Gangs of New York Page #2

VALLON:

I don't know you.

MAN:

(lightly)

I suppose there's to be a fight.

VALLON catches the heavy Celtic inflection in the man's voice.

VALLON:

Derry?

MAN:

Donnegal. Name's Monk Eastman.

VALLON:

And you want to fight, Mr. Eastman?

MONK:

lf there's money in it.

VALLON:

Fight for the Natives. They have a proper war chest.

MONK:

Well, I might at that. But I thought I'd ask you first, seeing as how I'm

not quite a Native American myself.

VALLON:

Let's see your skills, and we'll talk of payment later.

MONK:

Fine. But if you like what you see, pay me double.

Monk turns to the door with the grace of a dancer and delivers a

SHATTERING kick, sending it flying off its hinges. Clear white LIGHT

streams in, and we see Monk Eastman plain for the first time: a huge man,

in stature and girth, wearing a small DERBY that intentionally makes his

head look even bigger.

VALLON:

(as the door splinters settle)

Stand with us then.

CUT TO:

7 EXT. STREET DAY (WINTER)

WINTER WIND blows across a scene as strange and bleak as an alien planet.

VALLON, carrying his cross high, steps through the doorway. The OTHERS

slowly follow VALLON out of the building, which is three stories high and

maybe a block long. A dilapidated sign identifies it as the 5 Paints

Brewery.

It is the tallest structure in the midst of low, squalid SHACKS, winding

ALLEYS as narrow as a snakels back, and DIRT STREETS filled with ruts, mud

and filthy snow. A few PIGS wander forlornly about, rooting for garbage.

WASH hangs stiff, in the middle of the square, from a peculiar monument

erected to some forgotten war hero.

The Brewery occupies one side of a SQUARE surrounded by some storefronts

and a couple of collapsed wooden sidewalks. If this place resembles

anything at all, it's a horrible hybrid of London's Limehouse and a

pioneer town in the American West whose best days have long passed--or

never came at all.

VALLON stands still, staring across the square past the monument. His

battalion of irregulars waits for his signal.

Now... very, very slowly...from around both sides of the monument comes

ANOTHER GANG, in size the same as VALLON's, men and women both, armed like

Visigoths with HOMEMADE WEAPONS: knives, pitchforks, building blocks and

bricks, boards with sharp nails protruding from the ends. Every member of

this second group is dressed in a long DUSTER which reaches to the ankles.

Several MEN in front of the group sport dusters made of leather.

VALLON:

Bill Poole! on whose challenge are we assembled?

A MAN in a leather duster (BILL THE BUTCHER) steps forward. He is young,

lean and fierce. And then there are his eyes. They do not match. One is

real. The other is a huge, bulging PEARL upon which has been engraved,

instead of a pupil, a full-color portrait of the AMERICAN EAGLE.

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