A Script for The Pristine Muck

EXT. OLD MILL HERITAGE TRAIL - DAY

SOUND of a deep, wet SQUELCH

Thick, primordial mud, the color of old coffee grounds, sucks at a brand-new hiking boot.

JESSE (18), cynical and weary, yanks his foot. His calf muscles strain. The boot comes free with a sound like a monstrous wet kiss. It’s caked in glistening muck.

He glares at the boot, then ahead. A meticulously carved wooden sign, weathered to look authentic, reads: 'OLD MILL HERITAGE TRAIL – Where History and Nature Converge in Pristine Harmony.'

The sign is posted next to a choked, stagnant culvert—the source of the quagmire.

Jesse lets out a short, sharp snort. A puff of condensation in the humid air.

He shifts the weight of a large backpack, filled with ‘trail essentials.’ The air is thick, smelling of damp earth and pine. Dappled sunlight filters through the dense canopy, painting an ethereal beauty he refuses to see.

He swats at a cloud of GNATS performing aerial acrobatics around his face. He checks his watch. Again.

A sharp TWIG SNAP to his left. He flinches, nearly losing his footing.

A FAT SQUIRREL sits on a branch, eyeing him with unnerving intelligence. Jesse glares back.

He pushes past a wall of ferns, their cool, clammy fronds brushing his arms. The path narrows, flanked by mossy stones and a steep, ivy-choked embankment.

SOUND of cheerful, determined voices approaching

Jesse’s shoulders slump. Company. He schools his face into a mask of polite indifference, picking up his pace.

Around a bend, MR. HARRIS (50s) and MRS. HARRIS (50s) emerge. They are a jarring splash of bright nylon and designer gear. Their hiking poles clink. They beam.

MRS. HARRIS

Jesse! Oh, what a splendid surprise! Isn't this just the most *glorious* day for communion with nature?

MR. HARRIS

(Adjusting his wide-brimmed hat)

The serenity, the tranquility! It simply washes over you, doesn't it, son?

Jesse manages a smile so strained it looks painful.

JESSE

It's, uh, very green.

Mrs. Harris leans in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

MRS. HARRIS

You know, we were just marveling at the sheer *authenticity* of this section. That old hemlock there? Must be centuries old! Imagine the stories it could tell.

She gestures with her pole to a perfectly unremarkable tree. Jesse forces a nod of profound contemplation. His gaze drifts down to the dampness seeping into his socks.

MR. HARRIS

And the path! So rugged, so untouched. A true testament to the tenacity of those who carved it out. Not like those paved monstrosities, eh?

He winks. Jesse’s eyes catch a faded orange plastic marker—a trail maintenance tag—tied to a sapling. He says nothing.

MRS. HARRIS

We're heading up to the Scenic Overlook. The views are simply breathtaking! It's truly a moment of connection.

Jesse’s face tightens. He knows the one.

JESSE

Right. I, uh, need to check my compass bearings.

He doesn't have a compass out. He uses the flimsy excuse to sidle past them, escaping their orbit of relentless positivity.

EXT. TRAIL - CONTINUOUS

Jesse pushes onward. The path begins to ascend steeply. The mud gives way to loose, slippery rocks.

SOUND of his own labored breathing, a harsh rasp

This is the first real challenge. His focus narrows. There is only the placement of his feet, the grip of his boots, the negotiation of the climb.

A gnarled root snakes across the path. He steps over it. Then another. He finds a rhythm.

The canopy thickens, the light dims. He glances up through a break in the leaves—a shocking patch of brilliant blue sky.

For a single, solitary second, the cynicism falls away. There is just the climb. The effort. A tiny, unexpected flicker of quiet satisfaction.

EXT. SCENIC OVERLOOK - MOMENTS LATER

He crests the rise. And stops.

The "overlook" is a perfectly manicured clearing.

A freshly painted GAZEBO sits over an impeccably clean picnic table.

A newly erected BRONZE PLAQUE boasts of the trail's "unparalleled natural heritage."

TWO TEENAGERS are perched on the railing, phones out, attempting a coordinated TikTok dance.

SOUND of a high-pitched, mechanical BUZZ

A DRONE hovers over the clearing, capturing sweeping vistas.

And in the center of it all, a small, artisanal KIOSK sells 'Locally Sourced' maple candy and miniature hand-carved animals. The sickly-sweet aroma of maple syrup hangs in the air.

Jesse’s brief moment of communion evaporates. A familiar, weary sigh escapes him.

He watches the drone, then the TikTok dancers. He pulls out his own phone. Miraculously, one bar of signal.

He opens a messaging app. Types to his friend, SANDRA.

CLOSE ON PHONE SCREEN

The message reads: `Survived the Heritage Trail summit. Found an interpretive centre and a drone. Send help, and maybe a real job listing.`

His thumb hovers over the 'send' button. He doesn't press it.

He lowers the phone, leaning against a gazebo post. He watches the manufactured spectacle unfold. The curated beauty. The packaged authenticity.

He climbed through the mud for this. He endured the Harriss for this. He found a perverse, quiet endurance in the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all.

A small, cynical smile touches his lips.

He pockets his phone. The message remains unsent. He turns, ready for the descent.