Vladimir’s Hunt

**Here is a writing sample I submitted to Florida State University. No dialogue was allowed.**

EXT. WORKING CLASS APARTMENT - KITCHEN - NIGHT
Underneath the constant stream of Orwellian-sounding
PROPAGANDA SPEWING from the radio, the loud THUD of a
rubber-soled work boot stomping onto the dirty, yellow
linoleum floor removes any semblance of a relaxing evening
in THE RUSSIAN’S apartment. His old and powerful logger’s
legs surely have ended the life of whatever had been caught
underneath, and by just one look of his weathered hands can
one tell that this was likely not the first he had taken.
The old man’s face shone of a hard life, and even his dirty,
graying beard told its own troubling story.
As he lifts his foot from the ground, the work-worn man
takes a quick peek at the bottom of his shoe- clean, other
than the stains of red from the day’s duties and certainly
without any pest’s flattened corpse. Looking to the floor,
he spies a black speck of some unknown substance and bends
down at the knee to identify it, grasping the nearby
countertop for support. Once his eyes focus the object into
view, he realizes that the speck he "killed" was only a bit
of pocket lint.
Frustrated, the Russian pinches the lint between two fingers
and begins to straighten himself. Upon exertion, his back
stiffens solid and he cannot stand upright, let alone move
at all. Grabbing the countertop with his other arm, he
painfully rotates himself perpendicular with it, now
eye-level with the surface.
Staring back at him with seemingly a thousand eyes only mere
inches from his face: a small, common house spider. Its
front appendages quiver as if ready to dart again, its
chelicera slowly swinging open and shut as if cursing the
tired old man. The spider must realize this Russian man’s
current predicament, as the brave arachnid just sits there
waiting for the human to make his next move.
The logger slowly removes his left hand from the countertop
in order to keep the spider from running off in fear of
death, and with it he quietly opens the nearby bottom
cupboard. About halfway into opening the door, a loud CREAK
is heard, forcing the man off-balance and onto the floor
completely, likewise slamming the door shut.
Thinking the spider gone, the Russian peeks back at the top
of the counter. Returning his inspection is the spider,
either unaware or indifferent to this man’s predicament.
Realizing the spider’s apathy towards him nor its concern
for the sound of the cabinet door, the man flings open the
cupboard and hastily retrieves a bottle of bug spray. After
a readying pause, he swings the can around to where the
spider is waiting and sprays wildly like a terrorist spraying a Kalashnikov, leaving a pile of white foamy matter all over 
the counter where the scoffing spider loiters.
Wrenching from his pain, the man manages to lift himself
back up onto his feet, albeit quite slowly. Satisfied at his
triumph over the nuisance, he reaches into his pocket for a
state-sanctioned handkerchief in order to wipe the scene
clean of guts and spray. Clearing the counter, he finds no
proof of his kill and immediately scans the room like a
security camera- no sign of a spider anywhere. Fuming, the
man hurls the can of spray at the cabinet in desperation.
The old man turns around, now angrily hunting his prey. The
spider scurries behind him, running between cans of herring
and beans on the counter as the man’s gaze just misses the
perceived threat, turning around with seemingly new life
just as the spider disappears again. In a fit of
uncontrollable rage, the Russian yanks a pistol from the
rear of his trousers and aims it where his eyes scan. Seeing
movement out of the corner of his eye, the man swings around
and pulls the trigger. The pistol doesn’t fire, locking the
slide to the rear as if it was unloaded. The Russian checks
his magazine and reloads it, chambering a round to be sure.
Suddenly a ROAR of thunder cuts through the silence and the
lights flicker. The old forester sees that a storm is
brewing nearby as he looks through the window from where he
stands, then immediately returns to hunting mode. The man
unaware, headlights appear in the distance through the
window.
He tiptoes ever-so-softly on the creaking linoleum, pointing
the pistol at the slightest hint of movement. The headlights
outside grow larger and shine into the kitchen, come to a
stop, and are extinguished.
Suddenly, the wind from the oncoming storm gusts and knocks
free the latch holding two latticed casement windows closed,
allowing one to swing wildly open and shut at the will of
the wind. The act of nature startles the man, and he leaves
the hunt to return the windows back to their original
position. Just as he notices the vehicle parked outside
through the open window, the Russian turns around to the
THUD of a metal shovel introducing itself to the front of
his skull and he crumples to the ground unconscious.
Two MASKED MEN tower over the Russian’s body. One of the men
digs out a photograph from his shirt pocket and compares it
to the man lying motionless on the ground, nodding at his
partner in confirmation. The photograph is of the dead man
and underneath the photo it reads "Wanted for crimes against
her workers." As one lights a cigarette, the other digs out
a flask and takes a swig, offering it to his partner as he 
finishes. The other masked man takes his ration of vodka and 
spies a crumpled newspaper on the countertop. The headline 
reads "TWO DEAD IN ANTI-BOLSHEVIK ATTACK AT LUMBER YARD". As 
the two masked men drag the lifeless body away, the spider 
reappears. It scurries to the edge of the countertop and
watches its hunter become the hunted.
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