The Fixed

Logline: In a totalitarian near-future, a brainwashed former peace activist must regain his memories and identity in order to discover who is manipulating him.

The Dreadnaught Box

Logline: "Revolutionary scientific experiments are condemned as witchcraft in Salem. Conducting her own counter-investigations, an intrepid naturalist unmasks a ruthless conspiracy orchestrating the trials."

I had the extreme pleasure to collaborate with Matthew Groves in the creation of this screenplay. Trapped in the car together on a nine-hour ride, we discussed the bare bones of a story idea of his that revolved around a girl who manufactures advanced technology at the time of the Salem Witch trials. My interest was piqued immediately, and we discussed various aspects of the story before I asked him to write down a short treatment (I was still finishing PICKING UP THE PEACES at that time).

From that humble beginning, the story fleshed itself out in a most remarkable way. The excerpt below gives a hint of the broad tones of the screenplay, but there are hundreds of fascinating and well-thought-out details of the technology and the backstory that are only available upon request.

I list this story as an Alternate History genre, because I don't know what else to call it. Almost all of the characters are named for real persons, though major portions of their personalities have been fabricated for the story. I did a vast amount of research into the original trials, and I must say that they are beyond fascinating.

The chance to use language to portray characters was delightful. I usually describe this script as a cross between PIRATES OF THE CARRIBEAN and Henry Miller's play, THE CRUCIBLE.

THE CRUCIBLE is more historically-based than our story. But ours has been thematically adapted to our modern time, and deals with very specific wants and needs: the interplay between science and religion, the place of strong and independent women in society, the need for a no-holds-barred-rise-up-from-the-ashes heroine in a vacillating world.

THE DREADNAUGHT BOX by Kyle Patrick Johnson Story by Matthew Groves 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 #1363435 2. FADE IN: INT. LONDON FLAT - NIGHT SUPER: “1602, London”. The ceiling used to be white before the candle soot; the small windows used to be clean before grimy hands worked them open and closed for years; the corners bright before mice bit holes in the floorboards and spiders spanned strong webs. Yellow candles on a central worktable cast a sick light on ancient manuscripts, pieces of wood, wire, string, cloth: all strewn around in an eccentric whirlwind. A black cat flits through the flickering circle. Crouched beside the workbench, WILLIAM GILBERT (60s), a low ring of white hair still clings to his head. Wears a flowing thin gown of cheap brown wool, ruffle around the neck. Puffs deep breaths, like he’s just run a marathon. Excited. Holds a slender cylinder of sparkling clean metal close to his nearsighted eyes, inspects it. Nods, satisfied. Wraps a tiny copper wire around it with thick dirty thumbs, again and again, covers the cylinder in a tube of closely packed wire. A candle snuffs out. No wax left. Impatient, Gilbert thrusts another candle into a small metal bowl filled with black and white shavings. The bowl bursts into low blue flames. Blue light competes with the candles, dance against each other on the low ceiling: now blue, now yellow, now joined in green. Brighter than before, no longer a strain to see. Gilbert cackles, delighted. With shaking fingers, he jams the wire and cylinder into a small contraption on the worktable. He turns a small vertical crank, gains speed. A small pulley runs forward, spins a cat’s-hair-lined glass wheel against the wire cylinder. The faster he cranks, the faster the wheel spins. A blinding white spark arcs across the wire, brightens the room to day. Gilbert slobbers in delight, a manic look of glee. 3. From outside, the window has a blue glow. Flashes white. Back to blue. White again, as if a lightning storm is cramped within. Gilbert grabs a heavy metal candlestick, holds it near the wire. PHUNK! With a massive spark, the candlestick sticks to the wire, magnetized. Gilbert dances a wide-eyed jig, knocks books to the floor, scatters manuscripts in excitement. GILBERT Electricus! Electricus! A yellow page drifts onto a candle. Bursts into flame. Gilbert throws his gown across the fire, pats it out, delirious. Hugs a thick manuscript to his chest. DOWNSTAIRS Gilbert dances down a staircase to a common room, chairs, a fireplace. Landlord! GILBERT LANDLORD (20s), a hunched yet imposing figure, sleeps in an armchair next to the fire. All in shadow. Landlord opens an eye, the fire glitters red in it. An evil eye. LANDLORD Be ye waking me for no purpose? GILBERT It hath been done. Electricus. Methinks I would fain burst were I to refrain from sharing my discovery. Arcs-sparks, electricus! LANDLORD Eh. A discovery, is it? GILBERT Electricus. Electricus. The plans are complete, the manuscript done. Gilbert squeals in his excitement, fists clenched. Jogs back upstairs, mutters to himself. LANDLORD A discovery? Indeed, William Gilbert. A discovery. 4. INT. LONDON FLAT - EVENING Gilbert, bloodshot eyes, feverishly plays with his invention. The door bursts open. Landlord stands there, a wide stance of control, arms on hips, now wears a black cloak. Three HOODED FIGURES stand behind him, their cloaks each made of one giant piece of fine thick cloth. Two cloaks are black, the third a purple with gold threads interspersed. LANDLORD Allow us a peek. GILBERT Oh, the consequences, oh, the possibility. Electricus! Hooded Figures fan out into the room, surround Gilbert. LANDLORD So ye say. But what good is it? What good? GILBERT LANDLORD Are ye mad, man? What. Does. It. Do. GILBERT The magic of the spheres, new captured in shavings of metal. The power to attract, to collide. Think of it. The power to rip metals from the bosom of the earth. Or, or, an army, arrayed in battle, strips the enemy’s swords and shields from their grasp. Electricus... Landlord’s thin lips smile, but his beady eyes remain evil. LANDLORD These, my Scot friends, desire to purchase this power from ye. GILBERT Purchase? Canst thou purchase power? I think not. Landlord rolls his eyes. 5. LANDLORD (to Hooded Figures) At the least, do not make it appear as murder nor plague. Bad for business. Landlord slips out the door. Closes it. Locks it. Hooded Figures advance upon Gilbert. Silent, menacing. Gilbert looks up in sudden fear. He throws the invention at them, breaks it in pieces, distracts their attention for an instant. Gilbert dives backwards, thrusts the thick handwritten manuscript into a wide, short, intricately carved wooden box. Clacks the lid shut. Throws the box through the window. GILBERT’S POV - THROUGH SHATTERING WINDOW The box tumbles towards a muddy street. Lands on the back of a farmer’s rumbling wagon full of cabbages. THROUGH WINDOW FROM OUTSIDE Gilbert’s throat is seized by the purple/gold Hooded Figure. Choking, struggling, he is dragged backwards, struggles, fingers reach out. He disappears into the murky black of the room. The black cat leaps out of the window. THE WAGON disappears into the heart of the maze that is London, bears cat and box into the night. Gilbert’s death sounds fade out. EXT. LONDON FLAT - NIGHT On fire. Burns into the night sky. Small groups of men throw water buckets on neighboring buildings, halt the spread of the fire. Landlord watches from the street, furious. A Hooded Figure materializes, bends to his ear. HOODED FIGURE The price of failure. 6. LANDLORD I shall prove my worth. FADE TO BLACK. INT. GLASSBLOWER’S SHOP - ENGLISH VILLAGE - DAY SUPER: “85 YEARS LATER” A square pane of windowglass, laid on a table. A circular hole in the middle of the glass. A spinning saw, powered by a foot pump. The glass is pushed against the saw by the confident fingers of GLASSBLOWER (60s), unblinking, intent. The square edges of the pane are shaved off, now a large circle, nine inches across. Glassblower brushes the glass free of debris. Behind him, bent over a counter, her feet hanging off the floor, hovers ANDALUCIA MATHEWES (15), dark curls around a lovely innocent face, serious gray eyes, gingham dress. ANDALUCIA And the bigging-glass, too. GLASSBLOWER Aye, little miss. Cain’t rush art. Glassblower holds a thin wooden ring, of hard wood, paints the outside of it with a thick paste. With painstaking care, he inserts the ring into the hole in the circular pane. Presses it hard against the glass. GLASSBLOWER Most o’ my customers don’t care to watch me at my work, little miss. Andalucia’s eyes do not waver, hungrily devour Glassblower’s every move. Glassblower holds a smaller circle of glass, two inches across, to the saw. He shaves down the top and bottom of the glass, makes each side convex. A magnifying glass. Glassblower whips the glass to his eye, turns to face Andalucia, makes a face. 7. She giggles. Glassblower inserts the convex glass into wooden ring. Taps it in place with a wooden mallet, snug fit. GLASSBLOWER A right worthy gift, little miss. Do not ye forget my payment. Andalucia hands over a book of thick paper, crude binding. The title: “De Motu Animalium” by Aristotle. GLASSBLOWER Ah, yes. Monday, next, then, so’s ye’ll learn me to read it. Andalucia picks up the glass, puts it into a wooden box. William Gilbert’s box. EXT. ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE - DAY Hills of tall grass, almost impossibly green, idyll of pastoral perfection. Giant spreading trees spot the landscape with the stolid promise of eternal protection. Andalucia holds the box like a schoolgirl, clasped against her stomach. She looks up through the dappled green leaves of a tree, watches a puffy white cloud sail through the sky. She blows a kiss to the cloud. She skips down a dirt lane, rounds a bend, sees a small thatched house with an attached stable. A sweating horse paws the ground near the stable door. Andalucia gives a squeal of glee, runs to the house. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - STUDY - DAY ROBERT MATHEWES (65) writes at a desk. Dirt samples and hundreds of rocks line towering shelves behind him. MARY MATHEWES (50) writes at a desk opposite Robert’s, framed by jars of preserved small animals and plant specimens. Peeks into a primitive microscope. Andalucia bursts in, hugs Mary’s head to her chest, nuzzles her nose into Mary’s hair. ANDALUCIA Mother, Mr. Clement is here? 8. ROBERT He arrived this very noon, a waystation on a longer trip, I gather. He is making ready for dinner. Robert makes a pouty face at Andalucia. She skips to him, hugs his head, nuzzles his receding hairline. MARY Where hast thou been, Lucy? ANDALUCIA In town with the glassblower, finishing another invention. Andalucia bites her lip. ANDALUCIA Mother. Could you full-name me Andalucia with Mr. Clement? It is genteel and I am an adult. ROBERT (automatic correction) “Couldst thou”. (realizes) Why, heavens, no. Thou art our one and only Lucy. Andalucia, scrunchy face, disappointed. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - HALLWAY - EVENING WILLIAM CLEMENT (40) descends the stairs. Clement is a doughnut hole of a man: round little head, round little body, round little arms. Andalucia waits for him at the dining room door. ANDALUCIA Well met, Mr. Clement. CLEMENT My, my. Thou art grown, little Andalucia. He gets a smile for that. ANDALUCIA Only as much as Father will allow. 9. CLEMENT Quite right. They smile. Some inside joke. They know each other well. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT The walls are cluttered with exotic souvenirs from all continents: wooden shields, jade, feather headdresses. A small square table. Clement and the Mathewes sip broth. Clement has changed into a simple outfit. He speaks through the soup, not quite rude, borderline. CLEMENT To my astonishment, my clocks, my life’s work, the solution to the longitude problem, were declared mere imitations of some imposter original. Inquiring at the London posts of trade, I find my own anchor escapement clocks, pride of my soul, my Pygmalion, attributed to some mediocre Scot, and my own efforts to prove my right merely a blot on my escutcheon. A SERVANT (50s) enters with a small tureen, fills up Clement’s empty soup bowl. ROBERT A blot on thy what? CLEMENT Clock term. Sorry. My reputation. CLEMENT Naturally affronted, I advanced upon Scotland to do battle. Clement dives into his soup. Stops talking. Robert and Mary exchange a knowing glance. ROBERT And the Scot? He said? CLEMENT This Scot claims inventor’s rights. He challenged me to courts, to prove his lone right. His threats were vast, and he called me a bas-- 10. CLEMENT (CONT'D) (glances at Andalucia) Names fit for lesser men. ANDALUCIA Challenge him, Mr. Clement! Clement looks surprised: girls aren’t supposed to talk at table. He glances at Robert. Robert nods, smiling, allows Clement to answer her. CLEMENT I can dear afford sprockets and cogs. Court fees would ruin me. ANDALUCIA But you are in the right. Clement shrugs. Helpless. MARY “Thou”, Lucy. ANDALUCIA (under her breath) Andalucia. (out loud) Thou art in the right. MARY Lucy, bid goodnight to Mr. Clement. Then to bed. Obedient though unwilling, Andalucia stands, curtsies. HALLWAY Andalucia stomps her feet heavily, then lighter: imitates departing footsteps. She dives to the door, presses her ear to the keyhole. She hears snippets of conversation. CLEMENT ...saw the Scot had stolen. The papers were in mine own hand... MARY ...group of Scot powermongers here a month ago. They intend to replace religion with science... bribery... ROBERT ...no society for we Dissenters, nor for scientists... 11. CLEMENT ...must flee to the Colonies... good place for a clockmaker... Servant taps Andalucia’s shoulder. Andalucia looks up, guilty, skips upstairs. ANDALUCIA’S BEDROOM Dark, only the moon provides light. Andalucia snuggles deep under her covers. Her eyes peek out, wide, wondering. A quiet conversation, unintelligible, floats up from below. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - STUDY - DAY Clement stares with sightless eyes at the rock shelves. Andalucia enters, wears a simple, gleamingly white frock. ANDALUCIA Mr. Clement? Clement turns. A frown etched deep into his soul. Pretends to read the tiny labels attached to each sample. CLEMENT My mind is suited to gears, faces, hours, mechanics. I confess that all these look like rocks to me. ANDALUCIA But they are. CLEMENT (forced humor) Are they, now! Perhaps we should not tell thy father. ‘Twould break his heart. ANDALUCIA (smiles, shy) Perhaps you would enjoy my inventions, in my precious box. CLEMENT Methinks I would. Lead on, girl. Andalucia steps forward, takes Clement by the hand. Leads him out of the room. 12. ANDALUCIA’S BEDROOM Clement squeezes into an armchair designed for smaller buttocks. His good-natured grin reappears. Andalucia opens a dresser drawer. Pulls out Gilbert’s box. She unwraps the first bundle. The glass circle. ANDALUCIA Carving down the sides, slightly thus, and look! A bigging-glass. A gift for Mother’s birthday next, a display case for her specimens. Her face contorts through the glass. Clement belly-laughs. Andalucia hands the glass to Clement, who plays with it while she unwraps the second bundle: a metal tube, wider on one side than the other, capped at the wide end with a bulb of cured animal skin. It’s an eyedropper. ANDALUCIA Upon drawing liquid into the tube, I can then dispense it precisely, droplet by droplet. CLEMENT Thy talents overwhelm this poor clockmaker. Just as I thought nothing more remained to be invented! Andalucia, pleased, holds up a tiny gray stone and a whole dried red pepper plant. ANDALUCIA Presents from Father and Mother. A most powerful lodestone and a fire plant from the Americas. Clement smiles broadly, as though he’s never seen a finer rock or a prettier dried plant. ANDALUCIA Are you departing, Mr. Clement? To the colonies? Clement loses his good humor in an instant. He shrugs. NEIGH! A horse outside. Andalucia rushes to the window. 13. ANDALUCIA’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW Four horses. Four RIDERS, each hooded: three Riders wear black cloaks, the fourth cloak is purple with gold threads. ANDALUCIA (O.S.) Happy day. More visitors! BACK TO SCENE Clement comes to the window, looks out. Dives to the ground, pulls Andalucia down with him. She shouts in surprise, he covers her mouth. CLEMENT Shhhh. Shhh. Those are the Scots. Andalucia’s face, no fear. She doesn’t understand. Clement peeks just his eyes over the window sill. CLEMENT’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW Robert approaches the Riders. Silent conversation, the purple Rider acts like a little Hitler, gestures broadly. Robert bows, submissive. With a final flourish, the Riders pull their horses around, gallop off over the hill. EXT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) Robert still bows, forehead in the dirt. Clement and Andalucia run from the house, help Robert to stand. Robert leans heavily on Clement. ROBERT No more. There is no more time. Andalucia looks between them, back and forth. CLEMENT The ship sails forth from Liverpool two morns hence. The Regal. Robert nods. Clement runs to the stable. ANDALUCIA What, Father? What is it? 14. Robert tenderly holds her face. ROBERT Divine Providence, as stipulated by lesser men, hath decreed a journey, my dear. Go, prepare. ANDALUCIA Prepare for a journey? INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DINING ROOM - DAY Servant and Mary pack the fine china gently into a wicker basket. Robert races through the room, an armful of clothes. ROBERT Leave those. MARY This china is priceless! ROBERT Leave it! We must travel light, silent, fast. Mary points at the hundreds of wall souvenirs. Robert bites his lip. Andalucia comes in, drawn in by the conversation. ROBERT I value thy life higher than trinkets, Mary. ANDALUCIA And every all of thy rocks, Father? Robert looks pained. Shakes his head. Andalucia now looks properly frightened. THROUGH WINDOW Clement, atop his horse, rockets out of the stable. Gallops away, dust rises behind him. EXT. COUNTRY HOUSE - NIGHT Robert, Mary, and Andalucia climb onto a small wagon, a small horse. Robert flicks the reins. A tearful Andalucia waves goodbye to Servant. 15. Servant goes back inside the house. The wagon disappears into the dark distance. Servant reappears, arms full of valuables. She scurries off into the night. Silence. The lonely little house. Sounds of galloping hooves. Coming closer. Nearly a hundred Riders burst into frame. Skid to a halt outside the house. Jump off their horses, crash through the front door. Sounds of destruction inside, ripping, breaking, crushing. Flames in the attic. The Riders come out. Mount their horses. Ride away. The house is completely overtaken with bright red fire. EXT. WAGON - NIGHT Robert flicks the reins. Andalucia and Mary sleep in the back. Silent horses flit like ghosts through the countryside. THE REMAINDER OF THIS SCREENPLAY IS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST 

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.
THE REMAINDER OF THIS SCRIPT IS UNAVAILABLE FOR PREVIEW.
PLEASE CONTACT THE AUTHOR FOR THE FULL SCRIPT.

ZZZZZZZ

This playful, comedic short delivers a scathing lampooning. Of whom? Well, I guess you can make up your own mind on that.

Note that whenever Milady Threet interrupts, she always steals Fremayne's next syllable as the beginning of her statement, a subtle indication of her self-serving anti-others personality. Or at least, it was subtle until I just mentioned it.

ZZZZZZZ by Kyle Patrick Johnson An Original Screenplay KyleJohnsonScripts@gmail.com Represented by: Contact: Phone: Fax: Email: Website: Canton Literary Management Eric Canton 866.429.3118 888.843.7193 Ecanton@prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. CASTLE - DRAWING ROOM - DAY Tapestries hang from massive stone walls, flank small glassless windows. The ceiling is out of sight. MILADY THREET (40s), lies on luxurious satin cushions, on a sumptuous soft couch. She sleeps. Threet’s makeup is gaudy: lips too orange, eyelashes too long, eyelids too blue, cheeks too red. She snores. FREMAYNE (20s), a liveried servant, pops in at the sturdy wood doorway. FREMAYNE Milady Threet! Madame! Threet, startled, flicks her eyes open, noisily sucks in a short strand of drool from the corner of her mouth. MILADY THREET Whuzzahundawhoahhhh... She blinks, props herself on an elbow. Sees Fremayne. Straightens immediately. MILADY THREET Oh, it’s just you. What, what? FREMAYNE King Ganadine requests your presence in the throneroom, Milady. MILADY THREET It’s my naptime, Fremayne. FREMAYNE Yes, Milady. But the King has appointed this day to choose a new Steward for the Cas-MILADY THREET I’ll go down later, there’ll be time enough. That’s what a lady ought to do. 2. FREMAYNE Oh, Milady, but the position has such import-MILADY THREET Answer me this, Fremayne, why is it the King always wants me to come at his beck when he will not allow me to have my very own tailor? Fremayne’s right hand twitches. FREMAYNE Milady, I but carry the mess-MILADY THREET A gentleman would leave my sleep. Fremayne bites his tongue, bows his way out. Threet resettles herself on the cushions. Her breathing slows. She is again asleep. Her sleepy hand wanders up to her face. She snuggles, a full-body wriggle. She picks her nose. First the left nostril, then the right. A small wooden bowl of red grapes sits on a footstool. Her wandering hand flops on the fruit. Still asleep, her hand pulls a grape off the vine. The hand brings it up towards her mouth. Can she do it? In her sleep? It creeps closer, closer to her mouth. The mouth yawns open. The hand covers the mouth. The hand moves away, yawn over. The grape is not in the mouth. The grape is stuck in a nostril. She snores, now with a whistling wheeze as the grape rocks back and forth, in and out. FREMAYNE (20s), pops in again at the door. 3. FREMAYNE Milady Threet! Madame! Threet sits up with a start. The grape squirts out of her nose, pinging the doorframe just above Fremayne’s head. He takes no notice. Threet smooths her billowing dress. She looks up with a regal air. She sees Fremayne. She deflates. MILADY THREET Again, Fremayne? What, what, what? FREMAYNE I’m terribly sorry, Milady, but the King says we are under at-MILADY THREET Tact, Fremayne, decorum! Always say “His Majesty”. FREMAYNE Yes, Milady. His Majesty reports that the Hun hordes are encamped about the castle w-MILADY THREET All the King’s reports are gross exaggerations. The Huns couldn’t possibly be as gross or as exaggerated as all that. Threet inspects her fingernails, head aslant. Fremayne’s right arm twitches. FREMAYNE Milady, the King suggests that you pack your things for immediate ev-MILADY THREET Vacation? He’s trying to buy me off for not giving me my own tailor. She waves her hand, sending him off. Fremayne leaves, rolling his eyes. Threet plops backwards onto her cushions, looks up at the ceiling. 4. With an exasperated sigh, she heaves herself up, rolling over. She smacks at the cushions, making them evenly poofy. She settles back down slowly, savoring the luxury. She peeks at the door, sees no one, puts her thumb in her mouth, sucks. Her other hand plays with her hair, twisting it, caressing it. She sucks and plays. She plays and sucks. Her eyes close. Fremayne appears at the door, his right hand twitching. FREMAYNE Milady Threet! Madame! Threet jumps several inches off the couch, her thumb popping noisily out of her mouth. MILADY THREET What, what? Go away! FREMAYNE The Huns... the castle... breached... our men-at-arms fleeing, the captains and sar-MILADY THREET Aren’t you going to apologize for waking me up? How dare you! FREMAYNE No time for apologies, Milady. Time to r-MILADY THREET Under no circumstances will I take orders from you, twitnit! I’m a real lady! Fremayne’s whole right side twitches, eyeballs bulge. FREMAYNE The Huns are coming up the stairs! I’ve told you over and over ag-MILADY THREET Anyone is preferable to your rudeness, Fremayne. Begone. 5. Fremayne, relieved, bolts through the room. Threet’s hair is slightly mussed by the wind as Fremayne dashes by. Fremayne dives out a window. My hair! MILADY THREET Threet fusses and fixes her hair. She lies back on the couch. Threet closes her eyes. Several large HUN WARRIORS stomp in at the door. They hold battleaxes at the ready, snarling with bloodlust. Threet opens her eyes. The Huns advance, lifting their weapons. MILADY THREET You couldn’t possibly be my tailors. I never get what I want. FADE OUT. 

Viva!

Logline: "An ailing but cheerful young priest follows his conscience during a religious oppression in Mexico... and pays the ultimate price."

In my life, "Viva!" represents many firsts and many lasts: it was the first screenplay that I completed, my only musical to date (featuring nine original songs and the lyrics to a tenth), and my first and last script based on a true story (the life and death of Miguel Pro). Originally designed to be a stage production (hence the lengthy pieces of dialogue and discussion), it will require a future rewrite due to some screenplay formatting errors that are immediately evident to the practiced eye.

Below the script, I've even uploaded two full songs for those who are musically inclined, or at least for those who know someone who can play the piano. :)

"Viva!" remains a special story in my heart, and one that I sincerely hope will be soon told.

It is a story of particular significance to all those of Hispanic or Catholic origin.

VIVA! 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 #1321467 2. An excerpt from page 60. INT./EXT. ESSEX/STREETS - DAY Humberto is driving, Roberto is in the front passenger’s seat. Miguel is in the backseat, dressed in disguise as a wealthy young dandy, and strange GURGLING SOUNDS are coming from him. Roberto keeps turning around with an odd look on his face. Large bags of rice and grain are on the floor next to Miguel, ready to be distributed to the needy. Roberto continuously tosses small unbound stacks of pamphlets out the window. The pamphlets, pro-Catholic and pro-League, scatter in the wind and disperse. MIGUEL I sure will miss this car, Humberto. HUMBERTO I will, too. But you can’t live in a car. ROBERTO Father’s trying so hard to get a job, but no one wants to mine anymore. They just want to fight and booze. HUMBERTO Booze? How do you know about boozing? ROBERTO Um... in the newspapers? MIGUEL (to Humberto) How much can you get for it? We notice that the sounds are not from Miguel, but from the bundle on his lap: a tiny Newborn in swaddling blankets. HUMBERTO For the car? Probably quite a bit. I’m thinking of selling it to Luis Vilchis, you remember him. He’s an engineer, got some money. The Newborn begins to cry. 3. ROBERTO Can you feed it some of that rice? MIGUEL Can I feed it, what? Do you know how little this baby is? You don’t feed a little baby rice. HUMBERTO Of course. You feed it beans, Roberto. Easier to chew. MIGUEL You two. Unbelievable. You’ll never get married at this rate. You’d better be priests. HUMBERTO Nah, too dangerous. MIGUEL Have you seen any married couples lately? Dangerous? That’s dangerous. ROBERTO Whose baby is that? MIGUEL I don’t know. Another stray. Someone said that Senor Flores and his wife might adopt another baby. We’ll try them first. The Essex hits a large bump in the road, and the Newborn, which naturally is not seat-belted, flies straight up out of Miguel’s arms. A comic moment follows, with Roberto and Miguel both trying to catch it and keep the baby safe. With no harm, the Newborn is soon back in Miguel’s lap. ROBERTO Why is it crying? It’s safe now. MIGUEL Why does it rain? shine? Huh? ROBERTO Why does the sun The Newborn relieves itself of nervous tension by promptly barfing all over Miguel’s nice dandy suit. Miguel pulls it out of the swaddling suit and holds it up, trying to use the blankets to catch the vomit. 4. While he is thus entangled, the Newborn urinates. Miguel gives up and hugs the Newborn, while Humberto and Roberto roar with laughter. EXT. STREETS - THE ESSEX continues down the road, and we again notice, as it fades away, the prominent LICENSE PLATE NUMBER 10101 FADE TO BLACK. INT. EUCHARISTIC STATION #3 - LIVING ROOM - MORNING Miguel is saying Mass with about thirty in the congregation. He is wearing a cap, blue shirt, tan sweater, brown pants, and a dirty khaki overcoat. As he finishes distributing Communion, a SERVANT GIRL dashes in. SERVANT GIRL The police are coming. They’re at the front. MIGUEL Be calm, be swift. Hide your veils. Disperse into different rooms of the house, and be quiet. As the congregation scatters, Miguel calmly pulls out a cigarette and cigarette holder, fits them together, and puts them in his mouth. He puts the Eucharist into an inside pocket on the overcoat. As he proceeds to light his cigarette, Detective #2 and FLATFOOT #1 burst into the room, trailed by the frightened Servant Girl. DETECTIVE #2 There’s public worship going on here. MIGUEL Come, now. You’re making fun of me. But that’s not a bad idea. DETECTIVE #2 There’s a public service here. MIGUEL There’s nothing public about it. 5. FLATFOOT #1 We saw a priest enter this house about half an hour ago. MIGUEL That’s ridiculous. I’ll bet you money that there’s no priest here. DETECTIVE #2 We have orders to search the house. And we will. MIGUEL I tell you, if you find some public worship going on, let me know. The police move off through the house, Miguel trailing. HALLWAY They come to a door. DETECTIVE #2 What’s in here? MIGUEL Just a bedroom. Detective #2 throws OPEN the DOOR and reveals a sitting room with fireplace, and about ten people. A bedroom? DETECTIVE #2 Miguel shrugs humorously, having no knowledge of the house. DETECTIVE #2 What are you all doing here? MIGUEL It’s a literary society. We enjoy reading and discussing classic texts. Miguel gives Detective #2 a cherubic smile. Detective #2, whose patience is running thin, indicates another door. DETECTIVE #3 And in here? MIGUEL A sewing room. Flatfoot #1 OPENS the DOOR to reveal a rather dingy bathroom. 6. MIGUEL Some women do their best sewing in there. Detective #2 thrusts his face at MIGUEL. DETECTIVE #2 If I could prove what I know, you’d be dead tomorrow. I’m going to station my men outside this house, and the first wrong move your priest makes, you’re all going to die for it. Detective #2 and Flatfoot #1 leave. The congregation regathers, and insistently sends Miguel out the back door. EXT. EUCHARISTIC STATION #3 - BACK ALLEY Miguel comes out of the door, thinking all is well, but a shout from the far side of the alley reveals Flatfoot #2, who rushes at Miguel. Knowing the jig is up, Miguel races away from Flatfoot #2, and turns a corner onto a busy street. He knocks over an attractive YOUNG WOMAN. MIGUEL quickly picks her up and backs her against a wall. She is surprised and not very amused. MIGUEL Quick, please, I’m a priest and they’re after me. The Young Woman understands immediately, and she pretends to kiss Miguel passionately, but she misses his lips entirely in order to preserve his chastity. Miguel has his back to the street, and Flatfoot #2 emerges from the alley and runs right by. When the coast is clear, Miguel pulls away. Thanks. MIGUEL You saved my life. YOUNG WOMAN If only every life could be so much fun to save. Miguel wonders about her sanity, and quickly escapes. FADE TO BLACK. 7. An excerpt from page 80. EXT. COURTYARD - A FEW HOURS LATER Miguel steps out into a pitch-black night. The only illumination is from some eerie half-light a few buildings away. Miguel lets his eyes adjust to the night, then looks furtively around him while he cups his hands to his face, about to light a cigarette. He spies Detective #1 and DETECTIVE #2 standing at the courtyard entrance, blocking his path to the street. Miguel does not recognize them, but he is put on edge. Miguel adjusts his suit and walks straight for the detectives. MIGUEL Excuse me. My matches must be wet. Can you light my cigarette? Detective #2 lights Miguel’s cigarette, and both detectives eye him with glittering, suspicious gazes. MIGUEL Um, could you do me another favor? Point me to the San Tomas Hotel? DETECTIVE #1 Where’re you from? Don’t I know you? MIGUEL (breezily) Out of town. I’m staying at the San Tomas Hotel, but I don’t know my way around the city yet. It’s a big city, you know. Detective #1 points. DETECTIVE #1 The center of town is that way. DETECTIVE #2 I think I know you, no? MIGUEL Thanks for the light. night. Have a good 8. Miguel boldly walks away from the detectives, who stand dumbfounded. Miguel does not risk a backward glance. DETECTIVE #2 (two long beats) I’ve never heard of the San Tomas Hotel. Detective #1 whips his head around, staring at Detective #2. Both stride off purposefully after Miguel, in unison. STREETS - MIGUEL hears their feet on the pavement fifty yards behind. Without moving his head, he looks skyward and utters a silent prayer. He does not increase his pace, but begins scanning the road ahead of him, looking for escape. Miguel emerges onto a moderately busy intersection, and fortuitously sees a taxicab sitting right in front of him. Without breaking stride, he opens the door and gets in. INT./EXT. TAXICAB/STREET Miguel slides in the taxi, behind a TAXI DRIVER. MIGUEL (with urgency) Drive. Where? Straight. TAXI DRIVER MIGUEL Miguel glances behind and sees the two detectives hailing another cab. Soon they are in pursuit. MIGUEL So, how’s the world? The world? Father. What? TAXI DRIVER It’s a mess, brother. MIGUEL TAXI DRIVER MIGUEL You called me brother. 9. TAXI DRIVER I call everyone brother. MIGUEL But I’m a father. No. TAXI DRIVER You a priest? MIGUEL (gauging him) Am I? TAXI DRIVER You got a license to be a priest? Better. MIGUEL I was ordained. TAXI DRIVER Father, I’m a Catholic. I haven’t seen a priest in... months. MIGUEL And you’re not likely to see this one again any time soon. See the cab following you? TAXI DRIVER There’s one behind me, yeah. MIGUEL They’re after me. TAXI DRIVER Anything I can do, Father. know that. You MIGUEL Good man. Tell you what. Make a left turn up ahead. Get up some speed and I’ll jump out. Hopefully they’ll follow you, but they won’t do you any harm if I’m not in here. OK? OK. TAXI DRIVER Land on something soft. it into his so his white the corner, the curve. Miguel takes off his hat, crumples it and stuffs jacket pocket. He takes off his jacket as well, shirt is showing. As the taxicab careens around Miguel jumps out the door on the outside part of 10. EXT. STREET - MIGUEL lands hard on his side, but bounces up quick as a flash. He grabs his jacket and leans up against a lamppost, pretending to lounge there. The cab door closes on its own from the force of the curve, and the taxicab disappears down the road. THE DETECTIVE’S TAXICAB comes around the corner, and they do not give Miguel a second glance, not expecting a white-shirted idler to be their prey. As they, too, disappear, MIGUEL walks in the opposite direction. He comes up a bit short, limping, injured slightly in the fall. MIGUEL Ooo. Pride goeth before the fall, and health after it. FADE TO BLACK. INT. GARAGE - HANDHELD SHOT - EARLY EVENING (MOS EXCEPT DIALOGUE) (BLACK AND WHITE) Pale autumn light from an unseen opening garage door spills over the floor, and, moving up, reveals an automobile with the license plate 10101. The shadows of four men fall upon the car. The men enter the garage, and suddenly fill up the screen with their bodies, then grow smaller as they approach the car. Wordlessly, they execute their preconceived plan. Vilchis picks up a couple homemade bombs and places them carefully in the backseat. The Driver slides into the driver's seat. RUIZ picks up some ammunition and climbs into the backseat. TIRADO also has firearms, and sits in the back seat. Vilchis looks into the camera with an inevitable, timeless, piercing, oddly passive gaze, and then climbs into the front passenger seat. The driver starts the car and smoothly pulls out of the garage, right by the CAMERA, which PANS to follow it. SUPER: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1927, MEXICO CITY. MOVING WITH CAR (SAME TAKE) The car pulls out onto the street, and drives for a block. The car turns left, drives for a block, turns left again into a busy plaza and parallel parks. PAN DOWN to car interior. The men have clenched jaws. Driver looks worried. 11. VILCHIS There’s no other way. TIRADO When Obregon was President, he sanctioned attacks on Catholic churches. He is a terrorist. A monster. RUIZ VILCHIS Monster or man, the end is the same. It is us or it is him. Juan, pistols. Tirado hands Vilchis two pistols and ammunition. begins to load his guns. RUIZ We only have two bombs, we should spread them out. Juan, you want to throw one with me? OK. TIRADO Vilchis RUIZ Two hands are better than one. VILCHIS They should be coming soon. The assassins wait. PAN TO two distinct vehicles coming lazily around the crowded plaza. The first contains bodyguards, and the second is a semi-bulletproof limousine with GENERAL OBREGON inside. The assassins begin to come to life, readying themselves. The first car passes by their parked position, and the limousine comes by broadside. Tirado and Ruiz each throw a bomb, both of which bounce off the limousine and onto the ground before exploding, and harming no one while shattering car windows. Vilchis, hoisting himself out of the car while shouting profanities, empties two pistols dead into the side of the limousine. Driver starts the car, ready for the getaway. After the bombs explode and the pistols are emptied, Vilchis, Tirado, and Ruiz reach for their shotguns as they jump back into the car. Driver peels out of the plaza while the assassins reach their heads and guns out of the car, looking backwards. 12. The bodyguards in the first car have reacted swiftly, and give close chase, firing heavier automatic weapons than the assassins have. TIRADO is winged in the shoulder and falls back in his seat with a thud. RUIZ is struck in the head by a bullet and falls, senseless, onto Tirado, knocking him to the floor of the car. Driver, panicked by his comrades’ apparent demise, crashes the car into oncoming traffic. Driver disappears on foot. VILCHIS flees in the other direction. THE BODYGUARDS AND OBREGON get out of their cars and approach the Essex warily, Obregon gesturing wildly. They see the unconscious Ruiz lying on top of Tirado, with Ruiz’s blood flooding the scene. The bodyguards, rightfully furious, are not gentle. They haul Tirado and Ruiz to their feet and slap them around. EXT. BULLFIGHT ARENA (COLOR FADE IN) (SOUND FADE IN) Vilchis is out of breath and traumatized by the “deaths” of Tirado and Ruiz. He falls into a seat, even while the rest of the crowd is standing and cheering. He puts his head down and weeps. 

Here are two songs from the musical. "Polite Company" is a lament, sung by Miguel in his deepest moment of despair. "Heavenly Ardor" is a gutwrenching song of joy, sung by Miguel as he looks forward to his reward hereafter.