Quitters, Inc. by Stephen King Voice Over Script
Morrison was waiting for someone who was hung up in the air traffic jam over Kennedy International when he saw a familiar face at the end of the bar and walked down.
‘Jimmy? Jimmy McCann?’
It was. A little heavier than when Morrison had seen him at the Atlanta Exhibition the year before, but otherwise he looked awesomely fit. In college he had been a thin, pallid chain smoker buried behind huge horn-rimmed glasses. He had apparently switched to contact lenses.
‘Dick Morrison?’
‘Yeah. You look great.’ He extended his hand and they shook.
‘So do you,’ McCann said, but Morrison knew it was a lie. He had been overworking, overeating, and smoking too much. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘Bourbon and bitters,’ Morrison said. He hooked his feet around a bar stool and lighted a cigarette. ‘Meeting someone, Jimmy?’
‘No. Going to Miami for a conference. A heavy client. Bills six million. I’m supposed to hold his hand because we lost out on a big special next spring.’
‘Are you still with Crager and Barton?’ ‘Executive veep now.’
‘Fantastic! Congratulations! When did all this happen?’ He tried to tell himself that the little worm of jealousy in his stomach was just acid indigestion. He pulled out a roll of antacid pills and crunched one in his mouth.
‘Last August. Something happened that changed my life.’ He looked speculatively at Morrison and sipped his drink. ‘You might be interested.’
My G*d, Morrison thought with an inner wince. Jimmy McCann’s got religion.
‘Sure,’ he said, and gulped at his drink when it came. ‘I wasn’t in very good shape,’ McCann said. ‘Personal problems with Sharon, my dad died – heart attack – and I’d developed this hacking cough. Bobby Crager dropped by my office one day and gave me a fatherly little pep talk. Do you remember what those are like?’
‘Yeah.’ He had worked at Crager and Barton for eighteen months before joining the Morton Agency. ‘Get your b**t in gear or get your b**t out.’
McCann laughed. ‘You know it. Well, to put the capper on it, the doc told me I had an incipient ulcer. He told me to quit smoking.’
McCann grimaced. ‘Might as well tell me to quit breathing.’
Morrison nodded in perfect understanding. Non-smokers could afford to be smug. He looked at his own cigarette with distaste and stubbed it out, knowing he would be lighting another in five minutes.
‘Did you quit?’ He asked.
‘Yes, I did. At first I didn’t think I’d be able to – I was cheating like h**l. Then I met a guy who told me about an outfit over on Fortysixth Street. Specialists. I said what do I have to lose and went over. I haven’t smoked since.’
Morrison’s eyes widened. ‘What did they do? Fill you full of some drug?’
‘No.’ He had taken out his wallet and was rummaging through it. ‘Here it is. I knew I had one kicking around.’ He laid a plain white business card on the bar between them.
Stop Going Up in Smoke!
237 East 46th Street
Treatments by Appointment
‘Keep it, if you want,’ McCann said. ‘They’ll cure you. Guaranteed.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ McCann said.
‘Huh? Why not?’
‘It’s part of the contract they make you sign. Anyway, they tell you how it works when they interview you.’
‘You signed a contract?’
McCann nodded.
‘And on the basis of that -‘
‘Yep.’ He smiled at Morrison, who thought: Well, it’s happened. Jim McCann has joined the smug b******s.
‘Why the great secrecy if this outfit is so fantastic? How come I’ve never seen any spots on TV, billboards, magazine ads -‘
‘They get all the clients they can handle by word of mouth.’
‘You’re an advertising man, Jimmy. You can’t believe that.’
‘I do,’ McCann said. ‘They have a ninety-eight per cent cure rate.’
‘Wait a second,’ Morrison said. He motioned for another drink and lit a cigarette. ‘Do these guys strap you down and make you smoke until you throw up?’
‘No.’
‘Give you something so that you get sick every time you light -‘
‘No, it’s nothing like that. Go and see for yourself.’ He gestured at Morrison’s cigarette. ‘You don’t really like that, do you?’ ‘Nooo, but -‘
‘Stopping really changed things for me,’ McCann said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s the same for everyone, but with me it was just like dominoes falling over. I felt better and my relationship with Sharon improved. I had more energy, and my job performance picked up.’
‘Look, you’ve got my curiosity aroused. Can’t you just -‘ ‘I’m sorry, Dick. I really can’t talk about it.’ His voice was firm. ‘Did you put on any weight?’
For a moment he thought Jimmy McCann looked almost grim. ‘Yes. A little too much, in fact. But I took it off again. I’m about right now. I was skinny before.’
‘Flight 206 now boarding at Gate 9,’ the loudspeaker announced.
‘That’s me,’ McCann said, getting up. He tossed a five on the bar. ‘Have another, if you like. And think about what I said, Dick.
Really.’ And then he was gone, making his way through the crowd to the escalators. Morrison picked up the card, looked at it thoughtfully, then tucked it away in his wallet and forgot it.
TOP-10 Scripts from Edge Studio's Voice Over Script Library
[Skyrim opens with an Imperial wagon driving four prisoners down a snowy mountain pass. All are seated and bound; the one dressed in finery is gagged.]
Ralof: Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.
Lokir: D**n you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. You and me — we should be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.
Ralof: We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.
Imperial Soldier: Shut up back there!
[Lokir looks at the gagged man.]
Lokir: And what’s wrong with him?
Ralof: Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.
Lokir: Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?
Ralof: I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.
Lokir: No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.
Ralof: Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?
Lokir: Why do you care?
Ralof: A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.
Lokir: Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.
[They approach the village of Helgen. A soldier calls out to the lead wagon.]
Imperial Soldier: General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!
General Tullius: Good. Let’s get this over with.
Lokir: Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.
Ralof: Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. D**n elves. I bet they had something to do with this. This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny…when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.
[A man and son watch the prisoners pull into town.]
Haming: Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?
Torolf: You need to go inside, little cub.
Haming: Why? I want to watch the soldiers.
Torolf: Inside the house. Now.
Galadriel: (speaking partly in Elvish)
(I amar prestar aen.)
The world is changed.
(Han matho ne nen.)
I feel it in the water.
(Han mathon ned cae.)
I feel it in the earth.
(A han noston ned gwilith.)
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.
It began with the forging of the Great Rings. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf-Lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and the will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived, for another ring was made. Deep in the land of Mordor, in the Fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged a master ring, and into this ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life.
One ring to rule them all.
One by one, the free lands of Middle-Earth fell to the power of the Ring, but there were some who resisted. A last alliance of men and elves marched against the armies of Mordor, and on the very slopes of Mount Doom, they fought for the freedom of Middle-Earth. Victory was near, but the power of the ring could not be undone. It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Isildur, son of the king, took up his father’s sword.
Sauron, enemy of the free peoples of Middle-Earth, was defeated. The Ring passed to Isildur, who had this one chance to destroy evil forever, but the hearts of men are easily corrupted. And the ring of power has a will of its own. It betrayed Isildur, to his death.
And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend. Legend became myth. And for two and a half thousand years, the ring passed out of all knowledge. Until, when chance came, it ensnared another bearer.
It came to the creature Gollum, who took it deep into the tunnels of the Misty Mountains. And there it consumed him. The ring gave to Gollum unnatural long life. For five hundred years it poisoned his mind, and in the gloom of Gollum’s cave, it waited. Darkness crept back into the forests of the world. Rumor grew of a shadow in the East, whispers of a nameless fear, and the Ring of Power perceived its time had come. It abandoned Gollum, but then something happened that the Ring did not intend. It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable: a hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire.
For the time will soon come when hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.
To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark, dock,
In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock,
Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp, shock,
From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block!
Do I really look like a guy with a plan, Harvey?
I don’t have a plan …
The mob has plans. The cops have plans.
You know what I am, Harvey? I am a dog chasing cars… I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it.
I just do things. I am just the wrench in the gears. I hate plans.
Yours, theirs, everyone’s. Maroni has plans. Gordon has plans.
Schemers trying to control their worlds.
I am not a schemer. I show the schemer how pathetic their attempts to control things really are.
So when I say that you and your girlfriend was nothing personal, you know I am telling the truth.
I just did what I do best. I took your plan and turned it on itself.
Look what I have done to this city with a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets.
Nobody panics when the expected people gets killed. Nobody panics when things go according to plan, even if the plan is horrifying.
If I tell the press that tomorrow a gangbanger will get shot or a truckload of soldiers will be blown up, nobody panics. – because it’s all part of the plan.
But when I say that one little old mayor will die, everybody lose their minds.
Introduce a little anarchy, you upset the established order and everything becomes chaos.
I am agent of chaos.
And you know the thing about chaos Harvey?
“IT is FAIR.”
Hello, ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using ladies scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady. I’m on a horse.
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