Wild Wild West Page #2

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light hits him as the stairway door opens above. There

stands Slim, his gun drawn. He grins:

SLIM:

Aww, you lost your shooters.

Slim gleefully c*cks his gun, but Jim reaches into his

lapel, pulling out a deadly throwing knife. SWISH! Slim

is pinned to the wall by his ear. He screams in agony.

More FOOTSTEPS above. In seconds the other men will be

upon him. Jim backs up, looking around, trapped.

Larson and his men clatter down the stairs. They fan

out, warily looking for their dangerous prey. But there's

no sign of him. Suddenly, with a HISS, a brilliant light

flares up. The men spin, aiming their guns. Oh sh*t!

It's a flaming trail of blasting powder -- racing toward

the jumble of broken powder kegs!

The horrified gunmen YELL in panic as they scramble over

themselves trying to get away. They don't make it.

EXT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT

We hear the men SCREAMING. Then the whole place goes up

in a HUGE EXPLOSION.

The debris rains down all over the street. As the smoke

clears, a stunned, awestruck Sheriff Walters peeks out

from his hiding place, then edges cautiously up to the

smoldering crater.

ANGLE - CRATER

Down in the ruins nothing is recognizable except -- the

scorched safe, now lying on its side. Its door THUDS

open. And out rises dazed Jim. He looks up at Walters.

JIM:

See? Stand up to 'em and they go

all to pieces.

We hear the CLINK of wine glasses and a MOZART QUARTET

and

CUT TO:

INT. MANSION - DRAWING ROOM - NIGHT

SUPER:
"NEW YORK CITY"

This lavishly decorated room is filled with upper-crust

SOCIETY PEOPLE having their version of a good time.

Among them is an elegant and dashing Frenchman, the BARON.

He wears pince-nez glasses above a mustache and full beard.

He walks with a pronounced stiff-legged limp. At the

moment he's sniffing an inferior wine and scowling at a

really bad painting. He winces as a hefty Margaret Dumont

type society MATRON slinks flirtatiously up behind him.

MATRON:

Oh Baron, so here's where you've

been hiding. All the ladies are

asking about you, but I told them

you are mine tonight!

(re the painting)

Ah, the Baron appreciates a fine

painting, n'est-ce-pas?

The Baron tries to overlook her godawful French and

responds indulgently in a Pepe le Pew FRENCH ACCENT:

BARON:

In-croy-able.

MATRON:

(translating)

In-croy-able...? Incredible, yes?

BARON:

Incredible, yes, that this charlatan

has found anyone to buy these

paintings. Ah, but perhaps the

poor man is, how you say, paralyzed

and is forced to hold the paint

brush in his mouth, non?

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