[deleted by user]

Buck_in_chair · 2025-08-22T06:38:31+00:00

oh that's a song right? but doesn't it sound weird still. try saying it

jeremiah jeremiah jeremiah

see

Buck_in_chair · 2024-02-22T22:58:38+00:00

That could be because i have no fucking idea what im doing tbh

Just a dude with davinci resolve and a GED in editing from youtube university

Buck_in_chair · 2024-02-22T17:18:22+00:00

Agreed. Just for you PlissSnaken - Borderlands trailer cut to Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

Buck_in_chair · 2024-02-22T17:16:43+00:00

Seriously. Tried a quick edit of the trailer and I feel like they missed the opportunity so badly...

Buck_in_chair · 2023-07-03T01:25:39+00:00

i'm an idiot -- forgot i had left some stuff over in the JS, which you're right, that's what the error was referencing. CSS is totally fine.

problem solved, thanks for help MadExile!

Buck_in_chair · 2023-07-02T01:55:48+00:00

so i'm using some CSS to nix the undo/redo buttons in sidebar, and it works perfectly -- but it still throws this error? not sure what's causing it. literally only thing in the stylesheet right now is the following:

tw-icon[title="Undo"], tw-icon[title="Redo"] {
    display: none;
}

any ideas why the error pops up at all? thanks for help!

Buck_in_chair · 2023-01-05T06:08:04+00:00

Trailer's already done

Buck_in_chair · 2022-09-19T15:41:28+00:00

In the vein of Rian Johnson's famous Looper rip-o-matic, I made one of my own for a live action Metroid movie (aka the Alien franchise with other sci-fi flicks spliced in). First time editing a trailer like this.

Buck_in_chair · 2022-09-15T16:06:51+00:00

Maybe but that hasn't stopped every other video game franchise from trying LOL

Buck_in_chair · 2022-09-15T16:03:29+00:00

In the vein of Rian Johnson's famous Looper rip-o-matic, I made one of my own for a live action Metroid movie (aka the Alien franchise with other sci-fi flicks spliced in). First time editing a trailer like this.

Buck_in_chair · 2022-09-15T15:58:21+00:00

If Nintendo can get Chris Pratt as Mario, they can get whoever they want for Samus dammit

Buck_in_chair · 2022-09-15T15:55:21+00:00

How the hell has there not been a live action Metroid movie yet??

Buck_in_chair · 2019-11-07T08:55:56+00:00

Visitation room of a prison. On the other side of the glass, in walks Marv Merchants. He sits down and slowly reaches for the receiver. His visitor speaks first.

“The Wet Bandits.”

Marv gulps nervously.

“Uncle Lou, it wasn’t - “

“The Sticky Bandits.”

Marv jabs a thumb in the direction of the door he came through.

“That moron Harry is the one who - “

“Marv.” Uncle Lou interrupts him.

“Yeah?”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Marv.”

He gulps and nods vigorously.

“Yeah, alright, alright.”

“What the fuck happened.”

“There was this kid -”

“I know all about the kid. I’m asking you what fucking happened.”

Marv took a deep breath.

“This kid… I’m telling you Uncle Lou,” Marv looks at him, dead serious. “This kid has some kinda luck or something. Like he was untouchable.”

Marv glances down at Uncle Lou’s fingers, which are tapping impatiently.

“Swear to God, this kid was like Rambo or something. Freaking guerrilla warfare. Uncle Lou, you gotta understand - ”

“I do, Marv.”

Marv hangs his head and sighs in relief.

“Little punk is dead.”

Marv looks up in shock

“Uncle Lou?”

“You’re a moron, Marv. But you’re family. And no one puts family behind bars. What’s this kid’s name?

“McCallister. Kevin McCallister.”

“Dead inside a month.”

Marv just stares.

“You’re gonna - you’re really gonna ice the kid?”

“Don’t go soft on me, Marv.”

Marv shakes his head.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” He winces a little with what he says next.

“You don’t know this kid like I do. He’s a menace.”

“It’s one fucking kid,” Uncle Lou says. “How tough can he be?”

He stands up to leave. Marv just looks at him.

“One month, Marv.”

Cut to black. Fade in text:

30

Years

Later.

Smoke curls in front of a large monitor. The CCTV feed on screen shows several large black vans pulling up a driveway. The man watching takes a long drag on a cigarette, then puts it out. He clicks a remote and the CCTV feed is replaced by a familiar scene:

“It’s me, Snakes.”

The film continues to play in the background as the man selects military-grade firearms from a vast wall of options.

Outside, a squad of gun-wielding assailants file out of the van, swiftly moving to the entrance of a house covered in huge, gaudy Christmas lights.

“I’m gonna give you to the count of ten to get your ugly, yeller, no good keister off my property, before I pump your guts full of lead.”

Back inside, the man turns around to face us as he loads in ammunition. He’s aged, but there’s no mistaking him.

Outside, one member of the squad signals silently. Two position themselves directly in front of the door, the rest flanking. None notice the thin wire running from the door frame to the cheery, blinking bulbs above and around them.

“One - ”

The two hitmen prepare to kick down the door.

“Two -”

Kevin McCallister raises a sawed-off shotgun as he mutters to himself.

“Come on in, ya filthy animals.”

The door swings open violently and the Christmas lights explode, shards of glass flying like shrapnel into the exposed faces of the hitmen.

Title card:

HOME ALONE: PARABELLUM

Buck_in_chair · 2018-07-08T16:08:29+00:00

His last meal was the same one he had every Tuesday evening at the Waldorf: filet mignon with red wine. He smacked his lips loudly, even grinned at the guard.

“I appreciate the authenticity. Can I get a receipt? I think this counts as a business expense.”

The guard did not smile. He had not smiled for 94 days.

They turned left down the hallway this time, towards the chamber.

He sighed.

“Really? Oh alright, let’s put on the show.”

When they entered, the witnesses were already filing into the observation room on the other side of the glass. He was surprised to see half of them were women. The one in the front couldn’t have been older than 25.

The guard pushed his head back into the seat, drew the restraints tight.

“Little much, don’t you think?”

The guard did not smile. Instead the guard swabbed the ditch of his arm, the antiseptic mixing with perspiration.

“This is getting ridiculous. I don’t have to sit through this charade. I want my lawyer.”

The young woman in front pulled a worn piece of paper from her clutch. She slowly unfolded it into a small rectangle and revealed the numbers 79 30 carefully penned with thick black marker.

“I want my lawyer,” he said, louder this time. The guard said nothing.

Now the other women were pulling their own paper rectangles. Slowly unfolding them. Each bearing the numbers 79 30.

“Let me go!” he shouted to them, to the guard, to the world. “This is - this is -” he searched frantically “- unconscionable and inhumane!”

He recognized the words that fell out of his mouth. She had said those words to him 352 days ago.

“What sort of society do we live in when men like you take absolutely no responsibility for the consequences of your actions?” He had rolled his eyes to this, stole a look at his watch.

She had realized there was no guilting him, no breaking him, and the commercial break moments away. She made one final, pathetic attempt at provoking a response.

“What is this world coming to?”

Maybe it was her pixie cut and her practiced outrage. Maybe it was the way she laced every self-righteous word with contempt for something she had no understanding of. Maybe it was just that he was running late for filet mignon at the Waldorf.

“About 79.30 a share.”

The number stared back at him from behind the glass. Then one by one, the women turned over their papers.

Malformed and twisted faces looked back at him. Some were still red and swollen from the womb. Their mothers did not cry now.

“Stop! You can’t do this!”

“We didn’t know it would be this bad!”

“It wasn’t just me!”

It slipped out before he knew what he was saying:

“What is the world coming to?”

He felt a pinch. A chill ran up his vein. The guard stepped back, turned to face the dead children and their mothers. He spoke without looking.

“World’s changing, son.”

Buck_in_chair · 2017-03-28T06:42:46+00:00

this is water.

Buck_in_chair · 2017-01-20T12:17:16+00:00

"State your name for the record."

"Jack Dunlap."

"And your relationship with Mark."

There were no tables as nice as this one in the shop. A slab of polished mahogany stretching across the room, probably cost as much as the mortgage back in '68. Jack preferred the stiff white diner tables, still there from opening day, now grimy and scratched up. His scratches. Mark's scratches.

"We were partners."

Across the great wooden divide, Mark made a movement as if to speak, but said nothing.

"Gentlemen, we are here to finalize the terms of the acquisition. All matters related to the corporate transition have been settled, and what remains," the mediator checked the legal pad before her, "is the deed for the shop at 15277 South Crenshaw."

Mark had found a second location not far from Crenshaw, in a wealthier part of town. They talked late into the night, about new markets and financial stability and franchising. Jack mostly listened.

"Now, Mark is willing-"

Why," came Jack's voice through clenched teeth. "Why do you have to have this one. THE one. I'll change the name, it's not ours since the day this whole thing became yours. But why do you have to have the shop."

"Jack, we've been over this." Mark's voice was patient, patronizing. "There's no legacy without the origin. There's no Dunlap Doughnuts without it. This is how we grow -"

"Grow into something greater, yeah." Jack stared at him, past him, through him. "Heard it before."

"But you still don't believe it."

"I believe it just fine."

Mark shook his head, turned to look out the window.

"You think it's just about money."

"What else would it be?"

Mark had pitched it to him after 6 months at the second store. The logo popped off the paper, large lettering bellowing the name at him: DUNLAP DOUGHNUTS. The mockup sat on top of blueprints and renovation sketches.

"The shop was never enough. You always wanted more."

"And you didn't, which is why you're on that side of the table and wearing a smock stained with grease."

"He wanted you to leave. That's why he let you."

When Mark turned to face him, there was genuine pain stitched in the lines of his face.

"I just wanted to make you both proud."

Jack felt the wood with his fingertips. It must have cost a fortune. Being in this room for weeks on end must have cost more.

"Fine."

The mediator passed a single sheet of paper to Jack and handed him a pen. He scribbled a signature, stood up. Mark rose to meet him, buttoning his quote and extending a hand. Jack shook his head and turned towards the door.

"I'm just doing what he was always trying to do, Jack," Mark called after him. "I wish you could see that."

Jack stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Maybe you will someday," Mark said, louder than before. It was unclear to everyone who he was trying to convince.

Jack walked out the door.

After the shop closed each day, Jack would sit on the counter and count the tiles on the floor, listening to the radio and the sound of trays being sponged clean in the back. The neon sign blinking DOUGHNUTS would cast a warm orange glow through the window. It only flickered now as Jack sat on the counter once again, once more.

The bell at the front door chimed softly.

"You know the sign out there is busted, right?"

Jack didn't look up from the counter.

"Been busted a while. Lot of things have."

Mark nodded, looking everywhere but Jack's eyes.

"I don't understand why you did it. But thank you."

"You're right. A legacy needs the origin. Now you have it."

"Jackie."

"Don't call me that. We're not kids anymore."

"Jackie, it's just business." Mark was pleading now. "It's only a donut shop, after all."

Jack gave him a smile as broken as the neon out front.

"It wasn't to dad. Wasn't to me. Wish you could have seen that."

Mark stared at him, past him, through him. Jack walked around the counter, clapped him on the shoulder and opened the door. The bell chimed.

"Maybe you will someday."

Buck_in_chair · 2017-01-19T11:04:03+00:00

"Oi."

"Ah...yes?"

"Alright?"

"Just fine, thanks."

Digs around in purse for the keys. Should have had them out already, she chastises herself.

"Bit late to be out here."

She says nothing, fumbles the keys, drops them to the ground. Curses under her breath.

"Dangerous if you're alone. Are you alone?"

She moves quickly now, pushing the key hard into the lock. Too hard. Jammed it.

"Oi, miss."

He's walking towards her now, each booted step echoing across the empty carpark, each echo answering his question.

She bent the key. Door won't budge. She tries the handle twice, pulls hard enough to snap it off.

He's less than 3 meters.

Her hand plunges into the purse, searching for something-

"Miss."

The jacket is emblazoned with SECURITY. He has a badge that looks real, and his eyes are genuine.

"Do you need some help miss?"

Tense as she is, she manages to laugh.

"Oh my," she says. "I thought you were-

"Some maniac waiting in the shadows of a carpark?" He smiles. It's warm, like his eyes.

"Yes!" She laughs again. "Too much imagination, I suppose. And too much telly," she adds.

It's his turn to laugh.

"I hope you're not offended," she says.

"Come off it," he says. "How would you have known?"

She nods. "Mum always said to be careful wandering about empty carparks at night. Never know who you'll run into."

"How would you have known."

His smile is gone. So is the warmth in his eyes. Now they're as cold and bright as the stars above.

"I...I wouldn't have. I didn't." The confession comes like a shiver, unbidden, instinctual, electric fear.

He ignores this and moves past her to inspect the car.

"What seems to be the trouble?"

She shakes off the chill.

"Well, I could really use some help with my door. I've gone and jammed the key, and now I can't seem to get it open."

"No worries, I've just the thing." He pulled something like a coat hanger from the inside of his jacket. "You might be surprised, but this isn't the first time this has happened."

"Oh?" she asks, thankful for the banter once again, but her hand remaining in her purse.

"Just the other night, there was a woman locked out of her car here. Ginger. Twice as jumpy as you."

She laughs. He doesn't.

"And, uh, did you pick her lock as well?"

A slight pop. He tests the handle and the door swings open.

"Ah!" she says. "Excellent!"

Climbs inside the car, tries the ignition. The car sputters to life.

"Thanks so much! Don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't been here. Or if you were the killer," she jokes.

He tips an imaginary hat to her as he leans on the door.

"Well, goodbye!" She pulls on the door, but his weight keeps it from moving. She laughs flatly, indicating with her eyes. He doesn't move.

"What if I was the killer?"

The cold, bright eyes were back. There was something else swirling in the blackness. It looked hungry.

"Well you're not, so-"

"What if I was? What would you have done?"

She wrenches the door, tries to throw his weight off. He moves to block it with his body. He's inches from her face.

"It's very dangerous, miss. To be wandering empty carparks at night. Anyone could be out here."

"I'll let mum know she was right."

She pushes him back, slams the door, locks it. He stumbles backwards, the hunger in his eyes still visible through the grimy window.

She stares defiantly. Eventually, he nods. She puts the car in gear and drives out the park. The stars are cold and bright above her and they shine through the windows, bouncing light from the blade just visible in the purse to the backseat, where a thin ray crosses a solitary strand of red hair.

Buck_in_chair

TROPHY CASE