NEON SIGN: CICERO'S BAR AND GRILL.
The old neon sizzles.
INSIDE
We track slowly toward the back of the narrow, smoky room, bar to one side and booths to the other. A supered title sets the scene:
PHILADELPHIA DECEMBER 1999
The booths' high wooden bench backs serve as partitions, giving privacy. Each booth we pass is empty until .
. the second-to-last. A man in a suit too fine for this working-class establishment peeks around from behind the partition. As we close in on him he looks apprehensively toward the bar's front door. His shoulders are oddly hunched.
He is suave but sweaty, wears tinted aviator glasses, has a thin mustache. A lock of black hair bounces rakishly over his forehead. He is Alejandro Santos.
He gives up on his look and swivels around to lean against the bench back. We match around.
Head-on now, we see what keeps his shoulders hunched: he's hugging an attaché case to his chest. On the table in front of him are a few empty wine glasses and an overflowing ashtray: he's been waiting here for some time. He looks at his watch.
His eyes shift fearfully up: someone stands before him, having approached without noise. Santos hugs the attaché case tighter, but .
It is only the waiter.
WAITER
Another glass of .
(flicker of judgment)
. rosé?
Santos
No!
Inhibited by the attaché case, he twists awkwardly for a last quick look toward the door, then looks back. His speech is lightly accented:
. The hour is long past.
(he scribbles in the air)
Check!
WILLIAM PENN STATUE
We are looking up at the statue atop Philadelphia's city hall. Though William Penn placidly smiles, the underlight lends him a sinister look.
STREET
We're pulling Santos, who walks hugging the attaché case. The Cicero's neon sign glows, out of focus, behind him. His breath vaporizes in the cold night air. The street is empty but Santos looks warily from side to side.
Someone emerges from the bar in the background. Focus is too soft for us to distinguish a face but we recognize the white of the waiter's apron.
In the foreground, Santos is unaware of the waiter who trots after him, pulling off his apron and tossing it to one side.
When the pursuing footsteps grow close enough to be heard, Santos looks back.
SANTOS
Ahgah!
He starts running.
The waiter too breaks into a run.
Santos turns down an alleyway.
ALLEY
Santos hugs the attaché case, panting as he corners.
He tips over a garbage pail at the alley mouth, lamely covering his retreat, and backs away, looking wildly about. It is a blind alley.
The waiter appears at the alley mouth. He gazes coolly in.
WAITER
The case, Santos.
SANTOS
My case! Stand back!
As he backs away:
. Do not advance!
The waiter steps over the tipped garbage pail and advances. He reaches up and slowly pulls one end of his waiter's bow tie until its knot tumbles loose.
WAITER
The case, Santos.
Santos grabs the lid off a tin garbage pail and holds it in front of himself as a shield.
SANTOS
Halt! Evil-doer!
Fingers wrap around the lid at three o'clock and nine o'clock, and with a sharp yank and a dull clung it is wrenched from Santos's hand.
The waiter sails the lid back over his head. It skids off an alley wall and clatters to the ground behind him. The waiter continues his advance, matching Santos's retreat step for step.
WAITER
The case, Santos.
SANTOS
Not on your life! Waiter!
The waiter pulls what looks like a jackknife from one pocket. He pries it open: a corkscrew.
Santos defensively raises the attaché case:
. Aahh!
With his free hand, the waiter sweeps the attaché case down. With his other hand he plunges the corkscrew into Santos's neck.
. AAAAHHHH!
Screaming, Alejandro Santos reaches up and tugs at the protruding cross-handle. The corkscrew remains embedded in his neck and his tugging at it only tents the skin outward.
. AAAAAHHHHH!
Still retreating, clutching the attaché case one-handed, Santos laboriously twists the corkscrew. Getting it out will be a long job.
Behind the waiter, at the mouth of the alley, a black car screeches to a halt. Its passenger door is flung open to disgorge a thug in a suit who trots toward us.
The waiter, oblivious, is pulling a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He transfers it to his left hand, raises it, clicks it, as Santos screams on:
. AAAAAHHHHHHH!
The waiter plunges the pen into the other side of Santos's neck. Its protruding angle complements the corkscrew's.
. AAAAAHHHHH!
Santos reaches with his other hand for the pen, dropping the attaché case as the man from the car arrives.
The waiter stoops, picks up the attaché case and, without looking, passes it back to the arriving thug, who immediately turns and runs it back toward the alley mouth.
The waiter reaches up and pats Santos gently on one cheek.
Santos's hands are both up at his own neck, clutching pen and corkscrew like handlebars that waggle his head.
. AAAAAAHHHHHHH!
The waiter's hand lingers on Santos's cheek. The thumb slides up under the glasses lens to press against the eye.
The other hand rises to the other cheek, thumb likewise sliding up against eyeball.
The waiter's grip on Santos's face tightens; the thumbs bear down.
Santos's head vibrates as he screams:
. AAAAHHHHH!
We cut discreetly to the alley mouth where the black car idles. The thug hands the attaché case in through the front passenger window and a hacksaw is handed out to him. Then the car screeches off. The man plunges back into the darkness of the alley, hacksaw in hand. Though we cannot see the gruesome doings within, the screams redouble, and, with a sting, the movie's title wipes on.
WILLIAM PENN STATUE
Smiling, uplit. The scream is now distant.
A DARK APARTMENT HALLWAY
The scream is louder here. But wait: this is a different scream, coming from inside a bedroom down the hall.
THE BEDROOM
The scream - a woman's scream - is louder still:
WOMAN
AAAAHHHH!
The woman is staring up in close shot, screaming.
Wider shows her in bed, under a sheet which, below her waist, bips and bops and jiffy-pops with the action of her partner's head.
The ring of a phone. The beep of an answering machine.
Outgoing Message
Neither Sukie nor Jamie are here right now. Leave a message.
WOMAN
AAAHHHHH!
A beep. A woman's voice:
Caller
Jamie, it's me.
Woman
OH MY GOD! JAMIE!
CALLER
Are you there?
The woman's partner whips the sheet off her head - another young woman. She stares into space, listening, as the woman beneath her continues to writhe. From the machine:
. Are you coming tonight?
WOMAN
AH, PLEASE!
CALLER
Let me know because I'm not going to this . thing, if you're not.
Woman
JAMIE!
Caller
I won't know anyone. I mean I guess Diane'll be there.
Woman
JAMIE! JAMIE! JAMIE!
CALLER
But I don't want to be stuck there talking to Diane. Maybe Carla will be there.
WOMAN
OH!
...
