EXT. PLAZA COLON/INT. BANK - DAY (1980)
BLACK and WHITE. The past was so clear-cut. Or was it?
Tiled roofs, the stark white stucco of a colonial town
square. Black iron bars at a bank. A briefcase carried
in a man's hand. A sniper's rifle being assembled. Thick
blocks of hundred dollar bills. Placed in the briefcase.
A man's teeth as he smiles grimly at the sight.
Sounds over a SUBJECTIVE VIEW. The BRIEFCASE SNAPS SHUT.
A VAULT DOOR SLAMS. RUBBER SOLES WALK a tiled floor.
Ahead, brilliant, white light suffuses the exit. Like
the way people describe near-death eperiences. We're
either going outdoors or over to the other side.
A long rifle silencer juts from a window. We see the
shooter FROM BEHIND, a view OVER his shoulder.
In the bank, the man crushes out a cigarette. A pause
and a DEEP EXHALE as we step outside into a flood of light.
In answer, the LOW PUFF of a SILENCER.
Only the plaza pigeons notice. As they take flight...
A man lies dead on the cobblestones. And as we look UP
TOWARD the window, there's nothing there. The pigeons
wheel above the plaza. We FOLLOW, finally losing them
to the sky. SLOWLY that sky BLEEDS from gray to blue.
And as we PAN BACK DOWN...
EXT. MARSH - SUNSET
We're no longer in a plaza, but in a vast marshland. Not
in the past, but in the present. The sun sparkles over
the water. Two silhouetted figures move past in the dis-
tance. One walks a little behind the other.
The man in front is KETCHAM. He wears an expensive suit
and Gucci loafers. He swats at flies nearly too small to
see, curses under his breath at the calf-deep mud.
The man behind is RATH. He moves easier; the flies don't
seem to bother him at all. His jeans are tucked into
rubber boots. He holds a silenced .22 at his side. Like
it was part of him.
They continue until one of Ketcham's shoes is sucked off
by the mud.
Ketcham balances on one leg, holding his silk-socked
foot in the air. The shoe disappears, filled with mud.
When I first saw you I wasn't
scared. I was just wondering why
you were dressed like that.
Now I know.
Ketcham pulls off his sock, sticks his foot in the mud.
He smiles. It feels good. He pulls off the other shoe,
tosses it. Grabbing for the other sock, he loses his
balance and sits down in the mud.
Rath waits patiently as Ketcham laughs at the absurdity
of it all. Ketcham finally pulls the sock off, then
stands, digs his toes into the dark, wet earth.
This feels good.
They move on, Rath still a little behind. Ketcham enjoys
the new sensation, but after a bit, the pleasure fades.
It's twisted, but I'm honored.
You're the best. It means at
least they're still afraid of me.