The Muffin Man sits at a butcher block table in a restaurant kitchen. It is clean and orderly. All items in their place, it is well stocked, a few dirty bowls and a scattering of flour on the counters show that something has recently been made.

The Muffin Man is dressed with little care. Kind of a punk, kind of a rocker, kind of a southwestern cowboy, kind of a guy who recently woke up.

In front of the Muffin Man is a plate of muffins and the pan they were baked in.

The Muffin Man picks up one and considers it. It is beautiful, perfect. As perfect as a muffin can be.

MUFFIN MAN
Consider the muffin.

We push in slowly. The muffin develps a subtle angelic aura, the world behind the Muffin Man and his muffin darkens.

MUFFIN MAN
Not only the taste of the muffin, or the smell, or the beauty of a perfect golden crust. The muffin is more than those tangibles. A muffin can satisfy all tastes and desires. It can become…anything.

The Muffin Man breaks open the muffin he’s holding. Steam rises, we close in on the muffin, it’s so beautiful we can almost smell the thing.

MUFFIN MAN
The muffin is the uncarved block. Form and function perfected, made manifest.

The Muffin Man takes a bite of the muffin he’s holding.

He considers that bite and is saddened.

MUFFIN MAN
Almost.