INT. DAY.
A YOUNG MALE OFFICE WORKER, SMARTLY DRESSED, SAUNTERS INTO A QUIET OFFICE.
HIS NEW BOSS, A PORTLY MIDDLE AGED WOMAN, EXTENDS HER HAND.
Boss:
You must be Keviiiiiiiin! I’m Doreen, your line manager.
He grunts and nods and she crushes his fingers.
Boss:
First job, then, go to the kiosk two doors down and get two packets of ginger nuts- it’s a bit of an in joke between me and Ian over there.
IAN WAVES.
FADE
KEVIN RETURNS WITH ONE PACKET OF MALTED MILK AND ONE PACKET OF RICH TEA.
Kevin:
These are all they –
Boss:
You got the wrong biscuits..
FADE
TEXT: TWO WEEKS LATER.
THE PHONE RINGS.
Ian:
Oi, Kevin Wrongbiscuits, it’s for you.
FADE
TEXT: TWO WEEKS LATER
KEVIN IS EATING A BISCUIT. BOSS SNATCHES IT OFF HIM.
Boss:
I’m sorry, Kevin, this is the wrong biscuit.
SHE TAKES THE BISCUIT OFF HIM AND LICKS IT, THEN RUBS IT ON THE SOLE OF HER SHOE.
Boss:
Now it’s the right biscuit.
FADE
TEXT: 3 MONTHS LATER.
KEVIN IS WEARING A DUNCE’S CAP WITH ‘K.W.B’ ON IT, WHILE HIS BOSS, IAN AND OTHERS ARE DANCING ROUND HIM IN A CIRCLE MAKING NATIVE AMERICAN ‘WOO-WOO-WOO’ NOISES. THEY ARE TAKING IT IN TURNS TO CRUMBLE A FISTFUL OF BISCUIT AND RUB IT INTO KEVIN’S FACE OR PUT IT DOWN HIS TROUSERS.
FADE
TEXT 6 MONTHS LATER.
A DOOR SLAMS SHUT BEHIND A HANDCUFFED KEVIN AS A PRISON WARDER SAYS’ TAKE HIM TO THE WRONG BISCUITS WING’. EYE LEVEL SHOT OF KEVIN’S FACE BEING LED DOWN A CORRIDOR AMID A CACOPHONY OF ABUSE. ITEMS OF FOOD, OLD UNDERPANTS AND DISGUSTING LIQUIDS LAND ON HIS FACE AS HE TRIES TO TURN HIS FACE AWAY.