THE GANG: A LIVE-ACTION ADAPTATION OF SCOOBY DOO

SCENE 1

She was beautiful. Glitter flecked her rosy cheeks. Dark curls laid over them, fluffed forward by an intense wind. The silken strands tickled the recessed bridge of her nose and the moist gloss of her full lips.
She was an angel without wings. Only such a woman could float above busy traffic and pedestrians below with such grace. Her bronze shoulders were on full display with a strapless top catering to her ample bosom. The snow white lace of the wedding gown flapped, as if trying to keep her airborne for as long as it could.
She was also at death's door. Her angelic flight would last only as long as it took to drop from the thirtieth floor of the high-rise hotel window she had been shoved from. The glass covered facade of the modern marvel of engineering reflected her final moments. It captured the second her Prada stilettos slipped from the tips of her manicured fingers. It witnessed her lengthy train wrap around her beauteous flesh, attempting to cocoon her in a cushion capable of permitting her to survive the fall.
But at last, she became nothing more than a gorgeous stain on a downtown sidewalk of Columbus, Ohio.

SCENE 2

A heavenly aroma escaped the open door of the oven, swelling in the confines of the small kitchen. Nearly three hours at three hundred and fifty degrees was more than enough to meld the concoction of ingredients into a symphony of goodness.
The cook inhaled a lung full of his creation. Though it had a wonderful odor, the dish wasn't yet complete. He pulled on his trusty oven mitts. Puffs of cotton protruded from multiple holes in both. Still, they would get the job done, as they always had.
He removed a foil covered pan, placing it on the circular oak table next to a partially broken window. A piece of cardboard and duct tape was supposed to serve as a temporary fix. However, tearing at the edges of the silver adhesive strip - as well as a layer of accumulated dust - was evidence it wasn't as temporary as it should have been.
Steam billowed through vents poked into the foil. A fork was a proficient tool to open them further and remove the thin, metal sheet without risk of burning himself. Inside was a chicken, braised whole. Slices of lemon and fresh picked cilantro encircled the fowl, spilling over into the reservoir of broth inside. A light sprinkling of sea-salt speckled on the bronze skin added to the complexity of the palate.
With his meat left to cool, the slender culinary artist used his lanky limbs to retrieve his deep, cast-iron skillet and fire up the stove top. Blue flames danced on the front eye, tips of oranges and yellows flickering on mid-heat. He placed a dollop of olive oil in the center, then added freshly diced onion and carrot, along with a mixture of legumes and sweet corn.
The caramelized edges of the vegetables signaled they were ready for the next component. He scraped in a few cups of brown rice and water. A glass lid, and time to simmer were the final steps the recipe called for.
He walked over and held his hand inches from the chicken to see that it had lost enough heat to be handled. It was still quite warm to the naked touch, but was cool enough for his yellow, rubber gloves. He slipped them on and began the tedious process of separating the tender protein from bone.
At last, the climax of all his preparation had come. The aspiring chef consolidated everything into a large pot. With the heat on high, he added small doses of pea fiber, ground oats, and an assortment of dietary supplements. Enough heat remained in the smoldering dish to mesh it all together without further cooking. So he turned off the burner and stirred thoroughly with a wooden spoon.
Footsteps pattering against the laminate floor came from behind him. There was barely enough time to place his spoon down, before he turned to fend off a playful mailing. The Great Dane placed his massive front paws on his owners chest, backing him against the counter, while thoroughly lashing the stubble of his chin with his tongue. Something fell, clattering against the floor.
The hound had followed his sensitive snout with hopes of satisfying his appetite. Such a pungent scent could hardly be ignored. Maybe if he showed enough love, he would be able to swindle his way into a taste test.
"C'mon, Scoob, man. Cut it out. You're getting drool all over my school shirt," the slim man complained. "We go through this every week. The fresh stuff has gotta cool down." Finally able to get his best friend back on all fours, he picked up his name tag and clamped it back onto his shirt. It read, 'Shaggy'.
The boundary between the kitchen in the living room was hardly noticeable. Only the change in patterns of linoleum from faux tile to decorative wood highlighted the separation of spaces. Shaggy checked beside the lone couch - across from an old box television on a plastic tote - for the food he had placed in Scooby's bowl while he was sleeping. It was as clean as after a washing. The moment the dog had awoke, he devoured it and was ready for more.
"Should've knew it," Shaggy said, shaking his head in exasperation. Scooby walked over and used his snout to shove the bowl closer to him. "Can't do it, Scooby. I told you. We gotta start budgeting better around here. Things are getting tight. Finals at school are coming up, so I can't work as much as I used to."
The pooch whined, trying his best to gain sympathy.
"That's not gonna work." Shaggy returned to the kitchen. His recipe required one last touch before it could be separated into individual servings and put away. Especially if he wanted the job done fast enough for him to head out on time. He picked up a small fan from the floor, sat it on the table next to the pot, and plugged it in to induce faster cooling.
"Now to get this morning started off right," Shaggy said to himself, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. The walk to his bedroom wasn't far. His place was so compact it practically didn't have what could be considered a hallway; only three adjacent doors in a nook, one of which led to he restroom, the other a hall closet.
A full-sized bed took up almost the entire bedroom. The rest of the meager square footage was covered by an ashy oak dresser riddled with deep gouges and shallow scratches. Its dingy, mounted mirror was encircled with photos of several different culinary dishes shoved between the glass and wood framing.
A slew of random items were strewn about the surface, including a red-trimmed speaker in the shape of a pill. He powered on the elongated radio, pulled his cell phone from his pocket, scrolled through his saved playlists, and settled for a collection of his favorite Eminem tracks. The devices automatically connected, linking to fill the room with upbeat hip-hop.
Shaggy bobbed his head, as he sifted through his drawer for a pair of socks. He unfolded them at the ankle, where they were joined together, and pulled out a small baggy of herbage with orange strands. The loud smell oozed through the plastic.
One of the various items on his dresser was an old tin box; so old, in fact, the coloring had been oxidized away, leaving alternating patches of rust and smooth metal. He removed the lid and took out one of several slender packages covered in an assortment of colorful streaks.
As Shaggy took a seat at the edge of his bed, atop the crumpled comforter, Scooby went to lay in his own bed in the corner below the rooms only window. A large box fan was wedged inside the frame. It buzzed loudly, trying its best to circulate the fuming outside air to cool the room. Its effectiveness was limited.
Shaggy felt around the pile of bedding until he found an adult magazine of busty women. He ignored the racy cover and sat it on his lap. It had only one purpose. It was to be the foundation in which he would roll up his morning ritual.
A grumbling emanated from the corner. Scooby's tummy was in a dispute with itself. He squirmed on his rounded, cushy bed, trying to fight his hunger. Another growl signaled he was failing. He got up and Nuzzled Shaggy's thigh.
"Not right now, Scoob," Shaggy said, gently shoving him away with his leg. His hands were busy cleaning the tobacco out of his split cigar.
Scooby groaned in frustration and left the room.
Shaggy nodded his head to the music, evenly spreading the marijuana through the emptied cigar shell. A sudden bang came from outside the room. The unexpected sound jarred him to his feet, sending the unrolled joint flying. "S**t! S**t! S**t!" he shouted, trying to pluck the pulverized buds from mid air. Even if that were possible, the fan propped in the window dispersed the flakes of greenery all over the room. "Fuuuck!" Shaggy gripped his scruffy, ear-length locks in his hands with dread. After a moment of grief, his brain finally kicked in, coming to the realization of what had just happened. "F**k!" he yelled again, dashing to the kitchen." What the hell, Scooby?! That was a weeks worth of your food."
The massive canine slowly walked out of the kitchen, licking his lips satisfactorily. He didn't appear to care much about Shaggy's concern for inventory. The only thing that mattered was his full stomach.
Shaggy checked the freezer to see how many servings of his homemade dogfood remained. Of course, he already knew the answer. It was the reason he was cooking more in the first place. He hoped wishful thinking would magically restock the refrigerator.
There was no such luck. Only four packages remained in the bare ice box. It was barely enough to get through the next two days.
Shaggy closed the freezer door. He shook his head in frustration. With the same hope as before, he took his wallet from his back pocket and checked for spontaneously materializing funds. Instead, he was met with the same reality. Seventeen dollars was the entire sum of his net worth.
The day hadn't started so well. Furthermore, time was threatening to make itself another of Shaggy's enemies. The bass thudding through the wall suddenly stopped, replaced by a wailing alarm.
"Mother f..." Shaggy bit down on his bottom lip, preventing the profanity from fleeting his lips. Frustrations were building so rapidly his subconscious mind preferred angry grumblings over coherent words. He rambled under his breath to his room, grabbing his phone and a drawstring backpack from his closet.
When Shaggy came out of the room, Scooby was stretched out on the living room sofa like an obese couch potato.
"Enjoy it while you can," Shaggy said, his voice drenched in sarcasm. "Let's see how you like it when you're starving the rest of the week." Picking up his weathered skateboard, he opened the door and hurled back one final comment. "Don't use the bathroom right outside the back door either. That stuff stinks. Go all the way back there," Shaggy emphasized, gesturing with his hands.
SCENE 3

Moans of ecstasy ricocheted between olive walls and broad windows, threatening to blow the place apart. The woman with hair the shade of autumn dug her nails into the brawny blades of her lovers shoulders. She called his name, "Fred!" injecting him with more vigor.
With his right hand wrapped around the small of her back, Fred pulled her close. With his left hand glued to her derrière, he guided her in.
And together they erupted with an intensity rivaling the geysers of Yellowstone.
Fred fell on his back, half cloaked in satin sheets. He raked his hands through the blonde fluff on his head. Sweat trickled down his tapered temples, as he panted heartily. "Wow," was all he could manage to say.
The fiery haired beauty hopped straight out of bed. Her naked, petite figure basked in heavy sunlight, as she walked over to close the open shades. An overhead view of downtown from the new Eerie-Jones Tower was just as expensive as it was grand. She could see miles over the booming city in three directions through the outwardly bowed glass pane.
"Seriously, Daphne..." Fred complained, his chiseled abs flexing, as he sat up in bed. "Now you wanna close the shades?"
She took one last view of the city, then swiped her finger across a wall mounted touchpad to activate the vinyl shutters. The slender, vertical strips twisted to the closed position. "Do we have any jobs today?" Her next destination was the restroom.
Fred swung his legs around, hanging them over the edge of the bed. His feet fell upon a hand woven rug he had purchased from a mill in Southeast Asia. His phone rested on the cherry nightstand. He took it and checked his emails. "Nothing new. Got one message from Ella Monet though. She sent a link." He clicked it open.
"What is it?" Daphne detoured to the walk-in closet to retrieve her clothes.
The link led to a map with a blinking red dot. After further inspection, he noticed the dot was moving. "It's a tracker."
Daphne paused in the bathroom doorway with her undergarments in hand. "A tracker, huh...that'll make our job a lot easier."
"Means we have to hurry." Fred followed the same path Daphne had to the closet, in the same naked glory.
"What do you think you're doing, sir?" Daphne blocked the doorway with pinched eyebrows and pursed lips.
"I'm going to take a shower," Fred dryly stated.
"Nooo..." Daphne held her free hand out like a guard stopping traffic. "I go first, then you go."
"We don't have time for that," Fred argued. "We have a job to do."
"Us taking a shower together is not going to make it go any faster, because you can't keep your hands to yourself."
"Me?" Fred recoiled at the accusative remark. "You're the one who's a nympho!"
Daphne's mouth fling wide open, as she gasped. "Take it back!" she fussed, whacking him on his muscular chest with an open palm.
"You know what...we don't have time for this." Fred lifted Daphne over his shoulder and carried her through the threshold of the bathroom.
She cackled loudly, thrashing her hands and legs playfully. "Put me down, you...you...bandit!"
"I've been called worse," he laughed. "Mostly by you."