Echoes at the Bar

INT. DIVE BAR – NIGHT

The bar is dimly lit, a mix of neon signs and low lights. Two guys,BRAD (early 30s, scruffy, sarcastic) and JACK (mid-30s, laid-back, quick-witted), sit at the bar, nursing beers. They’re a bit drunk, mid-conversation. The vibe is light, fun, and playful.

BRAD
(laughing)
Dude, I swear, that girl—she looked at me like I just asked her to babysit my pet tarantula.

JACK
That's probably ‘cause you were wearing those creepy glasses. You look like you make terrariums on the weekend.

BRAD
(grinning)
I do make terrariums on the weekend.

They both laugh. The bartender, SAL, a gruff old guy, stands polishing glasses in the background. A new song comes on the bar’s shitty sound system—Pink Floyd’s "Echoes". At first, it's subtle, in the background.

JACK
Yo, is this Echoes?

BRAD
Oh, shit. Yeah. Nice pick for a bar... nothing says "good times" like twenty-three minutes of existential dread.

They sip their beers, still in good spirits. Then, the part with the infamous screeching noise kicks in—loud, dissonant, like a broken synth colliding with a dying animal. Both guys wince, looking around.

BRAD
What... the... fuck.

JACK
(hands over his ears)
Jesus, make it stop. Is this legal?

The screeching continues, unbearable. The bar patrons are starting to look uncomfortable. BRAD and JACK exchange pained looks, grimacing, but still drunk enough to find it funny.

BRAD
Why does it feel like it’s inside my brain? Like it’s just—rearranging neurons.

JACK
(laughing through the pain)
I can’t believe people just let this happen. This is assault.

The noise keeps going—seemingly forever. It's torturous, like it's never going to end. The two try to cover their ears, but it’s pointless.

BRAD
Dude, we’re gonna die like this. It’s gonna end with my obituary saying, “killed by Echoes.”

JACK
(mock announcing)
Local man found dead in bar, victim of auditory homicide. Suspects still at large—Pink Floyd.

BRAD
They need to send in a SWAT team to turn this shit off. I’ll surrender, just take me out.

Finally, the screeching abruptly stops, leaving a lingering silence. BRAD and JACK sit in stunned silence for a beat, blinking at each other.

BRAD
(slowly)
That... was like, ten years.

JACK
(shakes head)
That was like war. That’s what war sounds like.

BRAD
It’s the sound you hear when you get put on hold with Satan.

They both burst into laughter, clutching their stomachs, leaning on the bar.

JACK
(catching breath)
Dude, my ears are... wet. I can feel ‘em sweating.

BRAD
Nah, man, that’s just your brain melting.

The bartender, SAL, comes over, shaking his head.

SAL
You boys alright? That got weird, huh?

BRAD
Weird? We just survived the gates of hell, Sal. Put that on my tab.

They laugh again, raising their beers, clinking them together. The bar hums back to normal as the song fades out.

JACK
Next time, just play Margaritaville like a normal person.

BRAD
Yeah, or a nice Fleetwood Mac moment. Let us ease into the void.

They drink, laughing off the insanity of what just happened. The vibe returns to normal, though with the lingering memory of that screeching madness.

END SCENE