The king who broke his back to pave the way for English reform—and got cemented into history.

EXT. BOSWORTH FIELD—DAY

Mud. Metal. Monarchy.

KING RICHARD III sits astride his horse, crown tilted one way, spine the other.

His saddle leans in a third direction.

Both armies stand perfectly aligned—two rows of steel hats facing each other.

No one moves, except the fluttering flags: the white rose of York and the red dragon of Henry Tudor.

SOLDIER

Can we fight yet, my liege?

RICHARD

Let me get off my horse first.

He fumbles with the stirrups.

Silence. A distant sneeze.

Richard sticks the landing. Barely.

⸻

SMASH CUT TO:

EXT. LEICESTER PARKING LOT—2012—DAY

A supermarket construction site. A yellow excavator idles.

A plastic grocery bag drifts by like a tumbleweed.

An ARCHAEOLOGIST crouches in a shallow pit, holding a crusty spine resembling an Anglo-Saxophone.

ASSISTANT

So… he was under a parking lot the whole time?

ARCHAEOLOGIST (softly):

Five hundred years of royal legacy.

Beat.

No crown. No ceremony. Just bones—and shitty urban planning.

And someone reversed a Ford Focus over his pelvis.

⸻

FLASH TO: BOSWORTH FIELD—RICHARD’S FINAL MOMENTS

RICHARD drops to his knees, bitter.

ENEMY SOLDIER

Any last words?

RICHARD

Stab me from the left. My good side’s already ruined.

Beat.

Oh, while you’re at it—and tell the Tudors they can kiss my concave ass.

⸻

INT. MUSEUM—PRESENT DAY

A TOURIST MOM reads aloud a small placard under a twisted skeleton in a glass case:

Here lies King RICHARD III

Politically (and orthopedically) crooked.

Reinterred with honors after several centuries

beneath a Tesco Supermarket parking lot.

 

Her kid frowns.

KID

Was he a baddie?

MOM

No, sweetie. Just English.

⸻

FINAL SHOT: RICHARD’S GHOST

Hovering above the parking lot.

His back still crooked—even in the afterlife.

RICHARD (dry):

Finally—prime real estate.

CAMERA TILTS DOWN TO A BLUE WHEELCHAIR STENCIL PAINTED FRESH OVER HIS GRAVESITE.

He dissolves into a plastic Tesco grocery bag… and floats away.