This project has been floating around privately for some time now, but it's way past its original deadline, so I've decided to make it public for people wishing to read about it.
A while ago, as some of you may remember, I started a thread concerning a "mini-game". In all reality, that is what I'm creating. Amaretto, Black and White is a game concerning the events of the life of Matt Kerry, a depressed businessman who seems incapable of doing things right. The character is similar to the one in The Death of a Salesman.
Anyways, Matt travels to the town of Amaretto, which was a rural town recently industrialized by the movement of that style in the fifties. The game itself takes place on the night of December 24, 1953, and as such follows the popular culture and political styles of the time. When Matt gets there he meets some strange people and is introduced to "vignettes" of each of them through long conversations he has.
Matt himself is not a nice guy in any way. He's cynical, jaded, and snarky, and hardly changes his ways from the beginning to the end of the story, even though he may decide against suicide at the end (or he will, you decide).
It should be noted that this is not pokemon, or even very much of an RPG, but will still be in the style. You as the player will vaguely control Matt through the city, reaching certain events in the story. It's almost like a book in this way, only much easier to read. Now, without further ado, the game script up to this point. PG-13 for alcohol reference, and language:
We're in cab at night, the occasional stream of light passing into the cab. The faces of the two men are occasionally seen because of the street lights,
heavily shadowed. The man in front has a cigarette, the smoke from it slowly streaming up. He's the cab driver, and a dead serious one at that. The man in
is just as stolid, his face is down, and from the occasional light we can see a short bit of stubble on his face. They keep driving in total silence except
for the gentle hum of the cab, until some music can be heard. It starts off soft, only a chiding at first, then blaring: the tones of Vince Guaraldi and
his magic fingers. The camera falshes to a screen of Amaretto, but the city is just a faint collecton of lights off in the distance. On that frame, text
Diary of Matt Kerry, December 24, 1953
A few days ago I wrote my goodbyes, and I left my family. You see, they wanted me on buisness, they said good money, and where ther's good money, I'm there.
But now...now I'm regretting it. I'm no Christmas person, and I don't think any shmuck in my shoes would be. I've been saving down to the last buck, and I'm
still not getting a penny to myself. My every last penny is going down the drain, to the damned government for their damned war. Not that any of this is
helping the company, even. So, while everything I know and love is going down the drain, the government is getting rich... rich so they can assert themselves.
God...even my marriage, for Christ's sake! Am I so incapable to not even be able to hold one sacred bond together?
The taxi rolls up to the sidewalk at the entrance to town, and now we can see that it's an old black sedan in typical fifties style, its bright, round head-
lights fight of the dark, even with all the decorations and street lamps around. We now shift from in-depth shots to a regular pokemon-style cutscene. Matt
walks out of the cab, dressed in a business suit and tie, with a cool fedora on. He turns to the cab, nods, and it drives off. It is snowing:
MATT: [as he walks] Diary of Matt Kerry, December 24, 1953
The air out here is as cold and shallow as the season. Fitting... I think I'll grab a drink. That seems to be the only place around here that isn't pumped
full of the false hope that comes around every Christmas.
[goes into bar]
The bar is loud and rowdy. People fresh in from the cold snow are all sitting or standing around, but generally having a good time. Matt walks up to the
bar, and the guy behind it walks up:
BARTENDER: You havin' anything, o' jus' plannin' on gittin' yo ass outa that there cold?
M: I'll just have an apple cider, as hot as the devil's fire and as hard as the snow is tonight.
B: Heh. I like you. You and me, we have something, y'see.
M: Quit hitting on me and get the drink.
B (walks to the other end): Sheesh...
M (thinking): Well, at least it'll keep my mind of this damn cold. Hopefully someone here understands. Everyone's gotta be tainted by something...
<You're allowed to walk around at this point. Actions will be denoted by >
[On trying to exit through door (you came in on)] M (thinking): I can't leave now. I'm not even halfway done.
[On moving to top left corner of map] ???: Say, you mind havin' a drink with me?
M: Who? Me?
(thinking): Ah, great. Nothing like a local to give me some holiday cheer...
???: Yeah you. Who else d'ya think I'd be talkin' to?
M: Huhh... Why of all people do you want me?
???: 'cause you're not from around here, and you're not engaged in anything of any stunning importance, are ya?
M: And... What would make you think either of those things. What if I am from... whatsit... Amaretto! (That's it!)
???: Well, thea's ya proof right thea. What's more, you aren't dressed like a yokel, and you ain't talking to nobody but y'self.
M: Fh. I suppose first impressions do occasionally lie. Well, anyways, the name's Matt. Matt Kerry, and I'm pleased to meet you.
???: Thank'ya. And I know I'm not the brightest bulb in the shed, if ya know what I mean, but I shore got ya numba'
M: Funny thing table manners, but generally when somone greets you, you return the favor.
STUART: Really now? Ah, I'm just joshin' ya around. Name's Stuart. Just call me Stu. There, expression returned, ya happy?
M: All a relative term, my friend, when you're walking in my shoes.
S: Ah yeh? Kinda figyahed. No respetable businessman takes a trip on Christmas 'less e's a worka'olic or tight on cash. I see yor the latta'.
M: Sure 'nough am. My company told me there was good money here, and all I find are these... yokels. Hopefully I can get hammered enough to take how depress-
ingly emabarrassing this is off my mind.
S: Phh. Well, ya not gonna get drunk offa that, lemme tell ya. Waiter! Yeah, you! Get this man a glass of the hahdest stuff ya got! We want rocket fuel!
S: Speakin' a which, you hea' 'bout that rocket, the... aww, whatchamacallit... Sputnik! They shoots a little bomb into space befoe us, and I say, so what?
They's damn commies anyhow...
M: All a matter of opinion, I suppose. Kind of makes you wonder what they'll think up next. I think it's really a big acheivement for people. This war on the
S: Oh, don't even get me stahted! Govament's freakin' scalpin' us out here, and whatta we get ta' see 'bout it? Zippo!
So I'm tellin' you, don't give hope ta the hopeless. No point. And if ya wallow in ya own crap long enough, ya gonna staht feelin' down all the time. So
lighten up, ya loosh-
<WAITER walks up>
WAITER: Uh, sir. Your vodka. 130 proof.
S: Ah, wouldja... That's all ya could get? Ya should got 'im grain alcohol a something!
M: Oh, don't worry sir, I'll pass on the uhh... grain alcohol.
M: What the hell? 130 proof and you're not happy? You must run some kind of iron liver or something. Jesus, I don't even smoke, but you... thinking like
that'll kill you in a couple of years.
S: Yeah, yeah. Nevah happy, well damn straight. Now chug, loosh, chug! I wanna see one swish!
M: Bad influence much? <downs the vodka>
S: Thea ya go. Now go an' get 'um, 'cause ya look great. (Bettern' me...) And I don' wanna see you so down on ya'self!
<Allowed to walk again>
<On trying to exit>
BARTENDER (off-screen): Hey, you plannin' on payin' o' jus' havin' me whip yo ass lata'?
M: Oh, no. I wasn't planning any of that, it's just... y'see... Hold on a moment.
M (thinking): Stuart better have some money, or I'm done for.
<On going back to STUART>
S: You want money? Well, I don' got none. I do, though, if ya can get me something I like, though. Traveling salesman, right? Well, you ain' gonna be one much
longa if ya keep buyin' when ya don' got no money in the bank. Git' long, and just remember, ya owe ol' Stu summin'!
M: In case you couldn't tell, I have no money. Is there some part of that that might be hard to understand? Besides, that... stuff you made me drink, that's
your problem, not mine.
S: Oh, so now I hafta pay fa makin' you see tha world from a diffint angle? I'm not askin' fa much here. A small ahticle outta ya next shipment, is all.
M: Are you kidding?! My boss'd kill me! I can't just give out items for free.
S: Wha's one item?
M: A lot!
S: Then put on ya tab, ma boi.
M: You are absolutely no help, "ma boi".
S: Suit yaself.
<On trying to exit AGAIN>
B: You bettah b-
M: Put it on my tab. I'm staying awhile.
<On exiting, show title over screen of street>
M (thinking): And on July 21, 1919, a new child was wrought into being upon this Earth. I suppose my parents didn't realize what loser I'd become later on.
Kinda makes you wonder if Jesus' parents thought that maybe he'd get killed one day. Ah, well...
M: But what if Stuart IS right? What if I am just wasting my time acting down on myself. And yet, what am I supposed to do? Be oblivious to the outside world
like the people in this hellhole? Fhh, wallowing in ****, that's for sober people. And I don't think I want to be sober very much longer. Hopefully I can get
some money, then.
[On reaching town center]
M (thinking):The town center is brightly lit, with streetlights on every part of the sidewalk. The road has been poorly cleared of snow, and has that
distinctly romantic yellow glow that you'd think only happens somewhere else. A piano is set up in the middle, to the left of the town fountain, and I can
see all kinds of happy people are gathered around. There's a man on the bench, but I can't quite make him out. Let's just hope this clears sometime before
<Play distinctive music of Guaraldi's early career...>
M (thinking): The show finishes, the people clap, and they all go home with smiles on their faces. Curtain. Everyone thinks they have their own little story
to tell, a world all their own, but that's what makes people as cold and boring as they are. Nobody wants to admit they're the Joe Schmoe, somewhere, deep
down. Yet at the same time, they're hypocrites. The flow is where to go, and no one wants to openly stray from that. No homos, no Sally Single, always kids.
[On walking forward]
VINCE: You know it's illegal to not have a wife and kids around these parts?
M: Oh, ha ha. And now because I'm single you think I'm up to no good?
V: You wouldn't be the first.
M: Are you trying to tell me there are people here, of all places, who don't eat white bread and go to church on Sunday?
V: Is that unheard of where you live?
V: Then what makes you think it's unheard of here?
V: I thought so. You come across as someone who's a bit more than they look. Not exactly my idea of a superstar, but you know some stuff, right?
M: And you, apparently, have the ability to read other people's minds.
V: Ehh, only interesting people.
M: Aaand...I'm your idea of interesting? I can tell you that anyone here probably has more to tell than me.
V: Heh. You play a really lame liar. What're you hiding?
M: I just met you. Why would I bother on someone like you?
V: Do you know who I am?
M: Should I?
V: Do you KNOW who I am?
M: Umm... Roy Rogers?
V: Ughh... Vince? Vince Guaraldi? The Cal Tjader Trio? Does that ring any bells for you?
M: Cal Tjader, sure. But you, you're some lanky kid on the B-list of a semi-famous musician's band. Good for you.
V: You know... I'll be famous one day. I may be young now, but you'll see me become famous one day.
M: Yeah, sure. Anyways, I have a shipment to make, so I... have to go now.
V: Hey, if you don't believe me, about bad people even here I mean, go uptown.
M: I'll be sure to do that.
[On Scene end]
M (thinking): I spend a whole hell of a lot of time and effort working, and I work to stay alive. But what's the point of staying alive if all you do is work
and eat, and sleep? What is the purpose of life if we work only as a means no ends. God, I wish was rich. And stupid. And drunk. Thinking this way is going
to be the end of me some day. I wish I didn't have to live with the scar that I've "taken a step back". That I'm now different from everyone else because I
can see the world for its ugly self. Maybe I'll go see what it's like for the ignorant people. The petty crooks, and such...
[walks from square forward, Uptown]
[On exiting Uptown]
M (thinking): Okay, so maybe people are more complicated than I take them for, but still, what's it worth living above face value? I've got nothing to hide,
and when I do, I'm suddenly a big enigma. Well, the truth is, people are boring. Even when you get up close, and look at them under a microscope, and see
everything they know, what they've got to hide, they're all the same. And anyone reading this someday may wonder in their silly, simple little head "well,
whuddus this punk do to make 'im any diffrint?" I'll tell you what seperates me. I'm seperated solely because I can. I know the world for all it is, and I
can tell some simple little numskull who reads this one day that I'm different because I had the capacity to write it.
[On entering shop1]
[Enter SHOPKEEP, MATT]
SHOPKEEP: You that... lessee... Matt Kerry cat?
MATT: This is he. Unfortunately for you, not in a certain feline form.
S: Chill, mon fraier. Iss just who I am, ya dig?
M: Uhh... I dig.
S: Good, good. Well, seein' as that, ya want ya stuff?
M: That would be what I came here for. And your accent... It's familiar, but I can't quite-
S: Big Apple?
M: Yeah. You must be some kind of beatnik then, I assume.
S: Used ta. Scene to mean for the lean man, dig?
M: Umm... sort of. Go on.
S: Ehh, you prolly wouldn' care about no washed up loser like me, wouldja?
M: You'd be surprised. I'm curious for the sake of being curious.
S: I'm surprised maself. You ain't like tha others. Well, don' matter. See, I used to live there. Yeah, ya know, the city a cities. Jus' that, scrawny cat
like me, ain' nobody gonna wanna pay none ta me. If you ain't got the bread, you ain't got the job, dig? So, I became one a them writers, like everone talkin'
'bout. But that jus' didn't work out. So, I kinda ran outta dough, and the feds start pushin' on me. But ya gotta live past that. No fuzz got anythin' to do
with me, lemme tall ya. So I hightail it here, tha middle a nowhere.
M: Mmhh. I wouldn't expect any more from a washed up beatnik.
S: I wouldn' expect any less from a washed up square.
M: Touche. Still, I must admit, what you just said is more true than you may surmise. For I am washed, and I do have nowhere left to go but down.
S: Either way, I ain' wastin' my time on some square. 'Parently your boss sent ya this package I have in back. Iss pretty heavy, jive square, so watch y'self.
M: Oof. You'r right. Got a dolly I could use?
S: Tough luck. Looks like I'm not the only one to be carrying heavy stuff on this night-o-nights.
M: Wow. Get over it. You start a new life, you move on. And besides, you have nothing compared to me.
S: Oh yeh?
M: You bet. I got no good job, no good money, and no good outlook, with a wife that wants a divorce. These kinds of things, I suppose you have to live past.
You seem to be someone who's exceedingly good at figuring out new trends, why don't you try not wallowing in self pity? After all, life's a ***** to more
than just you.
S: Maybe you' right. Maybe I'm the square. Chh. This is the last time a square show me the world, then.
M: Suit yourself.
S: I never said anythin' 'bout ignoring you, just learnin' up a bit maself, dig?
M: Heh. I ...dig you.