ROLL CREDITS OVER:
EXT. GOLF COURSE - DAWN
VARIOUS EXTRA CLOSE-UPS of this luxurious patchwork of
A POLISHED BRASS SPRINKLER HEAD
pops up from the ground and begins to water the already dew-
FLEET OF DUCKLINGS
No mother in sight, cruise through the thrushes.
GRAVEYARD OF GOLF BALLS, UNDERWATER
At the bottom of a water hazard.
After a neat they sway, revealing the barren desert that
surrounds the artificial oasis. The sun already bakes the
air. We hear the opening guitar strains of the Kim Deal-Kurt
Cobain suet of "WHAT I DID FOR LOVE," as we CRANE DOWN the
A BRAND-NEW TITLEIST 3 BALL.
Just on the edge of the rough. A pair of yellow trousers
moves in. An iron confidently addresses the ball, and chips
it out. The trousers walk out after it.
Digging dirt out of the grooves of the iron's face with a
golf tee, while on the way to the green. Both hands are
gloved, instead of one, and the gloves are black.
In a squat over the ball, sizing up the curvy, fifty-foot
journey to the hole. The figure positions himself and the
putter above the ball, then pops the ball lightly. The ball
rolls and bobs with purpose toward the hole, dodging hazards
and finding lanes, until it finally falls off of the green
and into the hole.
THE GLOVED HAND:
Sets the ball on the next tee. The figure moves to a leather
golf bag. The hands pull the wipe rag off of the top of the
bag and drop it on the ground, reach into the bag, drawing
out a compact SNIPER RIFLE, affixed with a long silencer.
The figure drops one knee down onto the rag, the other foot
firmly setting its spikes. We move the figure to see the
face of the sniper, concentrating down the scope in his half-
squat. He is MARTIN BLANK.
We SWING AROUND behind his head to look down the barrel with
him. Four-hundred yards away, on another part of the course,
another green is barely visible through groves of trees and
rough. Three miniscule, SILVER-HAIRED FIGURES come into view.
One of them, in a RED SWEATER sets up for first putt. He
could be an investment banker, or an arms trader.
Flinches, and a low THUNK reports from the rifle. A second
later in the distance, the
RED SWEATER'S HEAD
Seems to vanish from his shoulders into a crimson mist. His
body crumples to the green.
Returns the rifle to the bag, pulls out a driver, moves to
the tee and whacks the ball. He watches its path and whispers
INT. CLUB HOUSE PATIO - LATER
The outdoor post-golf luncheon area of an elite Texas golf
club. Martin sits in on the fringes of a conversation between
a group of executive types. CLUB MEMBER #1 has a Buddha-like
peace in his eyes through the philosophical talk.