Creepshow Animated Special (2020) - full transcript

The good news is...
I always land on my feet.

Ugh, foot.

The age-old question --

how badly does the patient
wanna survive?

Never give up.

Never surrender.

100...

99...

98...

97...

If I'm to tell the whole
truth -- and why not?



I got plenty of time --

I was born Richard Pinzetti
in New York's Little Italy.

All I ever wanted
was to be a surgeon.

My father,
an old-world greaseball,

would laugh and tell me to
get him another glass of wine.

He died when he was 46,
and I was glad.

I always had luck on my side,

present circumstances
notwithstanding,

but I'm not really
worried about that.

As I said,
I always land on my feet.

Anyway, a poor kid
from the projects

getting to college
was no easy task,

so I did what any other
able-bodied kid would do.

I played sports.



But let's not forget,

being a surgeon
was all I ever wanted,

so I figured a scholarship
would get me in the door,

and the world would
be my oyster.

And you know what?

I was good at it.

So I became quarterback,
but let's face it.

A doctor's hands are his life,

so I'd wrap them
before every game.

Then I'd soak them after.

A lot of my teammates
would rag on me,

call me chicken shit,

mostly this big zit-faced
asshole named Howie Plotzsky.

But living on the streets,
making connections,

getting to know people,
you know,

any asshole knows how to die.

The thing to learn
is how to survive.

So I slipped Ricky Buzelli
10 bucks

to make Howie's mouth
disappear.

Ricky obliged and brought me
three of his teeth

wrapped in
a bloody paper towel.

Can you imagine the damage

I could have done
to my hands busting his face?

In med school,
while the other suckers

were running themselves
ragged trying to bone up,

between waiting tables
and buffing floors,

I kept the rackets going --

football pools,
baseball pools.

I stayed tight
with the old neighborhood

and made it through school
just fine.

I didn't get into pushing

until I was doing
my residency.

I was working in one
of the biggest hospitals

in New York City.

At first, it was
prescription blanks.

I'd sell a tablet of 100

to some guys
from the neighborhood

along with writing samples
of 40 or 50 doctors.

Then they'd turn around
and sell them for 20 apiece.

Speed freaks and nodders,
they loved it.

Speaking of which,

I finally woke up
shortly after dark.

Wait, have I mentioned

I haven't had anything
to eat in four days?

Day fucking three --
haven't seen another soul.

A bunch of stuff washed up
over the last few days,

and I've taken what I can,
between that and the shit

that I got off
the useless lifeboat,

but it could be worse.

At least I'm here,
and I'm not her,

poor whoever she was.

Then this gull landed on one
of the rocks on the island.

It just stood there
looking at me

with its fucking black eyes.

Aaah!

The sound actually gave me

great satisfaction.

I carried it back to my camp,

and before I even
plucked a feather,

I dumped iodine
all over the laceration.

The last thing I need now
is an infection.

No driftwood or vegetation
for a fire,

so I guess
it's seagull tartare.

100, 99...

98, 97...

January 29th, day four.

The only reason
to keep Gloria here --

that's what I call her --

is that she attracts
the gulls.

But I don't know
how much more I can handle.

Jesus, the stench...

her body baking in the sun.

Found a few things
in the suitcase I could use.

Not much else to do,

so I'm gonna keep
writing my life's story.

At least it keeps my mind
off my stomach.

Well, sort of.

I had enough socked away
from my adventures

as an intern and resident
that I could've set myself up

in a practice on Park Avenue.

Then Lowenthal gets pinched,

fucking sheep.

They wave five years
in front of his face,

and he coughs up
half a dozen names,

mine right
at the top of the list.

There were a few other deals,
including prescription blanks,

which I didn't
entirely give up.

It's funny; I didn't really
need that stuff anymore,

but it's hard to give up
the extra sugar, you know?

So what did I do?

Threw a couple people
to the wolves.

Nobody I liked, though.

Everyone I gave to the feds
was a real son of a bitch.

Killed another gull today,

same way I killed the first.

I was beginning to get
scared there for a while.

It is strange how you can feel
the vitality surge back

when there's something
in your stomach.

263...

264...

265.

No place like home.

Oh, and did I tell you

I had about $350,000
worth of heroin?

New York street value.

You know what it's worth here?
El zilcho.

Yeah, sort of funny
if you think about it.

I wanted my shingle back,
and it was gonna cost me big.

I had some money stashed away,

but I decided
I'd take a chance,

try and double or triple it.

That's when I went
to see Ronnie Hanelli.

Ronnie and I played
football together.

When his kid brother decided
on internal medicine,

I helped him
get his residency.

Anything for someone
from the block.

He went from neighborhood
enforcer to law school,

set up a shop
above the Fish Bowl.

I knew Ronnie would
have something for me.

"It's dangerous," he said,

"But you always could
take care of yourself."

Hey!

I'm here!

I flew to Thailand
as a tourist.

My Chinese friend
had the merchandise,

and I took it
to a guy named Ngo

who pronounced it to be
very high-grade stuff.

After three weeks, I booked
passage to San Francisco

on the cruise ship Monrovia,

first-class cabin all the way.

This guy, Ngo, arranged
for two customs officials

to wave me through, so getting
on the ship was no problem,

and Ronnie Hanelli
had arranged for a boat

to pick up the bag
that I tossed over the side

just before we docked,
so I was looking for a cook

or a steward
who could use a little cash,

keep his mouth shut.

Then the ship sank.

Aaah!

Well, fuck me.

Okay.

Honey, I'm done.

No, no, don't get up.

From where I sit,
I can plainly see the letters,

every single one of them.

Could have used your help.

Took me damn near all day
to spell it,

but another plane
ain't gonna miss me --

I mean, us.

If there is another plane.

You know, darling, my foot
has been throbbing constantly,

and the swelling
and discoloration

is getting more
and more advanced.

I think we may
have to amputate.

Shit.

All I can think about
is what Mockridge used to say

in basic anatomy.

"Sooner or later," he'd say,
"The question comes up

"in every medical student's
career --

how much shock trauma
can the patient stand?"

And he'd whack his pointer

on the chart
of the human body,

hitting the liver,
the kidneys,

spleen, the heart.

Cut to its base level,
students,

the answer is always
another question.

How badly does the patient
want to survive?

So I have decided
to amputate my foot.

The good thing is,
I have matches, a needle,

thread from the sewing kit,
and 2 kilos of painkiller,

although hardly the type
I'd prescribe.

It's been four days
of no food,

and if I wait any longer,

I run a greater risk
of fainting

from a combination
of shock and hunger

in the middle
of the operation.

Then I would bleed to death.

This may be my last entry.

But I think I'm gonna make it.

But don't I always?

And they really are doing
marvelous things

with artificial limbs
these days.

I can get along
with one foot quite nicely.

Okay, time to see if I'm as
good a doctor as I think I am.

I'm close to digging the
stitches out with my fingers,

letting the blood flow
into the sand.

Anything to be rid
of this maddening itch.

So I count backwards from 100
and snort the heroin.

I have no idea
how much I've snorted,

but I've pretty much been
stoned since the operation.

It depresses hunger, you know?

Weird.

I'm hardly aware
of being hungry at all,

like this distant gnawing.

I could easily ignore it,

but I can't.

Gotta eat.

Huh? No.

No! No!

Help!

Hey.

Lobster, mmm,

garlic bread...

Oh, mother's lasagna,

prime rib, peach melba,

onion rings.

Gloria: Hey.

Richard.

You need to eat.

I'm right here.

Let's face it.

I might be better
than nothing.

What are
your alternatives?

It's fourth quarter,
down by three, third and long.

Pinzetti goes back to pass.

I was convinced it was gonna
fly off, but it didn't.

The pain from my stump
was excruciating,

but this asshole bird
strutting back and forth

with its meaty breast
thrown out

like some avian general
reviewing his troops,

my insides tightened
with hunger.

100,

99, 98...

98...

I couldn't afford to miss,
couldn't commit

'cause I couldn't afford
to fuck this up

because if I did, I knew
exactly what that meant.

Gloria.

It's the race of the cripples.

No, no! Don't you fucking dare!

Would have
gotten there faster,

but my hands...

must protect the hands.

I may need them again.

Gloria.

The storm washed her away.

I've -- I've amputated
the other foot.

Strange...

All through the operation,

I was drooling.

Just like when I saw the gull,

drooling helplessly...

like an idiot.

I'm out of food,
and I have no choice.

It tastes like

cold roast beef...

cold...

roast beef.

Oh, look at that.

I'm beginning to feel
half-human again.

Half-human,

or maybe a quarter-human,

or an eighth.

It's day 18.

I noticed the storm
washed away my "help" sign,

along with
what was left of Gloria.

That was three days ago,
I think.

Have I been that stoned?

I need to watch it,
cut down my dosage.

What if a ship would have
gone by while I was tripping?

Need -- Need to protect
the hands, no matter what.

Took off my right leg
at the knee.

Lost a lot of blood.

The pain was excruciating
in spite of the heroin.

Shock trauma would have
killed a lesser man.

How badly does
the patient wanna survive?

Let me answer with a question.

How badly does
the patient wanna live?

"Doctor, was the operation
necessary?"

I dreamt about Phil
Hammersmith's barbecue pit,

sitting on his porch at dusk
with drinks in our hands

talking about
surgical procedures

or golf or something.

The breeze picks up the sweet
smell of roasting pork.

Sweet Jesus...

The smell of roasting pork...

Took the other leg last night.

I couldn't stop my hands
from shaking.

So much blood
under my fingernails.

I remember the anatomical
models from med school,

but I can't even look down...

No.
No way, no --

No how.

But I get it.

I know --I know
what I need to do.

What they're doing with
artificial limbs these days,

I could be good as new.

I could come back to
this place and tell everyone

that this -- that this
is where it happened.

Don't dare,

but no choice.

How do I tie off
the femoral artery?

It's as big as a highway
up there.

I just wish
I could stop drooling.

There's nothing left
of my face

but a skin-covered skull.

I must be insane by now.

I'm a monster.

Nothing left below the groin,

just a freak,

a head attached to a torso

dragging itself along the sand
by its elbows.

A crab, a stoned crab.

They say you are
what you eat, right?

So I haven't changed much.

Been seeing my father.

When he was drunk,
he lost all of his English,

not that he had anything
to say, dipstick.

I was so glad
to get out of your house,

you fucking piece of shit,
know-nothing loser.

I made it.

I walked away from you!

Left hand washes the right.

Don't let the left hand know

what the right one is doing.

One potato, two potato.

Who cares?

This hand, that hand,

good food, good meat.

Let's eat.

Ladyfingers...

They taste
just like ladyfingers.

Ladyfingers...

Fingers...

Fingers.

Blake: I'm only trying this
because I'm so bored,

I wish I was dead.

Hi, Twitter.

Wanna know what I'm doing?

Oh, how to say this
in 280 characters or less?

Screaming inside.

Oh, my, didn't that sound
melodramatic?

Let's try this again.

Hello, Twitterverse.

I am Blake, and Blake is me.

What am I doing?
Counting seconds.

Only about, uh, 50,000 more
until we finish

what is hopefully the last
family trip of my life.

It's been all downhill
since we got to Colorado,

and I don't mean
on my snowboard.

We were supposed to spend
the break boarding and skiing,

but it's too cold
and won't stop snowing,

so we had to go to plan B.

What's plan B?
Oh, I'm so glad you asked.

Plan B is Mom and I
face off in a contest

to see who can make the other
cry hot tears of rage first.

She is the bitch queen
of Bitchtopia.

Our van is looking
like the setting

for a cage match duel
to the death,

all of us jammed in together
for three days.

Who will emerge alive?

Place your bets,
ladies and germs.

Personally,
I predict no survivors.

You know what bitchy thing
she said to me

a couple hours ago?

She said the reason
that I hate Colorado

is because I can't
blog about it.

She's always saying
social media is more real

for me and my friends
than the world.

For us, nothing really happens
until someone posts about it.

She says the internet
is life validation.

Validating what?

I told her I only have,
like, 40 followers on here,

so the only thing
it's validating

is that I'm a total loser.

Then she says people
do social media

because they're scared to die.

Ooh, so deep.

She said no one ever blogs
about their own death.

No one's status ever says,
"dead."

People go online
to hide from death

and wind up hiding from life --
crap like that.

She ought to write fortune
cookies for a living.

I told Mom, no, the reason
I hate Colorado

is 'cause I'm stuck with her,
and it's all way too real.

One more hairpin turn,
and my stomach's gonna blow.

Seriously, my contribution
to this glorious family moment

will be when I barf
on Eric's head.

If we wind up in a snow bank
and have a Donner party,

I know whose ass they'll
be chewing on first -- mine.

Of course, my survival skills
would amount

to Twittering madly
for someone to rescue us.

Mom would make a slingshot
out of rubber from the tires,

kill squirrels with it,
make a fur bikini out of them,

and be super sad
when we were rescued.

Dad would go out of his mind

because we'd have to burn
his books to stay warm.

Eric would put on a pair
of my leggings--

not to stay warm,

just 'cause my little brother
wants to wear my leggings.

I wrote that last bit

'cause Eric was looking
over my shoulder.

The sick bastard said wearing
my leggings is the closest

he'll probably come to getting
laid in high school.

Mom taught him to knit
while we were snowed in here

in happy Colorado,

and he knitted himself
a cock sock.

He's completely gross,
but I love him.

It's snowing in the mountains,
but not down here.

Goodbye, beautiful mountains.

Hello, not-so-beautiful
Utah desert.

Now Eric is trying on
my leggings.

He's so bored.

Mom thinks it's funny,
but Dad is stressing.

I dared Eric to wear
a skirt in the diner

when we stop for food,

and I promised him
that if he does it,

I'll invite a certain
hot goth girl chick

to the pool party in April

so he can see her
in her tacky bikini,

even though I don't like her.

There's no way he'll do it.

Oh, my God, he's doing it.

Oh, my gosh,
Mom can't stop laughing.

Eric saves the day!

Although now I have to invite

that goth girl
to the pool party.

But she probably won't come.

I think sunlight burns her.

I was actually glad to be
with these people right now,

and for, like, three seconds,
I liked Mom,

but then she had to go
and ruin everything.

I seriously barely glanced
at my phone,

and I guess, like,
the waitress

was standing there
or whatever,

waiting for my order,
and I didn't notice,

and Mom had to trot
out her stories

about being a waitress herself

and how demeaning it was
not to be acknowledged,

just to rub it in.

And she can be, like,
completely right,

and I can still hate how
she makes me feel like shit

every chance she gets.

Don't tell her I said
she was completely right.

Smug bitch.

Now Mom's berating Dad
because some detour

he accidentally took added
100 miles to our trip.

Eric, I am psychically
willing you

to find some reason
to get off the road.

Put the leggings back on.

Say you have to pee,
anything, please.

No, no, no, Eric, no!

When I was sending
you psychic signals,

this is not what I meant.

Even Mom doesn't wanna stop.

Write it down, kids.

First time in two years
we've agreed on anything.

Ugh, Dad is being a prick now,

says,
"Well, I could use a break

from being in the car
with you jackasses."

Thanks, Dad.

Love you, too.

Yeah, this looks
super popular.

#Sarcasm.

Circus of the Dead?

More like Circus of the Lame.

The ticket guy
looks really sick --

Not funny sick.
Sick-sick.

How you doing? He smells, too.

Mom says to be sure
to keep doing

whatever you're doing
on your phone.

She wouldn't want me
to look up and,

I don't know,
see something happening.

The only thing
that's gonna happen here

is one of us
is gonna get the plague.

Mom just told Dad
that I'll love the circus

'cause it'll be
just like the Internet.

YouTube is full of clowns,
she says.

Facebook is full
of fire-breathers,

and blogs are for people
who can't live

without a spotlight on them.

I'm gonna tweet, like,
five times a minute

and make her insane.

Come on. Don't --
There we go.

The usher
is a weird old guy.

Dad says he looks like
Mickey Rooney,

whoever that is.

Uh, he has on a hazmat suit.

He says it's so
he won't get bitten.

It is dark as hell in here.

I almost fell twice
getting to our seats.

Ugh, this circus reeks.

I don't know
what I'm smelling.

Are those the animals?

Call PETA
and the fire marshal.

It's totally claustrophobic.

We're so squished in,

I don't think we could leave
if we wanted to.

Oh, wait, they just
flipped on the spotlight.

Showtime.

Beating heart,
restrain yourself.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome
to the Circus of the Dead!

Well, that got Eric and Dad's
attention.

Did I mention there are
zombies in clown outfits,

chasing her around?

Whoa, they almost grabbed her.

Ooh, she's quick.

She says she's been
a prisoner of the circus

for six weeks and survived

because she learned
the stilts fast.

Says her boyfriend couldn't
figure them out, fell down,

and then he was eaten
on the first night.

This is not a joke!

She walked right up
to the wall under us

and begged someone to pull her
over and rescue her,

but the guy in the front row
just laughed.

Eric is yelling
that he'll save her.

Eric: I'll save you! He just stood up

and is flexing.

I hope he doesn't get a cramp
in his one ab.

Mom says she can't
take us anywhere.

Uh, promise?

Because I would like to be
nowhere with these people

for the rest of ever.

The skank mistress
had to run away in a hurry

before Zippo the Zombie
knocked her off her stilts.

It's actually
all very well-choreographed.

You can totally believe
they're trying to get her.

- Here at the Circus
of the Dead,

we always begin things
with a bang.

Eric says he has fantasies
about a certain goth girl

putting him
in a rig like that.

Ugh! #Ew.

This show would
actually be a great date

for the two of them.

It's got a hint of sex,

a whiff of bondage,

and it's really,
really morbid.

Hmm, they just put a zombie
in the cannon.

Yuck!

They pointed the cannon
at the crowd and fired it,

and fucking zombie parts
went everywhere.

The guy in the row
in front of us

got smashed in the mouth
with a flying shoe.

He's bleeding and everything.

Hello, lawsuit.

Fucking yuck.

There's still a foot
inside the shoe.

It's totally
realistic-looking.

The guy sitting in front of us

just walked off with his wife
to complain,

same dude who laughed
at the ringmistress

when she asked for help.

Part of me wants to leave,

but the rest of me
is watching this unfold

like a car wreck
I can't unsee.

Ugh, Dad had a zombie
lip in his hair!

I'm so glad
I didn't eat lunch.

It looks like a gummy worm,
and it smells like ass.

Naturally,
Eric wants to keep it.

Yay, a lion!

Ringmistress: This next act
is the cat's meow.

- Aww, I am still girl enough
to like a big cat.

Oh, that's a really
sad-looking lion.

Not fun.

They're opening the cage
and sending in zombies,

and he's hissing
like a housecat.

Damn! Lion power, whoo!

Ew, not so much cheering now.

He's got one,
and he's tugging out its guts

like he's pulling on the end
of a tug-of-war rope.

They're sending in
more zombies.

Oh, gross!

The zombies are passing around
organ meat and hunks of fur.

It's awful!
Oh, I feel sick.

Dad saw I was getting upset
and told me how they did it.

The cage has a false bottom,

and they pulled the real lion
out through the floor.

Oh, you really get
swept up in this thing.

Ringmistress: And now,
who is brave enough to join me?

Now the ringmistress
is back out

asking for a volunteer.

Uh, hard pass.

That person is definitely
contracting herpes.

Mm, where'd Eric go?

Probably went to barf
after that lion act.

The fire swallower
just came out.

One of the men
in a hazmat suit --

Fuck me! They just stuck
a torch down his throat,

and now he's burning!

He's running around
with, like,

smoke coming out of his mouth

and fire coming out of his eyes

like a jack-o-lant-- Oh!

They just let him burn
to death from the inside out!

That's the realest thing
I've ever seen.

What's even realer
is the corpse

after the hazmat guys

sprayed it down
with a fire extinguisher.

It looks so sad and shriveled.

Oh, ringmistress is back.

She's really weaving around.

I think something's wrong
with her ankle.

She says someone
from the audience has agreed

to be tonight's sacrifice.

She said he will be
the lucky one.

Oh, no! He did not!

They just wheeled Eric out
cuffed to a big wooden wheel.

Did he just wink at us?

Oh, psycho.

Go, Eric! Whoo!

They hauled out a zombie

and chained him
to a stake in the dirt,

and there's a box in front
of him full of hatchets.

I don't like
where this is going.

Someone screamed
like they got it in the head.

Obvious plant.

Everyone's laughing now.

The lion scene
was a little grim,

but we're back to funny again.

Eric is spinning around
and around on the wheel.

I think he's gonna yak.

Ooh, I am not
as brave as Eric.

Dad says it's a trick.
He's fine.

Says he'll probably
come out later as a zombie.

Aall a part of the show.

Oh, yep.
Looks like Dad's right.

They've promised that
he'll reemerge shortly.

Ugh, Mom is wigging.

She wants Dad
to go check on Eric.

She's starting to go nuts --
so embarrassing.

Says that guy who got hit
by the shoe never came back,

and I don't really see
what that has to do with Eric,

and besides, if I got hit
by a flying shoe,

I wouldn't come back either.

Mom bullied Dad
into checking on Eric.

Sanity restored.

This is why Eric volunteered.

With the fishnets and all,
she's very goth-hot.

Ringmistress: This is it, folks. She's being weird.

If I go off-script, they don't
let me out of the ring.

She says if she goes
off-script,

they don't let her
out of the ring.

Who cares? But she doesn't care.

I twisted my ankle earlier. She twisted her ankle

and knows tonight
is her last night.

Tonight is my final show.
My name is...

Says her name is...Both: Gail Ross.

And she went to high school
in Plano,

was going to marry
her boyfriend after college,

says his name was Craig,

and he wanted to teach.

Nice backstory.

I'm impressed
with the attention to detail.

Now she's saying that
she's sorry for all of us.

She says that they take
our cars and dispose of them

while we're in the tent
and that, like, every year,

12,000 people vanish on
the road with no explanation.

Their cars turn up empty
or not at all.

No one will miss us.

Creepy.

Oh, here's Eric!

His zombie makeup
is really good.

Most of the zombies
are black and rotted,

but he looks
like a fresh kill.

Still got the hatchet
in the neck.

And that looks totally fake.

I just said he's not very good
at being a zombie,

and Mom told me
to be supportive.

Seriously?

He isn't even trying
to walk slow.

Oh, shit, I hope
that's part of the show.

He just knocked her down.

Eric, Eric, Eric! She hit
the dirt really, really hard.

Ringmistress: Oh, no.
You fucking --

They're eating her
like they ate the lion.

Eric is playing with her guts?

He's going totally method.

Fucking gross.

And to the 80 new followers

I've gotten tonight,
you're fucking gross, too.

You guys will be
disappointed tomorrow

when I go back to tweeting
about my breakfast.

#Boring.

Zombie cheerleaders?

They're making
a human pyramid,

or maybe I should say
an inhuman pyramid.

They're surprisingly
good at it for zombies.

Go, team!

I wonder if they have
a zombie spirit stick.

Be aggressive.
Zom-bie aggressive!

Eric is climbing the pyramid
like he knows what he's doing.

He's up high enough to grab
the wall around the ring.

He's snarling at someone
in the front row.

I didn't know
he was such a good actor.

I wonder if they gave him,
like, backstage training --

This is really dangerous.

It's so dark,

and lots of people are
screaming and running around!

I can't say anything,
or they'll hear.

We're being very, very quiet.

We're off I-70.

Mom says exit 31, Utah.

Never mind.
Mom says we're in Arizona.

Gosh, she's always
correcting me.

Damn it, Mom!

The crowd--
Oh, God, that smell.

They were all dead.

The people in the stands
were all dead

except for us
and a few others.

The corpses
were roped together

to the seats,
like rotting mannequins,

and we couldn't tell
because it was so dark.

It's quiet now,

less screaming and growling.

They're dragging people
into piles and eating them.

The man who got hit
by the shoe earlier walked by,

but he's a zombie now.

Just Mom and me now.

I love my mom.
She's so brave.

I love her so much, so much.

I never meant any
of the bad things, not one.

I'm so scared.

They're searching to see
if anyone is left.

We're here waiting for help.

Please forward this
to everyone on Twitter.

This is true,
not an Internet prank.

Oh, God...

It was Dad.

He went by,

and Mom sat up
and said his name,

and -- and oh, God, not Dad!

Mom? Mommy?

Mommy!

Aaah!