hundred million dollars.



Quick shot of the lotto logo on the back of the mans newspaper.



Melman looks at his wife and suppresses the urge to whack her with his newspaper.



Melman: If we had three million dollars someone would figure a way to need four.



Wife: Nonsense! You have to go down there and buy a lottery ticket at once.



Melman instead makes a weird mouth noise and lies on the couch.



Melman: I cant go down there. I don’t know about these things. What if they ask me a bunch of questions?



In his mind he sees himself in line at the local liquor store. It smells of sweat, curry, vomit and illegal whiskey. Weird people wander the aisles, but wonderful jazz blares from a Bose sound system installed behind the counter. When it becomes his turn Melman is scrutinized by the brooding Hindu clerk. Wearing full turban and dark poker glasses Hindu begins jabbering at Melman.



Turban: yes, yes, very busy, yes now what?



Melman: I, uh…I want a lottery ticket please.



Turban, exasperated at once, exhales loudly. Turbans’ bespectacled assistant looks up from his broken price gun.



Turban: what kind of lottery ticket do you wish to buy sir? We have the super lottos and the little lottos and the kind you scratch, but do not smell. There are lottos with many, many numbers.



Turban enjoys a small pause then slaps the top of the counter with an open palm and continues to rant.



Quick shots of other liquor store weirdo’s and jacks are taken. Turbans’ lumpy assistant is bleating like a nervous goat. Melman is spinning.





Turban: Do you wish to pick three? Four? Five? Six? Would you pick quickly?



More fast cuts of drips and freaks. Melman sweating, mopping his brow.



Turban glares down, eyes hidden behind his cutthroat shades.



Turban: Or do you want the Powerball? Please make a decision. You are not having very much more time. There are others. You must…”





Before Turban can finish his verbal onslaught Melman cuts him off.



Melman: The big one! Asshole!





Stutters…



Melman: The big one.



The A word is bleeped and quick shots of Melman, Turban, the assistant and some of the other selected liquor store turds are shown.



Fade to logo.