II.

It begins. Zoom in on TV.

A place of business, an immaculate office: a silhouetted man stands, with his arms in the air. He’s stock still, unreadable, and rotund.

After a breath, he moves; first rotating slowly, and then with alarming suddenness leaping into a dance with the brash magnetism and agility of Robert Morse. He sings orders to his secretary:

“Ahmmm...Ms. Loring...yes...please send a telegram – forthwith, if possible...to Britches Naboo of Bugscuffle, Tennessee...and...”

She sings his orders back to him, even before he utters them:
“...appraise him fully of his delinquent payment condition...”

She knows him better than he knows himself.

He regards her with avuncular pride. “THANK YOU m’dear...OH, and please infect the telegram with a spying compulsion virus – I’d like someone to keep an eye on the neighbor to his immediate North... TOUT SUITE, please...thank you dear.”

He’s got strange, strong, evil powers and uses them with crisp efficiency, this one. He’s also got two sets of eyebrows that afford him uncommon ambiguity and/or complexity of expression. When he gets upset, or particularly excited about something, additional eyebrows may sprout out.

This is Boleous T. Ophunji: evil industrialist, a penchant for theatrics. A bilious rogue! When not tending to other pressing business, he works at his primary passion: the manipulation and control of mass consciousness.
Ms. Loring has downloaded numerous texts at his behest; they’ve been printed out, and all stacked very neatly on his desk. (He insists on printouts of important documents: “You can’t ABSORB things from a computer screen! The words bounce off you like sprinkles! I need them on PAPER...paper...from RAINFOREST TREES!”)

A glimpse of a title page:

“An experimental study of the structure of consciousness” - C.W. Tyler
(in scrawled crayon): THIS!!!! is VERY important!!!!”

He’s been experimenting, undetected, with one particular guy's consciousness for a long time now: a composer named Ian McPlant. After years of rejection, Ian’s been beaten to a bitter froth, and it’s affected his Work: an oeuvre consisting of drawers and folders stuffed with tapes, manuscripts and soundfiles of unfinished pieces, none even close to good.

Oh, another thing: Ophunji, finding the name “Ian” too “something,” imprinted a new name years ago; Ian has forgotten he ever was “Ian.”
He’s been renamed “Scambot,” which stands for “SERIAL CONSCIOUSNESS AGENT [Military division]: BRINGER OF TRUTH.”

A system to control Scambot’s moods and instincts has been, over a period of many years and at significant personal expense to Ophunji, tested, installed, and implemented. Scambot will be reborn as a ferocious yet pliable creature, obeying Ophunji’s every whim, wreaking bloody havoc if so ordered. For the moment, though, Ophunji’s just kind of messing with him.

Voices sing!:

Ophunji’s ideology has messed with Scambot’s liberty! How dare he! How dare he!

Ophunji cavorts and hoots orders with glee. The dance ends with a close-up of his hairy index finger, landing heavily on a glossy shot of Scambot.
It causes a smudge.