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!