INT. LABORATORY CAFITERIA -- DAY

Intern HOWARD and intern STOLDT are in mid-conversation as they polish off the daily special. It looks anything but that.

HOWARD

If your safe word’s so good then what is it?

STOLDT

Bismarck.

HOWARD

The ship or the city?

(no answer)

Yea...Bismarck’s good.

STOLDT

Bismarck’s reallll good.

DR. JOHANNSON, Principal Research Scientist of Bloomberg experiments, pushes through the cafeteria door whispering heatedly at a copy of The Times. He walks past the interns not noticing them.

JOHNNASON

Kapowski, you smug bastard, don’t you think I don’t know that you stole my formula. That’s my award you’re accepting. (His blood boiling now) I’ve got an award for you, you little prick, the Nobel Prize for douchebaggery. (stops, thinks) No, the Nobel Committee would never award such a thing. Don’t worry Johannson, you’ll think of something better later, you always d...

HOWARD

Doctor, is everything alright over there?

Sitting down at their table, he takes HOWARD’s fork from his hand and begins to pick away at his lunch.

JOHANNSON

Look at this self-righteous bastard. He knows that formula was mine. And now look at him. (Points the photograph in The Times.) That should have been me on stage with that Einstein historical impersonator.

STOLDT stares at them blankly

HOWARD

‘The Spfoa’s’...the Scientific Prize for Outstanding Achievement in Science...they’re the Oscars of the scientific community.

JOHANNSON

Yes, and this year was supposed to be my Scorsese year. You know what comes with this award? Fame. Accolades. Kudos. All the fine scientist tail you could ever imagine. After years and years of coming so close, I could finally taste it. It tasted so sweet. (Now carving the eyes out of his nemesis’ picture with a fork prong) But this congratulaphobic tit stole my formula and my award. Now all that’s left is the bitter taste of humiliation, like a day spent sealing envelopes.

STOLDT

Are you sure congratulaphobic is a wor...

JOHANNSON

Yes, intern, I do think it is a word, and this man is the definition.

STOLDT

I spent my undergrad studying to become a clinical psychology intern and I’ve never heard of that condition before.

JOHANNSON

I’m the scientist damn it, I’d like to think I know what is and isn’t a real disease. That’s why they call me DOCTOR Johannson. And this man’s a textbook congratulaphobic just as sure as you’re a dullard and you’re a doper.

(pointing at STOLDT and HOWARD respectively)

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY

JOHNSON and ROGERS are taking a power lunch and talking before the meeting begins.

JOHNSON

I don’t think that it’s fair that Miller gets this promotion before we do. I have this huge phobia that I’m going to die before I make CEO.

ROGERS

I agree, but you know why he got it. It’s because of the C-M-N-E.

JOHNSON

C-M-N-E?

ROGERS

Yeah, the Corporate Male Nipple Effect.

JOHNSON drops his fork.

JOHNSON

You’re kidding me, right? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

ROGERS

You got my pic message right? The one I sent to everyone?

JOHNSON

Apparently not.

ROGERS

Lemme show ya.

ROGERS pulls out his Blackberry and shows JOHNSON a picture of MILLER swimming.

JOHNSON

Oh my god! Those things are huge!

ROGERS

And round, too. I’m telling you, it’s C-M-N-E. Women with larger boobs have been getting promotions for years, it’s our turn.

JOHNSON

Time to let these babies shine! Where’s the ice cubes?

INT. BUSY RESTAURANT KITCHEN – NIGHT

RUDY, 17, smiling broadly, dressed in kitchen whites, stands before a giant sink spraying down dirty dishes.

He takes careful aim at trouble spots, destroying globs of syrup, ice cream and cake, all with crackshot precision.

Rudy moves on to a pile of spoons, spraying down through the pile as the spoons scatter from the force of the stream.

The spoons part to reveal at the very bottom of the pile...one fork.

Rudy gasps, his smile replaced with a grimace. He tosses the sprayer absent-mindedly, sending the coiled stainless nozzle flying into the face of a passing WAITER. The Waiter shrieks in pain, hurling the stacked tray of sundaes and pastries he’d been carrying into the air.

The desserts impact all over the kitchen, eliciting yelps and shouts as Rudy, motionless, stares down into the sink.

The fork sits alone in a corona of spoons, gleaming. Light glints off one of its tines.

A PASTRY CHEF and the WAITER, stained with ice cream and chocolate, join Rudy at the sink.

WAITER

What the hell, Rudy?

PASTRY CHEF

(looking into sink)

Just hold on a minute, Jesse. Rudy? Can you hear me?

Chef waves a hand in front of Rudy’s face.

PASTRY CHEF

(to Waiter)

I think he’s in shock. I knew this would happen one day.

(angry, turning on the rest of the staff)

Who gave a customer this goddamned fork?!

The rest of the staff looks away, eager to avoid Chef’s gaze.

WAITER

I think I...

PASTRY CHEF

YES??

WAITER

I...I gave a customer a fork, he asked for one.

PASTRY CHEF

There’s a procedure to follow. You can’t just hand out forks of your own free will!

WAITER

He was having apple pie. Who eats pie with a spoon?

PASTRY CHEF

(embracing Rudy)

Rudy is fork-phobic! Don’t you understand? It’s our responsibility to create a safe work environment for everyone. EVERYONE! How would you like it if we covered the dining floor with landmines? Make your job a lot more dangerous, wouldn’t it?

WAITER

How was I supposed to---

Chef points at the far wall. The Waiter turns to find a simple sign picturing a fork with a red line across it.

WAITER

But we specialize in pastries, how can you eat pastry without a fork?

Rudy starts to moan.

PASTRY CHEF

(to Rudy, a whisper)

I’m sorry, Rudy, I’m taking it away. We’ll lock it in the safe with the others. You won’t see it again.

(reaches down to grab the fork)

Try to forgive me.

The Chef steps away from Rudy and toward the backpedalling Waiter.

WAITER

Careful with that.

PASTRY CHEF

Oh, scared? Scared of this?

(waving the fork)

Ever see what one of these can do?

The Chef reaches into his tunic and pulls out a tattered Polaroid.

PASTRY CHEF

Look.

WAITER

(catches a glance and turns away)

No, I...wait...

PASTRY CHEF

I’ll bet this guy thought the same way you do. Look at this picture and see what a fork can do. Look at it!

He’s backed the Waiter into the corner. The Waiter tries to look away, but sees no other way out but to face the Polaroid head-on.

WAITER

That’s...horrible...But...

PASTRY CHEF

But what?

WAITER

It doesn’t look like the fork did any of the damage to this guy. I mean, there’s the pot of boiling water, the hot oil...Hell, there are motorcycle tracks over his chest.

PASTRY CHEF

Don’t you see? The fork started it all!

The Waiter works his way out of the corner and starts to walk out, pulling off his bowtie and vest.

WAITER

You’re crazy.

(points at Rudy)

And if he’s fork-phobic, why is he working as a dishwasher?

PASTRY CHEF

What, he’s not entitled to pursue his dream like you are? Go on, quit, we don’t need your hatred here!

The Waiter exits out the back door.

Rudy is coming around. Chef gives him an encouraging embrace.

RUDY

What happened?

PASTRY CHEF

Never you mind.

A BUSBOY dumps a fresh pile of dirty dishes into the sink.

PASTRY CHEF

Look!

RUDY

(beaming)

It’s like Christmas morning!

Rudy grabs his spray nozzle and gets back to work as the Chef looks on.

INT. HIGHSCHOOL CAFETERIA – LUNCHTIME

It’s loud with teenaged chatter and cell texting. ELIZABETH DIETRICH, a sixteen-year-old in glasses and a shapeless plaid shirt, walks between the rows of tables, carrying a tray of food. She’s talking to LORI, also sixteen, with a nose piercing and a Ramones tee. Trailing after them is BRENT, overweight, pimpled, already digging into his TRAY of mac-and-cheese with a greasy cafeteria FORK.

ELIZABETH

Okay, look. I realize I might not have handled last night that well. But did you have to tell Kenneth that I have a real ... “boner phobia”?

LORI

Well he already knows you’re in the school band. I couldn’t tell him you have a “music phobia”.

ELIZABETH

Why do I have to have any phobia?!

LORI

How else am I supposed to explain you running off like Forrest Gump? You’re lucky I didn’t keep those Death Cab tickets for myself.

ELIZABETH

This is a nightmare. Now the whole school thinks I’m gay.

LORI

The whole school? Liz. Kenneth likes you. I’m sure he didn’t tell anyone.

In front of the girls jumps DAVID HAN: a short nerdy korean with a huge, twenty-year-old POLAROID CAMERA hanging around his neck. The strap is far too big for him, and the camera hangs at his belt. The girls stop abruptly. Brent bumps into them from behind, almost losing his tray.

DAVID HAN

Photo for the yearbook?

They stare at him dubiously. No one ever wanted to take their picture before.

DAVID HAN

The school gets more funding for sex ed if they think we have lesbians here.

LORI

Take my picture and I’ll cram that camera up your wasabi hole.

DAVID HAN

This is my Dad’s camera.

LORI

I don’t care if it’s Kim Jong Il’s

BRENT

(mouth full, fork waving)

That camera is broken anyway. He spent twenty minutes this morning trying to take a picture of the computer class. Mr. Hagedorn tried to fix it for him, so we got to play Pokemon.

Elizabeth looks at him.

BRENT

I mean Counterstrike.

David Han holds the camera up to his eye and tries to take a photo. The camera clicks but nothing happens. He shakes the camera and tries again. Still nothing.

ELIZABETH

(to Lori)

Great. Just great.

One of the tables nearby is filled with Jocks. PETE, seventeen, brushcut and a smirk, leans out into the aisle.

PETE

Hey Dietrich. Don’t be scared, but, I’ve got something here for you.

He grabs his groin.

BRENT

(brandishing his fork like a samurai sword)

You want a second mouth, a-hole?

PETE

(stands up)

You want some of this, fatass?

Pete shoves Brent, who staggers backwards, trying to keep his balance. He spins around, and slams his tray food-first into Elizabeth, covering her shirt with mac and cheese. The tray drops, clattering noisily.

The entire cafeteria hushes, as everyone turns to look.

ELIZABETH

Ugh! What’s next?!

KENNETH walks up.

KENNETH

Hey.

(a long beat)

ELIZABETH

(deep breath)

Hey! Um. Hi. Listen. Before you say anything. Is it possible you could just ... um ... forget that you saw me right now? And the next time you see me, can we just ... pretend like this never happened? Because, I don’t think I can deal with being more embarassed than I already am.

FADE IN:

INT. OFFICE BUILDING -- NIGHT

MIKE, a handsome, upper class man in his mid-thirties, sits at his desk with his office chair turned around. He is staring out his office window of the empty 69 story Michigan Avenue skyscraper. He is dressed impeccably – wearing a black pin-stripped Armani suit, white Valentino shirt, red Ferragamo necktie and black Bruno Magli shoes. He sits motionless, holding a long, blank stare out of the window into the black velvet night.

On the center of his desk, directly behind him, is a MANILA ENVELOPE with only a corner of a photograph visible. Next to the ENVELOPE lies his CELL PHONE.

The CELL PHONE begins to RING on his desk. After four rings, Mike slowly turns and picks up his CELL PHONE. After a brief glance at the number on the screen, he answers.

MIKE

Hello.

HEATHER (V.O.)

(filtered)

Mike? Where are you?

MIKE

At the office.

INT. MIKE’S HOME -- NIGHT

Mike’s wife HEATHER, a gorgeous woman in her mid-twenties with long, blond hair, is standing in the dimly-lit, enormous KITCHEN holding a cell phone to her ear. Her hourglass figure reflects off the white marble flooring.

HEATHER

This late? What’s going on?

INT. OFFICE BUILDING -- NIGHT

Mike glances at his watch and immediately leaves his office, grabbing the manila envelope on his way out. He enters the stairwell, pauses, and begins walking up the steps.

INT. STAIRWELL -- NIGHT

MIKE

Taking care of something.

INTERCUT

HEATHER

What are you taking care of?

MIKE

My biggest phobia.

Mike reaches the top of the stairwell and exits the door labeled ROOF.

HEATHER (V.O.)

(filtered)

Your what?

EXT. ROOFTOP -- NIGHT

Mike walks out onto the rooftop all the way to the ledge. As he steps onto the ledge, he kicks some debris over the edge. He stops, and watching the debris fall, he sees that beneath his feet – 69 stories below – is Michigan Avenue lit up by the ornamental street lights. Mike once again glances at his watch.

MIKE

My phobia. You know “dear!” – my fear of heights.

INTERCUT

HEATHER

Mike, what’s that noise? What’s wrong? Please tell me. You’re scaring me.

MIKE

Did you see today’s mail?

(beat)

Heather walks over to the pile of MAIL she had placed earlier on the black granite countertop and begins to shuffle through it. She immediately notices a MANILA ENVELOPE that had nothing written on it but her name.

She opens the ENVELOPE and pulls out a black and white photo of her and another MAN outside of a MOTEL room. They are wrapped in each others arms, engaged in a passionate kiss.

HEATHER

Mike I can expla...

MIKE

(shouting)

Shut the fuck up! I gave you everything and this is how you repay me. You’re nothing but a whore!

Heather turns, faces the window above the sink and leans on countertop with her head down.

HEATHER

(crying)

Mike...I love you.

MIKE

Love! You don’t know what love is... but I’m about to show you.

Mike glances at his watch once again.

HEATHER

(crying)

Mike...please...come...

WHACK! A large PITCHFORK is thrust in the back of Heather and exits out of her midsection. She lets out a SCREAM. Gasping for air, she falls to the floor – crimson blood spilling out of her on the white marble.

As she lay on her side taking her last breath, she makes out a MAN wearing a ski mask and dressed in all black. He kneels down next to her and picks up the CELL PHONE and places it next to his ear.

MAN

It’s done!

On the rooftop Mike drops the CELL PHONE over the ledge. He slowly raises the PHOTOGRAPH in his left hand and stares at it for a minute and drops it over the ledge. He gazes out at the beautiful city skyline and then slowly leans forward off the ledge.

FADE OUT.

INT. DINER – DAY

CHUCK is sitting in a booth, eating alone. LAWRENCE, a far from inconspicuous private detective, walks up to his table.

LAWRENCE

Charles Allen?

CHUCK

Yeah, that’s me. Somethin’ I can do for you?

LAWRENCE

Mind if I sit down?

CHUCK

(Turning his attention away from the stranger and back to his dinner)

I doubt it would matter if I do.

LAWRENCE

I imagine you’re right. Let me explain, Mr. Allen. My name is Lawrence Mead. I work as a private detective.

Chuck looks up from his plate, sauce hanging desperately to his lower lip

CHUCK

Really? I thought the trenchcoat was more of a fashion statement.

LAWRENCE

I’m glad you think this is funny, Mr. Allen. I’m here because of your father-in-law.

CHUCK

Oh, Jackson?

He stops to spear a bite of the meat on his plate. Shoving it into his mouth and not bothering to swallow before continuing.

CHUCK

(Continuing)

How is he? Still the same obnoxious self-aggrandizing--

LAWRENCE

(Cutting him off)

Rich. That’s how he is. Rich and convinced that these business trips of yours involve more than just business.

Chuck stabs another bite with his fork, and points it at Lawrence.

CHUCK

Look, if we’re going to talk business, you might want to get something to eat. The food here is great.

LAWRENCE

That’s all right. I don’t eat food that I haven’t made myself. After that movie, you know with the two girls down in Alabama, I just don’t trust what anybody else tries to serve me.

CHUCK

That’s pretty messed up, if you ask me Larry. You oughta talk to a shrink about that.

LAWRENCE

I didn’t ask you and I didn’t tell you to call me Larry. Besides, I don’t think I’ve got much of an appetite right now anyway.

Lawrence pulls out a photograph and pushes it across the table to Chuck.

LAWRENCE

Your beloved father-in-law is willing to pay me a lot to find out what’s going on when you leave your wife at home all the time for these trips.

He pushes another picture over to Chuck.

LAWRENCE

(Continuing)

A whole lot. Of course, if he gets what he wants, not only do you lose your wife, but you lose access to all her money. The way I see it, these pictures may be worth a good bit more to you than they are to him.

Chuck scrapes up the last of the food on his plate, and as he finishes the bite, picks up one of the photographs.

CHUCK

Fried Green Tomatoes.

(Off Lawrence’s confused look.)

The movie you were trying to think of, the one that’s got you so scared, that’s Fried Green Tomatoes. A chick flick.

He wipes his mouth with his napkin, then looks at the picture again with a smirk.

CHUCK

(Continuing)

Now, let’s talk business.

INT. MOVIE THEATRE LOBBY – NIGHT

HAROLD, a bit doughy and the opposite of clean-cut, stares absently while munching popcorn and creating a grease-trail on his faded purple XXXL tee-shirt.

The movie poster that has him transfixed shows a buxom, screaming woman and, just entering the picture, a huge bloody fork. The splashy red title reads: “PHOBIA! A Film By Paul W. S. Anderson... Nothing To Fear But Fear Itself!”

Harold works on a wedged seed with his tongue, nodding.

HAROLD

(to self)

I am, like, SO there, man...

INT. IMPROVISED SURVEILLANCE ROOM – NIGHT

A shabby looking room, quite dark, but you can spot some surveillance equipment in the background. And a huge telescope, looking out the window.

Next to it sits AGENT BUKOWSKI, asleep over an opened comicbook. He is in his twenties, has an eager, yet not too bright air about him.

AGENT STEWART enters, a weathered CIA-vet in his late fifties. He has seen too much to care about anything but his retirement. He throws a bag of fast food in Agent Bukowskis direction, waking him up. Some fries spill over the comicbook.

AGENT STWEWART

Rise and shine, bonehead.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

Haha. (rubs his eyes) This has got to be the most boring job I’ve ever done.

AGENT STWEWART

No reason to risk your job by falling asleep.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

What danger is that nerd anyway.

AGENT STWEWART

You got to start reading your fuckin’ assignments, Bukowski. Some weeks ago, that guy googled “derivatives” for about fiftiy times, and shortly after ... boom, down goes the derivative market.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

That’s all? Guess he wasn’t the only one googling that term.

AGENT STWEWART

Fifty times? But actually, yeah, he wasn’t alone one this. About 80 other people did so. All under close surveillance now. They seem to be somewhat connected. Agency calls them the August-Eighty. They communicate through a website called “John August”. Cryptos over at Quantico think its some kind of commie-slang for revolutionary partisan action.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

So this could be big? Boy, I need something like that on my CV.

AGENT STWEWART

Don’t get your hopes too high. So, what’s our guy doing?

Agent Bukowski looks through the telescope.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

The usual, sitting in front of his computer. Not jerking off, so that’s something for a change ...

Agent Bukowski suddenly seems alert.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

Wait, what ... huh? He’s staring at a fork.

AGENT STWEWART

A fork? That can’t be good. Let me see.

Agent Stewart gets agitated, shoves Agent Bukowski to the side and peers through the telescope.

AGENT STWEWART

Fuck, that is a fork. ... What’s he mumbling? Shit, we need a microphone in there, fast.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

I could ... I’m a lip-reader.

AGENT STWEWART

What?

AGENT BUKOWSKI

Don’t ask.

Agent Bukowski looks through the telescope for some seconds.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

He keeps saying the same thing over and over ... “fuckin’ scrippets”.

AGENT STWEWART

“Fucking scrippets”? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

AGENT BUKOWSKI

Now he’s writing something down ... in big capital letters ... P, H, O, B ... Phobia.

AGENT STWEWART

That’s enough, I’m calling the agency.

Agent Stewart yanks out a cellphone, speeddials.

AGENT STWEWART

Agent Stewart speaking, get me a on secure line to DC, now.

Agent Bukowski still stares into the telescope.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

(to himself) What are you up to, traitor-boy? ... (to Agent Stewart) Okay, he now has pulled photographs out of a drawer in his desk. A lot of photographs.

AGENT STWEWART

(into his cellphone) We’ve got some sort of situation here, Sir. Our objective is acting highly suspicious. He’s looking at a fork, yes, and photographs. Dozens of ‘em. Why that’s bothering me? I tell you, there’s something really bad going on over there. He keeps talking about “scrippets” and ... Sir? Yes, “scrippets” ... what? Oh my god.

Agent Stewart shouts to Agent Bukowski.

AGENT STWEWART

Turn the friggin’ telly on. Now!

Agent Bukowski switches on a small, portable televison set.

AGENT STWEWART

CPN. Faster.

Agent Bukowski flips through the channels, then comes to a halt.

TV-COMMENTATOR (V.O.)

... entering the main production facilities. Actually, it’s the first time, President Corbach is visiting a fork factory. Along with his guest, Russian premier Vitali Gobulov and his wife here in the town of Scrippet, Colorado ...

AGENT BUKOWSKI

Holy shit!

AGENT STWEWART

We’ve got to stop that! What’s he doing over there?

Agent Bukowski looks through the telescope.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

He’s typing. Fast. And mumbling again. This time he says ... oh my god ...

AGENT STWEWART

“Oh my God”?

AGENT BUKOWSKI

No, no. He keeps saying ... “deadline”.

A moment of shared shock between the agents.

AGENT STWEWART

This is it. We take him out. Now.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

Can I do that, please? It would be so good for my ...

AGENT STWEWART

Yes, yes, but fuckin’ hurry! The President’s life is on the line!

Agent Bukowski grabs a sniper rifle, puts it on the window sill. Then hesitates.

AGENT BUKOWSKI

But what if he is just ...

AGENT STWEWART

Shoot him. Now!

BANG. A shot! Agent Bukowski drops dead to the ground, a red hole in his forehead.

AGENT STWEWART

What the ...?

BANG. Another shot. Agent Stewart is down too, blood sipping on the floor from his shattered skull.

A moment of silence, as we ponder the mayhem, suddenly an explosion is heard, over the television. Televised screams fill the room.

TV-COMMENTATOR (V.O.)

Oh my god. Oh my god! This is a bloodbath! The entire building is hit by an enormous explosion, the people inside maimed by literally millions of forks! I can’t believe this is happening. This is unbelievable! There seems to be no way, President Corbach, nor Premier Gobulov or his wife Phobia have survived this brutal, heinous attack ...

FADE OUT

INT. UPSCALE HOME – LATE AFTERNOON

A long, spacious hallway. Sculptures on pedestals mark doorways. No lights on – only the remnants of the day’s sunlight casting a thin beam here and there. In this light, the color of the wall paint looks like brown dried blood.

We approach Lorena and Myra, in their Wal Mart best, as they fidget with the wall at the very end of the hallway.

LORENA

It’s got to be here.

MYRA

Hack. What the hell is an “Inspiration Room” anyway?

LORENA

Some place he would call me crying from.

MYRA

God. I won’t miss that.

Lorena leans her body up against the wall near the right corner. Myra feels around with her hands; tapping, knocking. She decides to lean her body weight up against the wall too – near the left corner.

CLICK! Something unhitches. They look at each other like lionesses ready for a kill – practically salivating.

The two women pull on the corner moulding of the wall. POP. The whole wall opens from Myra’s side on unseen hinges. They slowly force the wall open a couple feet more.

Just past the false wall, a black metal door resembling a bank vault. This inner door is slightly open. Artificial light from inside reflects on the women’s uncertain yet determined looks.

The two wedge their way in. They whisper (as if anyone were around). --

LORENA

Like a bank safe.

MYRA

Some kind of panic room. Paranoid little freak.

LORENA

(Diagnosing)

Fear of people – Autoasphyxia.

IN THE SECRET ROOM,

Not dark or cold. No windows, but dim recessed lighting shining down from above. A clean, simple fifteen by twelve room; with one jarring peculiarity. --

LORENA

Oh my god. Did his scrapbook throw up?

The main wall is an unsettling accent wall. Top to bottom, one end of the room to the other – wallpapered with family snapshots. Mementos from more than one decade.

MYRA

Like I’ve told you Lorena, off his trolley. He would have done himsel...

(Voice trails off)

Lorena is momentarily transfixed by this photo wall, when Myra, transfixed by something else, gently touches her sister’s shoulder. Lorena joins Myra’s attention on --

Several large framed art pieces leaning neatly in a row up against the right wall. All various takes on the same, somewhat abstract rendering. --

A raised fist clenching a large, two-pronged serving fork. The colors of each piece unique, the disturbing effect the same.

The two women gravitate toward the framed art – a score that trumps even a winning scratch-off.

MYRA

(With reverence, yet still somehow sneering)

Some rich assholes will pay us ten times what these were worth a week ago.

LORENA

(Crazy eyed)

I’ll take this one.

Lorena starts to pick up the biggest piece. Myra calmly takes hold of it with both hands.

MYRA

You just happen to eye... what will most likely be... the priciest piece. Recall who’s idea this was.

LORENA

(Tugging slightly at the picture)

“Suicidal overdose”. That’s so subtle.

MYRA

That is what “artistes” do.

(Beat)

I don’t have to fucking impress you.

Myra gives a “sucker yank”. The heavy frame snaps out of Lorena’s hands – and out of Myra’s as well. --

CRASH! Onto the floor.

MYRA

Okay. You can have that one.

The two are so entranced by the art pieces, or rather the potential price tags, they fail to notice the door behind them. Slowly... slowly... and – KA-LOCK!

With that sound, their greed becomes panic.

They rush to the monolithic black iron door, clawing grabbing, pounding.

MYRA

No key?!

LORENA

Oh my God!

Myra beelines to the artwork. Searches behind it. Nothing.

Lorena remaining near the door, eyes darting frantically about the otherwise empty room, just begins to hyperventilate when she notices --

A small hinged panel set into the far left wall.

LORENA

Myra!

Lorena rushes to the panel. Myra close behind.

Lorena opens it. A telephone inside a small built-in box.

They grab at the phone like rabid squirrels. Lorena’s got it.

LORENA

What the hell?!!

The phone has just one lighted button near the earpiece.

MYRA

It’s like those elevator phones! Push it! Push it!

Lorena pushes the button.

LORENA

It’s ringing!

Myra presses up to the phone with Lorena. A woman’s voice picks up. --

WOMAN’S VOICE

(Filtered)

Hell --

MYRA

Help!

LORENA

Help! We’re trapped! Hel...

MYRA

(To Lorena)

Wait!

The voice on the phone is Myra’s.

MYRA’S VOICE

(Filtered)

-- Lorena and I will be in Switzerland for the next month. So, please leave us a message, and we will --

Their mouths drop. They look at the phone, then each other.

LORENA

It’s our...

MYRA

That creepy motherf...

LORENA

(Exploding)

What was so wrong with just stealing his crappy art!

MYRA

(Overlapping)

Art Schmart. It ain’t worth the trouble unless the fucker is...

LORENA

(Overlapping)

I never gave a shit whether he was alive or...

BOTH

-- Dead!

Beat.

BEEP. The completed message sound rings loud and clear.

Their faces go ashen.

Lorena resigns the phone back to it’s home.

Sickened, they drift to the center of the room. Both pair of eyes to the collage wall. Their heads tilt slightly at --

A faded snapshot from a Thanksgiving dinner with a younger Lorena and younger Myra goofing off at the table. --

-- Younger Myra’s face forever fixed in a silly, crazed expression. A voracious Norma Bates pretending to stab violently at the turkey. In her clenched fist, a metal two-tined serving fork. Between the two wild-eyed, young faces in the foreground, sits the “artiste” himself. --

Young Joe – smiling out.

EXT. CITY STREET – DAY

MARILEE POPOVICH, 23, thick eyeliner and bushy hair, stands outside a restaurant smoking a cigarette. She peers inside, watching the patrons eat. She eyes the silverware on the table, reaching into her own pocket and pulling out a worn, rusted FORK, covered in crusted blood and pus.

MARILEE

(to herself)

Mine’s still better.

Marilee watches the people pass by on the streets. A MOTHER (35) gives her SON (6) an ice cream cone, who cries, displeased with it. A MAN (50s) and a WOMAN (too young for him) fight, though their muted gestures indicate they think they cannot be seen. A MAN (30s), in sunglasses and a trenchcoat, looks toward Marilee, waving a photograph at her and dropping it in a cast iron trash bin. She takes a final drag from her cigarette and stamps it out on the ground.

Putting on her own sunglasses, Marilee crosses the street and stands by the trash can. Lighting a new cigarette, she accidentally throws the lit match in the trash can, and reaches inside, patting out the small fire.

MARILEE

Oh, shoot.

Once inside, she digs out the photograph. In the photo is her next target: an OVERWEIGHT WOMAN (40s), wearing an oxygen mask and holding a flyswatter. Her hair is an anachronistic beehive, her mumu is purple, covered in white lotus flowers. Marilee flips over the photo. On the back, it reads: “JANET HAROWICZ, 45, 338 S. Jackson St. Paranoid schizophrenic convinced a giant army of insects has already infected our atmosphere with mind-controlling agents. Obviously a threat to our work. Do it fast. Leave no evidence. You know the drill.”

The photo is signed with an infinity symbol.

MARILEE

(sighing, stamps out new cigarette)

They promised me challenges, not errands.