The lonely sound of a buoy bell in the distance. Water
slapping against a smooth, flat surface in rhythm. The
creaking of wood.
Off in the very far distance, one can make out the sound of
SUDDENLY, a single match ignites and invades the darkness. It
quivers for a moment. A dimly lit hand brings the rest of the
pack to the match. A plume of yellow-white flame flares and
illuminates the battered face of DEAN KEATON, age forty. His
salty-gray hair is wet and matted. His face drips with water
or sweat. A large cut runs the length of his face from the
corner of his eye to his chin. It bleeds freely. An un-lit
cigarette hangs in the corner of his mouth.
In the half-light we can make out that he is on the deck of a
large boat. A yacht, perhaps, or a small freighter. He sits
with his back against the front bulkhead of the wheel house.
His legs are twisted at odd, almost impossible angles. He
A thin trail of liquid runs past his feet and off into the
darkness. Keaton lights the cigarette on the burning pack of
matches before throwing them into the liquid.
The liquid IGNITES with a poof.
The flame runs up the stream, gaining in speed and intensity.
It begins to ripple and rumble as it runs down the deck
towards the stern.
2 EXT. BOAT - NIGHT - STERN 2'
A stack of oil drums rests on the stern. They are stacked on
a palette with ropes at each corner that attach it to a huge
crane on the dock. One of the barrels has been punctured at
it's base. Gasoline trickles freely from the hole.
The flame is racing now towards the barrels. Keaton smiles
weakly to himself.
The flame is within a few yards of the barrels when another
stream of liquid splashes onto the gas. The flame fizzles out
pitifully with a hiss.
Two feet straddle the flame. A stream of urine flows onto the
deck from between them.
The sound of a fly zipping. Follow the feet as they move over
to where Keaton rests at the wheel house.
CRANE UP to the waist of the unknown man. He pulls a pack of
cigarettes out of one pocket and a strange antique lighter
from the other. It is gold, with a clasp that folds down over
the flint. The man flicks up the clasp with his thumb and
strikes it with his index finger. It is a fluid motion,
Keaton looks up at the man. A look of realization crosses his
face. It is followed by frustration, anger, and finally
How are you, Keaton?
I'd have to say my spine was broken,
He spits the name out like it was poison.
The man puts the lighter back in his pocket and reaches under
his jacket. He produces a stainless .38 revolver.
What time is it?
The hand with the gun turns over, turning the gold watch on
its wrist upward.
The sound of sirens is closer now. Headed this way.
Keaton grimaces bitterly and nods. He turns his head away and
takes another drag.
The hand with the gun waits long enough for Keaton to enjoy
his last drag before pulling the trigger.