Late evening. ROB sits on a purple sand BEACH on the shores of the GREAT LAKE, in good company, before a BEACH FIRE. RURAL CALM ABIDES. |
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So, if I read 'wordsman's message correctly, Beverly is due back here next week. Woo hoooooo! It'll be good to see her. Get her story of the "healing rebuses" from her own lips. |
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But, 'wordsman, buddy . . . I know that we live here in the North Woods . . . but I wouldn't exactly call us "Hooterville." |
ROB laughs large. Then he gestures out across the DUSK BLUE BAY toward the SMALL ISLAND 1/8 mile out. |
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| I mean . . . we have very sophisticated wilderness here. Take Poop Island, for example! I don't know what it's really called, but it clearly is a beloved target of gull, cormorant, and goose. Wait just a moment . . . you'll see . . . |
| SUDDENLY, in the darkness, POOP ISLAND COMES TO LIFE with numerous FLASHING LIGHTS and an insistent CAR ALARM SIREN. | ||
| . . . I don't know quite what is the exact deal, but there is some kind of urgent bird management situation here that calls for the very latest in high-tech scarecrowery! Hooterville? Come on! |
Farther down the beach a CLOUD OF EXHAUST from a 4-wheel ATV is illuminated by its HEADLAMP. Into the SMOKY BEAM are fired FOUR BOTTLE ROCKETS, which extinguish themselves in the lake. The ATV departs. |
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