So today is the big B-day. Halloween baby. That's me. Maybe Clint Eastwood could make a movie about me. Could be even better than that depressing bit-of-a-flick he did with Swank... I could be this incredible trick-or-treater. But Eastwood thinks I am too old for trick-or-treating. Undeterred and inspired by his disbelief, I persist. I show him my killer Darth Vader outfit and my special-order porcelain pumpkin candy holder. He decides to train me. But tragically, I am stampeded by a bunch of 6 year olds and I break my neck falling off a porch, hitting my head on a yard-deer. He then decides to do me in, against my will (this is where we would differ from Million Dollar Baby) by injecting my vein with 60 pounds of liquefied corn candy. Eastwood walks out of the hospital, glares at the screen, lights a cigarette, and then begins to paint the whole town red after he makes the local midget the sheriff. It is a heart wrenching ending. All walk out of the theater dabbing tears and slurping the last diluted drips of coke hiding at the bottom of their paper cup.
Maybe for a film score the composer could do a combo of the Dies Irae from Mozart's Requiem and Happy Birthday.