Parody 1.
Do a parody treatment beginning, “One morning, Gregor [Ben] Sanderson awoke to discover he had been turned into a giant beetle.”
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Leaving Kafka: A Metamorphic Tragedy
Treatment by [Your Name]
Opening Scene:
One morning, Gregor Sanderson awoke to discover he had been turned into a giant beetle. This was not, strictly speaking, a surprise. After years of heavy drinking and questionable late-night diner choices, his body had long been issuing distress signals—tremors, nausea, the occasional hallucination of talking slot machines. But waking up with six legs, a chitinous exoskeleton, and an overwhelming urge to skitter under the couch? That was new.
Still, Gregor was a professional. Or at least, he had been before his Hollywood screenwriting career combusted in a flaming pile of unpaid invoices and unreturned calls. If he was going to drink himself to death, he reasoned, it shouldn’t matter what form his body took. He clicked his mandibles, adjusted his compound eyes to the dim light, and reached (with great difficulty) for the vodka bottle on the nightstand.
Inciting Incident:
Unfortunately, Gregor's new anatomy presented logistical challenges. His spindly front legs lacked the dexterity to unscrew a bottle cap, and his once-masterful ability to pour a precise two-ounce shot was now a tragic comedy of spillage and regret. The liquor seeped into the sheets, mixing with the sticky residue of last night’s sorrows. Gregor sighed. This was going to be a long day.
In a desperate attempt to find a drinkable solution (literally), he scuttled out of his motel room, antennae twitching toward the neon-lit Las Vegas strip. But Vegas, a town built on indulgence, was surprisingly hostile to a giant, intoxicated insect.
The Journey:
The casino bouncers at The Flamingo screamed and swung broomsticks. The concierge at the Bellagio refused him service (“Sir, we have a very strict no-arthropod policy”). Even the shady liquor store clerk, who had never once questioned a man buying malt liquor at 8 AM, balked at Gregor’s unsettling compound gaze.
Meanwhile, Sera, a kind-hearted sex worker with a tragic backstory, saw him struggling and took pity. “Hey, pal,” she said, crouching down to his level. “You look like you need a drink.”
Gregor chittered in response.
Sera, fluent in the language of despair, understood immediately.
The Relationship:
Over the next few days, Sera and Gregor formed an unconventional bond. She fed him whiskey through a sponge (“it’s how they do it in biology class, babe”), covered for him when motel management threatened to call exterminators, and even let him ride on the dashboard of her car, where he clung with a sense of quiet dignity.
But Gregor’s nature was immutable. Even in the warmth of Sera’s understanding, he was still, at his core, a man hurtling toward oblivion. Or rather, a beetle hurtling toward oblivion.
Final Act:
In the end, Gregor’s fate was as inevitable as the sunrise over the Vegas skyline. His liver—if he still had one—could not endure his relentless consumption. As dawn broke, he lay on his back, legs curled inward, antennae twitching weakly.
Sera wept, cradling his hard, unyielding form.
“You were beautiful,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if she meant the man, the beetle, or the tragedy of them both.
Somewhere in the distance, a slot machine jingled. The house had won again.
Fade to Black.
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Parody 2
Create a parody humor treatment, Ben Sanderson arrives in Las Vegas, intent on drinking himself to death with tiny miniature bottles of crème de menthe & spending his time compulsively on games of gin rummy, whether on the casino floor, in luxury suites, or in back alley.
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Leaving Las Vegas (With a Hint of Mint)
A Parody Treatment by [Your Name]
Opening Scene: Arrival in Vegas
Ben Sanderson steps off the bus into the sweltering neon glow of Las Vegas, clutching his life savings—$612 in loose bills and casino vouchers of questionable validity. He has one goal: to drink himself to death exclusively with tiny miniature bottles of crème de menthe and play gin rummy compulsively until the sweet release of oblivion takes him.
His first stop? A discount liquor store off the Strip, where he clears out their entire supply of crème de menthe miniatures. The cashier, an ex-showgirl with a nicotine habit and a PhD in poor life choices, eyes him suspiciously.
CASHIER:
"Darlin’, you sure about this? Crème de menthe’s a gateway drink to regrettable decisions."
BEN:
"That’s the idea."
She shrugs and double-bags his purchase.
The Gin Rummy Spiral Begins
With pockets bulging with tiny bottles of fluorescent green liquid, Ben launches into his mission. His first stop is the casino floor at Caesars Palace, where he parks himself at a high-stakes gin rummy table, slamming back crème de menthe like it’s absinthe and he’s a 19th-century poet.
DEALER:
"Sir, we don’t actually have a gin rummy table."
BEN (slamming a miniature bottle on the table):
"Then deal the cards, coward."
Unwilling to argue with a man whose breath smells like a candy cane from hell, they humor him. He plays erratically, sometimes folding before the first card is dealt, sometimes shouting "RUMMY!" before anyone has even picked up a card. His strategy is unclear, but his commitment is undeniable.
Luxury Suites & Back Alleys
As the night spirals into a surreal fever dream of bad decisions, Ben drifts from one gin rummy game to another.
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At the Bellagio, he sneaks into a high-roller suite, convinced that playing gin rummy on a velvet chaise lounge will lend an air of doomed sophistication to his self-destruction. It does not. He loses spectacularly to a Russian oligarch who collects his winnings by taking Ben’s last remaining shoelace.
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Behind the Flamingo, he stumbles into a back-alley gin rummy ring run by a pair of chain-smoking retirees named Doris and Lou. They wipe the floor with him, pocketing his last $23 and a fistful of crème de menthe minis.
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In a seedy motel, he plays a solo game of gin rummy against a stuffed iguana named Mr. Pickles. Mr. Pickles wins.
Enter Sera, the Enabler with Boundaries
Sera, a world-weary escort with a heart of gold (and a liver of steel), takes pity on Ben when she finds him in a gutter arguing with his own reflection about whether you can "really" go gin. She takes him in, plops him on a motel bed, and assesses the damage.
SERA:
"Crème de menthe? Jesus, Ben. Why not just chug Listerine and cut out the middleman?"
BEN (groggily):
"I like the color. It makes me feel… festive."
Sera sighs. Against all logic, she decides to care about this human wreckage. She attempts to wean him off his miniature-bottle diet, but Ben resists. He’s a man with a plan. A dumb, sticky, mint-scented plan.
The Bitter End (And Aftertaste)
As his funds dwindle and his bloodstream reaches a crème de menthe saturation level that defies medical science, Ben’s gin rummy skills deteriorate. He starts playing against casino carpets, mistaking their intricate patterns for rival players.
Eventually, his body can take no more. In a final, tragic moment, he collapses mid-game, clutching a half-empty miniature bottle, whispering his last words:
BEN:
"Rummy… I win…"
He does not win.
Sera weeps over his minty-fresh corpse. A janitor gently pries the last crème de menthe bottle from his rigor-mortis-tight grip. The city moves on.
In the background, a slot machine dings.
The house always wins.
FADE TO BLACK.
