Hey, Lochlainn! You self-search, right? No judgment, I indulge. I’ve read all my reviews twice. As another lunatic writing Civil War books, I get you more than most. Subject. Motive. Spirit. I approach your work with sympathy.
You suck.
You suck bad. You fight white power by breathing. You belong in schools as a warning. Reading made you dumber, history closed your mind, and writing made you a failure. You are the white man’s burden. You suck.
I’d like to help.
Though SEO’s dead, Lochlainn. At least in any subtle form, Lochlainn Seabrook. For you to see this, Lochlainn, I really need to drill the keywords in, Lochlainn Seabrooke, author of A Rebel Born: The Screenplay.
A Nathan Bedford Forrest biopic. Brilliant. Not your attempt, which reads like taint cancer feels. But the idea has legs. Let’s turn your taint lead into taint gold. Take my hand, and you’ll have propaganda for humans, instead of the roaches in your sheets.
Consider it. I see you have high hopes for the project:
You want to reach Hollywood.
You want to reach Hollywood badly. Enough to ride Forrest’s corpse there. I respect both. Forced labor for a doomed cause is Forrest’s Valhalla.
You need Hollywood. You see something beautiful, and can’t connect with it. You’re involuntarily filmless. Ripe for help from a talented lifestyle coach. I’m here to save your dream.
Shame you’ve already dicked up your dream. Producers are busy people. The logline’s your one chance to skip the shredder, and you shoved a hand in. “War for Southern Independence” says your brand is “fucking loser.” You’d call this movie bombing “The Flight of Money from MGM.”
That said, Braveheart‘s a nice comp. I’m sure Mel Gibson would dig this. Honestly, he’s this draft’s best shot. If I get any garbled threats, I’ll kick you his address.
Looks like we agree: you’re a desperate failure who needs a jacked guru. And lucky. I don’t have shame or a shirt. Don’t worry about fucking up this pitch—we’ll change the title from “A Rebel Born” to anything else. Random letters might work. Roll your face along the keyboard and see where your muse goes. I’ll fix it later.
Besides, your fuckup gives us a base to work with. Great sculptures start with blocks of frozen pig shit. We’ll start by cutting “Notes for the Reader,” where you fold again.
What kind of weak pre-apology is this? You’ve doomed this minstrel show before it started. Gentlemen don’t apologize in advance, or at all. By acknowledging your shame, you’ve already lost. Nathan would take your hood for that flub.
You wrote a Nathan Bedford Forrest biopic. Strangle the shame within, Lochlainn. It’s too late. You’ll only survive if your hate is pure. Like Nathan’s.
Granted, we see Nate differently. On Earth-One, he massacred black prisoners and became the first grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. As soon as “head racist” became a job, he won it. When Nate wandered into the bigot’s guild, they fell silent and whispered “The Crackerborn Lives.”
On Earth Two, you know the same shit but love it. Lock in.
At least your script starts with a double homicide. Nathan handles a complaint over his uncle’s debt with heroic grace.
Hey, Nice. For a shining moment you’re on point. Nathan’s Frank Castle for petty cash. Or as Nathan called it, honor. A fine vehicle for antihistory, until he starts talking later. For now, he faces relatable, sympathy-building consequences.
Hey, not bad! Our audience rewards most rampages, especially near legislatures and hospitals. Work more of those in later. But this intro’s light on white pride. We’re crafting Captain America for people that skip speech balloons. You know, American Sniper, but grounded.
Hey, boring! We don’t need the Jesus act. Nathan really shouldn’t do anything but kill, quip, and tower over mongrels. All at once, when possible. Focus up.
Hey, garbage! Pure “everyone clapped” filler. I’m disappointed, and I *already hated you.* But that’s why our team works. I’m your perfect reader. Not because I read Civil War stuff. That’s the biggest strike against me. Because of anime. I love deviant cartoons about shit that never happened. It also helps that I’m black. Your ego’s cracked glass, which can make teaching tough. Since I’m not a person, I can be honest without you going down the road instead of across the street.
A Rebel Born’s big problem, other than historical blah or moral whatever, is aping every other biopic. They already blow. We haven’t made a good one in eons, and you’re not the guy to fix that. But there’s a fresh spark when you stop pretending slavery never happened or Lincoln invented it, and start pretending it was dope.
You’re so close, Lochlainn. Drop “servant.” *Commit to your premise.* They’re slaves, and they love it. They were never good enough for anything else. They’ll never be president, unless they’re clones from Uganda. *Commit.*
There’s a pure gem of inventive hate hiding here. Material the “Fuck Your Feelings” crowd would buy twice. And it’s *buried* beneath filler and half-assed brotherhood. Whole acts claim Forrest brought enough white hoods for everyone. What’s the point? Go all in, and make “Mandela” for people that hate “Mandela.”
Boring. Cut it.
Better, but I came to see stabbings, not recap them. Cut it.
The whole speech? Are you on coke? Treat this scene like a literate slaves’ hands.
I’ll be real with you Lochlainn. This script needs two things: action and racism. They are your only ideas. You’ve never had a third thought. You’ll never have a third thought. You’re the least talented voice in a genre with Rickey Pittman.
I knew I could smell a winner.
A start. I finally hear my ancestors screaming. But this is a screenplay. Give the doomed crew ways to convey all that *onscreen*. Say, a scene where he owns slaves respectably, or refuses to divide a family? I have no idea what that looks like, but you picked this angle. Bring it home. If you want racist Narnia, you have to build it.
Hell. Yes. I knew you had it in you. Look at this virtuoso coonery. I haven’t read tap dancing like this outside of a majority decision. It might be hard to shoot: humans can’t say this without bursting into flames or running for mayor. But it’s a screenwriting achievement.
An army of Black Republicans. Lochlainn, you’re not a genius. You’re barely an adult. But your ear for hate speech alone makes you a writer. Late America’s ready for this voice. *A Rebel Born 2.0* will be a crossover hit, once we swap out all the other text.
As for my values, what values? I’m on that CM Punk shit. It’s time to melt my beliefs into retirement.
More of this, and less of everything else. Especially Nate’s courtship. Mary Ann sucks. She sounds like you’ve never met a she-bigot in your life. Which I doubt, since you’re married. Sure, you don’t talk or fuck anymore. But grab a notebook the next time she’s yelling at a neighbor.
Good luck acting out those scare quotes.
Again: why half-ass it? Servants? What vertebrate shows up to a Nathan Bedford Forrest biopic to *forget* slavery? Or whitewash anything? Our audience loves whips and hates the future. Save doublethink for Oscar season. We’re after viewers banned from 2025 Twitter. Stop clinging to that last brain cell.
Another problem follows Mary Ann: hell exposition. Nathan explains national news to her like she’s a mine slave.
No master race talks like that. Or copes. There’s a baffling runner of teenage belles flirting with, intimidating, or tying up soldiers. I’d call you a nonce, but you wear your derangements on your sleeve. You just missed a day of housebreaking. Or you’re a nonce, whatever, there’s a lot to fix here. Cut them.
You’re wasting valuable Thunderbolts screentime. The Tap Elite have freemen to kill. If you think I’m looking for excuses to shit on you, yes. If you think I don’t respect your effort, yes. But the script comes alive during the action.
Impossible, as Greycoat Rambo should be. Again, action and racism. See how far a little craft goes?
Lochlainn, I’ve been hard on you here. I just want you to make enough money to stop writing. There’s one perfect gem in here, as is. Diamond, trailer-worthy bigotry. While I have thick skin, or a condition, I’ll never hear one song the same way again. Good thing this is a private letter, or I’d be spreading psychic anal warts.
This scene feels impossible. But my sister confirmed it’s real before blocking me. Well done, Lochlainn. You should be proud. Not of the content, it’s a fucking disaster. Abortion bans might put you in jail. Just that you finished. Typing “roll” would have killed an artist. You’ll never have that problem.
Now, to make sure you get this, I’ll add some of your favorite searches. Lochlainn. Lochlainn, genius. Micropenis. Micropenis, why? Micropenis cure. Micropenis acceptance. Belle. Southern Belle. Young Southern Belle. Younger belle. Very young belle no FBI. Stop FBI. STOP FBI NOW. Dershowitz. Dershowitz advice. Dershowitz, hero. Dershowitz, donate. 1000 year old dragon belle. 1000 year old belle, complimenting penis. 1000-year-old belle, laughing at penis. Save the Cat. Dishonest Abe. Dishonest Abe, wife. Dishonest Abe laughing at penis.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Cerril, who also has a movie idea, but it involves a time traveling horse that shoots lasers from his dick.