It seems that most of my short inspirations these days are coming directly from deadlines and calls for scripts. I've been busily at work on a feature for some time now, so it's actually quite relaxing to be called away to scribble down a tidbit as a short script.
This script was devised in a semi-black mood. Enjoy.
DOUBLE LOCK 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 #1393970 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. HANNAH’S DOOR - NIGHT CLOSE UP on a wooden door, the stained grain deep and faded. An ornate, curved handle on the right side. Slouched against the door, head lolling back, tear-streaked cheeks and balled-up fists: HANNAH (30s), fair skin and gorgeous flowing hair and sparkling eyes on a good day. This is not a good day. HANNAH I told you not to do it. INT. PETER’S DOOR - NIGHT CLOSE UP on another wooden door, looks the same as the first, but the handle is on the left. Crouched against the door, head drooped, breathless: PETER (30s), rumpled hair, rumpled shirt, stubbled chin. PETER I was wrong, all right? HANNAH (O.C.) You were wrong, you were wrong! PETER I can’t help what I love. INT. HANNAH’S DOOR - NIGHT Hannah reaches a hand up, tests the handle. Locked. She shakes it a couple times, echoes a defiant rattle. HANNAH Oh? Oh! You don’t love us, then. PETER (O.C.) You know that’s not what I meant. HANNAH I think I know you better than-- PETER (O.C.) Stop it, Hannah. Stop it. Hannah looks down at an open cell phone in her hand. The backlit display reads “911” before the backlight turns off. Hannah flips the phone shut. HANNAH It’s your fault, it’s all your fault. She can’t hear-- PETER (O.C.) Would you cut it out? She might be all right. Hannah bursts into tears, pounds the door behind her with a fury born of desperation. HANNAH (screams) Why do you always lie to me? INT. PETER’S DOOR - NIGHT Peter’s lips press tight, anger in his eyes. HANNAH (O.C.) You said you were done with them. Peter hefts a fearsome shotgun. PETER I didn’t know she knew how to lock-- HANNAH (O.C.) Then you said it was safe around kids. Peter loads the shotgun. PETER It was. INT. HANNAH’S DOOR - NIGHT Hannah shakes her head, cold eyes shimmer with disgust. HANNAH “They’re just for breeding.” Can you buy her back again? Can you? PETER (O.C.) I didn’t know it’d go after-- HANNAH Did you even care? 2. INT. PETER’S DOOR - NIGHT Peter rises, determined chin, angry at Hannah’s insinuation. He points the shotgun at the door handle. HANNAH (O.C.) (sweet, hope) Abby? Abby, honey? Can you hear me? Peter fires. The handle disintegrates, the door swings open. PULL BACK TO REVEAL Peter and Hannah in a home hallway, each outside two doors into a large Master Bathroom. Hannah, surprised by the blast, curls into a tiny ball. PETER’S POV A large ROTTWEILER, growling lips tinged with white foam specks, stands over the still body of a LITTLE GIRL. Peter pumps another shell into the chamber. FADE OUT.
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
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.
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.
A homage to Flannery O'Connor, this short (and sweet?) script with a short (and sweet?) title examines the overbearing burden of a well-formed conscience, and our differing responses to moments of grace.
Sin 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: EXT. CITY SIDEWALK – NIGHT Cold frozen breath hangs in the air. A dull flickering glow of a broken streetlight. the straining bulb. A hum from A hooded head swivels back and forth, a ceaseless vigil, a lookout. Hands rub vigorously. A frozen exhale. The streetlight suddenly flicks on full. SARAH (20s), gangsta wannabe, jumps against a storefront. She shrinks into the shadows under cut wires leading to an old-fashioned burglar alarm bell. Her head continues its perpetual motion. The streetlight fails again. Sarah steps back out into the dark street. behind her: “Goldinger’s Jewelry.” She glances at her watch. Boom. A muffled gunshot. The store’s sign Sarah’s eyes are confused, troubled, panicky. INT. GOLDINGER’S JEWELRY Security cameras hang lifeless, dangling from cords. MATTHEW (30s), cold-faced viper, stands behind a broken glass jewelry counter, holds a gun. SCOTT (20s), younger than he looks, white with fright, crouches by a safe in the back wall. He slowly turns his head, looks at Matthew. Matthew spits at a dark, huddled body in a side wall’s open doorway. MATTHEW We don’t have time. Let’s go. 2. Scott scoops up a small garbage bag, scurries towards the front door. Matthew jerks his head, internally furious, swearing to himself. He kicks the body. Scott goes out the front door. pocketing his gun. SIDEWALK Sarah opens the two passenger-side doors of a small car as Matthew and Scott hurry out of the store. She circles the car, sits in the driver’s seat, starts it up with trembling fingers. Matthew and Scott leap headlong into the car as it starts moving. The doors close as the car speeds away. INT. GARAGE - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER) The car sits idling as the garage door closes. The garagedoor-opener machine casts a sickly yellow light. Sarah turns the car off, still trembling, still in shock. Matthew aggressively opens his door, gets out, slams it shut. Scott, ashen, gets out of the car. Tosses the garbage bag on a workbench. Sits on the car’s front bumper, thinking. Matthew upends the bag, dumping loot, jewelry, cash all over the workbench. He sorts it. Cash in one neatly stacked pile, jewels and gold in another. He looks back at Sarah. MATTHEW You cold, or what? Quivering, Sarah shakes her head. She gets out of the car. Matthew follows close behind, Matthew hands her the pile of cash. MATTHEW You did good. Get out of here. Sarah pauses, then takes the money. She stands, waits. Matthew points to an interior door, emphatically. 3. MATTHEW I said, get out of here. leave when we’re ready. We’ll The door closes. Sarah turns, slowly, goes into the house. Locks. Matthew stuffs all the valuables into his pockets. MATTHEW I’ll find the fence. few days. See you in a Without looking at Scott, Matthew goes to an exterior door and leaves. Scott remains on the bumper, stock still. The garage-door-opener light goes out. In the dark, Scott gropes his way to the exterior door. exits, closes it softly behind him. INT. SCOTT’S APARTMENT – DAY Scott sits forward on the couch, remote in hand, eyes anxious. Watches TV. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …the brutal murder of a robbery gone wrong. Police are still trying to identify what is missing from the store. The victim has been identified as… SAME – NIGHT Scott leans back on the couch, hair tousled, eyes bleary. licks dry, chapped lips. Watches TV. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …if you know anything about this crime, the police ask you to call their crime task force hotline at… SAME – DAY Scott’s throat is dry and thick. He tries to swallow, can’t. His lips are involuntarily drawn back across his face, his bloodshot eyes glued to the glowing screen. He He 4. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …no progress at this time. Police Commissioner Smith reports that every available unit is combing the streets… SAME – NIGHT Scott looks like Death. He pulls his eyes open with his hands. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) ...difficulty of finding criminals without eyewitnesses. If you saw anything suspicious, you are asked… Scott presses a button on the remote. The TV clicks off. Starts to fall He leans forward, puts his head in his hands. asleep. Slaps himself in the face, forces himself awake. He staggers to his feet, collects his thoughts, heads for the door. EXT. CATHOLIC CHURCH – NIGHT Scott stumbles up the steps to the massive front door. tries to open it. Locked. He tries a smaller door to the side. Another. Locked. Scott swings his head like a wounded animal looking for escape. He awkwardly lopes down the steps to the building next door, the -EXT. RECTORY Every window is dark. A motion-sensitive light flicks on as Scott approaches the front door. Blinded, Scott reaches for the doorbell, can’t find it. He bangs on the front door. No response. He knocks with all his might, both hands. Finally, a light inside. The front door opens. Locked. Locked. He 5. FR. REYNOLDS (40s), soft hands and soft heart, pokes a sleepy head out. What? FR. REYNOLDS Yes? The Scott pushes past Fr. Reynolds, bullies into the house. outer door squeals as it is forced open. Fr. Reynolds stumbles back. INT. RECTORY - FOYER Scott whirls around, towers threateningly over the smaller priest. Fr. Reynolds placidly stands his ground. Yes? FR. REYNOLDS Before speaking, Scott tries to swallow, still cannot. Fr. Reynolds nods. FR. REYNOLDS Let’s get you a glass of water, son. Watch that loose rug in the kitchen. KITCHEN Scott sips a glass of water as though swallowing is painful. He stands on an old, frayed rug with upturned corners. Fr. Reynolds leans against a counter, patient, waiting. Scott puts the empty glass down. SCOTT I gotta get something off my chest. FR. REYNOLDS You’re in the right place for that. FADE TO BLACK. INT. SCOTT’S APARTMENT – DAY Scott sprawls across his couch, limbs splayed. A key in the door. Asleep. The door opens: Matthew enters. 6. Matthew bounds into the apartment, plops down on the couch, pokes Scott in the ribs. MATTHEW Hey, Scott. Great news. man. Come on, Scott opens an eye, stretches, yawns, not ready to wake. Matthew punches him in the leg. MATTHEW Scott, man. I dusted it all! We’re home free. Matthew pulls a wad of hundred dollar bills from a pocket. Sprinkles them on Scott. MATTHEW That’s your half. I got an idea for our next -No. SCOTT Matthew waits, perplexed. MATTHEW I think we oughta hit -No. SCOTT Matthew’s eyes narrow. MATTHEW Oh, you don’t want Sarah along this time? I thought she did -SCOTT No, that’s not it. We killed him, man. That’s not cool. We can’t just do another job now, pretend it didn’t happen. Matthew is taken aback, looks at Scott with contempt. MATTHEW What should we do? What, you’re okay with stealing but not with killing? What’s the difference? SCOTT I went to see a priest. 7. Matthew’s eyes instantly turn icy. He pulls a gun from a pocket, points it between Scott’s eyes. Scott doesn’t seem to even notice. MATTHEW Man, you didn’t. SCOTT Stealing didn’t hurt anyone. MATTHEW Are you an idiot? Of course it did. That’s not the point. You tell him? SCOTT I confessed, yeah. MATTHEW We’re going to jail for life now. SCOTT No, he won’t tell anyone. can’t. Rules. He MATTHEW I don’t believe it. He’s gonna. This can’t happen, man. Matthew cocks the gun, straightens his arm. MATTHEW Who’s the priest? Scott shakes his head. No. But his eyes stray to the window. Matthew looks over the back of the couch, over his shoulder, out of the window. He sees a church across the street. He grits his teeth. He turns back to Scott... who is not there. The front door is open. Matthew leaps off the couch in pursuit. HALLWAY Scott races to the stairwell, throws open the door, fairly flies down the steps. 8. Matthew rockets out of the apartment, pocketing the gun. runs after Scott. STREET Scott weaves across the busy street, dodging cars. RECTORY Scott heads straight for the rectory door, not knocking, pushes it open. The door squeaks. RECTORY FOYER Scott swings the door closed behind him as he runs in. door fails to fully close. SCOTT Fr. Reynolds! FR. REYNOLDS (O.S.) (mouth full) In here. STREET He The Matthew races across the street, narrowly missed by a honking truck. RECTORY KITCHEN Fr. Reynolds stands at the sink, eating a bowl of ice cream. Scott bursts in. Ah, Scott. pleasure. FR. REYNOLDS Sorry, my guilty He holds up the ice cream, winks. SCOTT (breathless) Matthew, the guy, I said in confession, he knows, he’s coming to kill you. FR. REYNOLDS Son, I don’t remember anything you said in confession. It’s grace. Remind me. 9. SCOTT I stole, my friend killed someone, I can’t get forgived till I turn myself in, he’s gonna kill us. FR. REYNOLDS It’s absolution, not forgived. The outer door creaks. He’s here! SCOTT Too far. Fr. Reynolds looks at his phone. FR. REYNOLDS Then there’s just enough time to pray. Matthew slams open the kitchen door. Points the gun at Fr. Reynolds, points it at Scott, back to the priest. MATTHEW You’re stupid, Scott. stupid. No. SCOTT He said I had to. Stupid, FR. REYNOLDS There’s always time to do the right thing, Matthew. Your sin -MATTHEW No such thing. FR. REYNOLDS It seems real to Scott. MATTHEW Scott’s gonna put me in jail, so I don’t give a damn what he thinks. SCOTT It’s the only way to forgiveness. MATTHEW Piece of... I killed her, I killed her, not you. What -SCOTT It was my fault. store. I picked the 10. FR. REYNOLDS One sin leads to another. They’re both commandments, you know. Matthew looks as though his head will explode with rage. God! MATTHEW Matthew raises the gun one last time at Fr. Reynolds. A noise from the hallway, the outer door opening. Matthew wheels, running to get a firing angle into the hallway against the intruder. He trips on the loose rug. SLOW MOTION The gun slips forward out of Matthew’s hand as he tries to maintain balance. Matthew flies horizontally, reaching out for the gun. The gun twists and tumbles in air. Matthew’s groping hand reaches the gun, grabs it too tightly. The gun is backwards. Matthew lands on the ground. His hand clenches. The gun goes off against his head, muffled. BACK TO SCENE Matthew lies on his stomach, bleeding profusely onto the rug. He gasps for air. FR. REYNOLDS Oh, son, oh, son. Scott stares in horror. Fr. Reynolds, as though perfectly used to such situations, briskly walks over, kicks the gun away from Matthew’s hand, kneels down beside him. FR. REYNOLDS (to Scott) (to Matthew) (MORE) 911. 11. FR. REYNOLDS (CONT'D) You still have a chance, son. Aren’t you sorry at all? Matthew looks up at him with fading eyes. Sorry? Matthew dies. The kitchen door opens... Sarah stands there, her eyes red with prolonged weeping. SARAH I heard someone in here. need to confess. I just FADE OUT. MATTHEW
Logline: "A man's relationship with his wife deteriorates throughout an unwaking series of dreams. Concurrently, a detective investigates the murky case of a comatose suicide victim. The two stories merge as the detective uncovers a breathtakingly simple motive for murder and the man discovers the truth regarding his wife."
This script took more time to plan than any of my other projects, simply because first and foremost it is a mystery. It is a deeply characterized whodunit, a whydunit, a howdunit. I was naturally forced to remove about half the script in order to present a suitable preview, since I do not want to give so many details that I ruin the story for those who wish to view the full version.
"Dreamwalker" features a fantasy tinge, in that I attempt to portray one way in which so-called "normal" people can communicate with comatose patients. This attempt may well be scientifically unverifiable, but it makes fascinating fiction.
DREAMWALKER 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 #1321463 2. FADE IN: INT. UNKNOWN - DAY (SEPIA) Wide eyes. Eyes of surprise. In an intelligent face. Attached to an athletic male body in a button-down shirt. ADAM HEALEY (33), the kind of charming guy who gives you all of his attention for a moment before forgetting you completely. A clean-cut guy you’d love for your daughter to meet, but you’d never remember his name. Two hands planted on his chest. Small hands, female hands. A ring on the left hand’s marriage finger. The hands push Adam. Adam falls backwards. EXT. HANSEN BUILDING - SCHNEIDER STREET - DAY (SEPIA) Adam falls through the air, his shocked eyes register little more than “Why me?” He plummets towards a geese-packed, poop-green sidewalk. The Canadian geese waddle out of his way. The ground comes closer, closer, behind his head... Adam never looks down... The moment of impact... WHAM... FADE TO BLACK. TITLE SEQUENCE EXT. HANSEN BUILDING - SCHNEIDER STREET - DAY (B&W) Adam levitates, as though standing on a glass floor, rises up over the small parkway trees. A bright sun, prominent. 3. There are no cars in the street below him. Instead: WOMEN. Hundreds of women, as far as the eye can see. Tall, short, beautiful, plain, motherly, all reach out to him. He floats over the crowd, his discerning eyes dart from face to face, he tries to choose. The task is too much for him, and he sighs. Then, far off, at the end of the street, he sees... A woman rises out of the feminine melee, float over their heads. She is IANA (30), dressed as a ballerina, complete with tutu and ballet slippers. Adam approaches her as she spirals upwards, ever upwards, fascinated by her delicate pirouettes, her strong legs striding against the wind. He flies up to her and grasps her hands, halts her twisting climb. She looks him in the face for the first time. They are hundreds of feet above the city. Neither notices. ADAM I know you. IANA Of course you do. ADAM It’ll come to me. Everything always does. Iana rolls her eyes, spins higher into the clouds. Adam zooms up to meet her. Iana does a splitz. Adam is impressed. IANA Are you from around here? ADAM No, I just flew in. IANA I need you, Adam. ADAM That’s what I do for a living, I help people. 4. IANA Take me away from here. Iana snuggles in to Adam, wraps her arms around his trunk, begging eyes. Adam lifts her legs across his right arm, in the pose of a newlywed groom carrying his bride across a threshold. Iana closes her eyes, waits for ecstasy. They soar higher, deep into the clouds. ADAM You’re mine. Iana’s eyes pop open, alert. Excuse me? IANA Adam bends down for a kiss. Iana turns her head at the last second. Adam gets her cheek instead of her mouth. Iana struggles to get out of his arms, he holds her tight. ADAM I worship you. Iana slips out of his arms, bounces away through the air like a deflating balloon. Adam floats away from her. He flails, struggles to get to her side, but his legs and arms seem coated in thick dream-goo. ADAM I don’t understand, I don’t understand. We are so perfect for each other. Iana twirls back to him with pirouettes, stops an inch from his face. She rotates, a vertical circle, hangs upside down. They kiss. Iana smiles at him, pushes him in the chest playfully. She drifts a few feet away from him, flips, spins like an ice skater, hands above her head, faster and faster. She stops suddenly, faces him. 5. IANA I’ve never felt more free. ADAM Why can’t you kiss like normal people? Iana looks at a thin wristwatch, doesn’t hear him. IANA Sorry, what? ADAM I said, why can’t you be normal? IANA Listen, it’s 6:16. (beat) Don’t you know what time that is? No. It’s time. Okay. ADAM IANA ADAM Adam strains to fly away, but Iana does not follow. Adam beckons. ADAM Come on, Iana! Iana merely floats in place. She crosses her arms, stares with melancholy. ADAM Iana, are you all right? Is it something I said? Are you coming? Iana’s eyes flick quickly, sees something just beyond Adam’s left shoulder. Adam, with foreboding, twists around to see... A jet airplane roars towards him, too close to avoid, fills his sky. Its wing strikes Adam full in the chest. 6. Breathless, Adam plummets towards the ground, out of control. Iana has vanished. He tries to gasp her name, can't make a sound. A feeling of inevitability washes over him. Beneath him, the ground rushes up at him as he falls face down. A serene Canadian goose flies below him. It poops. He falls past it, faster than the poop, slams through it, the poop stains his shirt. He tries to wipe it as he plummets. Adam flips over, face up, tries to get a glimpse of Iana. Iana? She’s gone. Behind Adam, the ground rushes up to meet him, ever closer, ever closer, almost at impact.... Adam’s face frozen in terror.... The ground is fifteen feet away, ten feet, five feet, here it comes... THERE IT IS.... INT. APARTMENT - BEDROOM - MORNING (B&W) Adam wakes, startled, sits, suddenly upright in a twin bed. Breathes hard, pulse racing. Looks at his alarm clock: 6:16 AM. He breathes in and out, deep breaths, slow it down. Adam glances down, sees a sleeping woman under the sheet, crammed next to him. Iana. Adam fingers his own left hand, touches a wedding ring. He leans across the prone body of Iana and looks at her left hand. He sees a wedding ring there. Adam climbs out of bed, crosses the room to a small nightstand on Iana’s side of the bed. Her purse is perched on the table next to a small lamp. ADAM 7. Adam pulls items out of Iana’s purse, looks at them, places them on the nightstand: lipstick, compact, comb, keys, innumerable women’s beauty products. He finds her wallet, buried at the bottom of the purse. He opens it, pulls out her California driver’s license. Iana’s picture smiles, faded and awkward like all license photos. Her name: “Iana Wayde Healey”. Adam squints at the license. He looks back at Iana, scratches his chin. He replaces everything in the purse. He walks into the... HALLWAY Of the simple one-bedroom apartment. Pokes his head around a corner into the empty... KITCHENETTE AND LIVING ROOM He looks over the rooms thoroughly, as though seeing them for the first time. He walks out the main door. EXT. MINYON STREET - DAY (B&W) Adam strolls into the street that fronts his building. Complete desertion. No cars, no people, no birds: just silent trees, buildings, lonely streetlights. Adam turns 360, slowly, aghast, gets scared. A honk. Adam looks up. A lone Canadian goose flies overhead. Green goose poop splatters down on his shoulder. The goose disappears. Eerie silence. Scraping at his soiled shirt, Adam looks up at his apartment, and is truly terrified by... IANA glaring evilly down from a window above. 8. ADAM steps backwards involuntarily, as though struck by an uppercut. His left foot finds only air: an open manhole. He topples backwards and disappears down the hole, which of course is bottomless. Adam’s face turns from panic to resignation and dismay as he fades into the deep... INT. APARTMENT - BEDROOM - MORNING (B&W) Adam starts, suddenly upright in the twin bed, flies up into a sitting position. He breathes hard, pulse races. He looks at his alarm clock: 6:16 AM. Adam looks down at his dress clothes, the same as before. He clutches at them, tries to rip them off. He looks around, uncertain whether to be afraid, confused, angry. ADAM What the hell is happening? He looks down at Iana, sleeping next to him. ADAM (to Iana) What the hell is happening? She continues sleeping. Adam touches her arm. Nothing. He shakes her shoulder. Nothing. He shakes her harder. Nothing. Nothing. He puts both hands on her and rocks her, almost pushing her off the bed. Nothing. Adam decides on surprise. He yells suddenly. ADAM IANA! WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME? Iana continues to sleep. No response. Adam closes his eyes and forcefully rolls out of bed, smashes onto the floor. He opens his eyes, hopes to see something different. He hangs his head. ADAM Is this a dream? Am I going crazy? Is everyone else crazy? 9. A thought strikes him. He dives across the bed, looking in Iana’s mouth, scrabbling across her nightstand, not finding. ADAM Thank God. No drugs. (beat) Damn it. What am I even thinking? He puts his hand to his head, blinks. The room disappears from around him, as if sucked up into the sky by a sudden vortex. The world rushes by. He falls through oceans, through mountains, through space... Falls... EXT. BASKETBALL COURTS - DAY (SEPIA) A nice part of town. Where trees actually surround the court. Shade and greenery. The blacktop free of cracks. HIGH-SCHOOL ADAM (18), shirtless, dribbles the ball past a bevy of PLAYERS his own age. High-School Adam is cocky, and for a reason: he’s a prodigy. His moves on the court are the stuff that pros dream of. PLAYER #1 Hey, Adam, slow down, let the rest of us play a bit. ADAM Man, if you want to go shopping with girls, go ahead. If you want man time, get me the ball and quit whining. Adam dazzles everyone, revels in his own prowess. Not the best way to make friends. PLAYER #1 and PLAYER #2 exchange evil glances. Player #2 sticks out his leg as Adam runs toward him, Player #1 uses his body to guide Adam towards the trap. Adam takes a pass from PLAYER #3, soars over the outstretched leg, twists with effortless ease, makes the basket. Player #1 and Player #2 are only madder. Adam gathers up the ball. 10. ADAM Eleven-oh. Wanna go again? Adam’s eye is caught by a vision of a GIRL beyond the chainlink fence. Girl is slender, athletic, a tantalizing miniskirt. Player #1 notices. PLAYER #1 That’s jail-bait, Adam. Iana Wayde. She’s only fifteen. Go for it. ADAM Iana Wayde, huh? She go to our school? PLAYER #3 She’s fifteen, man. Adam tosses the ball to Player #2. ADAM What’s the use of being a stud? Adam jogs to the fence, walks alongside Iana. Iana, used to her own good looks, is nonetheless starry-eyed at the older jock coming after her. Hi, Iana. ADAM IANA Put a shirt on. I only talk to strangers who wear shirts. ADAM Then I better not be a stranger. IANA Can’t get stranger than you. ADAM Adam Healey. There’s prom next month. Iana stops walking. An older boy just asked her to prom. She wants to squeal and flail her arms. She suppresses the urge. IANA It’ll take you that long to clean up. They’ve reached the end of the block. Iana keeps going, crosses the street. Adam, head turned, slams into the fence. 11. Adam smiles, shakes it off, runs back on court. Takes the ball back from Player #2. PLAYER #3 Dude, don’t jeopardize that scholarship. You better not be thinking-ADAM Who’s thinking? Adam dodges, plants a foot, about to go around Player #2 with a beautiful fakeout... Player #1 leg whips him. Crunch. Adam’s knee implodes. He collapses in agony. INT. POLICE STATION - DAY (COLOR) KURT CATHCART (40s), a Rottweiler of a plain clothes cop, walks amongst the desks and cubicles, peeks over shoulders and into paperwork. Carries a small paper cubby with four coffee cups. Cathcart ducks his head in a corner office. Murph? CATHCART CHIEF DETECTIVE MESSINEO (50s), mustached Adonis, looks up from his paperwork. MESSINEO On time as always, Cathcart. Cathcart holds out the cubby. Messineo takes a steaming cup. CATHCART Good weekend? MESSINEO Like all the others. Divorced life is one big round of doing your own goddamn chores. Cathcart laughs a polite laugh. Nods a polite goodbye. CATHCART Later, Chief. 12. Messineo, head down, waves a goodbye. Cathcart pulls his head out of the office, blows out a breath as if to say: “Well, that chore’s done for the day.” Cathcart approaches a conspicuously neat desk. Sits down in his comfortable swivel chair, leans back with a grateful sigh. He drops the cubby on his desk. Only two cups are steaming. Cathcart picks up the cool cup. Sips. His upper lip turns purple. CATHCART Jays. Come on over. Two other plain-clothes cops pop from their seats, rush over to Cathcart’s desk. They are: JEAN (30s), nailbiting stress addict, and JOE (40s), plump paternal figure. JOE Morning, Kurt. Which one’s mine? CATHCART They’re all the same. Jean grabs her coffee first, nearly swallows the styrofoam. JEAN I need it, I need it. Thanks. Joe picks up his coffees leisurely, nods a thanks. Jean peers at Cathcart’s face. JEAN What’re you drinking, Kurt? You holding out on us? What? CATHCART Joe points to Cathcart’s purple lip. JOE Hair of the dog, huh? JEAN I’m a cat person. CATHCART I hate cats. JOE My kids want a horse. 13. Jean puts down her emptied cup, exhales gratefully. JEAN So, what’re you drinking, Kurt? CATHCART Purple grape juice. JEAN Fallen off the coffee wagon? CATHCART Antioxidants. My wife decided that coffee’s a nasty filthy habit. JOE Well, you’ll save your paycheck if you kick it. CATHCART Not if I keep buying for you. Joe salutes Cathcart with his coffee cup. JEAN Isn’t coffee supposed to be good for you? CATHCART Sure, ’cept when I’m coming down from the caffeine. JOE What’d you guys see on the docket this morning? CATHCART Same old stuff. JEAN I was checking through back files last night, and found something. JOE Jean’s gonna burst if she doesn’t get her daily stress quota. JEAN (as only friends can) Shut up, Joe. CATHCART What’d you find, Jean? 14. JEAN Failed suicide on Schneider Street. Fella’s a doc, chiropractor, in a coma at General. His secretary filed some complaint about no follow-up on the case, she’s worried about filing papers for unemployment. But I gotta stand in Narc for the day. Jean gives Cathcart a hopeful look. He smiles. CATHCART I’ll check out the hospital. You wanna come, Joe? Joe wags his head: “you overachiever”, he thinks. Melodramatically, Joe and Jean wave their hands goodbye as Cathcart puts his badge and handgun in his pockets. CATHCART I get all the fun to myself. As Cathcart disappears, Joe turns to Jean. JOE I hate hospitals. They smell. Joe sits down, feet up, flaps open a newspaper. The rest of this screenplay is unavailable for preview. Please contact the author for the full script.
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