I thank Jack, employee of Chase Bank, for purchasing three thrillers today on Bay Parkway, and the Russian woman who bought the book in her native language. Here's an excerpt from a screenplay I wrote sometime in the '90's, a thriller that pays tribute to movies and TV shows of the past, chiefly through name-dropping. I probably had more fun writing it than anything else I've ever done.
Part Two: The security gate. A Sheriff's car skids to a halt at the security booth. The
officers exit and approach the corpse.
Deputy:
Geez.
He draws his gun and looks about. His name tag reads: "Fife."
Sheriff:
Put that away, Andy.
Deputy:
How do we know he's still not around?
Sheriff:
Would you stick around if you did somethin' like this?
Deputy:
No, but I'm not crazy.
The Sheriff looks at him askance.
Sheriff:
Sometimes I wonder.
The Deputy stares, unsure of himself. The Sheriff chuckles, squats, and examines
the body.
Sheriff:
And how d'you know it was a man?
Deputy:
No woman'd ever do somethin' like that.
Sheriff:
Does the name Lizzie Broden ring a bell - or Lorena what's her name?
The Deputy smirks.
Sheriff:
Well, I guess I shouldn't expect somebody who married the girl next door to know
what some women'll do.
The Deputy fidgets. The Sheriff chuckles.
Deputy:
Geez, Barney, how can you laugh at a time like this?
Sheriff:
If.... Never mind.
He looks at the body.
Sheriff:
Poor Otis. At least I think it's Otis. Does it look like Otis to you?
The Deputy is appalled at the humor.
Deputy:
C'mon, Barney.
The Sheriff scrapes blood from the name tag. It reads "Campbell."
Sheriff :
Yep, it's Otis all right. Get an ambulance out here. And tell Angel to call Elly May
and tell her not to wait up for you.
As the Deputy goes to the car, the Sheriff makes his way to the door of the
sanitarium. He notices the blood-stained sock, peers around the bush, and grimaces.
Suddenly he is staggered by a flashback to Vietnam, his finding a G.I. dead behind a
bush. Grasping the railing, be shakes his head to chase the image.
He enters the building and sees the severed head and hand. He looks toward a
stairway. Blood is now winding its way down and also trickling from the landing. He
experiences another flashback, the carnage in the aftermath of an explosion. He
blinks several times to restore himself to the present, mutters to himself .
Sheriff:
Gonna be one of those nights.
The Deputy enters and immediately grows pale.
Sheriff :
If you're gonna heave, go outside. Don't taint ...
Too late. The Deputy spews into the red river. The Sheriff smirks, then grows
compassionate.
Sheriff:
Not like it is in the movies, is it? You lost your innocence now. You got a close up
of the savage side of life.
The Deputy is leaning against the desk, gathering himself. A glimpse of the legs of
the dead body behind the desk jolts him into recovery.
Deputy:
God, I know her. What is this?
Sheriff:
Hell. I saw it in 'nam.
Deputy:
That musta been fun.
Sheriff:
A barrel of laughs. At least it got me ready for this. Matter of fact, life's been kinda
boring since then. Guess you can't hide forever. Better ring up the FBI. This's way
over our heads. And don't touch anything.
Deputy:
You don't hafta worry about that.
The Deputy leaves. The Sheriff enters the recreation area. "Jeopardy" is airing.
Several inmates are slumped in their seats, apparently poisoned.
Sheriff:
Lord save us.
He follows the river of blood, peers into the two rooms, winces at the sight. He
experiences a flashback of severed heads impaled on long sticks. He shakes his head to
chase the image.
Sheriff:
Damn.
He approaches a door upon which a plate is affixed: Dr. Melvin Brooks, Chief of
Staff. The Sheriff finds Dr. Brooks face down on his desk, an eyeball driven into a
fountain pen resting in a stand. A pool of blood soaks the blotter. Beside his head
rests a folder. Atop the folder sits a. note. The Sheriff lifts and scans it. He notes a
large "X" on the cover of the folder.
For the past year I've been treating select patients with various doses of a drug I developed, hoping, believing it would cure them. While the initial results were promising, the final results have proved disastrous and appear irreversible. The files of the five subjects are in the folder beside me. Rather than endure the inevitable scandal and humiliation that will ensue, I have chosen to take my life in the hope that Bates-Myers will be spared and be allowed to continue its vital service. I alone was responsible for this catastrophe. No one else knew of the experiment, although several of the staff had grown suspicious. I ask the forgiveness of my family, colleagues, friends, and the fine citizens of this community, who have been so supportive of our efforts.
Mel Brooks
Read Vic's stories, free: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
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