A once serene hillside, now a desolate wasteland glowing under the fires of war. 



ALIEN SHIPS streak the sky, their beams scorching the Earth and hundreds of soldiers.



Cut to a military encampment where soldiers scramble. 



Explosions rock the ground, throwing men and women into the air like rag dolls.



The camera tracks a PLASMA BEAM as it descends, turning a TANK into molten slag.



HOUR 72 OF THE INVASION








SMASH CUT TO:


EXTERIOR - A BATTLEFIELD - NIGHT


A lone, towering figure, BULK LOGAN, standing tall atop a hill, completely unscathed amid the chaos, twin MACHINE GUNS in hand, bandoliers crossed over his chest. "Come on, you extraterrestrial punks! You think you can take on Earth? You gotta go through me first!"



He charges forward like a juggernaut, firing ceaselessly. Each burst from his weapons is precise and calculated.



Bulk has become a one-man army.



The alien ships focus their attention on him, their beams converging on his position. Yet, inexplicably, Bulk is untouched. It's as if some unseen force shields him or perhaps, in his fierce defiance, he has become untouchable.



As the alien ships close in, Bulk drops his guns and reaches back to pull a massive ROCKET LAUNCHER from the ground beside him.



With a primal scream, he launches an explosive round directly into the underbelly of one of the ships and it explodes in a ball of fire, raining debris over the battlefield.



"YEAH! THIS IS OUR PLANET, BROTHERS FROM ANOTHER SOLOAR SYSTEM!"



In the aftermath of the fiery explosion, something incredible begins to happen. The smoldering battlefield, strewn with the scattered and broken bodies of injured soldiers, begins to stir with life. It's as if Bulk's actions have reached out and touched the hearts and minds of those left lying in despair!



Soldiers who had accepted their end just moments earlier, find the strength and courage to stand and fight once more!



Against an enemy that had seemed so unstoppable. They realize that if Bulk can stand, if he can fight, then so can they, and, SO THEY MUST!



The soldiers rally to his side, forming a ragged line of resistance that might not look like much from the outside. But there's a fire burning in their chests, kindled by the roaring inferno of Bulk's will. They're battered, they're bruised, and by all rights, the next wave should wash them away.



But it doesn't. Not this time.



As the dust settles from the fallen ship, the soldiers, their eyes reflecting the flames of wreckage and resolve, form up around Bulk. The hillside, once a place of peace, becomes a stronghold, their Alamo against an otherworldly foe. They're a mix of every uniform, every rank, all distinctions burned away by the fires of survival. They're simply humans, standing defiant.



The other two alien ships, like predators circling wounded prey, move in, their deadly beams cutting swathes through the earth. Soldiers fall, their cries piercing the chaos of the battlefield, but their sacrifice is not in vain. For every comrade that falls, another finds the strength to fight harder, fueled by rage and the burning desire to make their lives count.



Bulk, bellows orders and encouragement. "Stand fast! Hold the line!" And they do, their guns blazing.



A young PRIVATE, bloodied but unbroken, locks eyes with Bulk. In that glance is the unspoken promise that these men and women will not yield. 



They will fight on.



The alien ships unleash a barrage of fire, but under Bulk's lead, they scatter and move, no longer easy targets. They use the debris for cover, they use their fallen ships as shields, and they turn the aliens' advantages against them.



And then, in a moment of sheer audacity, Bulk grabs a discarded anti-aircraft gun, aims, and with the shout of a warrior that would make Rambo blush, bringing down a second ship.



The remaining ship hesitates. That hesitation is costly. With a roar of engines, a squadron of Earth's remaining fighter jets crests the horizon, missiles at the ready.



Bulk doesn't watch as the jets engage their target as he has other targets of his own. 



The battle rages on the ground as the insect-like alien foot soldiers advance. Bulk is right there, a real force of nature, tearing through them with a ferocity that's near-mythic.



The soldiers, the very few who remain, push forward, fighting alongside of Bulk. They are the last stand, humanity's final bastion of hope, and they 



Will. 



Not. 



Fall.



The battle rages on, both bloody and epic with great losses on both sides. Then, as the last of the alien soldiers collapses, and the day is won, the scene suddenly shifts.



SMASH CUT TO:



INTERIOR - EDITING ROOM - DAY



The chaotic warzone fades to the dim light of a high tech editing room. The sounds of battle are replaced by the soft hum of computer fans and the rhythmc tapping of a keyboard.

Bulk Logan, now without the grime and the guns, leans back in a plush chair, his massive frame dwarfing the surroundings. Beside him, ROLAND EMMERICH, the director known for his blockbuster action films, sits with a look of satisfaction.

"Bulk, my man, you really brought it! That's going to be one hell of a climax."

"Roland, you said we wanted epic, right? Tell me who's more epic than the Bulkster?"

The screen in front of them is frozen on Bulk’s triumphant roar as he takes down the seconds ship.

"Epic doesn't even start to cover it. You're going to redefine the summer blockbuster next year!"

"Just doing my part to save Hollywood. When I saw how bad the box office has been in recent years, I knew that they only thing that could fix it was a healthy dose of BULKAMANIA, brother! That's also why I had to end that pesky writers strike. As far as actors, who needs'em? We'll use students and wrestlers, brother!"

They share a laugh.

"We’ve got a few months of shooting, but this is gold, Bulk. Pure gold. I'm glad we took the time to shoot this scene and apply all of the special effects. Seeing a glimpse of the final product has only heighten my excitement for this project! We've really got the makings of a masterpiece here, Bulk. But we need to get back on set to finish this beast."

Bulk nods as he strokes his chin thoughtfully.

"I hear you, brother. But the ring calls me. I've got the TV Championship belt, and I defend it every (other) week. It's what the fans expect."

Roland frowns slightly. "Bulk, my friend, sometimes you've got to roll with the punches, adapt. What about dropping the belt? Clear up some time in that schedule of yours?"

Bulk's eyes widen in disbelief, his body tensing at the very suggestion.

"Drop the belt? Hell no, Roland. That belt means I'm the people's champ. People love TV! I can't just turn my back on them, dude. Besides, champs pull in more cash, brother!"

Roland sighs. "I get it, I do. But Hollywood... it's a different kind of beast. You copuld make so much more money, reach such a larger audience, and save your body loads of torment if this all pans out, but if we don't strike while the iron's hot, we risk everything. Studios are fickle. They see a delay as a sign to pull the plug more often than not."

Bulk sits back, the weight of Roland's words sinking in. The possibility of losing the film, the chance to be immortalized on screen in his greatest role yet, it battles against his loyalty to the wrestling ring (or the fame that it brings). "Man, this is a tough one. I've got to be true to my fans, Roland. They're the reason I'm even here. But this... this is a once-in-a-lifetime gig."

"It's not just a gig, Bulk. It's the beginning of your Hollywood legacy. We need you, full-time, for three months. New Zealand's landscapes aren't going to wait for us, nor will the studio's hunger for this film."

Bulk's gaze drifts to the frozen image on the screen, his larger-than-life persona staring back at him, a reminder of what could be...

Muttering to himself, Bulk repeats, "what to do, what to do..."

"Give it some thought. You don't have to decide right this second. But remember, opportunities like this don't come knocking twice."

Bulk nods, his mind a turmoil of championship glory and cinematic dreams.

The scene shifts to a grimy, dimly-lit gym. 

We pan past rows of well worn equipment to find Bulk Logan, the behemoth TV Champion, slamming down a set of dumbbells with a thunderous clang. He turns to the camera, smirking with all the confidence of a predator who's just heard a twig snap under the foot of its prey.

"Well, well, well... if it isn't little Tommy Wish, the 'blackhart', the 'black sheep'. You got one thing right, Tommy – you ain’t the best wrestler, ain’t the best talker, and sure as hell ain’t the best man. But you know what? That’s the only thing you got right."

He grabs a towel, wiping the faux sweat off his brow.

"Family differences, daddy issues, runnin' from your past... That sob story might've won you some sympathy votes from the peanut gallery, but this is the big leagues, boy. I don't play therapist. I play destroyer. And at our match, I’m gonna tear down your little world like a house of cards, brother."

Bulk walks over to a BULKAMANIA branded wrestling ring set up in the back of the gym. He steps between the ropes, a smirk playing on his lips.

"An X-Treme Kiss My Feet match..." he snorts, "it's poetic, really. Because it plays to your sick fantasy, but really? That's just where you belong, Tommy. Down there, in the dirt beneath my feet, where all the trash gets thrown... Dude!"

"You wanna talk fame, Tommy? I’ll give you fame. The kind that’ll last as long as those bruises I’m gonna leave on ya. The kind that'll have your kid asking, 'Mommy, why does daddy walk funny?' Yeah, Tommy, you’ll be famous alright,,, As the man who got his ass kicked so hard, he had to kiss the champ's feet!"

"You see, Tommy-boy, it doesn't matter what you've been through. It doesn’t matter what you wish to be. In that ring, under my rules, your story ain’t gonna have a happy ending. This ain't no fairy tale, and you sure as hell ain't no hero. You're just a stepping stone, brother. And come fight night, I’m gonna step over your broken body and onto greater glory."

"You can run your mouth all you want about Tommy-mania, about proving something. But the only thing you’re gonna prove is how good you are at cleaning boots – with your tongue, dude! You think you can end my reign? I am the TV Champion. I am the main event. And you? You're just a washed-up, never-was, trying to claw his way out of a pit of mediocrity. Same story, different decade, jack!"

Bulk cracks his knuckles, lowering his voice to a deadly whisper.

"Listen up, brother, and listen good, 'cause the Bulkster's got a message for ya, Tommy! You better come with all you've got, bring your spirit, your grit, and every last drop of passion, dude. Pack up that tear-jerker of a tale and all those fancy little sketches, too, my man. But make sure you sketch these boots real nice, brother, because when I'm through with you in that ring, you're gonna worship at the altar of my ten-toed temples, brother!"

"You're gonna feel like you've been struck by lightning, wild and electric, before being tossed aside like a ragdoll. When I'm done, the only thing left for you is to sit down, real humble-like, and capture the glory of the champ's feet with that tongue of yours, brother, cause that's all the action you're gonna get.

"You'll be left with nothing but memories of what it was like to stand eye-to-eye with greatness, before I put you down on your knees, face to face with defeat and THE FEET, brother! And after the fact, jack, don't forget to add my beautiful Bulky sausage toes to your drawings, brother, 'cause I'm the icon of television, the main event of every show I'm on, and always the hero standing tall... while you? You'll just be the guy known for that picture-perfect defeat that lead to you kissing the champs feet in front of 20,000 screaming Bulkamaniac's, brother!"

With a final sneer, Bulk punches his palm, the sound resonating like a gunshot.

"WHAT CHA GONNA DO, TOMMY?" 
























































"Nothin'."


























"Cause when you're in the ring with Bulk Logan, all you can do... is WISH!"