THE SHORT HOUR S1E5: Lesson Learned

[Drumroll.]

[DWICK (VO)] "AN' NOW IT'S TIME FER..."

[Crash.]

[DWICK (VO)] "DA SHORT HOUR ON DA DWICK DWICKCAST SYNDICATE!



[DWICK (VO)] "Featurin' crowd favorites, like...DAVERNA!!"

[More cue cards, each showing a caricature of the actor in question.]

[DWICK (VO)] "HARNESTINE JABOCI! HARCIVAL! EIGHTBALL AN’ DA TREASURE DETECTIVES! Aaaaaaaaaaand...JORGAL DWICK! ASSHOLES AN' FUCKFACES, THIS IS

DA SHORT HOUR!"

---

[A green-skinned salarian, dressed up in a doctor’s labcoat, jumps in front of the camera with one hell of a manic grin. He’s just smiling like a lunatic at it, grabbing it by both hands and shaking it around like a snowglobe.]

[SALARIAN] “DO YOU NEED NEW ORGANS? ARE YOUR LUNGS LEAVING YOU BREATHLESS? IS YOUR KIDNEY A CAN’TNEY? ARE YOUR INTESTINES OUT OF FASHION? THEN DAVERNA’S DISCOUNT SURGERY AND ORGAN WHOLESALER MAY BE THE CHOICE FOR YOU!”

[The salarian walks past rows and rows and rows of jars, each containing various organs; hearts, lungs, kidneys, etc, all of different species, all of them haphazardly labeled and stored in... well, ‘less than ideal’ environments. In the background, turians are tossing jars filled with hearts to each other - including dropping one, we see, just as the camera zooms by - but Daverna doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything but the camera.]

[DAVERNA] “HEARTS, LUNGS, KIDNEYS, SMALL INTESTINES, LARGE INTESTINES, CLOACAS, QUADS, ENDOCRINE SYSTEMS, OUTDOCRENE SYSTEMS, DUODENUMS, TASTE BUDS, DIAPHRAGMS, EVEN THE FINEST OF LIVERS, ALL OF THEM AVAILABLE WHOLESALE AT DAVERNA’S! LOOK AT THIS PAIR OF HUMAN KIDNEYS! ONLY TWENTY YEARS OLD, BARELY USED, YOURS FOR ONLY 2,999.99! HOW ABOUT THIS PAIR OF TURIAN LUNGS, 50 YEARS OLD, ONLY USED TO BREATHE ON SUNDAYS, ONLY 5,999.99! AND IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR A SPORTIER MODEL, WE DO MUSCLE ACCELERATION, MUSCLE AUGMENTATION, AND EVEN MUSCLE ELASTIFICATION AT PRICES THAT’RE STUPIDLY LOW! AM I SERIOUS ABOUT THESE PRICES? SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK!”

[Smash cut to an elcor sitting at a table. The elcor’s face suddenly looks panicked - and then it falls over, dead.]

[DAVERNA] “WHOOOOOA, THESE PRICES ARE SO LOW, I DISGUST MYSELF! WHAT’S THAT? YOU WANT A BETTER DEAL? OKAY, ACT NOW AND I’LL THROW IN A FREE BLOOD FILTRATION SESSION FREE, THAT’S RIGHT, FREE, ABSOLUTELY FREE! YOU CAN’T GET BETTER THAN FREE, AND IF YOU CAN, YOU’RE AN IDIOT! SO COME ON DOWN TO DAVERNA’S, WITH CONVENIENT LOCATIONS ON ILLIUM, OMEGA, NOVERIA, AND NOW OPENING ON ZAKERA WARD IN THE CITADEL! ALL CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED, ALL PAYMENTS ARE FINAL! ISN’T IT TIME YOU MADE YOURSELF A BETTER YOU!?”

...

WAT

Hey! I know that guy! I met him while he was in Med School! He's pretty sprightly for being in his 30's...

Frogs.

Which button calls C-Sec again...

Sweet, I was thinking I should get a pancreas or two!

Stop! hey! wait... when did I subscribe to this, damnit?
Whenever I try to unsubscribe, it says, I just have resubscribed.

I... don't want this. Goddess, I knew it was a bad idea to sign up to site named after a terror organization!

... Are you sure he ever passed? Something tells me he has a terrible bedside manner.

I think I broke it. Nobody responds to my tips anymore.

[Slow pan about the room: the interior of a high-class restaurant, sleek with vaulted ceilings, beautiful wood paneling, and gilded window frames showing a panorama of the Nos Astra Skyline. Tables with swooping edges line the room, each decked out with tasteful china and silverware.

The camera focuses on a single table in particular; for some reason, it is the only occupied one in the restaurant right now. Sitting at the table is an asari of considerable class, in a tasteful, conservative black dress and donning a particularly angled set of scalp ridges that complement her thin face.

She pores over a restaurant menu. A stereotypical French voice provides narration for the sketch.]

[VO] “This is Ms. Harnestine Jaboci, famed Illian epicure and restaurant critic. Tonight, she dines at Erbramind’s.”

[There seems to be some minor kerfuffle going on in the background. The camera changes focus.]

[VO] “…Though she is unaware….”

[A very wide-looking chef wrestles with getting though kitchen doors in the background. It’s a very fuzzy shot, but very few people, particularly in showbiz, possess such a massive hump.]

[VO] “…of tonight’s…Staff Swap.”

[Split-second cut of a woman in white clothing, bound and gagged, as she looks pleadingly at the camera from inside a walk-in freezer. Back to Harnestine, who fiddles with the silverware and examines an exquisite-looking bowl of bread.]

[VO] “In a characteristic challenge of cuisine, Ms. Jacobi has asked the waiter to ‘surprise her’ with the ‘chef’s choice.’ So, tonight Erbramind’s kitchen staff is preparing a freshly-made house salad—”

[Smash cut to the “Head Chef” slamming a leafy, green, cabbage-like vegetable onto the counter. The moment he picks up a cleaver, the (Tuchankan) plant rears forward, shrieking, and throws a vine around the krogan’s neck with clear intent to throttle him. The Chef roars back, however, slamming the cleaver down on the base of the vine as he tries to yank it from the neck.

Three other vines shoot out from the “cabbage’s” innards, one of which wraps itself around the chef’s jaw in an attempt to wrench the whole damn thing off.

Cut back to Harnestine, who looks primly at her nails.

Cut back to the kitchen, where the Head Chef is now ripping vines apart with his fists – shortly before SLAMMING the enormous cleaver through the center of the plant, which gives one last scream before collapsing. The Head Chef exhales loudly, looks at the plant corpse before him, then jabs a fat finger at a trembling salarian sous chef.]

[HEAD CHEF] “YOU! SALT DAT [REDACTED]!”

[VO] "Ahem. A house salad, served, of course, in a traditional Valdectine glaze—”

[The Head Chef slices something open overhead; there is a piercing shriek, and a yellowish fluid sprays into a bowl below him.]

[VO] “—and, of course, seasoned to perfection.”

[Our sous chef, clearly fighting his gag reflex, spoons individual grains of various spices onto the salad. The effect is similar to airbrushing a Trabant.

A vine in the foreground twitches slightly. The salarain jumps at it. The head chef grins, out of focus, in the background.]

[HEAD CHEF] [Confession cam] ”S’yeah, we got dat shit outta da way, but we ain’t puttin’ dem pyjak nibbles out dere jus’ fer our judge ter chomp on.”

[The head chef – who by now is clearly Dwick – makes the classic “camera” gesture with the thumb and forefinger of each hand, glancing down at the “salad” below him.]

[DWICK] ”See, what we’re doin’ here is an’ ensemble piece. Jorgal Thik’s Drizzled Deathkiboj is jus’ Stage One.”

[VO] “Next, on Staff Swap: The main dish.”

[Quick cut of Dwick howling as he punches something massive into a wall.]

It's easier if you trick it into grabbing yer arm first, then you pull the vine tight and chop it off.

I get the sense Dwick is running away from whatever the main dish is in that cut.

Feh. If he cooks like he fights, dem judges gon' be right disappointed. Shit's just lazy. Bad form inner kitchen.

Bet his cookin' tastes like shit.

MEANWHILE, IN OUTER SPACE

[Half a dozen krogan in Reaper outfits drift through deep space, with some chep CGI giving the impression that they’re both in blueshift. They travel in silence, not a word between them, for about twenty seconds.

Then, one of them lets out a loud blast.

The effect of it is immediate; every Reaper trailing behind veers off wildly, crashing into one another as they do everything they can to get out of the lead Reaper’s path.]

[FOLLOWING REAPER 1] “AUGH. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK”

[FOLLOWING REAPER 2] “FUCKING HELL, STEVE.”

[STEVE] “OH COME ON, IT WASN’T THAT—“

[The horn goes off again, and the reapers drop out of FTL in a large, brown nebula. Two of the following reapers waggle their legs ineffectively, and nearly every “Reaper’s” eye-cannon closes in unison.]

[FOLLOWING REAPER 2] “FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK. AUGH, SHIT, I CAN’T BREATHE.”

[FOLLOWING REAPER 1] “AUGHHHH. I THINK I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK.”

<Audio pickup: Choking laughter>

Good gods, from now I'm going to start laughing every time it hear that sound.

glad i'm not the only person that noticed that reaper's fart

[We’re in an office somewhere in the DDS complex. Everybody seems to be going about their normal business, filing datapads, carrying boxes, talking over coffee, and generally being corporate drones. This goes on for about three minutes, until what sounds like a very breathy war-cry dopplers in from the distance. From down a hallway runs Terrorbyte dressed in a giant heart costume and wielding two cattle prods.]

TERRORBYTE: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA *hssssk* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

[Terrorbyte is apparently on a Dwickesque spree of his own; he’s going to town and shocking any employee within reach, unloading the cattle prods into their chests. Office personnel go running at his approach.

Freeze-frame.

Comic sans fills the bottom of the screen.]

DDS.

SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK.

Women an' men, krogan entertainment at its finest, an' that wasn't smarcastic statement there.

To quote one of our great poets of yore: "You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave."

dis here is the greatest thing i've ever witnessed