I Blank You

This was a fun writing experiment.

The Sense of Being Watched

How much plot can be condensed into one page? Can one have a full story, with beginning, middle, and end? That's the challenge in this super-short script parable.

Taggered

A prolific young filmmaker named Robbie Comeau is running an informal screenplay contest with some of his fellow writers. Looking to film a screenplay, but with only the first scene set in stone, he asked some of us for our ideas on where to take the rest of the script.

So, the first half of the first page is Robbie's work, and the rest is mine. I thought his idea, though dark and rather twisted, had flashes of genius and visual interest, so I continued in that vein.

How to describe this work? Think "Type I Diabetes meets Alfred Hitchcock" and you're almost there. :)

WARNING: This gets rather dark, so if you're not into nasty psychological pieces, you might want to go to the right sidebar and click on "Comedy" instead.

TAGGERED
by Kyle Patrick Johnson
Represented by: Registered with:
Canton Literary Management (CLM) Writers Guild of America,
Contact: Eric Canton West, Inc.
(866) 429-3118 Registration #1394569
ECanton@Prodigy.net
www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com
FADE IN:
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
An assortment of kitchen knives, big and small, gleaming,
spread across the counter top.
Each knife has a price tag tied to it.
WRIGHT, 40’s, stands in front looking in the mirror.
His baggy eyes and bed-headed hair shows that he’s half
awake.
He looks down, scans the knives from left to right.
He notices a small plastic shaver and picks it up.
He tests its weight, watches the light play on the thin steel
edge.
Then, confident, quick, no hesitation, slides the shaver to
his Adam’s apple.
He applies pressure, slides the razor blade across his throat
slowly. Thick dark blood pours down his neck.
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, into an opened
door bedroom to see WRIGHT, sleeping in his bed, writhing...
BEDROOM
PUSH IN on Wright’s face: he looks uncomfortable as his
nightmare continues...
He suddenly wakes up, sits up in sudden panic.
WRIGHT’S POV
The room goes hazy, fuzzy, fades out...
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright stares at his haggard reflection in the mirror. He
reaches one hand to his mouth, pulls his cheeks up into a
hideous, cheerless smile.
He lets go of his face. His cheeks flop back down into jowls.
He looks down at the counter...
No knives. No shaver.
He looks down at his feet.
A price tag tied to his left big toe.
IN THE MIRROR
Wright’s downturned face... but his eyes flick up at the
mirror, menacing, dark, eery, creepy...
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway. SOUNDS of
glass breaking, the bathroom mirror smashing.
BEDROOM
Wright gasps for air in his sleep.
PUSH IN on his face: his eyes pop open, pupils dilated to
bursting.
He sits up in bed.
WRIGHT’S POV
The room goes fuzzy, woozy, again...
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright stares himself down in the mirror, unblinking.
The knives are on the counter, price-tagged and shiny new.
Wright’s hand moves for a large cleaver, as if beyond his
control.
He fights his own hand, forces it back to his side with his
other hand.
His eyes never leave the mirror.
An intense struggle, inside his head, inside his body.
A THIRD HAND sneaks in FROM OFF CAMERA, a wrinkled, elderly
hand.
The Third Hand picks up the shaver from the shower stall,
carries it over, places it gently in Wright’s shaking hand.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Drink some juice, all right? Just
drink it. Man! Why you got to be
so... so... man!
2.
Wright’s eyes shiver in place, oscillate... he’s trying to
look down at the third hand.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Oh, now you don’t want to?
Sounds of a struggle, sounds of overpowering, sounds of
gagging and gurgling.
Wright tears his eyes away from the mirror, looks down.
The third hand has disappeared.
But the shaver is in Wright’s hand. His eyes flick back to
the mirror, a new desperation, a new purpose.
He raises the shaver to his Adam’s apple.
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, turn the other
way, away from Wright’s bedroom, into another open door...
SECOND BEDROOM
An ELDERLY COUPLE sleeps in a wide bed, plush comforter
almost to their noses.
PUSH IN on ELDERLY MAN’S face, wrinkled...
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s our only kid. Is being normal
too much to ask, really? Man!
PUSH IN on ELDERLY WOMAN’S face, faded, worn...
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s just diseased, and there’s
nothing to be done.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Well, he came outta you. I ain’t
gonna pay for fixing him.
PULL BACK to an upper corner of the room. Elderly Couple
looks smaller and smaller and non-threatening.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s diseased, and... son, Wright,
are you there? Wright?... I thought
I heard something.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Sneaky retard. Man!
3.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
There’s nothing wrong with his--
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Cost a fortune. Man!
PAN TO HALLWAY. Wright’s boxer shorts and legs disappear,
crawling down the hall.
WE MOVE TO FOLLOW Wright down the hallway, as he army-crawls
to the...
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Wright, using every last bit of energy that he doesn’t have,
struggles across the floor to the refrigerator...
The looming refrigerator...
Wright reaches a trembling hand to the door, his hand slips
off the handle.
He swallows hard, breathes deep, sweats, trembles all over.
He reaches up again for the handle, the effort like climbing
Kilimanjaro.
The refrigerator door cracks open, opens wide.
The white-hot light inside the fridge momentarily blinds
Wright, but he fights through the light to grab something,
something hidden in the white light...
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Sell the hunting cabin? You crazy?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
You can’t put a price tag on
Wright’s health.
Wright pauses, as if to catch his breath, rests.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Oh, is that what you’re calling it
now?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
His health?
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s diseased, remember?
4.
Wright withdraws his hand, a tiny child-sized purple juicebox
in his palm.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy his
juice with my food stamps.
Wright, a trembling hand, jams a plastic straw into the juicebox
on the third try.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
(resigned)
He’ll need his juice.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Now can I go to sleep? Man!
Wright slurps the juice, purple streaks run down his wobbly
chin.
He sits back against the open refrigerator, closes his eyes,
visibly regains energy.
His trembling stops, he relaxes... dozes off...
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright stares into the mirror...
Price tags hang from his body like branches from a willow
tree. He is covered in strings and tags.
He raises his arms, his body shaped like a “T”. Price tags
dangle from his arms like a fringed cowboy suit.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
You know how much you cost me, boy?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He couldn’t move out on his own.
Wright mouths the word: “Yes.”
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s a... a... sponge. Man!
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright mouths the word: “No.”
Wright looks down at the counter, the bare knives laid out,
the small shaver next to them.
5.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright picks up the shaver.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright saws at the price tags all over his body. The razor
seems dull, won’t cut through a single one.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright hacks at the tags, the strings, his eyes grow more and
more desperate as he stares into the mirror, anguished...
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright screams, throws the shaver at the mirror.
WRIGHT
No!
Wright whips the largest kitchen knife up to his Adam’s
apple.
His eyes, enraged, cornered...
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, to the...
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Wright wakes up. He’s cramped and freezing cold, leaning back
into the open fridge.
He stands up, tosses the juice-box into a garbage can full of
other empty purple juice-boxes.
He rubs his frozen back.
He looks inside the fridge, the bulb burned out. It’s empty.
Not a thing inside it.
Wright walks down the hallway, still stretching and rubbing.
INT. SECOND BEDROOM - NIGHT
Wright stands in the open doorway for a moment, staring in at
the Elderly Couple in bed.
6.
He tip-toes across the room, around the other side of the
bed.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Next thing you know, the kid’ll
want an allowance for doing
nothing.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
That’s not the worst idea.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Man! What would he do with money?
On the other side of the bed, Wright bends down, out of
sight, stands up again with a wooden box in both hands,
carries it out, quiet as a mouse.
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright looks into the mirror, his quiet eyes drained of will.
The wooden box sits on the counter, two feet wide.
Wright’s eyes slowly track down the mirror, come to rest on
the wooden box.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Probably just buy candy. Come on,
he’s worthless.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
It might teach him responsibility.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Are you kidding... Man!
Wright’s hands caress the wooden box.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
It’s time Wright learned about the
world.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Then make him get a job.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
That’s moving too fast.
Wright cracks the wooden box, opens it slowly, dark inside.
7.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
If he ain’t gonna earn it, he ain’t
gonna get it. He’s got nothing to
spend it on. Serious. What would he
do with money?
Inside the wooden box: a brand new set of kitchen knives,
price tags still on them.
Wright lays the knives out on the counter, one by one, each
one placed perfectly straight, parallel to each other, long
rows of gleaming new stainless steel.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
What would he do with money?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright closes the wooden box.
He runs his hand across the variety of knives, almost
playful, but not playful, almost carefree, but not carefree.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
What would he do with money?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright’s eyes flick up at the mirror. He mouths: “No.”
The Third Hand sneaks INTO CAMERA, picks up the shaver, puts
it gently into Wright’s hand.
Wright tests the shaver’s weight, watches the light play on
the steel.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
What would he do?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Then, confident, quick, no hesitation, slides the shaver to
his Adam’s apple.
He applies pressure, slides the razor blade across his throat
slowly. Thick dark blood pours down his neck.
His dark eyes, haunted, stare at his eyes, not at his neck.
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, into...
8.
INT. SECOND BEDROOM - NIGHT
WE CIRCLE the bed, look at it from a new angle, from the far
side of the room...
A thick red streak runs vertically down the comforter, as if
from the neck of Elderly Man.
PUSH IN on Elderly Man. He’s grayer than before, as if his
blood is all drained from his body.
The sheets around him are stained red.
SINK THE CAMERA to the floor: a credit card, bloodstained red
along one edge.
FADE OUT.
THE END
9.

Takers Toll

Logline: "When a sports fanatic suspects his girlfriend and an agoraphobic apartment manager of stealing expensive memorabilia, jealousies and selfishness take their toll."

I wrote this story at the request of a young San Francisco filmmaker. He requested something intense, emotional, and ultimately touching. I put my own emphasis on intense. Enjoy.

Note: Adult language.

FADE IN:
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - DAY
A dingy, claustrophobic living room cluttered with sports memorabilia: posters, trophies, helmets, jerseys.
ANTON (20s), skeletal, angular, sideways in an armchair, long bony legs dangle, wears a baggy wool sweater. He holds an autographed football to his eyes, examines it languidly.
Anton sniffs the football. Inhales.
Closes his eyes, as if in ecstasy.
He rubs his face against the armchair, feels the texture.
He jumps up from the chair, crosses to a glass trophy case. He presses his nose against the glass, eyes closed, feels the smooth slickness against his face, up and down.
The football bumps against the glass.
Anton looks down, remembers the ball is there. He runs his fingers across the bumpy leather, caresses it.
He pretends to throw the ball. He doesn't have an athletic muscle in his body.
He jogs across the room, awkward, holds the ball up, makes a wooshing sound as he imagines the ball flying.
He pretends to catch the ball in the kitchen.
He nods to an imaginary crowd.
Anton sniffs the ball. Hugs it, fondles it.
He lies on the floor, squirts a dollop of ketchup onto the football, examines it in shafts of dusty sunlight.
Anton licks the ketchup off the ball. Savors it, enraptured.
The front door opens to reveal...
JAKE (30s), beer belly of a former quarterback, a paper sack of groceries in his arm.
JAKE
Who the hell are you?
Anton shoots to his feet, ram-rod stiff. His eyes roll up, stare straight to the ceiling.
Anton sways, the forgotten football clenched in sweaty palms.
Jake is not one for patience.
JAKE
I said, who the hell are you?
Anton's mouth opens, nothing comes out.
LUCIANA (20s), softhearted, merciful enough to leave the living room sports shrine untouched, pushes in past Jake. She lets her grocery bags fall to the counter.
Gently, Luciana pries the football from Anton's hands.
Anton sways, lets her have it.
Luciana tosses the ball to Jake.
Jake sees the red smear on the ball.
JAKE
Is this blood?
LUCIANA
No, this is Anton. I told you.
Anton gulps. His hands make little circles in the air.
Luciana pushes Anton softly in the back.
LUCIANA
Okay, Anton, time to go home.
Anton shuffles past a gaping Jake. Luciana closes the door.
JAKE
This stuff is money!
LUCIANA
I know.
Luciana puts away the groceries.
Jake inspects his collection.
JAKE
That moron better not have busted anything.
LUCIANA
He's not a moron, Jake.
Jake scoffs.
JAKE
He knows how to break in.
LUCIANA
I gave him a key.
Jake freezes. Turns so slowly towards her. If looks could...
Luciana pretends to ignore him, puts away the milk.
JAKE
You gave him a key. Of course you gave him a key. Who else wants a key? Manson? Dahmer? Sure, guys, come on in whenever you want and just feel free to TRASH MY STUFF!
Luciana bites her lip.
LUCIANA
He needs to learn how to--
JAKE
He needs? I need!
Jake stalks to the front door, whips it open.
JAKE
Out.
Luciana looks up, startled.
Jake grabs her by the arm, shoves her into the hallway.
He slams the door, locks it.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - DAY
The door opens. Anton shuffles in, chest plastered to the door as if clutching a life preserver, still stares upwards.
He closes the door, immediately slumps into a comfortable posture, a normal human being again.
The rooms are immaculate, furnished with exquisite modern taste, glass and steel and white fabrics.
He throws himself onto a white leather couch.
He idly plays with an exquisite white fringed afghan blanket.
Flicks on a TV, watches a nature program.
TV NARRATOR
...this poor thing had been left outside in this cage for several days and nights without food. The only water he drank was from a passing rainstorm. When the owners were finally apprehended--
A knock at the door.
Anton flicks off the TV. Sits as still as can. His eyes flick towards the door, all other muscles rigid as rope.
LUCIANA (O.S.)
Anton? Anton? Are you in there?
Anton sits, still as a statue.
Another knock.
LUCIANA (O.S.)
Anton, please. Where am I going to go?
The knocking stops.
Anton exhales, long, slow breath out.
He smiles.
The TV turns on again.
TV NARRATOR
...no one has the right to mistreat a defenseless animal.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Luciana sits on the steps up to the building.
Alone.
She pulls her coat tighter against the cold night.
Rain falls.
She stands, presses an apartment intercom button.
JAKE (O.S.)
(filtered)
Yeah?
LUCIANA
Jake, please, I don't have any--
JAKE (O.S.)
Go away.
LUCIANA
Jake, please, it's just for the night. It's cold. I didn't mean... Jake?
No answer.
Luciana huddles against the front step, miserable.
A first floor curtain moves slightly.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton peeks through the curtains at Luciana.
His hands work up and down in the curtain fabric, absorbed in the sensation.
His face relaxes. He smiles. A plan!
He bounds to the door, opens it.
Immediately he reverts to his wooden-legged self, eyes shoot to the ceiling.
It's a struggle for him to close the door. Ever... so... slowly... There, it's closed.
He skips into the bedroom.
He reemerges with a blanket.
He opens the window.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
A blanket flies through a first-floor window, lands on wet grass.
The window closes with a crash.
Luciana gets up, retrieves the blanket. It's soaked.
She snuggles under the blanket, wipes her nose.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Luciana shudders under the blanket.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Luciana, feverish.
INT./EXT. POLICE CAR/STREETS - NIGHT
PROSPERO (30s) drives, trolls the wet streets with shrewd, vigilant eyes. BOB (20s), the eager recruit, always a smile and a hand on his sidearm.
BOB
Every night, busting the same hookers. How do you meet nice women like Kathy on this job, anyway?
PROSPERO
I met Kathy in college.
CAR RADIO (V.O.)
Car one five niner. Sixty-two bee at five-two-two-one Becker, number two oh six.
Bob flips the radio to his mouth, jaunty.
BOB
Copy that.
Bob flicks the radio off.
PROSPERO
Quick quiz: sixty-two bee?
BOB
Easy, a simple burglary. That's the same one, same place as yesterday.
PROSPERO
No imagination.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
The police car crunches to a halt. Lights off, no siren.
Prospero and Bob hop out into the rain, dash up the steps. Prospero almost trips over a pale Luciana.
Prospero nudges her with his foot.
PROSPERO
Go on, now.
Luciana coughs, rolls over.
Bob leans over her.
BOB
She's sick.
Bob hoists Luciana, carries her down the steps, his face averted from her constant coughing.
Prospero enters the building.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Empty living room.
A hard knock.
No answer, of course.
Another thumping knock.
Nope.
A sigh from outside. Stumping footsteps recede.
Anton's head pokes around a bedroom door. He smiles.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
A hard knock.
Jake, watching a loud sports game on TV, shouts over the noise without turning in his armchair.
JAKE
I told you to go away!
PROSPERO (O.S.)
This is the police, responding to a call.
Jake hops out of his chair, opens the door. The TV blares into the hallway.
PROSPERO
You reported a burglary?
JAKE
Hell, yeah.
Jake juts out his chin, waits.
PROSPERO
I suppose you want to let me in.
JAKE
Oh, yeah.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton sits at his kitchen table, plunks down a large binder, opens it: chock full of pink slips of paper.
The pink slips are maintenance requests from building occupants: toilet blockages, creaky floors, stuck faucets.
All are signed "Anton Lossa".
He rubs the thin, crinkly paper between his fingers, gazes at them one by one, each one a memory.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
Jake sits in his armchair. Prospero stands between Jake and the TV.
Jake peeks around Prospero, watches the game.
JAKE
So yeah, it's rare, you know, right off his back.
PROSPERO
It was in this case here?
JAKE
Yeah.
PROSPERO
Do you mind turning that down?
JAKE
What?
PROSPERO
Down.
Jake presses a button on the remote. Now the announcer cacophony is only a dull roar.
PROSPERO
Do you have any idea who might want it?
JAKE
Hell, anyone. It's autographed, too. I coulda sold it years ago for eight hundred.
PROSPERO
Why didn't you?
JAKE
Huh?
PROSPERO
Is it insured?
JAKE
Huh?
PROSPERO
Is anything else missing?
JAKE
No.
PROSPERO
So it's not a break-in?
JAKE
That's your job.
Jake shrugs.
PROSPERO
Was anyone left alone with the jersey?
JAKE
Yeah, there was-- oh, man, check out the replay. Right there, right there. Yeah!
Prospero takes a deep breath, relaxes. Very polite, turns off the TV.
JAKE
Hey, man!
PROSPERO
If you don't want help, I can go.
JAKE
Dick.
PROSPERO
Anyone left alone--
JAKE
I heard you. Yeah. Luciana was my girlfriend.
PROSPERO
Did you two break up?
JAKE
Not much of a detective, are you?
PROSPERO
Do you think she wanted revenge?
JAKE
Probably.
PROSPERO
When did you break up?
JAKE
Dinner.
PROSPERO
Today?
JAKE
Yeah.
PROSPERO
Does she live around here?
JAKE
I don't know.
PROSPERO
You don't know?
JAKE
She lived here.
PROSPERO
She-- describe her.
JAKE
So tall, dark hair, 24...
PROSPERO
And soaking wet. Uh-huh.
JAKE
Huh?
Prospero pulls his radio to his mouth.
INT. POLICE CAR - NIGHT
Luciana lies in the back seat, covered in thick wool blankets. She looks terrible, pale, sick.
Bob crouches next to her, squeezed behind the drivers seat. Solicitous, helpful, dries her face with a towel.
His radio crackles.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
(filtered)
Bob, are you with the girl?
Bob contorts his body, reaches for his radio.
BOB
Yup.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
Is her name Luciana?
Luciana nods weakly.
BOB
Yup.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
Bring her up to two oh six.
BOB
I don't think we should move her.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
She's accused of burglary.
Luciana coughs.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton fingers the curtain, looks out.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - ANTON'S POV - NIGHT
Bob helps a swaddled Luciana out of the car.
Bob hustles Luciana through the rain, inside.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
The door opens, Bob sits Luciana down on a couch.
JAKE
Hey, she'll get it wet.
Bob wants to punch Jake.
Prospero puts a hand on Bob's shoulder.
PROSPERO
(to Luciana)
Jake here claims you stole a valuable football jersey.
Luciana shakes her head.
JAKE
Oh, come on. You always want money.
BOB
Back off, she's sick.
JAKE
You her mother?
PROSPERO
Did she have an opportunity to steal the item today?
JAKE
Not today... but, oh, yeah, she gave Anton a key!
PROSPERO
Who's Anton?
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton's left hand fingers play in his hair.
He pours Cheerios out on his immaculate kitchen counter, swirls them around with his right hand, feels the circles under his fingertips.
He eats the Cheerios one at a time.
A knock at the door.
Anton freezes stock-still. Eyes up.
Another knock.
JAKE (O.S.)
(muffled)
He's there. The moron never leaves.
PROSPERO (O.S.)
I don't have a warrant.
JAKE (O.S.)
See if it's unlocked.
PROSPERO
I don't--
The door opens. Jake at the handle.
Anton is frozen in place. His hands flit in circles.
Jake scoffs, tosses the couch cushions away, searches.
Prospero dives at Jake, holds him still.
PROSPERO
We don't have a warrant.
JAKE
I'm not a policeman.
Prospero wrestles Jake into the hall, slams the door.
Prospero turns to Anton, sighs.
PROSPERO
Sorry. May we come in?
Anton doesn't move a muscle.
PROSPERO
May we? We need to talk to you.
Not a muscle.
PROSPERO
Silence means yes.
Prospero looks at the ceiling, wonders if it's interesting enough to absorb Anton. The ceiling looks normal.
PROSPERO
I'm reporting implied consent.
Prospero opens the door.
Bob leads Luciana in, lays her down on the couch.
Jake comes in, bounces like a boxer, ready for a fight.
JAKE
I figured it. They're lovers.
LUCIANA
Jake.
PROSPERO
We've had a recent rash of burglaries out of this building. If anyone here is responsible, let's get it all cleared up now.
Luciana is racked with coughing.
BOB
My money's on the statue.
All eyes turn to Anton, who doesn't even appear to be breathing.
JAKE
Sure, this is a stupid act.
LUCIANA
But he didn't know where you keep the case key.
PROSPERO
Where do you?
JAKE
In my silk boxers.
PROSPERO
That's too obvious. Anyone would look in an underwear drawer.
JAKE
That's why they're not in my underwear drawer.
BOB
This isn't a guessing game.
JAKE
The drawer under the oven.
BOB
Under the--
JAKE
You didn't look there.
PROSPERO
Is the key still there?
Jake shrugs, goes out.
LUCIANA
Anton wouldn't.
PROSPERO
That's hardly conclusive.
LUCIANA
You know he can't leave. Why would he risk his job and apartment?
BOB
You know what you're saying?
LUCIANA
I'm saying he can't do it.
BOB
You're saying you did.
Luciana shakes her head, coughs, looks miserable.
Anton hasn't moved.
Jake dashes in.
JAKE
My boxers are gone.
Prospero sighs, pulls out a pair of handcuffs.
PROSPERO
Who is it going to be?
LUCIANA
Not him... Jake...
Prospero puts the handcuffs on Luciana, loose.
PROSPERO
(to Jake)
We'll book her on your surety, but without evidence, we'll probably have to let her go.
JAKE
You find my stuff.
LUCIANA
I loved you, Jake.
JAKE
Come on.
Luciana reaches deep under the blankets, searches for something. She winces with the effort.
PROSPERO
Hold on, there.
Bob lifts the blankets, brings her hands back into view.
LUCIANA
In my pocket.
Bob reaches into her pocket, pulls out a pregnancy strip test.
He hands the pregnancy strip to Luciana.
Luciana shakes her head, looks at Jake.
Bob gives the strip to Jake.
Jake looks at it.
It's positive.
Jake scoffs.
Bob picks up Luciana's frail, pale figure, carries her out.
Prospero, disgusted, pushes Jake outside, follows him.
The door closes.
Quiet.
Anton relaxes, his eyes roll down from the ceiling.
He tip-toes to the window.
He looks out, his fingers wrapped in the curtains.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - ANTON'S POV - NIGHT
Luciana, inside the police car, leans against the window, lifeless eyes.
She's crying.
Prospero and Bob get in the front seats.
The police car pulls away.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
Jake stands with arms on hips, conquering hero, surrounded by his memorabilia.
A proud smile.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton rubs the curtain against his cheek, enjoys the feel.
A bead of sweat on his forehead.
He crosses to the kitchen, gets a drink of water.
Wipes his forehead with his sweater.
Takes his sweater off.
He's wearing a football jersey.
The jersey is autographed.
He rubs the jersey against his stomach, luxuriates in texture heaven.
He walks, still rubbing, into...
INT. ANTON'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS
Anton strips off the jersey.
He lays the jersey lovingly on the bed, smooths out wrinkles and creases, runs his fingers across the bumps and holes.
He runs his hands across other items, also laid out in rows on a white comforter:
A cashmere sweater.
A ribbed buttonhook corset.
A linen handkerchief.
A toupee.
A bridal veil.
Shiny gray silk boxers.
Anton lays down on the bed, his naked torso touches all the different textures.
Anton sleeps.
FADE OUT.
THE END

Simeli Mountain

This romping short script was written in response to MoviePoet.com's recent monthly challenge: write an adaptation of a Grimm Brothers' fairy tale. What a daunting task. The Grimm tales are readily accessible on-line, but it is clear that they were jotted down centuries ago with little thought devoted to story structure.

You can find an original version of the story at this excellent archive of Grimm stories.

I discovered that this little-known story seemed to be a corruption of the old Ali Baba stories. Primarily, the similarity of "Open sesame" and "Semsi mountain" seemed too fun an opportunity to pass up. So, after letting my imagination simmer on the project for a while, I came up with some original angles with which to tackle the interesting task of adaptation. Enjoy!

SIMELI MOUNTAIN by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT A windowless dark. MELVYN (30s), thin, a confused look in his eyes, wears a bathrobe. He clings to a stair rail with both arms, puts a tentative toe onto the next step down. NARRATOR (V.O.) ’Twas the night before nothing, the ninth of December, when Melvyn crept downstairs for chores unremembered. As though waking anew from uniform and tie, he now wore pajamas, but did not know why. Nor did he recall the featureless room. Was he in outer space, out-of-body in his tomb? A fluorescent ceiling light flickers on, reveals a heavy vault door in a cement wall, a voice-recognition access code box next to it. Melvyn drifts over to it, a moth to light. He punches in a four-digit code. NARRATOR (V.O.) Drawn to the box, to the microphone, when... he heard his own voice say: MELVYN Semsi Mountain. A red-lettered display on the access box: “Hello, Melvyn.” The vault door heaves open with a metallic crunch. NARRATOR (V.O.) When what to his wondering eyes should appear but a gaping great portal to next fiscal year. Safety deposit boxes inside. Millions of them. Melvyn, face bright with greed, walks inside-THE VAULT The massive door creaks shut behind him. NARRATOR (V.O.) But something was wrong! His legs were stuck fast, for his moral high ground had rebooted at last. A crime to steal from this treasure fountain! His voice quavered out a thin: 2. MELVYN Semsi Mountain. The door groans open again. BASEMENT Melvyn backs out of the vault, stumble-runs up the stairs. The vault door rumbles closed. Underneath the stairs, bright eyes watch from the shadows: BARNABY (30s), in a bank guard’s uniform. NARRATOR (V.O.) Don't fear for Melvyn, he's programmed to do it by a mental anomaly with no name to it. Melvyn flicks the light switch off as he disappears. INT. VAULT - NIGHT (FLASHBACK) Melvyn, masked and clothed in black, tosses the contents of the safety deposit boxes into large canvas bags. NARRATOR (V.O.) See, he’s condemned to repeat the last action he'd done before getting fried from a taserful stun. Barnaby comes up behind him, flanked by an entire S.W.A.T. TEAM. Barnaby fires a Taser into Melvyn’s right temple. Melvyn’s hair stands up straight as he falls down. INT. COURTROOM - DAY Melvyn, cross-eyed, drooling, sits handcuffed in the defendant’s chair as the JUDGE (70s) raps the gavel. NARRATOR (V.O.) The lawyers gave argument, precedent, and place, but that was not why the judge tossed the case. JUDGE I hate you, I loathe you, you petty little thief. But you’ve lost your marbles. NARRATOR (V.O.) To his mother’s relief. In the audience, Melvyn’s MOTHER (60s) clasps joyful hands. 3. INT. MOTHER’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY Mother sprawls on the dining room table, unable to spoon oatmeal between Melvyn’s slobbering lips. NARRATOR (V.O.) But her joy was short-lived. Indeed, how could it last with Melvyn forever enshrined in his past? She consulted physicians from each ilk and breed, but no hope from Mayo, nor e’en Walter Reed. Mother heaves herself into a sitting position. Determination shines in her eyes as she opens a phone book. MOTHER If you wanna be treated just like a barbarian! NARRATOR (V.O.) His mother went and called a veterinarian. INT. VETERINARIAN’S OFFICE - DAY VETERINARIAN (40s) peers into Melvyn’s wide open mouth. Mother stands to the side, hopeful, silly grin. NARRATOR (V.O.) He’d poked and he’d prodded, fed him a sweet, and finally evolved a new way to treat. VETERINARIAN Injury from a Taser to the brain, beyond doubt. If a Taser put him in, then it should bring him out. Veterinarian pulls a Taser from a drawer marked “Restraints”. Zaps Melvyn in the left temple. Melvyn’s hair plasters flat as he shoots upright. He gives a thumbs-up. Veterinarian flashes a confident smile at Mother. INT. MOTHER’S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT Two beds. Melvyn sleeps with soft snores. In the other bed, Barnaby pretends to sleep, in uniform under blankets. NARRATOR (V.O.) So out now he sleepwalks as regular rite. The twist? His brother followed him tonight. 4. INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT (BACK TO PRESENT) The fluorescent light flickers on. Barnaby. He marches down the steps, an enormous keyring jangles at his waist. NARRATOR (V.O.) Melvyn, poor man, walks the vices of men. But Barnaby could turn, can choose... Barnaby enters a four-digit code into the access box. BARNABY Semsi Mountain. “Hello, Melvyn.” The door yawns open. Barnaby rubs his hands. NARRATOR (V.O.) Barnaby did it. And lo, his mouth watered. With one step was his... Barnaby swaggers into the vault. The door closes. NARRATOR (V.O.) ...golden goose slaughtered. INT. VAULT - SAME The safety deposit boxes are plundered, the keys hang from an opened box. Money, stocks, bonds, jewels, gold nuggets, silver pieces, strewn everywhere. Barnaby bathes in wealth. NARRATOR (V.O.) Greed defies reason, men act with no sense. That’s why moments of bliss are just that: moments. Barnaby’s watch beeps an alarm. He panics. BARNABY Um. Uh, uh. Simeli Mountain? He pushes on the door. It does not budge. He yells louder. BARNABY Simeli Mountain! Simeli Mountain! NARRATOR (V.O.) When greed overtakes men, can naught make them see? Their brains turn to mush, can’t remember Semsi. But the righting hand of nature from chaos is swift. Barnaby should have known. The end of his shift. 5. Barnaby crumples into a little ball, sweeps as many valuables into his arms as possible, hugs them tight to his chest. The vault door eases open, a groan of discontent. Melvyn stands there, in the uniform of a bank guard. His mouth falls open. Behind him gapes a BANK MANAGER (50s), impeccable suit, slicked-back hair. BARNABY Melvyn made me do it, he put me to it. It was always his plan, and he walked me through it. NARRATOR (V.O.) Didn’t I mention the hand had been righted? Be on its good side, lest it feel unrequited. As you shall see... BANK MANAGER No, this can’t be true. I see Melvyn here, and there I see you. Bank Manager punches a number into a cell phone. BANK MANAGER I’m calling the police. You made me do it. MELVYN Barnaby, why in the name of-BARNABY Oh, screw it. Barnaby stands, drops the valuables, charges at Melvyn. MELVYN Semsi Mountain! The vault door creaks shut. Barnaby dives for the door, tries to get through. Only his head emerges before the heavy door closes. His head pops off neatly, no blood. The head rolls to Melvyn’s feet. NARRATOR (V.O.) The moral? Fine, the moral. I’d prefer it unsaid. Ahem. When amongst the treasures of this world, don’t lose your head. FADE OUT. 

Stage of Grief

Most of my scripts contain embedded heaploads of my personality, usually perceptible as strange or over-the-top humor. I decided, for this short script, to forgo my normal writing style as an experiment of humorlessness (but I couldn't help myself: there are several Kyle moments hidden in these pages).

If you enjoy dark suspense, this story is for you.

STAGE OF GRIEF by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com 2. FADE IN: EXT. BUSY CITY SIDEWALK - NIGHT (MOS) Hordes of pedestrians stream in spiderweb directions. WOMAN IN RED (40) strolls with two GIRLFRIENDS under the neon signs, laughs and points and chats and enjoys life. A tan Buick sedan accelerates, drifts towards the sidewalk. Unseen driver. Brakes screech, Buick skids out of control. SERIES OF SHOTS (SLOW MOTION) The Girlfriends throw themselves backwards, but Woman In Red appears rooted to the spot. Her smile fades. The Buick slams into Woman In Red, full force, knocks her to the ground. Her head bounces off the concrete pavement. The Buick panics, reverses, peels off down the street, muddy license plate. The Girlfriends gape after it, in shock. One pulls out a cell phone, still staring, dials. An ambulance arrives, red lights flash. Two PARAMEDICS jump out. A police car arrives, blue and red lights flash. Paramedics blow into Woman In Red’s mouth, pump her chest. Shake their heads to a POLICEMAN. Paramedics drape blankets over the Girlfriends. Cell Phone Girlfriend dials again. INGO GUNNARSON (45) drives up in a truck, jumps out, wears a doctor’s white clinic jacket, name stitched on. He looks at the Girlfriends, who weep mascara down their cheeks. Ingo kneels beside a filled body bag. He throws himself across the body bag, hugs it, screams his grief to the sky. Policeman opens a bright yellow pad. A traffic citation. He writes: “Unknown Person, tan sedan, hit and run”. Ingo, eyes running rivers, looks up at Policeman and the yellow pad. Policeman shrugs, a lame consolation. FADE OUT. INT. DENTIST’S OFFICE - DAY SUPER: “ONE WEEK LATER” 3. Wall plaque: “State’s Finest Dentist: Customer Service 2008”. Posters of teeth and open mouths. Framed portrait of Woman In Red on the desk. Ingo slumps, head on hands, eyes an inch from the photo. His eyes are sad, his posture broken. Without moving his eyes, he reaches an arm above the desk to a bookshelf, brings down a hefty textbook. Opens it. The pages are glued together, cut out, hiding place for a flask. He takes a swig. Stares at the portrait. An intercom buzzes. He replaces the flask with apathy, thuds the book back onto the shelf. Shuffles across the room, past a central dentist’s chair. He opens the door. Sees: NADIA TORNOW (80), curly blue hair, frozen in place as she pops a doughnut hole into a circular mouth. She chews. INGO Nadia, Nadia. Healthy breakfasts, right? Nadia bows her apology, mouth spilling crumbs. She hands Ingo her patient file, plunks her purse on his desk, sits in the dental chair, tries to swallow the doughy lump. Ingo brushes powdered sugar off the file. Half-hearted smile. INGO Let’s rinse, shall we? Open up. Nadia opens her sugar-coated mouth. Disgusting. Ingo sprays her teeth clean with a miniature hose. Puts a loud-sucking vacuum tube under her tongue. INGO Bogdana using that litterbox yet? Nadia nods. Mumbles something unintelligible. INGO I thought so. Takes a few weeks. Her cat was about a month before she figured it out. Nadia mumbles something, a surprised tone. 4. INGO Oh, I’ve had lots of practice. She used to say I couldn’t understand her because there was nothing in her mouth. I’d say that’s why our arguments weren’t my fault. She’d laugh. Ingo turns his head away, macho, misty-eyed. He swallows. He turns off the hose, withdraws it and the vacuum. Props her mouth wide open with lip retractors. Approaches her teeth with a tiny mirror and pick. Taps on each tooth. INGO This just a routine check? Nadia mumbles something, tongue immobile. INGO Oh, this one here? Ingo taps on a molar. Nadia gives a little scream of pain. Bites down. INGO That’s her. Tongue down, please. Ingo works in silence. Scrapes the tooth. Examines his handiwork. Digs at the tooth some more. Starts up a whiny cordless dentist’s drill. Moves the drill around inside her mouth. Grinding. Nadia’s eyes, full of fear. INGO It’s all right, Nadia. I won’t hurt you. Done this a million times. Nadia attempts a stretched lips smile, mumbles something. Ingo stops, motionless, the drill whirs without effect. INGO No. Thanks. I needed to get back to work right away. I’m sorry, too... Ingo begins to weep. The drill drifts, touches a tooth, whirs. Nadia winces, a little cry of pain. 5. Ingo pulls the drill out of her mouth, turns it off. INGO She was everything... Gone just like that. I don’t even know who... Doc Vern says I’ve already passed through denial, anger, bargaining, straight to depression. Why not? Nadia’s eyes tear up. She mumbles more. INGO Yeah. I need one, don’t I? Maybe next month. Ingo stands, composes himself. Walks to the window. Looks through it, deep breaths in and out. The drill in his right hand. INGO’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW A parking lot. Empty. Except for a tan Buick sedan. BACK TO SCENE Ingo turns pale. Double-takes at the car outside. He sidles over to his desk, talks to cover his movement. INGO The Godlessness of it all. All those people on the street, all those people on the sidewalk. That car only hits one. Why her? Why that moment? Of course I still believe. I believe He’ll lead me to the one who took her from me. He gets to the desk, looks down at Nadia’s purse. A bright yellow slip sticks out the top. A series of emotions flash across his face: Confusion. Remembrance. Decision. Anger. Coldness... INGO I know why you came to see me. Nadia mumbles something, a long phrase, whimpers with pain, almost crying. She points to her molar. Ingo’s back is to her, doesn’t see her. 6. WHIRRR! He flicks the drill on. INT. RECEPTIONIST’S DESK - DAY A door behind the desk opens. Ingo’s head pops through. His breathing is slow, normal. Blood spattered cheek. INGO Margret, call 911. An accident. MARGRET (20), flustered receptionist, fumbles with the phone. EXT. STRIP MALL - DAY A squad car squeals into the parking lot, lights and sirens. Jolts to a stop in front of “Ingo Gunnarson, Dentist”. INT. DENTIST’S OFFICE - DAY Ingo slumps, head on hands, eyes an inch from the photo of Woman In Red. He smiles. He kisses the picture. He stands, crosses to Nadia’s purse. Pulls out the bright yellow slip with wet red fingers. Blood smears on the paper. INSERT - BRIGHT YELLOW SLIP Reads: “Meter Violation -- No Parking Zone -- $35 Fine.” BACK TO SCENE Ingo trembles, shakes his head, drops the paper. INGO No. No, no. Nonononononononononono. Ingo rips the purse apart, flings stuff all over the office. The door bangs open. POLICEMAN #2 points a gun inside. Ingo looks up, wild look, blood all over his face and white coat. Policeman #2 looks at Nadia’s mutilated body, gulps. MOMENTS LATER Ingo lays facedown, hands cuffed behind him. Policeman #2 kneels on his back, searches him. INGO But... you don’t understand... she told me... I heard her... she confessed... FADE TO BLACK. 

Priceless Ice

This romping script experiments with a combination of two opposing genres: Mystery and Comedy. This cinematic duo has been done to marvelous success in feature-length films such as the classic "The Thin Man" series, and more recently "Hot Fuzz". I wondered if it could be done well in the short film format, and here is the result.

The first script, entitled "Apollo's Eyes Puzzler" was entered in the five-page contest at MoviePoet.com in February. The script then passed through two rewrites: a longer version which returned to my original title of "Truth Will Out", and then a refined version entitled "Priceless Ice" which is posted below.

Note that each version provides a different conclusion. Enjoy them both!

APOLLO'S EYES PUZZLER by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - NOON A magnificent diamond, large as a baseball, on purple velvet on a small wooden table. Refracts the sun’s rays, brilliant. Three adults circle it, hold hands. They are: HUNTNER (60), English, distinguished goatee; VYNNIE (30), waist-long hair, her eyes always wide open as if in surprise; SAFARI (30), voluptuous Betty Boop figure. The sky darkens. The diamond ceases its light show. HUNTNER Now is the time of renewal! Huntner thrusts his arms into the air, the others follow. They turn their faces to the vanishing sun overhead, stare into the eclipse, mouths open in ecstasy, bent backwards. HUNTNER Unblinking heaven, mother-father Sun, Apollo’s Eye! Cleanse us! The little group looks like an unfurling flower. Darkening field. INT. CITY MORGUE - DAY MATT CADAVER (30), city Coroner, green scrubs, alone. Bends across a dead body, examines a black lung. A Figure tiptoes up behind Cadaver, patient, stalks his prey. Suddenly the Figure looms above him, a terrifying surprise. Figure strikes him hard on the back. Cadaver falls face forward. Into the dead body. CADAVER (muffled) Egglehard, goddamn it. Cadaver straightens, wipes his face on a sleeve. The Figure: RON EGGLEHARD (40), idiot smile, idiot face. EGGLEHARD Was your mouth open? Huh? 2. EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - AFTERNOON The sun emerges from the eclipse. Light pours over the group. ALL Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! They release their hands, wave their arms, shake heads, rub eyes, twirl in a tizzy. Dizzying flurry of arms and legs. Vynnie freezes, rubs her eyes, blinks, points at the table. VYNNIE Huntner, call the police! Purple velvet, wooden table, but no diamond. Huntner whips out a cell phone, his eyes blink wide as he dials. INT./EXT. EGGLEHARD’S CAR/COUNTRY HIGHWAYS - AFTERNOON Egglehard drives like a nitwit, swerves across the midline, never looks at the road. Cadaver holds on for dear life. CADAVER When they told me to go out on cases after the layoffs? Huh, I’d thought the joke was on you. EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - AFTERNOON Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari stare dumbfounded as Egglehard’s car careens across the field towards them, never slowing. They dive out of the way. The car skids, brakes engaged, too late. It crashes over the wooden table, splinters fly. Egglehard jumps out, sucks the air in deep, pounds his chest. EGGLEHARD This is the life out here! So serene. These must be our suspects! Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari climb to their feet. EGGLEHARD Describe yourselves. Three things each, that’s enough for me. HUNTNER Um, Bob Huntner. Jeweler, museum curator, Apollo’s Eyes-er. 3. SAFARI Safari. Writer, reader, hot dogs. VYNNIE Vynnie Vinton. Widow, widow, widow. And you’re from the police? Vynnie licks her lips, a lustful look for Egglehard. Egglehard, jaw open, stares at Safari’s curvy body instead. Cadaver, still shaken, clambers out of the car. CADAVER Yup. Matt Cadaver, Coroner. My partner, Ron Egglehard, Detective. HUNTNER Nobody’s dead. It was theft. EGGLEHARD I know who did it. Everyone looks at him in astonishment. EGGLEHARD It was easy. Vynnie, I arrest you for the theft of... What was it? HUNTNER The Bringington Diamond. VYNNIE What!! Why? EGGLEHARD Your names both start with V. V is the 23rd letter in the alphabet. Michael Jordan, God rest his soul, was the greatest basketball player ever. Basketball starts with B. B for Bringington. B for Theft! SAFARI V is the 22nd letter. Damn. EGGLEHARD Unfazed, Egglehard ogles Safari, flirts with gross abandon. Safari is unresponsive. CADAVER Shouldn’t we be looking around for the diamond, Ron? 4. EGGLEHARD Can it run away? Does it have legs? Don’t worry, then. It’ll stay put. Egglehard makes a kissy face at Safari. No response. EGGLEHARD Say, what is this? VYNNIE She’s blind... Detective. Cadaver takes charge, steps in front of Egglehard. CADAVER What is this group? How’d you all meet? HUNTNER At the Religious Studies section at a bookstore last week. We discussed the upcoming solar eclipse, shared a common bond of spirituality. I, um, borrowed the Bringington Diamond from the museum as a symbol of multifaceted-- Is he all right? Egglehard pitches forward, falls over. Face down in the muddy car tracks. EGGLEHARD Maybe the thief came up from a tunnel. Or buried it. I’ll find it. Cadaver leans to Huntner, snide remark. CADAVER His daddy’s the Chief of Police. Egglehard squeals with delight. Holds a piece of Scotch tape. Cadaver looks down, shifts his feet. Dirty discarded pieces of Scotch tape litter the ground. CADAVER Wait a sec. What are there, maybe six pieces of tape? Egglehard counts as though counting is hard work. He nods. Cadaver bursts out laughing. Riotous, uproarious. I got it. CADAVER 5. EGGLEHARD The diamond? CADAVER The thief. Let me guess. You guys, during the eclipse, taped your upper eyelids open? HUNTNER It’s our duty. Someone had to wait for mother-father Sun in unblinking reverence. We’re Apollo’s Eyes. CADAVER That total eclipse lasted for, what, three or four minutes? SAFARI It seemed like an eternity. CADAVER I bet it did. Because your eyes needed to be refreshed by blinking. When you finally started blinking, you were momentarily blinded by dry corneas and retinal stimulation. HUNTNER Yeah, they burned bloody hell. CADAVER And while you were distracted, the thief worked through the pain, and, well, simply ate the diamond. VYNNIE It was bigger than my fist! CADAVER You do have a professional hot dog eater among you. The same woman who, every day, handles blindness. Egglehard leaps forward, buffets Safari on the head, knocks her down. He stands over her like a triumphant gladiator. HUNTNER But the diamond! Can we make her vomit the thing back up? CADAVER Truth will out. In about 24 hours. FADE OUT. 

PRICELESS ICE by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1348263 2. FADE IN: EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - NOON A magnificent diamond, large as a golf ball, displayed on faded purple velvet, sits on a small wooden table in the middle of prairie grass. Refracts the sun’s rays, brilliant. Three adults circle it, hold hands. They are: HUNTNER (60), English, distinguished goatee; VYNNIE (30), waist-long hair, her eyes always wide open as if in surprise; SAFARI (30), voluptuous Betty Boop figure. The sky darkens. The diamond ceases its light show. HUNTNER Now is the time of renewal! Huntner thrusts his arms into the air, the others follow. They turn their faces to the vanishing sun overhead, stare into the eclipse, mouths open in ecstasy, bent backwards. HUNTNER Unblinking heaven, mother-father Sun, Apollo’s Eye! Cleanse us! Renew us in our dedicated watchfulness, that our inner eyes be as seeing as thy own. The little group looks like an unfurling flower. Darkening field. Faces to the sky. Eyes wide open. Too wide open. The sun emerges from the eclipse. Light pours over the group. ALL Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! Apollo cleanse! They release their hands, wave their arms, shake heads, rub eyes, twirl in a tizzy. Dizzying flurry of arms and legs. Huntner reaches up to his eyelids, yanks. Pulls off a piece of Scotch tape from each eye. Screams with the pain. Presses a palm against each eye. Shakes his head. Vynnie and Safari follow suit: yank, scream, press, shake. 3. Vynnie freezes, rubs her eyes, blinks, points at the table. VYNNIE Where’d it go? Purple velvet, wooden table, but no diamond. A worn dark spot on the velvet where the diamond had been. Huntner goggles at the void. He reaches up to his eyelids, forces them open with his hands. HUNTNER Blast and bloody hell, I’m going to catch it. The damn thing’s gone! Vynnie looks underneath the table. Nope, not there. SAFARI It can’t have-- no, no. VYNNIE What, what? SAFARI Apollo himself, you think? Taken it like in the books? Really? HUNTNER Maybe. Maybe not. One of you snagged the ice, more like? Open your pockets. Huntner takes a step. Safari and Vynnie jump backwards. VYNNIE NO! We didn’t take it. Maybe you did, to get the insurance. HUNTNER You’re insane. I’ll get canned. Insurance isn’t under my name. The three face each other across the table, distrust crackles amongst them. SAFARI You’re not touching me. Huntner whips out a cell phone. HUNTNER Only one way to settle this, ‘cause Apollo’s not going to tell me. 4. SAFARI You asked him yet? HUNTNER I’m calling the police. VYNNIE What police? We’re in the middle of nowhere. HUNTNER That small town that we passed. Had to have a county sheriff or something. They’ll take you down. One of you. I promise you. Huntner flashes a malevolent snarl as he dials. INT. COUNTY MORGUE - DAY MATT CADAVID (30), county Coroner, green scrubs, alone. Bends across a dead body, examines a swollen black lung. Nasty goopy sounds as he works. He whistles a lively swing tune. A dark, shadowy, indistinct FIGURE tiptoes up behind Cadavid, patient, stalks his prey. Suddenly the Figure looms above him, a terrifying surprise. Figure strikes him hard on the back. Cadavid falls face forward. Into the dead body. A wet goopy sound. Gross. CADAVID (muffled) Egglehard, goddamn it. Cadavid straightens, wipes his face on a sleeve. The Figure: RON EGGLEHARD (40), idiot smile, idiot face. EGGLEHARD Was your mouth open? Huh? A cell phone rings. In Egglehard’s pocket. He whips it to his ear. EGGLEHARD Egglehard speaking... Uh-huh... Uhhuh... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Egglehard hangs up. 5. CADAVID Who was that? EGGLEHARD I don’t know. (affects an accent) Don’t matter, pardner. Okay, partner, saddle up. Time to ride. CADAVID We got a case? But I’m in the middle of an autops-EGGLEHARD Remember the Layoffs! You’re my crew now. And I say: Onward! Cadavid wipes his hands on a towel, throws it on the floor in disgust. INT./EXT. EGGLEHARD’S CAR/COUNTRY HIGHWAYS - AFTERNOON Egglehard drives like a nitwit, swerves across the midline, never looks at the road. Cadavid holds on for dear life. Cadavid still wears his dirty scrubs. EXT. COUNTRY FIELD - AFTERNOON Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari stare dumbfounded as Egglehard’s car careens across the field towards them, never slowing. They dive out of the way. The car skids, brakes engaged, too late. It crashes over the wooden table, splinters fly. Egglehard jumps out, sucks the air in deep, pounds his chest. EGGLEHARD This is the life out here! So serene. These must be our suspects! Huntner, Vynnie, and Safari climb to their feet. EGGLEHARD Describe yourselves. Three things each, that’s enough for me. HUNTNER Um, Bob Huntner. Jeweler, museum curator, Apollo’s Eyes-er. 6. SAFARI Safari. Writer, ESPN, hot dogs. VYNNIE Vynnie Vinton. Widow, widow, widow. And you’re from the police? Vynnie licks her lips, a lustful look for Egglehard. Egglehard, jaw open, stares at Safari’s curvy body instead. Cadavid, still shaken, clambers out of the car. CADAVID Yup. Matt Cadavid, Coroner. My partner, Ron Egglehard, Detective. HUNTNER Nobody’s dead. It was theft. EGGLEHARD I know who did it. Everyone looks at him in astonishment. EGGLEHARD It was easy. Vynnie, I arrest you for the theft of... What was it? HUNTNER The Bringington Diamond. VYNNIE What!! Why? EGGLEHARD Your names both start with V. V is the 23rd letter in the alphabet. Michael Jordan, God rest his soul, was the greatest basketball player ever. Basketball starts with B. B for Bringington. B for Theft! SAFARI V is the 22nd letter. Damn. EGGLEHARD Unfazed, Egglehard ogles Safari, flirts with gross abandon. Safari is unresponsive. 7. CADAVID Shouldn’t we be looking around for the diamond, Ron? EGGLEHARD Can it run away? Does it have legs? Don’t worry, then. It’ll stay put. (beat) Maybe we should frisk them. Egglehard makes a kissy face at Safari. No response. EGGLEHARD Say, what is this? VYNNIE She’s blind... Detective. Cadavid takes charge, steps in front of Egglehard. CADAVID What is this group? HUNTNER We are Apollo’s Eyes. We met at the Religious Studies section at a bookstore last week. We discussed the upcoming solar eclipse, shared a common bond of spirituality. I, um, borrowed the Bringington Diamond from the museum. I’m a janitor, don’t you know. And aside, did you know that the curator keeps the exhibits refrigerated? Icebox cold, preserves them longer, especially the parchments. Frigid job getting the diamond out, I’m telling you. Cadavid looks bored. Huntner gets back on topic. HUNTNER The Diamond serves to refract Apollo’s life-giving rays, a symbol of multifaceted-- Is he all right? Egglehard pitches forward, falls over. Face down in the muddy car tracks. EGGLEHARD Maybe the thief came up from a tunnel. Or buried it. I’ll find it. Cadavid leans to Huntner, snide remark. 8. CADAVID His daddy’s the Chief of Police. Egglehard squeals with delight. Holds a piece of Scotch tape. Cadavid looks down, shifts his feet. Dirty discarded pieces of Scotch tape litter the ground. Egglehard counts the pieces of tape as though counting is hard work. A light dawns. Egglehard bursts out laughing. Riotous, uproarious. EGGLEHARD I got it. Let me guess. You guys, during the eclipse, taped your upper eyelids open? HUNTNER It’s our duty. Someone had to wait for mother-father Sun’s return in unblinking reverence. We are Apollo’s Eyes. EGGLEHARD That total eclipse lasted for, what, three or four minutes? SAFARI It seemed like an eternity. EGGLEHARD I bet it did. Because your eyes needed to be refreshed by blinking. HUNTNER Yeah, they burned bloody hell. CADAVID That’s possible. EGGLEHARD And while you were distracted, the thief worked through the pain and ate the diamond. CADAVID That’s not possible. VYNNIE It was as big as a golf ball! 9. EGGLEHARD You do have a professional hot dog eater. The same woman who, every day, handles blindness. Safari doubles over in sudden pain, grabs her midsection. CADAVID Well, okay, if you say so. I guess that’s it hitting the pyloric sphincter. Egglehard leaps forward, buffets Safari on the head, knocks her down. He stands over her like a triumphant gladiator. HUNTNER But the diamond! Can we make her vomit the thing back up? CADAVID No way. It’ll tear up her esophagus on the way out. I wouldn’t do that to a dog, much less... HUNTNER She’s a thief. Who cares about her? I need to get that diamond back to the exhibit. EGGLEHARD Do nothing. Truth will out. In about 24 hours. Cadavid grimaces. The thought gives him literal pain. SAFARI No, I think I’ve been poisoned. I didn’t swallow... OW. Safari goes limp, suddenly. Egglehard’s car starts. Wheels spin, dirt flies. Vynnie is in the driver’s seat, waves goodbye. The car rockets across the field, out of sight. FADE TO BLACK. The sound of a car crashing into a tree. EGGLEHARD (V.O.) I shoulda got those brakes fixed ages ago. 10. CADAVID (V.O.) (shrieks) What? SAFARI (V.O.) Oh, she did it? Ah. I suddenly feel much better. INT. COUNTY MORGUE - DAY Cadavid pores over the same dead body, focused. Egglehard tiptoes up behind him. Gets closer, closer. Egglehard raises an arm to push Cadavid. Cadavid bends to the side. Egglehard, off-balance, pitches forward, face-down into the body’s groin. He comes up, spluttering. Cadavid laughs. EGGLEHARD Oh no, oh my... aggghh. Egglehard pours liquid soap into his mouth, swishes, swirls, spits it out onto the floor. Goes to the sink, turns on the cold water. Puts his head under the stream, bubbles froth out of his mouth. CADAVID You get a confession out of Vynnie, yet? Egglehard replies, something indistinct. CADAVID I mean, she did it, right? The bubbles cease. Egglehard straightens, turns off the water. EGGLEHARD No, she didn’t. CADAVID But she stole your car. A getaway car. 11. EGGLEHARD She doesn’t have the diamond. She said she just wanted a man to chase her for once. CADAVID So we’ll never know who did it. EGGLEHARD I guess not. CADAVID That’s the way it goes. I guess. EGGLEHARD CADAVID I wouldn’t want to be Huntner right now, explain this to his curator. EGGLEHARD I guess not. CADAVID A valuable piece of ice like that. Priceless loss. I guess. EGGLEHARD CADAVID At least it’s been insured, I hope. I guess. EGGLEHARD CADAVID Huntner’ll be fired for sure. EGGLEHARD I guess not. Huh? CADAVID EGGLEHARD Curator forgave him. Case closed. Cadavid goggles in astonishment. Doesn’t make sense. Egglehard shrugs. He leaves. Cadavid leans back over the body. 12. INT. COUNTRY FIELD - DAY Overcast, clouds. The remains and splinters of the wooden table on the ground. The purple velvet cloth lies by itself. A dark wet spot lingers in the middle. The sky opens up, rain pours down. The velvet cloth becomes completely dark now. FADE OUT. 

Picking Up the Peaces

Logline: "A witty, unsettling thriller - former deadly assassin struggles for peace in a world that may not want it."

This film reads like an over-the-top and witty look at global politics and warfare, comparable to a Coen Brothers film or a Doonesbury cartoon. As always, the full script is available upon request.

Note: this excerpt contains ADULT LANGUAGE and VIOLENCE.

PICKING UP THE PEACES
by Kyle Patrick Johnson
Represented by: Registered with:
Canton Literary Management (CLM) Writers Guild of America,
Contact: Eric Canton West, Inc.
(866) 429-3118 Registration #1329562
ECanton@Prodigy.net
www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com
FADE IN:
INT. RIO DE JANEIRO - HOTEL ROOM - DAY (PRESENT DAY)
The yellow translucent shades are drawn, sickly hot light
filters through to dingy unpainted plaster walls. Bugs
scurry, large as mice, aloof as royalty.
A slow-revolving ceiling fan, weakly ineffective.
Sprawled on the bed, arms behind his head: JOHN FONTAINE
(30s), twinkling eyes conceal a tack-sharp mind, easy build
hides a lethal talent.
But his eyes are not twinkling now.
Bustling around the room: LONI EMERY (20s), glorious beauty
more worthy of cashmere and pearls. There’s no finery here.
She unpacks suitcases, tosses cheap clothes in small piles on
a rickety bureau.
In the bottom of a suitcase, she finds a small unframed photo
of a woman, MAUREEN FONTAINE (30s). She looks over her
shoulder at Fontaine, unsure...
She lays the picture on the pillow next to him.
Fontaine looks at the picture, a deep sadness.
LONI
It was months ago, John.
FONTAINE
Not to me. Not to Maureen.
Loni assembles weapons and covert night equipment from
seemingly innocent plastic parts.
Bullets wedged into her purse handle. Telescoping tripods in
suitcase edges. Gun barrels inside toothpaste tubes.
Her arsenal complete, Loni gives a curt nod of approval. Goes
into the bathroom, turns on a decrepit shower.
The shower turns off.
LONI (O.S.)
Ugh. It’s brown.
LATER
Fontaine lounges on the bed, reads “War and Peace” by
Tolstoy. In the original Russian.
Loni sits upright at a wobbly desk, thumbs through “Field
Manual for Night Combat”. Studies, underlines.
A boring day, a boring job.
LONI
There’s nothing in here about
babies.
Fontaine looks up, doesn’t know what to say.
LONI
Well, I guess they can’t do any
harm.
Fontaine looks down at his book, deep in thought, as if these
thoughts are brand new.
FONTAINE
(whispers to himself)
Can’t do any harm.
Loni puts her hand over her mouth.
EXT. RIO - MARKET - DAY
Fontaine and Loni wear bright obnoxious shirts, stroll
through the stalls, the American couple on holiday.
BAUBLE VENDOR (60s), plump leathery grandma, shoves cheap
bead strings in their faces.
BAUBLE VENDOR
(in Spanish)
For you? For the wife?
LONI
(in English)
No, no thanks.
BAUBLE VENDOR
(in Spanish)
The children, you must have
children, no?
Fontaine, expression strained, looks sick.
2.
LONI
(in Spanish)
No, we don’t have children, you
miserable witch. Go away!
Bauble Vendor shrugs, cheerful, harasses the next couple.
Fontaine and Loni weave their way through the market, dodge
vendors, slide behind a stall: piles of refuse and a barbedwire
tipped six-foot brick wall.
Loni tip-toes through the garbage, backs up to the wall.
Fontaine lifts a cell phone, takes several pictures.
Loni poses like a ditzy newlywed tourist. They laugh.
But the pictures are focused on the giant stone building
behind her, behind the wall, just over Loni’s head.
INT. RIO HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT
The bed is littered with papers and files, schematics of
alarm systems, building plans, maps, weapons specifications.
One satellite photo features a large stone building, a cloth
awning circled in red marker.
Fontaine and Loni, no-nonsense, shameless, pull skin-tight
non-reflective black catsuits over their naked bodies. No
underwear, smooth aerodynamic lines.
Loni throws Fontaine a smile, nervous, excited, ready.
Fontaine puts Maureen’s picture between his chest and the
suit, its outline visible.
They slap on dark facepaint.
Zip utility belts tight.
Slip fearsome knives into sheaths.
Yank tight gloves onto their hands.
Transformed into warriors.
Fontaine jogs in place, gets his heart rate up, psychs
himself, floods his body with adrenaline.
He swallows down tomato juice, in a small tin travel can. He
crushes the can in a steel fist.
He picks up a gun. His gun...
3.
FONTAINE
To war, Peacekeeper.
Fontaine kisses the handle, scored with dozens of notches.
Loni paces, looks through pictures on an iPhone, mumbles to
herself.
LONI
Vijuan Acedo, five eight, kill on
sight... Beatrisa Acedo, five
three, kill on sight...
Fontaine hears her, an unhappy cloud covers his face.
LONI
Vijuanito Acedo, two months, dark
hair, kill on--
FONTAINE
What happens if we split up?
LONI
Fourth dock from the airport.
Fontaine looks at the baby’s picture. With a snarl, he throws
the iPhone against the wall, a shatter of electronics.
He leaps through the open window, feet first.
EXT. RIO HOTEL - NIGHT
Fontaine lands on his toes, cat-like, on the top of a
delivery van behind the building. He bounces to the ground.
Low to the ground, Fontaine lopes into the shadows.
Loni climbs out of the window, less sure, dangles, drops.
She lands hard. Grunts. Jogs after Fontaine.
EXT. MARKET - NIGHT
Deserted stalls cast funhouse shadows in the moonlight.
Two ghosts flit through the narrow alleys...
Loni and Fontaine sneak up to the wall.
Fontaine cups his hands, hoists Loni to the walltop. She puts
wire cutters to the wire.
4.
BZZZZZZZZ. Electrified. The wire cutters bounce out of her
hand, clatter to the ground.
Loni teeters but maintains her balance. They freeze,
expecting a response. No one comes.
Fontaine hands the wirecutters back up.
Loni takes off one of her black gloves, lays it across the
wire, cuts the wire through the gloves. Just a minimal
smothered spark.
Loni cuts the rest of the wire in the same way, uses the
glove to gingerly push the wire aside.
She jumps over the wall.
Splat.
Fontaine, already tense, leaps up the wall, looks over.
FONTAINE’S POV
Loni sheepishly looks back up at Fontaine from the middle of
a shallow koi wading pool.
WALL
Fontaine puts finger to lips. Shhhh.
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
The central stone mansion towers like some ancient god,
squat, heavy, forbidding. Lights peep through basement
windows, but the rest of the structure is dark.
The large lush backyard central mansion pulses with a shadow
civilization, reflected light and music.
Loni and Fontaine slither towards the house, skirting pools
and water fountains and benches and statues and tennis
courts.
Fontaine and Loni peer in a basement window.
FONTAINE’S POV
Looks down on several lazy BODYGUARDS playing a board game,
Monopoly. Dozens of bottles of alcohol. Bodyguards seem to be
arguing over the placement of a hotel on the board.
5.
BACK TO SCENE
Fontaine looks in a dark first floor window. He shakes his
head, points at the window. Loni nods.
Loni pulls a tiny jar of dark jelly from her utility belt.
With a tiny Swiss Army Knife Trowel, she spreads the dark
stuff all across the window.
Simultaneously, Fontaine swings up to a cloth awning over a
porch, quickly cuts a large square of cloth out with a sharp
knife. He drops to the ground.
Fontaine puts the cloth on the sticky window, presses on the
cloth to ensure total adherence.
Loni holds two corners of the cloth...
Fontaine swings his elbow at the cloth, hard, fast. The
window shatters, but noiseless.
Loni pulls the cloth free, dozens of window shards stuck to
it, lays it on the ground.
They climb through the broken window.
INT. ACEDO MANSION - KITCHEN - NIGHT
Dark. A large kitchen, gorgeous granite and marble, all the
latest appliances.
Fontaine and Loni tip-toe past a hanging rack of sparkling
sleek steel knives. Fontaine pauses to admire them, takes one
down.
The overhead light flicks on.
Loni panics, falls flat on the floor. Fontaine ducks behind
an island counter.
BEATRISA ACEDO (17), the most innocent face this side of the
Virgin Mary, plods sleepily towards the refrigerator, rubs
her eyes.
Barefooted, nightgowned, she breastfeeds a gurgling infant,
VIJUANITO ACEDO (2 months), juggles him as she opens the
fridge door.
Loni scrabbles backwards, crab-like, unfolds the tripod
underneath her silenced handgun pointed up at Beatrisa. She
sets up a perfect shot.
6.
Fontaine is mesmerized, stares at the baby, the tiny wrinkled
crossed feet, the inoffensive tiny fingers, the gentle little
neck craned back for food.
Fontaine looks disarmed, nothing warlike about him at all.
Loni looks to Fontaine for permission to fire. Fontaine
shakes his head.
Beatrisa drinks down a half-empty bottle of milk. She murmurs
a lullaby under her breath.
Loni glares at Fontaine: “Are you crazy?”
Loni points the gun at Beatrisa again.
Fontaine scrambles across the floor, pounces on Loni, holds
her gun down.
Loni wriggles under him, tries to get free, makes noise.
Beatrisa looks down, sees them on the floor. Face goes ashen.
BEATRISA
(in Spanish)
Holy Virgin, protect me.
Fontaine waves at her: “Go away, get out of here.”
Beatrisa vanishes, slips out. Turns out the light.
Loni jumps to a crouch, juts her jaw into Fontaine’s face.
LONI
(hiss)
I had a perfect... Let me do one!
Fontaine puts his hand over her mouth, thumb on one side,
fingers on the other, grips her cheeks.
FONTAINE
What’d that baby ever do?
He stands, brings her to her feet, releases her face.
She rubs her cheeks.
Fontaine raises another finger: No more talking.
The light flicks on again.
No time to duck.
7.
A dark figure stands in the doorway, holds a silenced gun in
each hand, pointed at Loni and Fontaine. This is AMNUL
DEMIDOV (40s), Russian killer, eyes of death, lips of honey.
A standoff. Loni’s gun is in a lowered hand. Fontaine’s knife
hand is behind the island counter, out of Demidov’s sight.
Demidov smiles, enjoys the sight of two burglars discomfited
in the kitchen. He shakes his head, “tsk-tsk”.
FONTAINE
(in Spanish)
We’re here for the dishwasher.
Fontaine bends over the appliance, pretends to examine it.
DEMIDOV
(in English)
And I am Vladimir Lenin.
Fontaine, confusion, hears the accent.
FONTAINE
You’re not a bodyguard.
DEMIDOV
Depends on whose body. Now that
body...
Demidov gestures at Loni.
FONTAINE
You’re him.
Loni looks at Fontaine, her eyes wide open.
FONTAINE
You’re Demidov.
Demidov, a slight, mocking bow.
DEMIDOV
Orders are orders. A pity about
your wife, she was--
A pig squeals in a hallway. Voices coming near.
DEMIDOV
(in Russian)
Oh, fuck.
Demidov turns off the light switch with an elbow, dives for
the island counter.
8.
Fontaine throws a knife at the diving shape...
And hits a miniature pot-bellied pig instead. The pig appears
in the doorway, its feet slipping on the slick tiled floor,
and takes a knife dead between the eyes. The pig falls with a
surprised, and somewhat disappointed, grunt.
Fontaine and Loni drop to the floor behind the counter.
LONI
I think you got him.
BODYGUARD #1 flicks on the light, sees the butchered animal.
Demidov shoots Bodyguard #1, a perfect forehead hole.
DEMIDOV
You kill a pig, I kill a pig.
Demidov dashes to the light switch, covers the kitchen with
his guns, turns the lights off.
DEMIDOV
Where is Acedo?
LONI
Downstairs.
No answer.
Fontaine peeks his head around the counter. No one there.
Fontaine jumps out the broken window, Loni at his heels.
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
Fontaine scoots around the house, peeks through every
basement window he can find.
Loni tags behind like a bewildered puppy.
LONI
(whisper)
But I thought... And what’s Demidov
doing here?
Fontaine freezes. Points through a basement window.
9.
FONTAINE’S POV
A movie projector and a giant screen. VIJUAN ACEDO (50s), a
petty kingpin, more grease than hair on his head, sits in an
armchair ten feet from the screen. Surrounded by dozing
Bodyguards. The movie: a terrible B-grade love story.
BACK TO SCENE
Loni sucks a sturdy stick of chewing gun, softens it.
Fontaine pieces together a silenced sniper rifle from plastic
components stored in his utility belt.
She takes a diamond ring off her finger, makes a tiny circle
in the window with the diamond, cuts it like silent butter.
She plunks the gum onto the glass circle. She tugs the piece
out.
Fontaine puts the rifle into the hole, rests the end on the
cut glass. He takes Acedo into his sight.
FONTAINE’S POV
Demidov enters his field of view, stealthy, stalking Acedo
from behind, creeping through the sleeping Bodyguards, gun
drawn.
Fontaine pulls the trigger.
Acedo slumps to the side, a perfect shot through his temple.
Fontaine shifts his sight to Demidov...
Demidov, angry, swings his gun to the window, fires.
BACK TO SCENE
Fontaine pulls the rifle out of the hole, throws himself
backwards, knocks Loni down. They are unhit.
INT. ACEDO MANSION - BASEMENT - NIGHT
Demidov wanders around, casual, puts bullets in each
Bodyguard’s head.
He stares up at the window, peeved. Unclips something from an
inside pocket.
10.
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
A large grenade crashes through the window, lands on the
grass beside Fontaine.
Fontaine and Loni scramble to their feet, race in opposite
directions.
Fontaine trips and falls over something sticking out of the
ground, a thick three-pronged small vertical wire.
A bounding mine shoots out of the ground between his legs,
pops several feet into the air.
Fontaine curls into a tiny ball.
The bounding mine explodes. Tiny bits of razor-sharp shrapnel
fly in all directions. Except straight down. Which is where
Fontaine is.
The shrapnel peppers holes in the stone mansion.
Fontaine breathes, amazed he’s still alive. He sits up.
Demidov’s grenade explodes. It’s a sting grenade, sucks all
of the air out of Fontaine’s lungs, pelts him with hard
rubber balls at high speed.
Fontaine falls over, pain... unconscious...
EXT. ACEDO COMPOUND - NIGHT
Fontaine wakes up, winces, skinsuit tattered, Maureen’s
picture torn and visible.
Demidov stands over him.
DEMIDOV
I wonder why we are not allies. We
are wanting the same blood.
Fontaine blinks. Looks around the compound.
FONTAINE
You take Loni, too?
DEMIDOV
It is a good job.
Demidov beams a charming smile.
Fontaine makes a sudden lunge at Demidov’s throat, bounces
his whole body up off the grass.
11.
Demidov whips a shrapnel shard, no larger than a pinky nail,
up to Fontaine’s approaching neck. Even a splinter can cut a
throat in the right hands.
Fontaine stops on a dime, frozen in an awkward back-bending
crouch, his fists clenched so tight, his rage palpable.
Demidov’s smile vanishes.
DEMIDOV
Down.
Demidov catches him by surprise with a kick to the groin.
Fontaine doubles up.
Demidov backs away, about to say something, chooses not to,
slips around the mansion towards the front. An engine starts,
sounds like a nice sports car, zooms away.
Fontaine climbs to his feet, races after Demidov.
FONTAINE
Loni? Loni?
No response.
Distant sirens approach the front of the compound.
Fontaine stops. He smashes a fist against the stone mansion,
bloodies himself. He looks to the sky with an anguished,
unspoken fury on his lips.
EXT. MARKET - NIGHT
Fontaine rockets over the wall, vaults to freedom.
He lands, cat-like, on feather toes. Flits off, disappears.
EXT. RIO - STREETS - NIGHT
Fontaine sprints for the ocean, oblivious to the crowds of
PEDESTRIANS, oblivious to traffic lights.
EXT. GUANABARA BAY (RIO) - NIGHT
Fontaine races to the shore. A normal man would stop.
He hurtles bodylong into the water, disappears.
ONLOOKERS shrug, look away. Just another night in Rio.
12.
EXT. RIO - DOCKS - NIGHT
Fontaine clings to the underside of a wooden pier. He
shivers, soaked. Only upper-body strength keeps him afloat.
He waits. Maureen’s picture melts into a pulp.
EXT. JOBIM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (RIO) - DAY
A figure stumps across the tarmac, coming from the sea. It is
Fontaine, and he is dripping wet. And alone.
He’s rolled the skinsuit down to his waist, looks like a
scuba-diver.
Fontaine shouts something under the screaming engines to a
group of BAGGAGE HANDLERS near a standing airplane. Baggage
Handlers stalk off to the terminal, argue amongst themselves.
Fontaine slips up into the luggage hold.
INT. AIRPLANE - LUGGAGE HOLD - DARK
Fontaine roots among the luggage, finds a giant steel trunk
at the bottom, a paid shipment with stickers.
Fontaine spins combination locks, opens the trunk.
INSIDE THE TRUNK - LATER
Engine noise. Unbearable.
Fontaine has put on street clothes, wraps blankets around
himself to stay warm. Holds an oxygen mask to his mouth.
A second oxygen mask, unused.
He looks asleep, but his eyes are open. Open and melancholy.
Shivers in the cold.
His gun, Peacekeeper, alone and small on the floor.
EXT. CHICAGO - SMALL HOUSE - DAY
An old, run-down semi-urban neighborhood. Houses right on top
of each other. Chain-link fences.
A small frumpy old car chugs at double the residential speed
limit, pulls up, parallel parks perfectly the first time.
13.
Fontaine gets out, slips around the back of the small house.
INT. SMALL HOUSE - BASEMENT ENTRY - DAY
Fontaine plods down the back steps, ducks into the entry, his
path blocked by a flat cement wall with a small heavy door.
He puts his thumb on a bio-reader, types a several-digit code
into a security box. Click.
Fontaine grasps the door, pulls it open with a soft hiss.
INT. SMALL HOUSE - BASEMENT - DAY
A simple square table. Four computers, one in each direction.
Three computers occupied by three COMPUTER USERS (30s),
frumpy, pudgy, parted haircuts, tapered dark blue jeans,
colorless buttondown shirts. Bland tapioca triplets stare
like automatons into loving data-covered monitors.
Fontaine pulls the door tight. No one looks up.
Fontaine plops down at the empty computer, logs in, opens a
word processing program. A small can of tomato juice waits
for him. He drinks it down.
COMPUTER USER #1
Had a job proposal from Apple.
COMPUTER USER #2
The Apple of Apple, Apple?
COMPUTER USER #1
But no offer of combat pay.
Fontaine types: “Agents John Fontaine, Loni Emery. Mission
Report #47722. Mission Successful.”
COMPUTER USER #2
It’s the little things.
Fontaine looks at his hands. Closes his eyes.
He types without looking: “Encountered Amnul Demidov. Agent
Emery missing.”
COMPUTER USER #1
Apple frowns on forgeries, too.
Fontaine bites his lip. A tear forms in one eye...
14.
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Disputable Cause

Dr. Jalen Rausch is in a concentration-camp style prison in near-future America. Although he claims to be innocent, he is said to be a "hater". Can he stop himself from becoming just that?

Feel free to interpret this story as you wish. Some readers understand immediately why Dr. Rausch is in jail, others find the futuristic legal reasoning obscurantic. I think that readers tend to take from the script different meanings based on the attitudes and beliefs they bring to it, which is one intention of Art, to provide a reflection of the world.

WARNING: This script contains some mild obscenities and adult themes.

DISPUTABLE CAUSE by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com 2. FADE IN: INT. HOSPITAL - EXAMINING ROOM - NIGHT JALEN RAUSCH (50), dark-haired, in a white physician’s coat, rifles through drawers at breakneck speed, looking, looking for... what? Doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop when he hears... VOICE (O.S.) You weren’t a killer, you said. any age, you said. At JALEN The law’s the law. God! It’s not here! Where could it be? Jalen continues ransacking the drawers as a wall pendulum clock rings out twelve times. As the last chime dies away, Jalen turns toward the Voice with an ashen face. VOICE (O.S.) That’s the deadline. The sound of dread clacking footsteps on tile. INT. ADMINISTRATION BUILDING - LOBBY - DAY (TWO YEARS LATER) Two manly black shined boots stride briskly over the tile. The lobby is bright with fluorescent bulbs, an artificial aura around the windowless space. The feet belong to COMMANDANT (40), distinguished, erect, unforgiving features, carries an attache case. Approaches... GUARD (25), well-armed, stands in front of a door which reads “Commandant”. Guard stiffens, steps aside, salutes smartly. GUARD Welcome back. Congratulations, sir. My best to Mrs. Jenny, sir. Commandant nods curtly. COMMANDANT’S OFFICE Commandant closes the door. Walks over to a steel desk, sits at a chrome chair. A wall calendar displays “January, 2026”. Sets the attache case on his desk, opens it, takes out a framed wedding photo of himself and his bride. Puts it in a silver frame, places it on his desk, gazes at it. Fingers a platinum wedding ring on his left hand. He opens the door, steps into... 3. Hears a commotion in the lobby, gets curious. door, opens it, looks out to see... LOBBY Goes to the Guard wrestles, violently shoves Jalen Rausch away from Commandant’s office. Prematurely gray, Jalen wears drab overalls with “STARB” stenciled across the front, “1313” handpainted below it. JALEN I’ve got to see him, let me in. Oh! Oh, Commandant! Sir, please! Commandant nods condescendingly. Guard drops Jalen roughly. COMMANDANT’S OFFICE - MOMENTS LATER Commandant snatches the wedding photo, throws it into a desk drawer on top of papers and a thin clear plastic cylinder. Unaware, bowed, Jalen stands by the door. Commandant sits. JALEN I’m not guilty, sir. I know the juries said so, but I’m not. You know, Rob... uh, I mean, sir. COMMANDANT What do you expect me to do? JALEN Tony said I’m allowed a second appeal as long as it’s without a lawyer. I need the paperwork done. COMMANDANT Well, yes, that’s the law for misdemeanors but you’re in for hate crime. I... Just accept it, Jalen. JALEN I can’t. My wife... she doesn’t know where I am. You know how it is these days... I’m not a hater. Commandant purses his lips, thinks, relenting... COMMANDANT For old time’s sake, then, Jalen. Here’s something I just heard from the Governor last week: to overturn a hate crime appeal you’re going to need a Writ of Disputable Cause under the 2025 Imprisonment Act. Decides. 4. COMMANDANT (CONT'D) Don’t tell anyone I told you. Right? Now go. Go. Jalen’s tear-filled eyes light up. He silently scurries out. EXT. STARB PRISON - FRONT GATE - DAY A barbed-wire fence. The heavy wrought-iron gate displays: “Salvation Through Alternative Resources of Bioenergy”. Beyond the gate, Jalen scuffles to a long, low gray steel building labelled “Labor”. Guard #2 stands alert at the door, gives a vicious kick as Jalen humbly enters. INT. LABOR BUILDING - CONTINUOUS Jalen stumbles, falls painfully. Climbs to his feet, sees... Orderly rows of numbered exercise bikes, thousands, each pedaled by a thin exhausted inmate wearing identical “STARB” overalls with hand-painted numbers. Blank, exhausted faces. Jalen hobbles towards Bike #1313. Accosted by GUARD #3. GUARD #3 Doctor Rausch, have a good meeting? JALEN Thank you, thank you, thank you. Guard #3 winks at Jalen, a silent “You’re welcome, buddy”. Jalen passes him a handful of cigarettes, a small bribe. Jalen climbs onto his bike, starts cranking the pedals painfully. A small meter below him counts his pedal strokes in red numbers, a large board above shows all inmates’ stroke total: “42,588,222” and climbing; daily goal: “100,000,000”. Next to Jalen: TONY (60), skin and bones and mouth, “1312” on his clothes, pedals ploddingly. Tony chats comfortably, as though this day is as monotonous as usual. TONY Lab-rat! Back to the godawful disSTARB-ing power plant? Better than oil. Learn anything? JALEN Yeah, Lawyer-rat. Rob said I need a Writ of Disputable Cause. Tony looks startled, almost stops pedaling. But he doesn’t. 5. TONY That’s insane. It’s new and I guess it’d work, but I never told you since you have to have physical evidence from the crime scene. Cho vs. Oregon, 2024. And they won’t let a hater waltz around out there. Jalen grits his teeth. Thinks. Pedals. JALEN No one at the hospital even knows I’m here ’cause of the Secrecy Act. TONY Look, Jalen, bud, he gave you an impossible task to watch you twist in the wind. What a crapper he is since his promotion, huh? Jalen and Tony aren’t listening to each other. JALEN I’m gonna break out, Tony. TONY Remember when we all used to go out for beers and bowling? Leave the wives at home, have fun, man-time? (sudden realization) No way. Break out? Add a felony? Think! You got any more evidence? Jalen thinks, thinks, thinks, desperate... He remembers! Guard #2 materializes behind Jalen, bashes him on the head. INT. COMMANDANT’S OFFICE - EVENING Jalen, head bleeding, wakes up on the floor. Commandant stands over him, looks down, disgusted, arrogant. COMMANDANT You do know your clothes are bugged? I said to tell no one. JALEN You know I’ve got evidence, Rob. There was a cannula I never used, I bought it on deadline day, engraved my name on it like I do with all my instruments, but it wasn’t there when we searched my office. 6. COMMANDANT Sure, you’re innocent. Of course you are. Listen, we both know you’re a woman-hater, Jalen. Commandant turns on his heel, goes to sit at his desk. JALEN You know what the cannula is, Rob, right? The plastic tube that sucks out the parts from inside? After the baby’s cut up? I don’t hate women, I’m not a hater! I’d give my soul to do one, I wanna. That’s why I bought the damn thing. Just let me out, for my wife’s sake! Cannula? COMMANDANT Is that what this is? Commandant opens the drawer. Pulls out the thin plastic cylinder, hand-engraved “Jalen Rausch”. Holds it up. Jalen gasps, snarls, full realization of the set-up sinks in. JALEN You, oh my God, you knew all along. COMMANDANT You’re not a killer, you said. At any age, you said. Not a hater, you said. Don’t hate me now. Jalen’s hands become fists. His eyes ask a silent “WHY?” Commandant pulls out the wedding picture, displays it prominently on the desk. Adjusts it mockingly. Jalen’s eyes widen in horror as he looks at the picture. Jenny... JALEN COMMANDANT You should be happy for her. I mean, really, Jalen, who could love a hater? Jalen, stock still, now transformed, monstrously hate-filled. Jalen approaches slowly, menacingly. A twisted face. A raised arm. SMASH TO BLACK.