Request Line: Things Are Not What They Seem

INT. RECORDING STUDIO – NIGHT

A producer putters around the office, preparing a few last minute items for the evening’s session.

                                 —[door flies open]—                              

MARK DAVIS: HI I’M MARK DAVIS!

PRODUCER: Oh, great, great, glad you could make it, Mark.  What we’re going to do…

MARK DAVIS: I LIKE RECORDS!

PRODUCER: …um…that’s great, Mark!  You’ve certainly come to the right place, cause we’ve got…

MARK DAVIS: I MEAN THAT I LIKE THE RAIDERS RECORDS LIKE THE ONES SET BY JOHN MADDEN AND RAY GUY AND BO JACKSON AND…

PRODUCER: …well, actually…

MARK DAVIS: BUT I LIKE THE OTHER KIND OF RECORDS TOO.

PRODUCER: …you mean…the ones that play music?

MARK DAVIS: YEAH THOSE ONES!

PRODUCER: [catching on quickly] Good, cause that’s what you’ll be doing for the next hour.  Playing records!

MARK DAVIS: OH BOY! [claps hands]

PRODUCER: Okay, excellent.  Now what we’re going to do is get you settled into the booth [ushers him inside] and show you how the controls work…

MARK DAVIS: [sits down, looks around] WHERE’S THE SEAT BELT?

PRODUCER: It’s an office chair, Mark.  There isn’t one.

MARK DAVIS: [looks concerned]

PRODUCER: Don’t worry, you won’t fall out!  I promise.  Now I’ll be on the other side of the glass the whole time, so if you want to talk to me, just press this button here [shows him].

MARK DAVIS: [furrows brow]

PRODUCER: Now when a phone call comes in, you press this button here…

MARK DAVIS: [pounds fists on desk] IT’S TOO COMPLICATED!

PRODUCER: No, Mark, no, you’ll get it, it’s easy.  Just…

MARK DAVIS puts his head in his hands.  His shoulders begin to shake.

PRODUCER: Hey, hey, don’t cry, it’s fine, it…

MARK DAVIS looks up, and the PRODUCER suddenly realizes that the reason MARK DAVIS is shaking is because he’s LAUGHING.  

MARK DAVIS: Ha ha ha ha, oh, man, oh, Jesus.  You too?

PRODUCER: …?

MARK DAVIS: I can’t even tell you how fucking happy I am that this Vegas deal has FINALLY gone through.  I’m so glad I don’t have to keep this charade up any more.

PRODUCER: I…

MARK DAVIS: Yes, yes, yes, stupid Mark Davis, can’t even get a real haircut.  Drives some bullshit van, eats every night at P.F. Chang’s and Hooters.  And you all bought it.  ALL OF YOU.  Morons.  What, you never heard of something called “the long con”?  Jesus, there have been like fifty movies about it.

MARK DAVIS pulls on a pair of leather gloves before touching any of the equipment in front of him, then puts his elbows on the desk and stares at the PRODUCER.

MARK DAVIS: Sorry, don’t mean to be rude, but you mouth-breathing peasants have probably been drooling on this thing all day.  Now let’s get this show on the road; I’ve got to patch things up a little with the Oakland fans so they’ll keep scurrying like cockroaches into that cesspool of a Coliseum and stuffing themselves with Coors Light and recycled rat meat until I can finally cast off from that horror show of a city.

MARK DAVIS begins expertly punching at buttons on the console.

PRODUCER: [watches incredulously]

MARK DAVIS: What, you don’t think I know how to work this thing? I went to college, I know how to work a fucking Transonics 448-B sound board.  Now stop staring at me like a goddamned Holstein and go out there and manage the incoming calls.

The PRODUCER, still speechless, steps out of the booth.  He taps the glass, then silently counts off with his fingers.

MARK DAVIS: HI I’M MARK DAVIS AND IT’S TIME FOR REQUEST LINE.  CALL ME WITH SONGS AND I’LL PLAY THEM.  WE WANT SONGS ABOUT THINGS THAT AREN’T WHAT THEY SEEM.  YOU CAN CALL AND TELL ME THE SONG AND I WILL PLAY IT FOR YOU!  I’LL GET US STARTED WITH ONE FROM MODEST MOUSE.