RHYS DAY. A GOOD STORY WELL TOLD.                                                                                             

RHYS DAY aka The Oystershellman*.

Partner at Q.LEMUEL TEMPLETON (of Motley, Bojangles, Froat, Motley & Roust.)

[From behind a mahogany desk so expansive that most parts of it are actually in every other room in the building.]

*The Oystershellman, ship’s cook, served a swordfish gruel that he had forgotten to season, and also to provide, having forgotten to add the food. The cook barnacled the hull for a whole longitude until he was accidentally hauled back onboard more robust than ever, to great astonishment and disgust. He took to carrying around a dead salmon that was a receptacle of wisdom by its virtue of having eaten nine hazelnuts in its time. The fish was no longer wise, because it was dead. The crew, as a mob, felt the salmon to be an omen of ill, speculating that it might herald their destruction by a notorious sea-sea serpent, or their being swallowed by a fierce maelstrom, or of their drifting too close to, being lugged toward, and tumbling over that thunderous waterfall at the edge of the world. The Oystershellman was consequently marooned with a flintlock pistol and a solitary lead pellet on a remote archipelago that was towed at a distance behind the ship.


Sydney, Australia

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Rhys Day wasn’t always a filmmaker. Before he was born, he gestated for a bit, just to get the hang of things. When he felt that he was ready, he hatched from an oaken barrel that had ruptured tumbling over the edge of Niagara Falls, and learnt to swim fairly quickly. He was raised by a tribe of aquatic badgers as he floated downriver, but only for about a mile-long bend until they became extinct. He was compelled to fend for himself, and became excellent with nunchakus.

After the surgery, he threw away his white cane and dark glasses, because his bones felt as good as new and it really wasn’t that bright a day. This led to a short stint as a figurine that drove model steam-trains, where he was both a model and a train driver, and a model-train driver, and, in his conduct and work ethic, a model model-train driver.

When he grew up and couldn’t be an inanimate timber carving anymore, more distant horizons beckoned, and Rhys bought a pair of binoculars to look at these horizons, as the expense of a telescope was prohibitive, and you could only use one of your eyes at a time. The binoculars were snatched out of his hands and smashed by being dropped onto the shell of a tortoise by a particularly stupid eagle, but the vision lingered.

Once he had discovered the camera, and then the other kind of camera, there was soon no stopping him, except maybe with a stop sign while he was driving. He began to move so fast that he often caught up with and overtook himself, with eyesight so acute that he was able to glimpse the back of his own head over the curvature of the earth, which helped with haircuts.

Rhys Day has been making films for some time now, however, because time is a relative and arbitrary construct, we have no way of knowing how much time.


The décor of the grand ballroom on the thirteenth floor of the haunted hotel at the peak of Whistlestop Hill, where this scene isn’t set, has no bearing whatsoever on the incident in question, which occurred on a forbidden stretch of the Thames, in a rowboat.

GUMJACK DORY, a salty smuggler, is trafficking human contraband in the form of QUENTIN QUOROUGH, a fugitive on the lam from the Crown.

DORY: Keep quiet.
QUOROUGH: I haven’t said a word for literally half of an hour, and you have just broken that silence to redundantly instruct me to do what I was already doing.
DORY: Sorry, what I meant was, shut up.
QUOROUGH: Once again—
DORY: Shut up.
QUOROUGH: I am just as invested in the clandestine nature of this undertaking as yourself—
DORY: Then just listen to yourself. Yourself in grave strife and ill-advisedly a fountain of babble like enough to draw attention as a mock lighthouse will a looming shipwreck.
QUOROUGH: Listen to yourself! You—
DORY: Were I in as dire straits as yourself I would not prattle so incessantly, but would incline instead to cultivating a silence of dead calm.
QUOROUGH [steam rising visibly from him]: Look—
DORY: You can look wherever you please, just keep your trap clamped.
QUOROUGH: [develops an eye-twitch].
[There is a short pause.]
DORY: Is that you I can hear blinking?
QUOROUGH: [shrieks deafeningly].
DORY [looking around furtively]: I think we got away with that one.
[There is a long pause.]
DORY: But seriously, keep quiet.
QUOROUGH: You’re as mad as a cut mamba.
DORY [puts finger to lips]: Shhhhhhh!