Jerone covers himself with a silk robe and steps into a pair of
INT. EUGENE'S CONDOMINIUM. EARLY MORNING.
JEROME emerges from the incinerator room into a large, luxurious
loft-style condo containing a bizarre assortment of equipment -
arranged somewhat like a production line.
Long, scrupulously clean metal work benches are arranged along
one entire wall. Laid out on the benches in neat rows are
dozens of plastic bags - some filled, some unfilled. Instruments
on trays - various types of tweezers, scissors and other less
familiar utensils. Round, stainless steel containers filled
with hairs of differing lengths and other body matter.
JEROME approaches another man slumped over one of the benches.
EUGENE. He clutches an empty vodka bottle. He is snoring
lightly - sleeping off the night before. As JEROME gently
prises the bottle out of his hand, we are struck by the
similarity of Eugene's face to Jerome's.
Jerome pulls Eugene's chair back from the desk with surprising
ease. A wheelchair - a modern, ergonomic design. Jerome wheels
Eugene to a bedroom and, with some difficulty, hauls the larger
man onto the bed. Through his alcoholic fog, Eugene feebly co-
operates - his paralyzed legs a particular dead weight.
After covering Eugene with a blanket, Jerome enters a bathroom
containing a surgically-clean stainless steel basin, sink,
shower and toilet.
Beside the toilet stands a large, industrial-style stainless
Donning protective gloves, Jerome opens the liquid-nitrogen
cooled refrigerator. A cloud of condensed water vapor billows
out. Revealed inside the fridge are racks of labelled jars and
silicon pouches - some containing a yellowish liquid, some a
deep, red liquid.