Jon ----------- "Jonny"

OVER BLACK - AUDIO ONLY - UNKNOWN MEN, yelling in SPANISH, their WORDS, UNINTELLIGIBLE, rising in VOLUME and intensity. The unmistakable sound of RIFLE BOLTS being opened then closed, other youthful SCREAMS of defiance, FOUL LANGUAGE, CHAOTIC DIN, rising in crescendo - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM -! AUTOMATIC GUNFIRE PIERCES the BLACKNESS - FADE IN: EXT. GRASSY KNOLL - DUSK FOUR YOUNG MEN, DIRTY and DISHEVELED, noticeably BAREFOOT, SPRINT, side by side, up the CREST of a SMALL HILL. BULLETS FLY all around them, whizzing by just INCHES AWAY, while they run like BATS OUT OF HELL, quickly ascending the RIDGE. YOUNG MAN’S VOICE - OS Sure, we all had our reasons for going. But it seemed simple enough. CAMERA FREEZES: The first man’s FACE, Caucasian, HANDSOME, preppy looking. He runs from the GUNFIRE as though it’s just a PART OF THE JOB, a MINOR INCONVENIENCE. VOICE - OS Actually, it was perfect. The Professor had it all figured out. We’d just act as middlemen - CAMERA: The NEXT young FACE: Spanish or Latin, roguish, long hair. More ANGRY than SCARED, he’s DOWNRIGHT PISSED. VOICE - OS - do the deal and walk with a cool half-million. The beginning of our very own Banana Republic. CAMERA: Another FACE: Pudgy, American Indian, streaked with dusty, dried tears, PISS in his PANTS, TERROR in his EYES. VOICE - OS Storage, transportation, payment, our shit was tight. (a beat) But the truth? I should’ve known better - They LEAP from the RIDGE, CAMERA: Lands on the FINAL FACE, the fourth YOUNG MAN, the VOICE from ABOVE, catches him MID-JUMP - African-American, he GRIMACES, in SHOCK, DISBELIEF. VOICE - OS - Nobody has that kind of luck. The men RACE as hard as they can, to the edge of the clearing, reaching the BRUSH, scattering, DISAPPEARING into the DENSE FOLIAGE. FADE TO BLACK. ___________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________ From the noir-thriller "NUMB": EXT. TIBBETS’ APARTMENT - DAY He stands near the curb, patiently waiting, checks his WATCH. A BEAT UP looking CHEVY CHEVELLE makes its way down the road, moves closer, sputters and spits, stops at the gutter. TIBBETS - VO I wasn’t proud of myself, so I decided to talk to the one guy who could straighten me out. Inside the junker, MICHAEL TIBBETS, JOHN’S OLDER BROTHER. A former cop himself, Michael was kicked off the force years ago. MICHAEL If it ain’t brother John. How is my saintly brother? JOHN Not so saintly lately. Hope I didn’t wake you, it’s only 2PM. MICHAEL Means nothing to me, just stopped eating her pussy an hour early, that’s all. The FRACTIOUS Michael lets out a RAUCOUS LAUGH. JOHN Yeah, how is that mail order bride of yours? MICHAEL Good. Real fucking good. JOHN She ain’t kicked you out of the house yet? MICHAEL Hell no. What’s she gonna do? She doesn’t know anyone here - that’s the beauty of it. John scans Michael’s CAR - JOHN Listen, maybe we should take my ride. MICHAEL Fuck that. Come on, get in, this is great American engineering. Back when we actually used to build shit in this country. Michael points to his brother’s Japanese SUV - MICHAEL That fucking thing there, that’s made outta old melted down lighter casings, with a few torpedo hulls thrown in for good measure. (motions) Come on, let’s go Detective. INT. CHEVELLE - DAY Michael drives - TIBBETS - VO My brother was a real piece of work. A former cop, I.A.D. had him kicked off the force for what they described as "using non-standard means of obtaining information." The guy loved to crack heads. Was also known to take a bribe or two. Prior to, he did a tour in Nam, was there for the Tet Offensive - - starts rambling. MICHAEL Let me tell you all about that truck of your’s. See, the Japs, they’re real clever. Over in Japan, they’ve got nothing. No natural resources - all their raw materials are shipped in from somewhere else. Since the forties, they’ve been saving all their scrap metal. Rumor has it, the Japs used to melt down old lighter casings and re-use the metal. That’s how they got the name. JOHN What name? MICHAEL Datsun. Before they changed it to Nissan. Don’t you get it? John’s puzzled - MICHAEL Dot-Sun, like a dot of sun, you know, like a lighter. A dot of sun. (John’s defeated by the logic) Yeah, those Japs, real crafty. Stimulus package, my ass. (grabs his crotch) Here, stimulate this. Didn’t work for them in the nineties. Six times the Japs tried it. Saw it on PBS. JOHN You watch public television? MICHAEL Yeah - don’t have cable. JOHN Figures - (struggling) Listen, I should probably tell you this - Gail and I are separated. The CHEVY turns a corner. MICHAEL No shit -! What happened? EXT. CHAIN BUFFET STYLE RESTAURANT - DAY ESTABLISHING - A nice suburban family enters the EATERY. INT. CHAIN BUFFET STYLE RESTAURANT - DAY Picking at their meals, sipping on coffee. MICHAEL So now, you found yourself a Jezebel, huh? JOHN Told you I ain’t been a saint lately - (thinking) I don’t know, it’s simple and breezy, and - MICHAEL (finishes sentence) - Deliciously nasty, yeah, I get it. JOHN Can’t figure, I just don’t feel like myself. MICHAEL Hey man, it’s LA and you’re separated - everyone needs a good rug burn now and then. ____________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________ UP FROM BLACK - EXT. DESERTED OKLAHOMA HIGHWAY -- DAY A gentle TWO LANE HIGHWAY which appears to go NOWHERE, seemingly isolated, it’s only purpose, to divide and conquer the soporific landscape surrounding it. ANGLE ON: One side of the highway - Fields of dried grass which form an ORGANIC MOSAIC, as the individual blades BEND and DANCE in unison in the midst of a stiff, cold breeze. ANGLE ON: The other side of the highway - A BROKEN, BARREN EARTH - Swirling pockets of DUST, giving way to occasional FLASHES of LIGHTNING as the SOUND of UNSEASONABLE THUNDER RESONATES in the DISTANCE. A lone TUMBLEWEED peacefully BOUNCES ALONG in the wind, traveling parallel to it’s ASPHALT NEIGHBOR. The THUNDER CONTINUES - ANGLE ON: C.U. - A LONE MATCH - As it is STRUCK, then TOSSED UPON a DENSELY PACKED PILE of BRUSH. The FOLIAGE IGNITES with a POOF. ANGLE ON: An AERIAL VIEW of a seemingly lifeless land - Our P.O.V. Changing as the CAMERA catches a LONE VEHICLE, an OLD SEDAN, as it enters the FRAME, almost invasive, out of place, chugging along, heading WEST, into an ORANGE SUN. INT. VEHICLE -- SAME TIME Inside, a MAN, perhaps early to mid-forties, drives alone, an elbow out the window. He puffs furiously on a cigarette, looking troubled, as his thoughts appear to weigh heavy. He occasionally breaks glance with the highway, his eyes wavering down to his lap, as he shakes his head in shameful disapproval, resigning himself - EXT. HIGHWAY -- SAME TIME ANGLE ON: An OFFRAMP, leading NORTH, along with a SIGN - Which POINTS and reads PONCA CITY - 25 MI. INT. VEHICLE -- SAME TIME Our man notices the DETOUR - Thinking a moment, he hesitates, begins to TURN OFF, then at the LAST SECOND, CUTTING BACK, RETURNING TO THE MAIN HIGHWAY. He continues ONWARD, a kind of self-imposed shame blanketing him, a quiet disappointment in himself. Averting his eyes, the CAR BEGINS TO ACCELERATE - The sound of THUNDER continues to CRACKLE on the HORIZON. EXT. HIGHWAY -- SAME TIME The lone tumbleweed marches on, blowing across the land. In the DISTANCE, the sound of RITUALISTIC CHANTING O.S. can be HEARD, INCREASING in VOLUME - INT. VEHICLE -- SAME TIME As our driver pushes the car harder, faster, he lifts his weary eyes, then slowly begins focusing on something up in the distance. His EYES TRAIN OFF and TO THE RIGHT: ANGLE ON: A TRADITIONAL NATIVE AMERICAN CEREMONY - In fact, a FUNERAL for one of their own. A small group of perhaps twelve or so surround a HUGE FIRE. Suspended within the FLAMES, braced up carefully by some sort of rack, lies the DECEASED, wrapped tightly in CEREMONIAL CLOTH to insure COMPLETE INCINERATION. Several of the NATIVE AMERICAN MEN wear TRADITIONAL HEADGEAR, IN FULL DRESS, as they perform a kind of DANCE around the FIRE. The women offer up gifts, tossing them into the FIRE below the BODY. INT. VEHICLE -- SAME TIME Our driver WATCHES THE RITUAL INTENSELY, seemingly almost welcoming the distraction. OUR P.O.V. - Through his eyes, as he takes in EACH MEMBER of the TRIBE. A beat, then, the TUMBLEWEED we’ve been following can be seen entering the FRAME, gently breezing it’s way into the back of a young INDIAN CHILD. EXT. THE FUNERAL -- SAME TIME The BEAUTIFUL YOUNG CHILD, long, dark hair blowing in the wind, EYES STRAINING to try and UNDERSTAND what she is WITNESSING, feels the DEAD GROWTH brush against her backside. She turns to glimpse at it, PONDERING, as she watches the other women placing their offerings into the fire. She then slowly grabs a hold of the ROTUND WEED. ANGLE ON: The CHILD - As she drags the bush over towards the flames. The FIRE-LIGHT FLICKERS off her face, as she PUSHES the TUMBLEWEED into the COMBUSTION. As FLAMES CONSUME it, the CAMERA JUXTAPOSES - INT. VEHICLE -- SAME TIME Our driver FOCUSES on the CHILD, then stares into the flames, continues perusing the sight. As he WATCHES - A BODY, a APPARITION OF SORTS, SLOWLY APPEARS TO SLIDE OUT OF THE CLOTH, STEPPING OUT OF THE FLAME. The “ENERGY FIELD” CONDENSES, SOLIDIFIES, gently revealing our ENTITY is that of a YOUNG INDIAN WOMAN, perhaps late twenties. Her long, dark tresses compliment her long flowing dress and as SHE MOVES AWAY from the FIRE, none of the tribal members notice or acknowledge her presence. Her movement away from the group gains in SPEED and INTENSITY, as she dashes off, PARALLEL to the highway. REVERSE ANGLE TO REVEAL: Our DRIVER - Fixated on the BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, fascinated, not sure of what he’s really seeing, almost appearing to him as a wishful, physical manifestation of thought. EXT. HIGHWAY -- SAME TIME Up ahead, a lonely TRUCKER, AFRICAN-AMERICAN, EARLY SIXTIES, makes his way, heading EAST on the highway. He fiddles with his RADIO, searching for a STATION, but getting nothing but STATIC. He eats a make-shift lunch, paying little attention to the big rig or the road ahead. INT. VEHICLE -- SAME TIME Our driver continues watching the INDIAN WOMAN, eyes blinking, squinting, unsure, not paying attention to up ahead. The SOUND of a TRUCK APPROACHING can be HEARD. INT. TRUCK -- SAME TIME Our trucker looks up, sees the car making it’s way west, then spots the FUNERAL in the distance. Unimpressed, he smiles to himself, merely comforted by seeing others in such a barren land. He then returns to his LUNCH. INT. VEHICLE -- SECONDS LATER As the driver watches the WOMAN, her RESTLESS ENERGY FIELD, no longer OPAQUE, DARTS LEFT, LIGHTENING FAST, TOWARDS THE HIGHWAY - RIGHT TOWARDS THE FRONT OF THE HIS VEHICLE. DRIVER WATCH OUT -- He SWERVES to avoid HER, but she SLAMS INTO THE FRONT OF THE CAR, ACTUALLY PASSING THROUGH BOTH HIM AND THE VEHICLE - However, his STEERING has put him into the ON-COMING LANE, RIGHT IN THE PATH OF THE TRUCK - SLAMMING on the BRAKES, throwing the CAR into a SIDEWAYS SKID - INT. TRUCK -- SAME TIME The trucker looks up just in time to NOTICE THE CAR HEADED RIGHT FOR THE FRONT GRILL OF HIS DIESEL. There’s NO TIME to REACT - As they QUICKLY CLOSE ON ONE ANOTHER: TRUCKER - O.S. SHIT -- KABOOM -- The two vehicles COLLIDE, the IMPACT ripping the car IN HALF, as it DISINTEGRATES, METAL FLYING EVERYWHERE - THE REMAINING TWO HALVES FLIPPING OVER IN THE PROCESS. EERIE SILENCE - As our P.O.V. Surveys the WRECKAGE, focusing on what remains of the CAR. As the CAMERA JUXTAPOSES the ACCIDENT with that of TALL GRASS GENTLY BLOWING in the BREEZE, followed by SWIRLS OF DUST, stirring up the DRY EARTH, the scene has an unearthly LOOK and FEEL of DEATH. CAMERA - Focuses in on one of the WHEELS of the SHREDDED VEHICLE, as it slowly comes to a STOP. Thunder continues POUNDING in the DISTANCE. FADE TO BLACK: