LoveLocked: Infomercial #1

[LoveLock Infomercial: HeteroMaleDomIncest #1]

[Scene: Middle-class living room. Blue sectional sofa, hi-def TV, two chairs and ottomans in red leather, two end tables, one with large ceramic vase. Standing center are HUSBAND and WIFE, white, late 30s. He wears blue jeans and a polo. She wears a white sun dress and strappy sandals. Her long, sharp fingernails are painted fire-engine red. They are mid-fight.]

Husband [pleading]: Please, please, just listen to me—

Wife: No! Goddammit, I have had it! Get OUT!

Husband: Look, I just need you to listen to me—

[WIFE tucks her head and clamps her forearms over her ears.]

Husband: Aw, Christ, please don’t do that—

[WIFE shakes her body left and right like an angry child.]

Husband: Dammit, honey, please can you just listen to me.

[HUSBAND lightly touches WIFE’s wrist. WIFE jerks back.]

Husband: Honey, look at me. We can work this out. Our therapist—

Wife: Fuck our therapist. There is no “we.” “We” are done. I want you out.

Husband: I’m not going. This is my home, too.

Wife: Get out of my house!

Husband [bristling]: You leave. It’s you who wants out of this marriage. Not me!

Wife: You’re the man. Be brave, and get out!

Husband: This is my HOME! And I didn’t do anything wrong. Please—

Wife: No, it’s not. And yes, you did. Now get out.

Husband [steps forward]: I’m not—

Wife [flinches]: I’ll call the cops!

Husband [touches her arm]: Please just listen—

[WIFE slaps HUSBAND so hard he stumbles.]

Husband: Fuck!

Wife: I fucking warned you! [WIFE leaps on HUSBAND and claws his face.]

Husband [struggling]: Fuck! Fuck!

[WIFE plants her thumbs in his eyes.]

Husband [panicking]: No! FUCK!

Wife: Gonna kill you!

[HUSBAND throws WIFE onto couch. She gasps and gapes.]

Wife: Abuse! Abuser! I’m calling the cops!

Husband [incredulous]: You were gonna blind me!

Wife: You abusing fuck! I’m calling the cops!

Husband [takes enormous, calming breath]: Look, I just—

Wife: You sonofabitch, you’re going to jail! You’re gonna lose everything, me, our daughter, your job, everything—!

Husband: Are you even listening to yourself? Can you hear yourself? You’re crazy!

Wife: Help! Help! Rape!

Husband [kneels and moves forward]: You’re crazy! I just want to talk—

[WIFE kicks at him. HUSBAND fends off blows.]

Wife: This is the end!

[WIFE’s face demonic. HUSBAND considers. Then he raises his arm in a fist. Scene freezes.]

[SPOKESMAN voiceover]: Men, has this happened to you? You’re reasoning with your loved one and she just won’t let you get in a word?

[SPOKESMAN walks in, stands in front of still image of HUSBAND about to strike WIFE. The SPOKESMAN is in his early 50s, silver-haired, and black-suited.]

Spokesman: If you haven’t experienced it yourself, you probably will. More than half of all marriages end in divorce. It puts a brutal strain on all family members. And sometimes—[gestures to image]—matters get violent.

[Scene switch. Three muscular BLACK COPS are in the living room. COP 1 is handcuffing Husband. COPs 2 and 3 are standing by WIFE. HUSBAND’s face and neck are welted, and his eyes are swollen shut. WIFE holds an icepack to her face.]

Husband [to WIFE]: I didn’t even hit you!

Cop 1: Man, shut the fuck up.

Wife [to HUSBAND]: You’re a monster.

Cop 2 [grinning]: It’s pretty open and shut.

Cop 3 [to COP 2]: We could take him the long way . . . .

Wife [to COP 3]: What would that mean?

Cop 2: We’d do to him what he was gonna do to you.

Wife [confused]: But he was going to . . . you know. Rape me.

Husband: No, I wasn’t! This is bullshit—aggh! [COP 1 wrenches HUSBAND’s handcuffed wrists up.]

Cop 3 [grinning]: Yep. You know. A little “brotherly justice.”

[WIFE realizes what COP 3 means.] You’d do that?

[COP 3 nods]

Cop 2: We all would. Teach the man to respect his woman. All women. All women matter, you know.

Husband [freaking out]: Respect? What about me? Where’s MY respect?

Cop 1: Shut the FUCK UP, bitch!

[The BLACK COPS roughly force HUSBAND toward the door. WIFE stands.]

Wife: Wait! Please!

[BLACK COPS turn. HUSBAND is relieved, certain that WIFE is saving him.]

Wife [coyly]: Can I watch?

Husband: Oh my God!

Cop 1 [chuckling]: We’re sorry, ma’am. Against policy.

Cop 2 [laughing]: But tell you what. We’ll wear our body cams. Give you the footage.

Husband: Oh my God!!

Wife [giggling]: Oh, thank you! [She pulls ice pack from her face.]

Husband: Look! Look! There’s no bruising! Nothing! I didn’t touch her!

[COP 3 walks over to inspect her eye.]

Cop 3: It’s true, Sarge. Not a trace.

Wife [placing her hand on COP 3’s crotch]: I’ve always healed fast.

Cop 3 [to COPs 1 and 2]: You guys deal with Mister Failed Rapist there. I need to take an . . . in-depth statement with the missus, here.

[HUSBAND screams and struggles. COPS 1 and 2 laugh and muscle him out the door. WIFE kneels in front of COP 3 and yanks at his belt. Scene freezes to a still.]

[SPOKESMAN appears in front of still image.]

Spokesman: Well, our friend is faced with a pickle! Two enormous ones, in fact! But you might face similar pickles if you try resolving a marital dispute yourself. So . . . consider using LoveLock, instead!

[Bottom of screen: LoveLock logo, url, and 1-800 number.]

Spokesman: LoveLock will resolve your marriage conflicts, permanently. Just watch how our friend’s situation could have turned out differently.

[Scene change. Back to living room, at the very start of the fight.]

Husband [pleading]: Please, please, just listen to me—

Wife: No! Goddammit, I have had it! Get OUT!

Husband [breathes deeply]: . . . All right.

Wife [confused]: What?

Husband: Okay. You win. I’ll go.

Wife: You’re . . . you’re leaving? You’re not going to fight?

Husband [shrugs]: You want me gone. I understand. I’ll respect that. I’ll pack up and go.

[WIFE picks up huge vase and hurls it at HUSBAND]: You PUSSY!

[HUSBAND ducks]: Jesus Christ!

Wife: What kind of fucking pussy are you? You won’t even fight for your home! [Storms out]

[HUSBAND exhales, shakes head, pulls smartphone from pocket, and dials]: Hello, LoveLock? Yes, I’m interested in your services. Uh-huh. Yes, that’s right. I love my wife, but . . . .

[SPOKESMAN V.O.]: LoveLock is quick, professional, and confidential.

[Scene change. HUSBAND answers door to two LoveLock EMPLOYEES. EMPLOYEES 1 and 2 are white, tall, muscled, and wearing brown uniforms with a LoveLock seal on them.]

Employee 1 [brightly]: You called for us, sir?

Husband: God, yes. I just can’t take it any more. I’ve tried, but— [gestures helplessly]

Employee 2: It’s all right, sir. There’s no shame. Some partners are just too far gone.

Husband: Got that right.

[SPOKESMAN V.O.]: LoveLock has already helped tens of thousands of marriages. But don’t just take my word for it.

[Scene change. From the chest up we see a balding, middle-aged white NEBBISHY MAN sporting glasses, a mustache, and a sweater. He addresses the camera.]

Nebbishy Man: I tried everything to save my marriage. I lost weight, got a better job, bought her gifts, took those “get a personality” classes—everything. I even agreed to an open marriage. For her, not me. Nothing worked. She was still gonna divorce me. I was out of options.

[Camera pans back. NEBBISHY MAN is sitting in a chair. Kneeling next to him is a LOVELY WOMAN with long black hair in a collar, corset, and stockings. Before her is a bowl of silver and beige fluid.]

Nebbishy Man: But then I contacted LoveLock. In two days’ time, they’d saved our marriage! [pets LOVELY WOMAN’s head] Right, dear?

Lovely Woman [adoringly]: Yes, Sir. LoveLock saved us. May Bitchsnacks eat, now?

Nebbishy Man: Of course, Bitchsnacks. Eat up.

[BITCHSNACKS laps from the bowl. NEBBISHY MAN places his hand at her rear. Then come squishy sounds. BITCHSNACKS groans and grins.] Oh, thank you, Sir. Bitchsnacks loves it when you finger her.

Nebbishy Man: You love anything, don’t you?

Bitchsnacks: Anything you want, yes, Sir. Bitchsnacks loves it all.

[SPOKESMAN V.O.]: LoveLock helped this man. Can we help you?

[Scene change. In the living room, EMPLOYEES 1 and 2 are wrestling a straitjacketed WIFE. She struggles and curses.]

Wife: FUCK YOU!

Employee 1: Ma’am, if you’d calm down—

Wife: EAT ME! YOU FUCKING FUCKERS!

Employee 2: Ma’am, language, please—

Wife: I WILL NOT BE SILENT! SILENCE IS CONSENT!

[EMPLOYEE 2 pulls a syringe from a pocket and plunges it into WIFE’s neck.]

Wife: NO! NO! NO! [WIFE’s screaming fades. EMPLOYEES 1 and 2 grip her until she’s unconscious, then lay her on the couch.]

Husband: She picked up that stuff a while ago. I don’t know where she gets it from.

Employee 1: It’s probably because she can read or something. It’s not your fault.

Employee 2: It’s sinister, this stuff. It’s everywhere.

Husband: You guys are busy?

Employee 1: Business is booming, yes.

Husband: So, when can you have her back to me?

Employee 2: The standard process is just 48 hours.

Husband [frowns]: But we were hosting a party tomorrow. Folks from our Church—I’m a deacon there. We’d have to cancel.

Employee 1: Oh! Well, sir, there is a 24-hour rush option.

Husband: What’s the difference?

Employee 2: It costs a little more, as you might imagine. But the main difference is the discomfort the subject feels.

Husband: Discomfort?

Employee 1: Yes. Well, not just discomfort. Some pain.

Husband: Pain?

Employee 2: Yes. Well not just pain. A little agony.

Husband: A little?

Employee 1: Yes. Well. Actually, a lot. Like she’s on fire for a day. You see, for the 48-hour process, we put her into a coma. She won’t feel a thing. But for a rush job? She has to stay awake for the whole teardown and build up.

Husband [considering]: I don’t know. . . .

Employee 2: We understand, sir. We know you love her. But once the process is done, she’ll be happy it happened. She’ll even thank you, because she’ll know it’s what you wanted.

Husband: Really?

Employee 1: Yes, indeed! In fact, it gets better. With the 24-hour process, we provide an extra implant. Not only will she be happy about it, she’ll even want to watch all the footage of what happened to her!

Husband: There’s footage? And she will?

Employee 2: Yup! She’ll love watching herself get processed. The full 24-hour video comes with your account. We’ll host it forever. Or at least until North Korea tosses an EMP at us . . . .

Husband: Those nutty North Koreans.

Employee 1: We know. Of course, they’re who we got this technology from, so they can’t be all bad.

Husband: I suppose not. All right. So, 24 hours?

Employee 2: Absolutely, sir. What time is your dinner party?

Husband: Starts at 5:30 tomorrow.

Employee 1: That’s perfect. We’ll get her back to you by 4. You can give her a test run before guests arrive.

Husband: She’ll be able to help me host?

Employee 2: Sir, she’ll do anything you want. That’s our guarantee, or we buy her from you.

Husband: All right.

[EMPLOYEE 2 slings the unconscious, straitjacketed WIFE over his shoulder. She moans.]

Employee 2: She’s waking up, Don.

Employee 1: Then we’d best take her in, Rob. Don’t worry, sir. We’ll fix her. [HUSBAND shakes EMPLOYEES’ hands. Scene freezes. SPOKESMAN walks out in front of the image.]

Spokeman: Many customers prefer the 48-hour option, but there is a 24-hour option. It costs extra, and it does cause the subject agony, but . . . well, that’s the price of accelerated progress, isn’t it? And it’s a small price to pay, wouldn’t you agree? Especially for lifelong access to the LoveLock processing video! And when all’s said and done, they won’t mind a bit.

[Scene change: Next day. Living room scene: Snack bowls, wine glasses, empty beer bottles are everywhere. HUSBAND and WIFE are at the door, waving at people offstage. She leans on him.]

Husband: Thanks for coming!

Wife [hoarsely]: We loved having you! Drive safely!

[HUSBAND and WIFE close the door. They look at each other and laugh.]

Husband: That was great!

Wife: It went really well. I think everyone had a lot of fun. I just wish my voice weren’t so scratchy. . . .

Husband: I’m just glad you and I worked things out.

Wife [leans forward to kiss him]: Me, too, love.

Husband: Christ, the place is a pit.

Wife: I know! We’ve got a lot of cleaning to do.

Husband: We?

Wife: I’m sorry, love. Did you want me to do all the cleaning?

Husband: As a matter of fact, I did. [Slaps WIFE’s behind.] Hop to!

Wife [giggles]: Yes, love.

Husband: That’s “Sir.”

Wife [smiling hugely]: Yes, Sir. I’ll hop to, Sir.

[WIFE begins gathering empty beer bottles. HUSBAND studies her.]

Husband: Honey? I’d like to try something out.

Wife: Yes, Sir?

Husband: Take off your clothes. All of them.

Wife: Yes, Sir.

[Wife disrobes. She is slender, fit, and tanned, with a well-groomed triangle of dark brown pubic hair.]

Wife [pirouetting clumsily]: Do you like what you see, Sir?

Husband: I definitely do, honey. Keep cleaning.

[WIFE returns to cleaning. She begins to carry four beer bottles to the kitchen.]

Husband: Wait. Only four?

Wife: Yes, Sir. That’s all I can hold at one time.

Husband [smirking]: Oh, we’ll see about that.

[HUSBAND takes an empty beer bottle. He holds it in front of WIFE’s face.]

Husband: Here. Suck on this. Like it’s a cock. Get it good and slobbery.

Wife: Okey-dokey. [WIFE complies, looking at him all the while.]

Husband: Good enough. Okay, turn around and bend over.

[HUSBAND rests the base of the beer bottle at the entry of WIFE’s vagina.]

Wife [moans]: Oh God . . .

Husband: You like?

Wife [moans]: Oh God, yes. Yes, I like it, Sir.

Husband: Why do you like it?

Wife: Because you’re doing it, Sir. I like everything you do, Sir.

Husband [grinning]: Good girl. [He pushes bottle into WIFE, and she moans.]

Spokesman V.O.: There’s no ramp-up period. When we drop off your spouse, she’s ready and raring to go. That’s a promise.

[HUSBAND works in the bottle until only the lip is visible.]

Husband: Okay, there we go.

[WIFE moans.]

Husband: See? You can take an extra bottle. In fact . . . [picks up another bottle] Here, turn around again. Suck on this one too, you horny little bitch.

Wife [squeals]: Oh, YES! [deepthroats bottle]

Spokesman V.O.: She’ll be ready for whatever, whenever, no matter what. That’s our guarantee.

Husband: All right, turn around and bend over. [Places the lip of the bottle against WIFE’s anus.]

Wife: OHHHHHHHHHHH MY GOD—

[HUSBAND smacks WIFE’s rear, hard.] Shut up, you dumb cunt. You love this.

Wife: Yes, Sir, I love this! Please stick that bottle in my ass! I’m a dumb cunt, and I love it!

Husband [smirking while working the bottle in]: What happened to “Silence Is Consent”?

Wife: I’m AHHHHH—consenting! I’m consenting!

Husband: Very noisily consenting . . . .

Wife [grunting]: Fuck . . . yeah . . . oh . . . please. . . gawd it’s so big it hurts . . . please—

Husband [assertively]: You love it. You love the pain.

Wife: YES! YES! I luv it! luv it! luv it! [babbling]

[HUSBAND works bottle into WIFE’s rear. He steps back and admires his work.]

Husband: Feeling full?

[WIFE nods and moans. Her legs are quaking.]

Husband [picks up another bottle]: You always were an overachiever. Let’s make my bitch airtight, shall we? Turn around again. Good. Deepthroat this one, Cupcake.

[WIFE takes the bottle into her mouth. She gags and wretches but slowly takes it in. Her gullet stretches to accommodate it.]

Husband: There we go. All holes filled. Just like God intended, right? Before that bitch Eve got all uppity and blamed Adam?

[WIFE nods and shivers. Gooey strings drip from both her ends.]

Husband: All right. Later, I’ll make you take a shit on your college degree. Right now, go ahead and walk those bottles outside and—

[The door opens. Their nineteen-year-old DAUGHTER walks in. She is pale and has a black leather coat with fringes, a short black skirt, purple-black dyed hair, and a hooped nose ring.]

Daughter: Mom, Dad, I’m home—uh?

[DAUGHTER gapes at the scene before her.]

Husband: Er—

Wife: [muffled animal noises]

Daughter: OH MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Husband [steps forward]: Look, baby, it’s like this—

Daughter [flinches]: You freaks! You FREAKS!

[DAUGHTER runs out the door. HUSBAND looks at WIFE. A silent agreement passes between them. HUSBAND takes out his smartphone and dials.]

Husband: Hello, LoveLock? Yes, it’s kind of an emergency . . . it’s my daughter. [listens] Yes, she’s 19. In college, and Women’s Studies, so she might not approve of our lifestyle choices. She saw us and ran away. Could you—

Spokesman V.O.: At LoveLock, we don’t judge. Our job is to help you keep your family together, period.

[Scene switch. Two days later. The house is immaculate. HUSBAND, fully clothed, stands and watches WIFE and DAUGHTER. They recline on the couch, naked except for red heels and black collars. WIFE lightly runs her fingers over DAUGHTER’s shaved pudenda.]

Daughter [shivers]: Oh, Mommy . . . .

Wife: Oh, Baby . . .

[Husband picks up a double-headed dildo roughly 18 inches long. It says “Courtesy of LoveLock” along the side.]

Husband: All fours, my loves. No, don’t pout—you’ll love this. Okay, face away from each other. Good. Okay, I’ll put this end inside you—[one end disappears into Wife]—and, now, you. Good. Okay, now back up . . . back up . . . . good!

[WIFE and DAUGHTER groan as their vaginas gobble up the double-headed dildo. Eventually their buttocks push against each other.]

Wife [giggling]: Your ass is cold, Baby!

Daughter [moaning]: Yours is, too, Mommy!

Husband: Well, warm ‘em up! Start bumping those butts together!

[HUSBAND smacks WIFE and DAUGHTER’s buttocks. They squeal, then bounce their rear ends off each other, sliding up and back against the dildo.]

[SPOKESMAN walks into the living room]: Another family saved. Right, sport?

Husband: Right! [Looks directly out of the screen.] Thank you, LoveLock!

Wife [moaning, dazed]: God—yes—thank you, LoveLock—oh—

Daughter [flushed and panting]: Yes, Thank You, LoveLock, Thank You, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh–

[Camera focus on SPOKESMAN]: Call LoveLock today. We can help you save your family. And remember our promise: Our locks last forever, or we’ll buy your loved ones from you.

[SPOKESMAN smiles. Background sounds of HUSBAND spanking and urging on WIFE and DAUGHTER, who grunt, moan, squeal, burble, and keen in delight. Fade to black.]

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