INT. GLASS-WALLED OFFICE -- DAY
ANGLE ON A MAN IN A BLACK SUIT SITTING BEHIND A DESK
Smarmy gym-and-suntan disciple with a conservative haircut.
This is DALE BARNES (38).
SOMEONE FACES HIM
Standing. JOE MACMILLAN (34). A man these black suits were
made for. But despite the jawline, the executive contour
hair, he’s a million miles away right now.
C’mon, Joe. It’s just business.
Without a word, MacMillan turns and leaves through the glass
INT. PRISTINE HALLWAY -- CONTINUOUS
HIS BLACK WINGTIPS
Walking at a swift clip, toes glancing against the bottom of
the frame as they move forward in rhythm.
A BLACK BRIEFCASE
Suspended by the grip of MacMillan’s hand. White shirt cuff
exposed a flawless quarter inch from a black suit sleeve.
EXT. HEADQUARTERS ENTRANCE -- CONTINUOUS
MacMillan steps outside to a cement walkway leading out to a
vast employee parking lot.
He reaches the walkway’s end. Stops.
Just stands there.
FADE UP SUPER:
“Armonk, New York. 1981.”
EXT. PARKING LOT -- LATER
SLAMMING closed the trunk of a black 1980 Audi Quattro.
HIS HAND REACHES INSIDE THE SUIT BREAST POCKET
Pulls out a pair of Serengeti sunglasses.
Places them over his eyes.
EXT. NEW ORCHARD ROAD -- LATER
The Audi ROARS past the company entrance sign: IBM.
EXT. RURAL NEW YORK HIGHWAY -- LATER
The GROWING ROAR of the Audi. It appears, rockets down a two-
line asphalt in a matter of seconds, kicking up dead leaves.
INT. AUDI QUATTRO -- CONTINUOUS
ANGLE ON MacMillan’s hand, pulling the floor shifter down
into fourth gear, the road’s reflection in his glasses.
EXT. COASTAL HIGHWAY -- LATER
The Audi traverses a wooded lane that opens onto the rocky
coast of the Atlantic Ocean. Going faster.
INT. AUDI QUATTRO -- CONTINUOUS
MacMillan is blank as he throws the car into fifth. The blur
of water stretches to the horizon outside his window.
THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD, an approaching hard bank turn.
Nothing but guard rail. Not a problem at normal speed.
ANGLE ON the speedometer climbing...
EXT. COASTAL HIGHWAY -- CONTINUOUS
The Audi SMASHES through the guard rail somewhere around 110.
A direct hit. No swerve. Intentional.
The rail gives like paper and the Audi is now a missile being
shot out over the white water of the coastline.
It sails high, engine REVVED and floored before...
THE FRONT END HITS THE WATERLINE LIKE A BRICK WALL
DESTROYING half of the car with a THUNDER CLAP.
A few seconds pass before lapping waves begin to fold around
the vehicle and its driver. No movement within. Completely
INT. HONKY TONK BAR -- NIGHT
TEN MONTHS LATER
An honest to God COWBOY drops in a quarter, makes his punch
button selections on a jukebox. Two seconds pass until the
machine lets loose with STEEL GUITAR and MERLE HAGGARD.
The cowboy takes his mug of beer from atop the juke and
actually moseys through a late night crowd of legitimate and
gregarious country western folk spanning generations.
ANGLE ON the bar itself, tracking across its patrons--all
tough men in hats, jeans--ladies with perms, chewing gum,
THE LAST MAN AT THE BAR sticks out like a sore thumb. He
isn’t country; hell, he ain’t much of anything. Ragged hair,
big glasses, thick unkempt mustache. Lots of empty mugs.
This is GORDON CLARK (31).
Can I get another Shiner?
A fresh mug of beer slides his way but it doesn’t seem to
cheer him up any. A YOUNG BUCK (early 20’s) sallies up next
to him, square head in a wide-brimmed hat.