APEX
INT. DIRT ARENA – MORNING
The ground: murder-clay baked hard by a thousand yesterdays. Above, the sun watches like God on Xanax. Present but uninvolved.
One hundred men. Counted twice by the promoter. Insurance purposes.
They stand in accidental demographics. The CrossFit cult comparing calluses. The middle managers checking phones for exits that don't exist. One guy, DEREK, already on his stomach, practicing being dead.
"Just getting comfortable," he tells nobody.
No fanfare. No roar.
Just 600 pounds of evolutionary fuck-you shambling in. Silverback. Male. Probably has a name like "Mr. Pickles" at whatever zoo they stole him from.
The gorilla stops. Scratches its balls. Yawns.
Half the men piss themselves. The other half lie about it.
CLOSE-UP: THE GORILLA'S EYES
Nothing personal in there. This is just Tuesday for him.
BILL (35, still making minimum payments on his MBA)
"There's got to be rules. A referee. Something."
TYLER (28, has "entrepreneur" in his Instagram bio, sells vape juice)
"Brother, the only rule is—"
CRUNCH.
Tyler's skull opens like a fortune cookie. No fortune inside. Just pink.
Ninety-nine men remaining.
The gym bros charge. All tribal tattoos and pre-workout rage.
Mr. Pickles catches the first one, BRAD, by the ankle. Uses him like a paint roller. Decorates the arena floor in Brad-red.
DEREK (from the ground, face in dirt)
"Oh no. I'm so dead. Very deceased. Don't mind me."
The gorilla steps over him. Almost gentle.
Three more bros down. Their protein powder mixing with brain matter. Expensive mud.
MATTHEW (Goldman Sachs, third divorce pending)
"We need to short his position. Find the weakness."
JONATHAN (hedge fund, cocaine breakfast)
"I'll give anyone here ten grand to go first."
STEVE (day trader, lives with mom)
"Make it Bitcoin."
Mr. Pickles arrives mid-negotiation. Grabs Jonathan by his Hermès tie. Proceeds to use him as a club. Marcus gets Jonathan's Rolex in the face. Dies checking the time.
Ninety-one men remaining.
PROFESSOR WILLIAMS (Philosophy, Yale, published three books nobody read)
"Gentlemen! Violence is just fear expressing itself! We must transcend—"
His head pops off. Transcends about fifteen feet.
DEREK (still playing dead, whispers to the corpse next to him)
"You were saying?"
The corpse doesn't respond. Because it's Tyler. And Tyler's been dead for three minutes.
Forty seconds in. Seventy-three men left.
They stop being individuals. Become something older. Stupider. More honest.
The Republicans grab the Democrats. The racists link arms with the refugees. Someone's MAGA hat falls off. Nobody cares.
They move like a single organism. A human tsunami of daddy issues and mortgage debt.
Mr. Pickles ROARS for the first time. Not fear. Annoyance.
Like when your food fights back.
SLOW MOTION:
Bodies flying. Teeth scattered like dice. Someone's toupee helicopters past.
REAL TIME:
CRACK. SNAP. SQUISH.
Bill—remember Bill?—finds himself choking the gorilla with someone else's intestines. Doesn't remember whose.
A barista bites through fur, finds artery. Tastes like pennies and victory.
The gorilla spins. Men orbit him like planets made of meat.
DEREK (from the ground, covered in other people's blood)
"Still dead over here. Super dead. The deadest."
Fifty-one men left. But fifty-one men equals roughly 8,500 pounds of desperate human.
Mr. Pickles: 600 pounds of muscle and murder.
Math wins.
They pile on. A Jenga tower of masculine panic.
The gorilla's arm breaks three jaws on its way up. But there are forty-eight jaws left.
CLOSE-UP: BILL'S WEDDING RING
Bent into his finger. His thumb, somehow, finding the gorilla's eye socket. Pushing through like pressing "send" on a drunk text—no taking it back.
POP.
Vitreous humor spurts. Bill laughs. Or sobs. Same sound.
Mr. Pickles drops. Not dead. Just done.
Like a customer service rep on hour twelve.
The men keep holding. Nobody wants to be the first to let go.
THE PROFESSOR'S ASSISTANT (survived by hiding behind his mentor's corpse)
"Is it... over?"
The gorilla twitches.
Everyone screams. Even Derek.
DEREK (jumping up)
"FUCK THIS SHIT I'M OUT—"
He realizes everyone's staring. Slowly lowers himself back down.
"I mean... oh no... still dead..."
The gorilla's chest rises. Falls. Doesn't rise again.
Thirty-eight men standing. Twelve crawling. Derek still horizontal by choice.
They peel themselves apart. Covered in a Jackson Pollock of human resources.
BILL (staring at his hands)
"We're animals."
GREG (19, missing an ear, doesn't know it yet)
"No. Animals are honest."
In the corner, someone's phone buzzes. A Slack notification.
"Hey team! Quick sync at 2?"
The man laughs until he vomits. Then laughs more.
AERIAL SHOT:
A perfect mandala of violence. At the center, Mr. Pickles—magnificent, even like this. Around him, men relearning what they are under the LinkedIn.
DEREK (finally standing, brushing dirt off his untorn shirt)
"So... we split the prize money thirty-eight ways, or—"
BILL
"There's no prize money."
DEREK
"What?"
BILL
"There was never prize money."
Derek checks his phone. No signal. No exits. Just a text from his wife:
"Did you remember to grab milk?"
He looks at Mr. Pickles. At the blood. At his clean hands.
"Anyone know if they validated parking?"
CUT TO BLACK.
TITLE CARD: "Derek survived every major historical conflict by playing dead. He now runs a successful life coaching business."
SOUND: A single fly arrives. Then another. Then ten thousand.
Nature's cleanup crew. They don't judge.
END.