Monsters at the #WorldCup

Screenplay draft

Title: Monsters at the #WorldCup
Credit: Written by Working Screenwriter
Author: Working Screenwriter
Draft date: October 2024
Contact: monsters@worldcup.film

FADE IN.

INT. MARACANÃ STADIUM - LOCKER ROOM - NIGHT

Fluorescent tubes flicker over concrete walls scored with old claw marks. Muddy cleats dangle from hooks. A torn red jersey with the number 10 hangs on a locker door. Sodium-vapor light leaks through a high vent, painting everything oxblood and bone-white.

REX sits on a wooden bench, six-foot-four of matted gray fur and broad shoulders. A silver whistle hangs on a chain against his chest. He rolls a cigarette with clawed fingers that tremble once. Behind him, through the vent, the full moon climbs past the Christ statue on Corcovado.

BORIS hangs upside down from the top of his locker, black goalkeeper kit creased, slicked hair pointing at the floor. His fangs catch the light when he speaks.

BORIS
You gonna light that or just stare at it till sunrise?

REX
Match starts at four. Moon's already up.

He strikes a match. Flame flares. A low growl slips out before he can swallow it.

GRETA pushes through the swinging door, headscarf knotted tight over writhing snakes. Mirrored goggles hide her eyes. She drops a duffel bag; stone practice cones clack inside like bowling balls.

GRETA
Pills didn't work last time.

REX
They'll work this time.

ZED limps in last, number-4 shirt faded and stitched at the shoulder. One arm swings loose by a strip of rotting tendon. He grabs the wrist, snaps it back into the socket with a wet pop, and laughs.

ZED
Ref board just posted the schedule. No night games. Not even for us.

REX freezes, cigarette halfway to his mouth. Boris drops from the locker and lands on his feet with a soft hiss.

BORIS
Daylight rules. Human federation says monsters play at noon or stay in the crypt.

GRETA
Your pills are sugar now. We saw the video from last friendly.

REX
That was one howl. Controlled.

ZED
Controlled? You ate the ball, captain.

Rex stands. The whistle clinks against his teeth when he snarls.

REX
We open against the Yeti XI. I captain. End of story.

Boris leans in close, voice low and sarcastic.

BORIS
Even monsters must play by daylight rules or stay in the crypt. Your words, not mine.

Greta steps between them, voice sharp as a whistle blast.

GRETA
Channel it into headers. Rage is just another set piece.

The vent light shifts. The moon is higher now, washing Rex's yellow eyes silver for half a second. He crushes the unlit cigarette in his fist.

REX
We train at dawn. No one mentions the moon.

Zed reattaches his arm again for emphasis, the snap echoing off dented lockers.

ZED
Dawn it is. Long as my foot stays attached till kickoff.

The four of them stand in the harsh white light, jerseys bright against the gray concrete. Outside, the distant roar of early Rio traffic mixes with a single vuvuzela blast from the empty stands. Rex's paw stops trembling. He tucks the whistle under his jersey.

REX
Lights out in ten. Get some sleep.

He walks out first. The door swings shut behind him. Boris and Greta exchange a look. Zed shrugs, arm already loosening again.

BORIS
Sugar pills.

GRETA
We fix it on the pitch.

ZED
Or we lose the arm and the game.

The fluorescent tubes buzz louder, then settle. The moon keeps rising outside the vent.

INT. MARACANÃ STADIUM - LOCKER ROOM - NIGHT

Fluorescent tubes flicker over concrete walls scarred by claw marks. Muddy cleats dangle from hooks. A sodium-vapor bulb hums in the corner, casting sickly yellow across dented metal lockers. REX sits on the bench, broad shoulders hunched, matted gray fur catching the light. He rolls a cigarette with thick paws, the silver whistle on its chain tapping against his torn red number-10 jersey.

BORIS hangs upside down from the top of his own locker, black goalkeeper kit creased, slicked hair pointing toward the floor. His fangs glint when he speaks.

BORIS
You gonna light that or just stare at it till sunrise?

REX
Match starts at four. Moon's already up.

Rex flicks the lighter. The flame catches. A low growl rumbles in his throat before he kills it with a drag.

BORIS
Pills worked last cycle. This one's different. Ref board posted the schedule before the draw even finished.

REX
They'll work this time. I keep the form till the final whistle.

BORIS
Even monsters must play by daylight rules or stay in the crypt. You hide the howl, you lose the pack. Simple as that.

Rex stands. His yellow eyes flash once under the harsh light. He paces two steps toward the lockers, cleats scraping concrete.

REX
Squad needs the captain. Greta's cones are already stone. Zed's arm comes off on a slide. I fake the injury, the whole thing collapses before kickoff.

BORIS
You fake it too long, the sponsors smell the lie. Rio doesn't forgive a werewolf who can't control the moon.

Rex stops. He stares into the scratched mirror bolted above the sink. His reflection shows nicotine-stained fangs and the trembling paw still holding the unlit cigarette.

BORIS
We adapt or we rot in the tunnel. Your choice, captain.

Rex tucks the cigarette behind one ear. The whistle chain swings as he turns back toward the bench.

EXT. MARACANÃ STADIUM - PITCH - DAY

Sun beats down on the vast green pitch. Oxblood-red jerseys cling to damp fur and scales. Sodium-vapor lamps along the stands cast a sickly yellow haze even in daylight. A few scattered banners flap in the hot breeze, monster silhouettes barely visible.

REX stands at the center circle, silver whistle chain glinting against matted gray fur. He rolls a fresh cigarette between paw pads but does not light it.

GRETA sprints past a row of orange practice cones, mirrored goggles flashing. Her headscarf writhes with muffled hisses.

GRETA
Cone on the left. Low and tight. Like shielding the ball from a fullback.

She stops, eyes the cone, and rips off her goggles. Green light pulses. The cone cracks, turns gray, then solid stone with a sharp snap.

REX
Save that for the box, Greta. We need the real ones breathing.

ZED lumbers up from the far end, number-4 shirt hanging loose over patchy green skin. He drags a ball with one foot, then slides hard into a dummy defender. His right arm tears free at the shoulder with a wet pop and flops onto the grass.

ZED
(soft gurgle, laughing)
Tackles still clean, boss. Just the stitching lazy today.

He scoops the arm, lines up the stitches, and snaps it back with a thick squelch. The fingers twitch once, then grip the ball again.

REX
Ref board wants us finished before the shadows get long. Four o’clock kickoff. No moon, no excuses.

GRETA replaces her goggles and jogs back into position. She points at the petrified cone now sitting like a tombstone.

GRETA
Then we practice the header that breaks crossbars, not the howl that empties stands. Channel it here.

She taps her chest, then the ball at her feet.

REX
Pills are in the bag. I take them at half. Squad stays ready.

ZED
(laughing again, arm now flexing normally)
Ready as a limb that stays on, captain.

REX blows the whistle once, short and sharp. The three of them reset. Greta takes two quick touches, feints left, then drives a rising ball toward the goal. It cracks the underside of the crossbar and drops inside. Stone dust drifts from the petrified cone nearby. Rex watches the arc, jaw tight, yellow eyes narrowing against the glare.

INT. MARACANÃ STADIUM - LOCKER ROOM - DAY

Fluorescent tubes flicker over dented metal lockers. Claw marks scar the concrete walls. Muddy cleats dangle from hooks. A single sodium-vapor bulb throws yellow light across the room.

REX sits on the bench in his torn red number-10 jersey, silver whistle chain glinting against matted gray fur. He rolls a cigarette with thick paws. Nicotine stains his left fang. The schedule poster hangs crooked on the far wall, fresh ink still smelling of toner.

He stands, crosses the room, and stops in front of the poster. His yellow eyes scan the printed grid. Match times are

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