ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Venus in Furs, by Ritter von Leopold Sacher-MasochThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Venus in FursAuthor: Ritter von Leopold Sacher-MasochTranslator: Fernanda SavagePosting Date: October20, 2011 [EBook #6852]Release Date: November, 2004[This file was first posted on February 2, 2003]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENUS IN FURS ***Produced by AvinashKothare, Tom Allen, Tiffany Vergon,Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.VENUS IN FURSOf this book, intended forprivate circulation, only1225 copies have beenprinted, andtype afterwarddistributed.VENUS IN FURSByLEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCHTranslated from the GermanByFERNANDA SAVAGEINTRODUCTIONLeopold von Sacher-Masoch was born in Lemberg, Austrian Galicia,onJanuary 27, 1836. He studied jurisprudence at Prague and Graz, and in1857 became a teacher at the latter university. He published severalhistorical works, but soon gave up his academic career to devotehimselfwholly to literature. For a number of years he edited theinternational review, _Auf der Hohe_, at Leipzig, but later removed toParis, for he was always strongly Francophile. His last years he spentat Lindheim in Hesse,Germany, where he died on March 9, 1895. In 1873he married Aurora von Rumelin, who wrote a number of novels under thepseudonym of Wanda von Dunajew, which it is interesting to note is thename of the heroineof _Venus in Furs_. Her sensational memoirs whichhave been the cause of considerable controversy were published in 1906.During his career as writer an endless number of works poured fromSacher-Masoch's pen.Many of these were works of ephemeral journalism,and some of them unfortunately pure sensationalism, for economicnecessity forced him to turn his pen to unworthy ends.There is, however, a residue among hisworks which has a distinctliterary and even greater psychological value. His principal literaryambition was never completely fulfilled. It was a somewhatprogrammatic plan to give a picture of contemporary life in allitsvarious aspects and interrelations under the general title of the_Heritage of Cain_. This idea was probably derived from Balzac's_Comedie Humaine_. The whole was to be divided into six subdivisionswith the generaltitles _Love, Property, Money, The State, War,_ and_Death_. Each of these divisions in its turn consisted of six novels,of which the last was intended to summarize the author's conclusionsand to present his solution forthe problems set in the others.This extensive plan remained unachieved, and only the first two parts,_Love_ and _Property_, were completed. Of the other sections onlyfragments remain. The present novel, _Venus inFurs_, forms the fifthin the series, _Love_.The best of Sacher-Masoch's work is characterized by a swiftnarration and a graphic representation of character and scene and arich humor. The latter has made many of hisshorter stories dealingwith his native Galicia little masterpieces of local color.There is, however, another element in his work which has caused hisname to become as eponym for an entire series of phenomena at oneendof the psycho-sexual scale. This gives his productions a peculiarpsychological value, though it cannot be denied also a morbid tingethat makes them often repellent. However, it is well to remember thatnature isneither good nor bad, neither altruistic nor egoistic, andthat it operates through the human psyche as well as through crystalsand plants and animals with the same inexorable laws.Sacher-Masoch was the poet of theanomaly now generally known as_masochism_. By this is meant the desire on the part of the individualaffected of desiring himself completely and unconditionally subject tothe will of a person of the opposite sex, andbeing treated by thisperson as by a master, to be humiliated, abused, and tormented, evento the verge of death. This motive is treated in all its innumerablevariations. As a creative artist Sacher-Masoch was, of course,on thequest for the absolute, and sometimes, when impulses in the humanbeing assume an abnormal or exaggerated form, there is just for amoment a flash that gives a glimpse of the thing in itself.If any defense wereneeded for the publication of work likeSacher-Masoch's it is well to remember that artists are the historiansof the human soul and one might recall the wise and tolerant Montaigne'sessay _On the Duty of Historians_where he says, "One may cover oversecret actions, but to be silent on what all the world knows, and thingswhich have had effects which are public and of so much consequence is aninexcusable defect."And the curiousinterrelation between cruelty and sex, again andagain, creeps into literature. Sacher-Masoch has not created anythingnew in this. He has simply taken an ancient motive and developed itfrankly and consciously, until, itseems, there is nothing further tosay on the subject. To the violent attacks which his books met hereplied in a polemical work, _Ãber den Wert der Kritik_.It would be interesting to trace the masochistic tendency as itoccursthroughout literature, but no more can be done than just to allude toa few instances. The theme recurs continually in the _Confessions_ ofJean Jacques Rousseau; it explains the character of the chevalierinPrÃ©vost's _Manon l'Escault_. Scenes of this nature are found in Zola's_Nana_, in Thomas Otway's _Venice Preserved_, in Albert Juhelle's _LesPecheurs d'Hommes_, in Dostojevski. In disguised and unrecognizedformit constitutes the undercurrent of much of the sentimental literatureof the present day, though in most cases the authors as well as thereaders are unaware of the pathological elements out of which theircharactersare built.In all these strange and troubled waters of the human spirit one mightwish for something of the serene and simple attitude of the ancientworld. Laurent Tailhade has an admirable passage in his _PlatresetMarbres_, which is well worth reproducing in this connection:"Toutefois, les HellÃ¨nes, dans, leurs citÃ©s de lumiÃ¨re, de douceuret d'harmonie, avaient une indulgence qu'on peut nommer scientifiquepour lestroubles amoureux de l'esprit. S'ils ne regardaient pasl'aliÃ©nÃ© comme en proie a la visitation d'un dieu (idÃ©e orientale etfataliste), du moins ils savaient que l'amour est une sorted'envoÃ»tement, une folie oÃ¹ semanifeste l'animositÃ© des puissancescosmiques. Plus tard, le christianisme enveloppa les Ã¢mes detÃ©nÃ¨bres. Ce fut la grande nuit. L'Ãglise condamna tout ce qui luiparÃ»t neuf ou menaÃ§ant pour les dogmesimplaÃ§able qui reduisaient lemonde en esclavage."Among Sacher-Masoch's works, _Venus in Furs_ is one of the mosttypical and outstanding. In spite of melodramatic elements and otherliterary faults, it isunquestionably a sincere work, written withoutany idea of titillating morbid fancies. One feels that in the heromany subjective elements have been incorporated, which are adisadvantage to the work from the point ofview of literature, but onthe other hand raise the book beyond the sphere of art, pure andsimple, and make it one of those appalling human documents whichbelong, part to science and part to psychology. It is theconfessionof a deeply unhappy man who could not master his personal tragedy ofexistence, and so sought to unburden his soul in writing down thethings he felt and experienced. The reader who will approach thebookfrom this angle and who will honestly put aside moral prejudices andprepossessions will come away from the perusal of this book with adeeper understanding of this poor miserable soul of ours and a lightwill becast into dark places that lie latent in all of us.Sacher-Masoch's works have held an established position in Europeanletters for something like half a century, and the author himself wasmade a chevalier of the Legion ofHonor by the French Government in1883, on the occasion of his literary jubilee. When several years agocheap reprints were brought out on the Continent and attempts weremade by various guardians of morality--theyexist in all countries--to have them suppressed, the judicial decisions were invariablyagainst the plaintiff and in favor of the publisher. Are Americanschildren that they must be protected from books which anyEuropeanschool-boy can purchase whenever he wishes? However, such seems to bethe case, and this translation, which has long been in preparation,consequently appears in a limited edition printed forsubscribersonly. In another connection Herbert Spencer once used these words:"The ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly, is tofill the world with fools." They have a very pointed application inthecase of a work like _Venus in Furs_.F. S.Atlantic CityApril, 1921VENUS IN FURS  _"But the Almighty Lord hath struck him,  and hath delivered him into the hands of  a woman."_--The Vulgate, Judith, xvi. 7.My companywas charming.Opposite me by the massive Renaissance fireplace sat Venus; she wasnot a casual woman of the half-world, who under this pseudonym wageswar against the enemy sex, like Mademoiselle Cleopatra, butthe real,true goddess of love.She sat in an armchair and had kindled a crackling fire, whosereflection ran in red flames over her pale face with its white eyes,and from time to time over her feet when she sought to warmthem.Her head was wonderful in spite of the dead stony eyes; it was allI could see of her. She had wrapped her marble-like body in a hugefur, and rolled herself up trembling like a cat."I don't understand it," Iexclaimed, "It isn't really cold anylonger. For two weeks past we have had perfect spring weather. Youmust be nervous.""Much obliged for your spring," she replied with a low stony voice,and immediately afterwardssneezed divinely, twice in succession. "Ireally can't stand it here much longer, and I am beginning tounderstand--""What, dear lady?""I am beginning to believe the unbelievable and to understandtheun-understandable. All of a sudden I understand the Germanic virtue ofwoman, and German philosophy, and I am no longer surprised that you ofthe North do not know how to love, haven't even an idea of whatloveis.""But, madame," I replied flaring up, "I surely haven't given you anyreason.""Oh, you--" The divinity sneezed for the third time, and shruggedher shoulders with inimitable grace. "That's why I have alwaysbeennice to you, and even come to see you now and then, although I catcha cold every time, in spite of all my furs. Do you remember the firsttime we met?""How could I forget it," I said. "You wore your abundant hairinbrown curls, and you had brown eyes and a red mouth, but I recognizedyou immediately by the outline of your face and its marble-likepallor--you always wore a violet-blue velvet jacket edged withsquirrel-skin.""Youwere really in love with the costume, and awfully docile.""You have taught me what love is. Your serene form of worship let meforget two thousand years.""And my faithfulness to you was without equal!""Well, as far asfaithfulness goes--""Ungrateful!""I will not reproach you with anything. You are a divine woman, butnevertheless a woman, and like every woman cruel in love.""What you call cruel," the goddess of love replied eagerly,"issimply the element of passion and of natural love, which is woman'snature and makes her give herself where she loves, and makes her loveeverything, that pleases her.""Can there be any greater cruelty for a loverthan theunfaithfulness of the woman he loves?""Indeed!" she replied. "We are faithful as long as we love, but youdemand faithfulness of a woman without love, and the giving ofherself without enjoyment. Who is cruelthere--woman or man? You ofthe North in general take love too soberly and seriously. You talkof duties where there should be only a question of pleasure.""That is why our emotions are honorable and virtuous, andourrelations permanent.""And yet a restless, always unsatisfied craving for the nudity ofpaganism," she interrupted, "but that love, which is the highest joy,which is divine simplicity itself, is not for you moderns,youchildren of reflection. It works only evil in you. _As soon as youwish to be natural, you become common._ To you nature seems somethinghostile; you have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, andout ofme a demon. You can only exorcise and curse me, or slayyourselves in bacchantic madness before my altar. And if ever one ofyou has had the courage to kiss my red mouth, he makes a barefootpilgrimage to Rome inpenitential robes and expects flowers to growfrom his withered staff, while under my feet roses, violets, andmyrtles spring up every hour, but their fragrance does not agree withyou. Stay among your northern fogs andChristian incense; let uspagans remain under the debris, beneath the lava; do not disinter us.Pompeii was not built for you, nor our villas, our baths, our temples.You do not require gods. We are chilled in yourworld."The beautiful marble woman coughed, and drew the dark sables stillcloser about her shoulders."Much obliged for the classical lesson," I replied, "but you cannotdeny, that man and woman are mortal enemies, inyour serene sunlitworld as well as in our foggy one. In love there is union into asingle being for a short time only, capable of only one thought, onesensation, one will, in order to be then further disunited. And youknowthis better than I; whichever of the two fails to subjugate willsoon feel the feet of the other on his neck--""And as a rule the man that of the woman," cried Madame Venus withproud mockery, "which you know betterthan I.""Of course, and that is why I don't have any illusions.""You mean you are now my slave without illusions, and for thatreason you shall feel the weight of my foot without mercy.""Madame!""Don't you know meyet? Yes, I am _cruel_--since you take so muchdelight in that word-and am I not entitled to be so? Man is the onewho desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman's entire butdecisive advantage. Through hispassion nature has given man intowoman's hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him hersubject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in theend is not wise.""Exactly yourprinciples," I interrupted angrily."They are based on the experience of thousands of years," shereplied ironically, while her white fingers played over the dark fur."The more devoted a woman shows herself, the soonerthe man sobersdown and becomes domineering. The more cruelly she treats him and themore faithless she is, the worse she uses him, the more wantonly sheplays with him, the less pity she shows him, by so much themore willshe increase his desire, be loved, worshipped by him. So it hasalways been, since the time of Helen and Delilah, down to Catherinethe Second and Lola Montez.""I cannot deny," I said, "that nothing will attracta man more thanthe picture of a beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic woman whowantonly changes her favorites without scruple in accordance with herwhim--""And in addition wears furs," exclaimed thedivinity."What do you mean by that?""I know your predilection.""Do you know," I interrupted, "that, since we last saw each other,you have grown very coquettish.""In what way, may I ask?""In that there is no way ofaccentuating your white body to greateradvantage than by these dark furs, and that--"The divinity laughed."You are dreaming," she cried, "wake up!" and she clasped my armwith her marble-white hand. "Do wake up,"she repeated raucously withthe low register of her voice. I opened my eyes with difficulty.I saw the hand which shook me, and suddenly it was brown as bronze;the voice was the thick alcoholic voice of my cossackservant whostood before me at his full height of nearly six feet."Do get up," continued the good fellow, "it is really disgraceful.""What is disgraceful?""To fall asleep in your clothes and with a book besides." Hesnuffedthe candles which had burned down, and picked up the volume which hadfallen from my hand, "with a book by"--he looked at the title page--"by Hegel. Besides it is high time you were starting for Mr.Severin'swho is expecting us for tea.""A curious dream," said Severin when I had finished. He supportedhis arms on his knees, resting his face in his delicate, finelyveined hands, and fell to pondering.I knew that he wouldn'tmove for a long time, hardly even breathe. Thisactually happened, but I didn't consider his behavior as in any wayremarkable. I had been on terms of close friendship with him for nearlythree years, and gotten used tohis peculiarities. For it cannot bedenied that he was peculiar, although he wasn't quite the dangerousmadman that the neighborhood, or indeed the entire district of Kolomea,considered him to be. I found his personalitynot only interesting--andthat is why many also regarded me a bit mad--but to a degreesympathetic. For a Galician nobleman and land-owner, and considering hisage--he was hardly over thirty--he displayed surprisingsobriety, acertain seriousness, even pedantry. He lived according to a minutelyelaborated, half-philosophical, half-practical system, like clock-work;not this alone, but also by the thermometer, barometer,aerometer,hydrometer, Hippocrates, Hufeland, Plato, Kant, Knigge, and LordChesterfield. But at times he had violent attacks of sudden passion, andgave the impression of being about to run with his head right throughawall. At such times every one preferred to get out of his way.While he remained silent, the fire sang in the chimney and the largevenerable samovar sang; and the ancient chair in which I sat rockingto and fro smokingmy cigar, and the cricket in the old walls sangtoo. I let my eyes glide over the curious apparatus, skeletons ofanimals, stuffed birds, globes, plaster-casts, with which his roomwas heaped full, until by chance my glanceremained fixed on apicture which I had seen often enough before. But to-day, under thereflected red glow of the fire, it made an indescribable impressionon me.It was a large oil painting, done in the robust full-bodiedmannerof the Belgian school. Its subject was strange enough.A beautiful woman with a radiant smile upon her face, with abundanthair tied into a classical knot, on which white powder lay like asoft hoarfrost, wasresting on an ottoman, supported on her left arm.She was nude in her dark furs. Her right hand played with a lash,while her bare foot rested carelessly on a man, lying before her likea slave, like a dog. In the sharplyoutlined, but well-formedlinaments of this man lay brooding melancholy and passionatedevotion; he looked up to her with the ecstatic burning eye of amartyr. This man, the footstool for her feet, was Severin,butbeardless, and, it seemed, some ten years younger."_Venus in Furs_," I cried, pointing to the picture. "That is the wayI saw her in my dream.""I, too," said Severin, "only I dreamed my dream with openeyes.""Indeed?""It is a tiresome story.""Your picture apparently suggested my dream," I continued. "But dotell me what it means. I can imagine that it played a role in yourlife, and perhaps a very decisive one. But thedetails I can only getfrom you.""Look at its counterpart," replied my strange friend, withoutheeding my question.The counterpart was an excellent copy of Titian's well-known "Venuswith the Mirror" in the DresdenGallery."And what is the significance?"Severin rose and pointed with his finger at the fur with whichTitian garbed his goddess of love."It, too, is a 'Venus in Furs,'" he said with a slight smile. "Idon't believe that the oldVenetian had any secondary intention. Hesimply painted the portrait of some aristocratic Mesalina, and wastactful enough to let Cupid hold the mirror in which she tests hermajestic allure with cold satisfaction. He looksas though his taskwere becoming burdensome enough. The picture is painted flattery.Later an 'expert' in the Rococo period baptized the lady with thename of Venus. The furs of the despot in which Titian's fairmodelwrapped herself, probably more for fear of a cold than out ofmodesty, have become a symbol of the tyranny and cruelty thatconstitute woman's essence and her beauty."But enough of that. The picture, as it nowexists, is a bittersatire on our love. Venus in this abstract North, in this icyChristian world, has to creep into huge black furs so as not to catchcold--"Severin laughed, and lighted a fresh cigarette.Just then the dooropened and an attractive, stoutish, blonde girlentered. She had wise, kindly eyes, was dressed in black silk, andbrought us cold meat and eggs with our tea. Severin took one of thelatter, and decapitated it with hisknife."Didn't I tell you that I want them soft-boiled?" he cried with aviolence that made the young woman tremble."But my dear Sevtchu--" she said timidly."Sevtchu, nothing," he yelled, "you are to obey, obey, do


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                                   Arcade                                     by                                David S. Goyer                       Last revised November 6,1990INT. ARCADE WORLD -- ELECTRONIC DARKNESSWe don't know if it's night or day.  It's just black.And maybe...maybe intermittent SPARKS racing by.  So quick we barelyperceive them.  Like the sparksyou imagine when your eyes are closed.BREATHING,slow and hollow, filling up the entire world.  It's eerie as hell.  Afeeling of utter loneliness.And now the breathing recedes, fading into thedarkness.  Whatever itwas...it's gone now.MAIN CREDITS ROLL.We hear CELLOS.  Four of them.  Weaving an intricate melody.And now the visuals.  BRIGHTLY COLORED SHAPES spinning in.  Equallyintricate,matching the music.  They grow and flourish, like flowersopening up in time lapse photography.FRACTALS...is what they're called.  The visual manifestation of geometric formulas.The Mandelbrot Set.  TheJulia Set.  Each mathematic form made up ofprogressively smaller forms and on into infinity.Glorious and beautiful.  Forms folding in upon themselves andregenerating.This is creation we're witnessing.This is life in themaking. DISSOLVE TO:INT. COUNSELOR'S OFFICE -- DAYAN EYEFor a brief moment we still hear the CELLOS.  And in the eye, the last ofthe fractals are spinning away, leaving us with theiris.  A nice blueone.  This is ALEX MANNING'S eye. ALEX (V.O.) Time.  That's all I ever think about anymore.  It's like there's never enough of it, you know? CUT TO:INT.  MANNING HOUSE,HALLWAY -- DAYThis is a flashback, in case you're wondering.  We'll continue to hearAlex's VOICE as we move through the house in slow motion.  Everything isvery bright and dreamlike.Right now we're movingwith the camera, slowly moving down a long hallway.At the end of the hallway is an open door.We stop at the doorway.  We're afraid to go in. ALEX (V.O.) It's strange.  When the future's in front of you, itseems to go on forever.  I mean, you never really get there.  It's always one step ahead of you.  It's like there's no present. There's no "now".  As soon as you think, "I'm here", the moment's already gone.  Eithereverything's in the future, or it's in the past. (beat) There's no "now". MAN (V.O.) So where are you then? ALEX (V.O.) I'm in the past.We move through the doorway.INT.  MANNING HOUSE,BEDROOM -- DAYEverything looks normal at first.  A typical bedroom with sunlightstreaming in through the windows.  A bed, made-up. Flowers in vases.Everything looks perfect.Then we move further in, and overto the right.  There's something on thefloor, curled up in the entranceway to the bathroom.  Halfway in, halfwayout.It's a woman's body.  She's wearing a dress, her legs awkwardly bent.  Wecan't see her face from thisangle. But in her limp hand is a gun.  Andall around that hand, speckling the pristine white tile of the bathroomand the carpeting beyond, is BLOOD.A shrill BELL shatters the moment. CUTTO:INT.  COUNSELOR'S OFFICE -- DAYThe bell continues.  It's a school bell signaling the end of the period.ON ALEXas we see her for the first time, startled.  She's seventeen and pretty,thoughin a simple way.  Her eyes are the most striking.  Deep.  Intense.If Alex has a problem, it's the fact that she thinks too much, and it'sreflected in her eyes.Across from her is MR. WEAVER, a high-school guidancecounselor and thatwas his voice we heard with Alex's. He's unexceptional, middle-aged,incapable of really hearing what Alex has to say.  This is his officewe're in. Typical "SAY NO TO DRUGS" teen propaganda decoratethe room.Fun.As the BELL dies we hear the army of FOOTSTEPS outside, students millingin the halls.Alex glances at the door and starts to rise from her chair. MR. WEAVER We don't have to stop now...ALEX (cutting him off) That's okay.  I've got a test coming up anyway.  Gotta study. MR. WEAVER (sighs) I have to tell you, I'm a little concerned about you, Alex.  It's been three months now since yourmother, uh... ALEX (offering, fixing him with a stare) Killed herself?Mr. Weaver stops, more than a little uncomfortable. MR. WEAVER (reluctant) Yes.  Now your father... ALEX He's a basketcase.  You've talked to him. You know that.  He might as well be dead too.Alex glances down at the floor, anything to avoid looking at thecounselor.  She heaves a backpack onto to shoulder. ALEX (continuing)Look Mr. Weaver, I don't even know why I came here.  I fine.  Really. (looking up) It's like I said.  It's just part of the past now.  It doesn't matter anymore.She turns, and before Mr. Weaver can respond, she's out thedoor.INT.  HIGH-SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAYAlex moves quickly through the mass of STUDENTS, wiping the remnants ofhalf-tears on her coat sleeve. CUT TO:INT.  HIGH-SCHOOL CAFETERIA -DAYFun-time.  Total chaos.  If you've been to high-school you know the riff.Bad food, teen-age melodrama, and a squadron of SUPERVISORS trying to keepa lid on things.ALEXmakes her way to the farcorner of the cafeteria where a cluster of kidslounge around a table.  These are Alex's FRIENDS.  And while none of themare your garden variety pocket-protector-type nerds, these kids aren'texactly part of the"in-crowd".  They're a little off.  Quirky.  All ofthem come from screwed up families, and that's what bonds them.  They are:GREG HOLLISTON -- Alex's boyfriend.  Hopeful artist (not bad, either) andkind of punklooking.  Greg and the others are big fans of thrift-shopclothing.  Because they don't have the money, they improvise.NICK DRAKE -- Greg's best friend and future computer pioneer.  He'sattractive and he's got anedge.  A bit of a hot-shot.  Genius in themaking.BENZ AND STILTS -- Inseparable.  Benz is flunking out of school and wouldlike nothing better than to spend the rest of his life reading comicbooks.  He's tall, perpetuallyunkempt, awkward, and nervous.  Stilts,contrary to his nickname, is quite short and never without his skateboard.Stilts is constantly hitting on...LAURIE -- The sixth member of the group.  A teen Theda Bara and ascynicalas you can get.  She's what's affectionately known as an "art chick".The boys in the group, particularly Nick and Stilts, are avidskateboarders and are frequently seen with their boards.  Stilts is alwaysleafingthrough an issue of THRASHER magazine.Right now the group is in the midst of an argument.  Nick has a pocketvideo game in his hands which he casually plays.  He can get through thesegames in his sleep.  It BEEPSand WHIRS. NICK (to Benz) You're an idiot, you know that? What're you going to do when you get out of here? BENZ I was thinking about writing for one of those Filipino mail order brides...Stilts andGreg burst into laughter. STILTS I think I saw that on the Home Shopping Network.  The Girlfriend Hour, right after Auto Accessories. BENZ (giggling) Exactly. LAURIE You guys aresick.Alex flops down in a chair and everyone turns. GREG So how'd it go?Alex shrugs, trying to make light of it. ALEX He thinks I'm "sublimating". STILTS What the hell does that mean?LAURIE It means she's screwed up. STILTS Fucked up.  That's what they said I was. BENZ You are fucked up. STILTS Yeah, but only because I want to be. GREG Would youguys knock it off?Greg turns back to Alex and looks her in the eye. GREG (continuing) Listen to me, Alex.  These counselor's don't know anything.  They're full of shit. If you don't fit the pattern of the perfectkid, they freak. ALEX (nodding) I know. GREG So tell me you're okay, then. ALEX I'm okay. GREG (smiles) Good.   Cause I'd freak if you weren't.Greg leans over and kissesAlex.  The rest of the group launches intoexaggerated GROANS, with Benz and Stilts fluttering their eyes and making"smooching faces" at each other.  The kiss is over and everyone LAUGHS.Things are okay now.GREG (to Alex) Hey...watch this...Greg pulls an old Polaroid camera from his backpack.  He leans in close toher and holds the camera at arm's length, aiming it back at them.  FLASH!And the moment's capturedforever.Greg pulls the Polaroid out and peels off the backing. Before the pictureeven develops, he begins rubbing his fingers over it, manipulating theemulsion. NICK (engrossed in his game again) You makinganother one, Greg? GREG Sure.  Practice. BENZ Lemme see...Greg pulls some papers from his backpack and slides them over to Benz.The papers are color xeroxes of Polaroid blow-ups.  Greg hasmessed withthem, creating swirling, psychedelic patterns with the images.  Stilts andLaurie lean in. STILTS Cool. GREG (still working) See, when the emulsion's still warm you can move it around...(stops) There.Greg holds up the Polaroid for Alex to see.POLAROIDGreg and Alex are side by side, grinning...all around them the world hasspun into strange colors.  It's an odd effect.Greg drops the photo inhis shirt pocket and pats it. GREG Safe keeping.Meanwhile, Nick's pocket video game emits an EXPLOSION NOISE. NICK Shit.  I'm out.He sets the game down, dejected. BENZ You guysgoing to Dante's after school? GREG I don't know. BENZ Check it out...Benz pulls a flyer from inside his coat.  It's an ad for a new game called"ARCADE", featuring a pair of evil eyes and glowinghands coming out of acircuit board.  The tag at the bottom reads, "COMING THIS FALL.  REALITYWILL NEVER BE THE SAME". NICK (excited) That's the new Slip-Stream game. Those guys aregood.  It's supposed to be interactive. Graphics are unbelievable. BENZ Yeah?  They were handing these out at Dante's.  Test marketing it or something. Gonna have a demonstration today. STILTSCool. LAURIE Can you say anything but "cool"? STILTS Of course I can.  I can say all sorts of things... GREG (annoyed) Guys...Benz pulls back the flyer and looks at it again. BENZSo how 'bout it? NICK I'm game... (to Greg) Greg?Greg turns to Alex. GREG Come on.  We'll hit Dante's after school, try the game out, maybe get some dinner. ALEX And then keep ondriving? GREG Sure.  Never come back.  Disappear forever. LAURIE (nodding) I could go for that.Alex laughs.  Laurie took the words right out of her mouth. CUT TO:EXT.  DANTE'SINFERNO -- DAYThe Inferno is a run-down video arcade near the beach, notable because thegames it sports are generally defective and out of date.  Nevertheless,it's become our group's hang-out.  It has itscharms.A huge mural, chipped and faded with age, adorns the front of thearcade...something straight out of Hieronymus Bosch. Demons in day-glo.The yawning mouth of an enormous devil surrounds theentrance.ALEX AND THE OTHERSpull up across the street, caravan style.  Greg and Alex are in onecar...an ancient Buick Skylark.  No Honda Accords or VW Rabbits for thisgroup.At the moment, there's quite abit of activity at the Inferno's entrance.KIDS are clustered around and Slip-Stream employees are passing out Arcadepromo sheets.THE GROUPheads for the entrance, plowing their way through the


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Time Machine, by H. G. (Herbert George) WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Time MachineAuthor: H. G. (Herbert George) WellsRelease Date: October 2, 2004 [EBook #35][Lastupdated: October 3, 2014]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIME MACHINE ***The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells [1898]IThe Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speakof him)was expounding a recondite matter to us. His grey eyes shone andtwinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and animated. Thefire burned brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescentlights in the liliesof silver caught the bubbles that flashed andpassed in our glasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced andcaressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was thatluxurious after-dinner atmospherewhen thought roams gracefullyfree of the trammels of precision. And he put it to us in thisway--marking the points with a lean forefinger--as we sat and lazilyadmired his earnestness over this new paradox (as wethought it)and his fecundity.'You must follow me carefully. I shall have to controvert one or twoideas that are almost universally accepted. The geometry, forinstance, they taught you at school is founded on amisconception.''Is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?'said Filby, an argumentative person with red hair.'I do not mean to ask you to accept anything without reasonableground for it. You will soonadmit as much as I need from you. Youknow of course that a mathematical line, a line of thickness _nil_,has no real existence. They taught you that? Neither has amathematical plane. These things are mereabstractions.''That is all right,' said the Psychologist.'Nor, having only length, breadth, and thickness, can a cube have areal existence.''There I object,' said Filby. 'Of course a solid body may exist. Allreal things--''Somost people think. But wait a moment. Can an _instantaneous_cube exist?''Don't follow you,' said Filby.'Can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a realexistence?'Filby became pensive. 'Clearly,' the TimeTraveller proceeded, 'anyreal body must have extension in _four_ directions: it must haveLength, Breadth, Thickness, and--Duration. But through a naturalinfirmity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a moment,weincline to overlook this fact. There are really four dimensions,three which we call the three planes of Space, and a fourth, Time.There is, however, a tendency to draw an unreal distinction betweenthe former threedimensions and the latter, because it happens thatour consciousness moves intermittently in one direction along thelatter from the beginning to the end of our lives.''That,' said a very young man, making spasmodicefforts to relighthis cigar over the lamp; 'that ... very clear indeed.''Now, it is very remarkable that this is so extensively overlooked,'continued the Time Traveller, with a slight accession ofcheerfulness. 'Really this iswhat is meant by the Fourth Dimension,though some people who talk about the Fourth Dimension do not knowthey mean it. It is only another way of looking at Time. _There isno difference between Time and any of thethree dimensions of Spaceexcept that our consciousness moves along it_. But some foolishpeople have got hold of the wrong side of that idea. You have allheard what they have to say about this Fourth Dimension?''_I_have not,' said the Provincial Mayor.'It is simply this. That Space, as our mathematicians have it, isspoken of as having three dimensions, which one may call Length,Breadth, and Thickness, and is always definable byreference tothree planes, each at right angles to the others. But somephilosophical people have been asking why _three_ dimensionsparticularly--why not another direction at right angles to the otherthree?--and haveeven tried to construct a Four-Dimension geometry.Professor Simon Newcomb was expounding this to the New YorkMathematical Society only a month or so ago. You know how on a flatsurface, which has only twodimensions, we can represent a figure ofa three-dimensional solid, and similarly they think that by modelsof three dimensions they could represent one of four--if they couldmaster the perspective of the thing. See?''Ithink so,' murmured the Provincial Mayor; and, knitting hisbrows, he lapsed into an introspective state, his lips moving as onewho repeats mystic words. 'Yes, I think I see it now,' he said aftersome time, brightening ina quite transitory manner.'Well, I do not mind telling you I have been at work upon thisgeometry of Four Dimensions for some time. Some of my resultsare curious. For instance, here is a portrait of a man at eightyearsold, another at fifteen, another at seventeen, another attwenty-three, and so on. All these are evidently sections, as itwere, Three-Dimensional representations of his Four-Dimensionedbeing, which is a fixed andunalterable thing.'Scientific people,' proceeded the Time Traveller, after the pauserequired for the proper assimilation of this, 'know very well thatTime is only a kind of Space. Here is a popular scientific diagram,aweather record. This line I trace with my finger shows themovement of the barometer. Yesterday it was so high, yesterday nightit fell, then this morning it rose again, and so gently upward tohere. Surely the mercurydid not trace this line in any of thedimensions of Space generally recognized? But certainly it tracedsuch a line, and that line, therefore, we must conclude was alongthe Time-Dimension.''But,' said the Medical Man,staring hard at a coal in the fire, 'ifTime is really only a fourth dimension of Space, why is it, and whyhas it always been, regarded as something different? And why cannotwe move in Time as we move about in the otherdimensions of Space?'The Time Traveller smiled. 'Are you sure we can move freely inSpace? Right and left we can go, backward and forward freely enough,and men always have done so. I admit we move freely intwodimensions. But how about up and down? Gravitation limits us there.''Not exactly,' said the Medical Man. 'There are balloons.''But before the balloons, save for spasmodic jumping and theinequalities of the surface,man had no freedom of verticalmovement.''Still they could move a little up and down,' said the Medical Man.'Easier, far easier down than up.''And you cannot move at all in Time, you cannot get away from thepresentmoment.''My dear sir, that is just where you are wrong. That is just wherethe whole world has gone wrong. We are always getting away from thepresent moment. Our mental existences, which are immaterial andhaveno dimensions, are passing along the Time-Dimension with a uniformvelocity from the cradle to the grave. Just as we should travel _down_if we began our existence fifty miles above the earth's surface.''But thegreat difficulty is this,' interrupted the Psychologist.'You _can_ move about in all directions of Space, but you cannotmove about in Time.''That is the germ of my great discovery. But you are wrong to saythat we cannotmove about in Time. For instance, if I am recallingan incident very vividly I go back to the instant of its occurrence:I become absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a moment. Ofcourse we have no means ofstaying back for any length of Time, anymore than a savage or an animal has of staying six feet above theground. But a civilized man is better off than the savage in thisrespect. He can go up against gravitation in aballoon, and whyshould he not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop oraccelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension, or even turn aboutand travel the other way?''Oh, _this_,' began Filby, 'is all--''Why not?' saidthe Time Traveller.'It's against reason,' said Filby.'What reason?' said the Time Traveller.'You can show black is white by argument,' said Filby, 'but you willnever convince me.''Possibly not,' said the Time Traveller. 'Butnow you begin to seethe object of my investigations into the geometry of FourDimensions. Long ago I had a vague inkling of a machine--''To travel through Time!' exclaimed the Very Young Man.'That shall travelindifferently in any direction of Space and Time,as the driver determines.'Filby contented himself with laughter.'But I have experimental verification,' said the Time Traveller.'It would be remarkably convenient for thehistorian,' thePsychologist suggested. 'One might travel back and verify theaccepted account of the Battle of Hastings, for instance!''Don't you think you would attract attention?' said the Medical Man.'Our ancestors hadno great tolerance for anachronisms.''One might get one's Greek from the very lips of Homer and Plato,'the Very Young Man thought.'In which case they would certainly plough you for the Little-go.The German scholarshave improved Greek so much.''Then there is the future,' said the Very Young Man. 'Just think!One might invest all one's money, leave it to accumulate atinterest, and hurry on ahead!''To discover a society,' said I,'erected on a strictly communisticbasis.''Of all the wild extravagant theories!' began the Psychologist.'Yes, so it seemed to me, and so I never talked of it until--''Experimental verification!' cried I. 'You are going toverify_that_?''The experiment!' cried Filby, who was getting brain-weary.'Let's see your experiment anyhow,' said the Psychologist, 'thoughit's all humbug, you know.'The Time Traveller smiled round at us. Then, stillsmiling faintly,and with his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he walked slowlyout of the room, and we heard his slippers shuffling down the longpassage to his laboratory.The Psychologist looked at us. 'I wonder whathe's got?''Some sleight-of-hand trick or other,' said the Medical Man, andFilby tried to tell us about a conjurer he had seen at Burslem; butbefore he had finished his preface the Time Traveller came back, andFilby'sanecdote collapsed.The thing the Time Traveller held in his hand was a glitteringmetallic framework, scarcely larger than a small clock, and verydelicately made. There was ivory in it, and some transparentcrystallinesubstance. And now I must be explicit, for this thatfollows--unless his explanation is to be accepted--is an absolutelyunaccountable thing. He took one of the small octagonal tables thatwere scattered about the room,and set it in front of the fire, withtwo legs on the hearthrug. On this table he placed the mechanism.Then he drew up a chair, and sat down. The only other object on thetable was a small shaded lamp, the bright light ofwhich fell uponthe model. There were also perhaps a dozen candles about, two inbrass candlesticks upon the mantel and several in sconces, so thatthe room was brilliantly illuminated. I sat in a low arm-chairnearestthe fire, and I drew this forward so as to be almost betweenthe Time Traveller and the fireplace. Filby sat behind him, lookingover his shoulder. The Medical Man and the Provincial Mayor watchedhim in profile from theright, the Psychologist from the left. TheVery Young Man stood behind the Psychologist. We were all on thealert. It appears incredible to me that any kind of trick, howeversubtly conceived and however adroitly done,could have been playedupon us under these conditions.The Time Traveller looked at us, and then at the mechanism. 'Well?'said the Psychologist.'This little affair,' said the Time Traveller, resting his elbowsupon thetable and pressing his hands together above the apparatus,'is only a model. It is my plan for a machine to travel throughtime. You will notice that it looks singularly askew, and that thereis an odd twinkling appearanceabout this bar, as though it was insome way unreal.' He pointed to the part with his finger. 'Also,here is one little white lever, and here is another.'The Medical Man got up out of his chair and peered into the thing.'It'sbeautifully made,' he said.'It took two years to make,' retorted the Time Traveller. Then, whenwe had all imitated the action of the Medical Man, he said: 'Now Iwant you clearly to understand that this lever, beingpressed over,sends the machine gliding into the future, and this other reversesthe motion. This saddle represents the seat of a time traveller.Presently I am going to press the lever, and off the machine willgo. It willvanish, pass into future Time, and disappear. Have agood look at the thing. Look at the table too, and satisfyyourselves there is no trickery. I don't want to waste this model,and then be told I'm a quack.'There was aminute's pause perhaps. The Psychologist seemed about tospeak to me, but changed his mind. Then the Time Traveller put forthhis finger towards the lever. 'No,' he said suddenly. 'Lend me yourhand.' And turning tothe Psychologist, he took that individual'shand in his own and told him to put out his forefinger. So that itwas the Psychologist himself who sent forth the model Time Machineon its interminable voyage. We all saw thelever turn. I amabsolutely certain there was no trickery. There was a breath ofwind, and the lamp flame jumped. One of the candles on the mantelwas blown out, and the little machine suddenly swung round,becameindistinct, was seen as a ghost for a second perhaps, as an eddy offaintly glittering brass and ivory; and it was gone--vanished! Savefor the lamp the table was bare.Everyone was silent for a minute. Then Filbysaid he was damned.The Psychologist recovered from his stupor, and suddenly lookedunder the table. At that the Time Traveller laughed cheerfully.'Well?' he said, with a reminiscence of the Psychologist. Then,gettingup, he went to the tobacco jar on the mantel, and with hisback to us began to fill his pipe.We stared at each other. 'Look here,' said the Medical Man, 'are youin earnest about this? Do you seriously believe that thatmachinehas travelled into time?''Certainly,' said the Time Traveller, stooping to light a spill atthe fire. Then he turned, lighting his pipe, to look at thePsychologist's face. (The Psychologist, to show that he wasnotunhinged, helped himself to a cigar and tried to light it uncut.)'What is more, I have a big machine nearly finished in there'--heindicated the laboratory--'and when that is put together I mean tohave a journey on myown account.''You mean to say that that machine has travelled into the future?'said Filby.'Into the future or the past--I don't, for certain, know which.'After an interval the Psychologist had an inspiration. 'It musthavegone into the past if it has gone anywhere,' he said.'Why?' said the Time Traveller.'Because I presume that it has not moved in space, and if ittravelled into the future it would still be here all this time,since it musthave travelled through this time.''But,' I said, 'If it travelled into the past it would have beenvisible when we came first into this room; and last Thursday when wewere here; and the Thursday before that; and soforth!''Serious objections,' remarked the Provincial Mayor, with an air ofimpartiality, turning towards the Time Traveller.'Not a bit,' said the Time Traveller, and, to the Psychologist: 'Youthink. You can explain that. It'spresentation below the threshold,you know, diluted presentation.''Of course,' said the Psychologist, and reassured us. 'That's asimple point of psychology. I should have thought of it. It's plainenough, and helps theparadox delightfully. We cannot see it, norcan we appreciate this machine, any more than we can the spoke ofa wheel spinning, or a bullet flying through the air. If it istravelling through time fifty times or a hundredtimes faster thanwe are, if it gets through a minute while we get through a second,the impression it creates will of course be only one-fiftieth orone-hundredth of what it would make if it were not travelling intime.That's plain enough.' He passed his hand through the space inwhich the machine had been. 'You see?' he said, laughing.We sat and stared at the vacant table for a minute or so. Then theTime Traveller asked us whatwe thought of it all.'It sounds plausible enough to-night,' said the Medical Man; 'butwait until to-morrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.''Would you like to see the Time Machine itself?' asked theTimeTraveller. And therewith, taking the lamp in his hand, he led theway down the long, draughty corridor to his laboratory. I remembervividly the flickering light, his queer, broad head in silhouette,the dance of theshadows, how we all followed him, puzzled butincredulous, and how there in the laboratory we beheld a largeredition of the little mechanism which we had seen vanish from beforeour eyes. Parts were of nickel, parts ofivory, parts had certainlybeen filed or sawn out of rock crystal. The thing was generallycomplete, but the twisted crystalline bars lay unfinished upon thebench beside some sheets of drawings, and I took one up for abetterlook at it. Quartz it seemed to be.'Look here,' said the Medical Man, 'are you perfectly serious?Or is this a trick--like that ghost you showed us last Christmas?''Upon that machine,' said the Time Traveller, holdingthe lampaloft, 'I intend to explore time. Is that plain? I was never moreserious in my life.'None of us quite knew how to take it.I caught Filby's eye over the shoulder of the Medical Man, and hewinked at me solemnly.IIIthink that at that time none of us quite believed in the TimeMachine. The fact is, the Time Traveller was one of those men whoare too clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all roundhim; you alwayssuspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity inambush, behind his lucid frankness. Had Filby shown the model andexplained the matter in the Time Traveller's words, we should haveshown _him_ far less scepticism.For we should have perceived hismotives; a pork butcher could understand Filby. But the TimeTraveller had more than a touch of whim among his elements, and wedistrusted him. Things that would have made theframe of a lessclever man seemed tricks in his hands. It is a mistake to do thingstoo easily. The serious people who took him seriously never feltquite sure of his deportment; they were somehow aware that trustingtheirreputations for judgment with him was like furnishing anursery with egg-shell china. So I don't think any of us said verymuch about time travelling in the interval between that Thursday andthe next, though its oddpotentialities ran, no doubt, in most ofour minds: its plausibility, that is, its practical incredibleness,the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utter confusion itsuggested. For my own part, I was particularlypreoccupied with thetrick of the model. That I remember discussing with the Medical Man,whom I met on Friday at the Linnaean. He said he had seen a similarthing at Tubingen, and laid considerable stress on theblowing outof the candle. But how the trick was done he could not explain.The next Thursday I went again to Richmond--I suppose I was one ofthe Time Traveller's most constant guests--and, arriving late, foundfour orfive men already assembled in his drawing-room. The MedicalMan was standing before the fire with a sheet of paper in one handand his watch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller,and--'It's half-past sevennow,' said the Medical Man. 'I supposewe'd better have dinner?''Where's----?' said I, naming our host.'You've just come? It's rather odd. He's unavoidably detained. Heasks me in this note to lead off with dinner atseven if he's notback. Says he'll explain when he comes.''It seems a pity to let the dinner spoil,' said the Editor of awell-known daily paper; and thereupon the Doctor rang the bell.The Psychologist was the only personbesides the Doctor and myselfwho had attended the previous dinner. The other men were Blank, theEditor aforementioned, a certain journalist, and another--a quiet,shy man with a beard--whom I didn't know, andwho, as far as myobservation went, never opened his mouth all the evening. There wassome speculation at the dinner-table about the Time Traveller'sabsence, and I suggested time travelling, in a half-jocular spirit.TheEditor wanted that explained to him, and the Psychologistvolunteered a wooden account of the 'ingenious paradox and trick' wehad witnessed that day week. He was in the midst of his expositionwhen the door from thecorridor opened slowly and without noise. Iwas facing the door, and saw it first. 'Hallo!' I said. 'At last!'And the door opened wider, and the Time Traveller stood before us.I gave a cry of surprise. 'Good heavens! man,what's the matter?'cried the Medical Man, who saw him next. And the whole tablefulturned towards the door.He was in an amazing plight. His coat was dusty and dirty, andsmeared with green down the sleeves; his hairdisordered, and as itseemed to me greyer--either with dust and dirt or because its colourhad actually faded. His face was ghastly pale; his chin had a browncut on it--a cut half healed; his expression was haggard anddrawn,as by intense suffering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway,as if he had been dazzled by the light. Then he came into the room.He walked with just such a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps.We stared


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       CELLULAR              by         Larry Cohen         Revised by        Chris Morgan     Current Revisions byJ. Mackye Gruber & EricBress                                July 16, 2003TITLES OVER YELLOW BACKGROUND.We PULL BACK to reveal we're looking at THE SUN. In thedistance lie the gorgeous San Gabriel Mountains andtheDowntown Los Angeles skyline.In ONE LONG TRACKING SHOT, we CRANE PAST some trees to revealthe vast expansive homes scattered in the hills of Brentwood.HOMEOWNERS walk dogs, a PAPERBOY chuckspapers fr9m agleaming mountain bike... It's early in the morning, and thelandscapers haven't come with their leaf blowers yet.CONTINUE BOOMING DOWN to road level to face    the resplendentMartin residence. WeSTEADICAM down the fr    ont walk, able toadmire the manicured hedges and the black E   scalade in thedriveway, to the front door decorated with    a whimsicalplacard that reads, "The Martins" -- and we    passTHROUGH THEKEYHOLE into the foyer.INT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - MORNINGWe TRACK through the living room, passing framed photos of anathletic eleven year old boy, and we hear a WOMAN'S VOICE asshecomes down the stairs with a GOLDEN RETRIEVER at herside.                     WOMAN               (into phone)          Yes Donna, I'm out the door.We TRACK over the Woman's shoulder and follow her intothekitchen, unable to see her face.                     WOMAN (CONT'D)          Just inform Kayleigh that          anesthesia is on the way to prep          the epidural and I'll be there as          soon as I can.Stilllooking over her shoulder, we watch her absentlystraighten a PHOTOGRAPH of her son on the fridge as shetalks.                    WOMAN (CONT'D)          And promise her she's about to have          awoooonnderful labor.As the woman pours herself a fresh cup of coffee, herHOUSEKEEPER enters the kitchen with a full laundry basket.They give each other a silent wave.                    WOMAN(CONT'D)          Right, I'll see you in twenty.She hangs up her cordless and takes a breath as we COMEAROUND to finally REVEAL JESSICA MARTIN; slightly weary, butready for the dayahead.                     JESSICA          Buenas dias, Rosario.                      ROSARIO           Good morning Miss Jessica.Jessica sees her answering machine blinking, hits PLAY.In thebackground, a cheerful Rosario enters frame and headsfor the back door carrying the basket of laundry.                 MALE VOICE           (on machine)           Honey? Honey, wake up.   Pick up the-And as shebrings the coffee cup to her lips--SLAMM!! The door EXPLODES open and a squad of FIVE GUNMENstorm in, wearing SKI-MASKS. Everything is a whirlwind ofquick cuts, noise and confusion.Jessica's DOG starts to lungeat the men and -- thup! -- isstilled by a silenced pistol before its second bark.Rosario runs for the ALARM SYSTEM --                     LEAD GUNMAN          Get away from there! Don't touch          that -- !!-- butas she reaches out for the PANIC BUTTON -- BLAM!!     Heblows her away, too. The Gunman curses, then turns onJessica.                 LEAD GUNMAN (CONT'D)          (dire)          Where is he?Jessicacringes.                     JESSICA          Where is who?                     LEAD GUNMAN          Wrong answer.The bastard hauls back and -- WHAM I -- punches her in theface, knocking Jessica cold.Thenhe turns to his men.                     LEAD GUNMAN (CONT'D)          Search the house.And as the answering machine fills the silence:                CRAIG VO          (on machine)          -I'll call backlater.The LEAD GUNMAN spins around, and we PUSH INTO the blacknessof his masked face.                                            MATCH CUT TO:EXT. KIDNAPPERS' SAFEHOUSE - DAYTheBLACKNESS of a BLACK VAN and ESCALADE passing below us.We quickly CRANE DOWN to see the vehicles traveling through:An IRON GATE at the edge of an aband9ned property. Theybounce down a long lonelydriveway lined with barren trees--ANGLE ON: THE KIDNAPPERS' VAN as it arrives at itsdestination; an isolated HOUSE in the Hills. The grass isdead. The trees are dead. It's the kind of place you couldscream for a weekand no one would hear a thing.As the van stops--                                     WE PUSH INTO ITS DOORS:INT. DARKENED ATTIC - KIDNAPPERS' SAFEHOUSEA door CRASHES open. Light slices throughthe dark revealingthe dusty, skeletal interior. Jessica is hurled into theroom and falls to the floor. With bound hands, shefrantically pulls her blindfold off to see--THE LEAD SKI-MASKED KIDNAPPERStanding infront of her.    Sturdier than the rest.   Solid.Imposing.                     JESSICA          Wh... what do you want?Unsettlingly, the Kidnapper says nothing, staring at her.Jessica tries to remain calm under hisangry gaze...Then suddenly, the Kidnapper turns and exits the room.Jessica breathes a sigh of relief...but it catches in herthroat as he returns ten seconds later -- with a BASEBALL BAT.Grim as death, he stalks towardher --                       JESSICA (CONT'D)          No, wait..And reaching.her, he hauls back and SWINGS --                     JESSICA (CONT'D)          NO!   PLEASE--//SMASH! The bat connectswith a wooden beam an inch aboveJessica's head, OBLITERATING the ROTARY DIAL TELEPHONE thathung there.As phone guts shower down on her, the Lead Kidnapper turnsand stomps away, slamming the attic doorshut and lockingJessica in the darkness.Only now that they're gone does Jessica allow her fear toshow through. Trembling, tears running down her face,Jessica finally breaks down, pleading to the emptyattic--                       JESSICA (CONT'D)            Wha... what the hell is happening?!The attic's suffocating silence is the only answer she gets.                                            DISSOLVETO:THE OCEANSkimming along the water.And we TILT UP to reveal the majestic beaches of SouthernCalifornia, and at the center of it all, the SANTA MONICAPIER.EXT. SANTA MONICAPIER - MORNING - ESTABLISHINGIt would be a typical day, except for that some PEOPLE arepreparing for a "HEAL THE BAY" rally at the end of the pier.VENDORS set up, preparing for the daily grindahead.BIKERS gather around a bad-ass HELLCAT G2 CONFEDERATEMOTORCYCLE and admire its cutting-edge design.HOT CHICKS in bikinis try on sunglasses at a stand.FISHERMEN crack beers while awaiting the nextbite.INT. SANTA MONICA PIER - ARCADE - MORNINGANGLE ON - ARCADE GAME SCREEN.The screen displays a car-race arcade game. A computergenerated hot-rod passes other racers at breakneckspeed.Playing the sit-down game, DAYTONA USA, is:RYAN ACKERMAN, early twenties, looks like he grew up on thebeach without so much as a pot to piss in. His lethalreflexes and bold recklessness, however, havemade him a JediMaster of the game.Ryan's score approaches the HIGH SCORE at the top of thescreen.                       RYAN            You recording this?                       CHAD (OS)            Yeah,sure...CHAD, his best bud, aims a BLUE TOOTH VIDEOSTREAMINGCELLPHONE at some CUTE GIRLS instead. We can see their faceson the tiny SCREEN of the cellphone.Ryan's car gets caught behind a blue speedster,then passeson the shoulder.                       RYAN            Move, bitch.He gets an EXTENDED PLAY and the screen flashes "NEW RECORD."Nearby, a KID watching the gamenods.                        KID            Nice.The HIGH SCORE starts rising to match Ryan's score.                        RYAN            Get that?Ryan turns around to see Chad has shoved the cellphone downthefront of his tattered shorts. And he's freeballing it.                       CHAD            Check it; Attack of the Bubblegum            Monster in Hi-Def videostream-                      RYAN            C'mon Chad, Igotta put my mouth on            that.Holding a cup of soda between his teeth, Chad pulls thecellphone out of his pants and hits "SEND".                        CHAD                 (throughcup-holding                  teeth)            Sweet. It's going to my email            right now.S9me soda inadvertently SPILLS onto the cellphone and Chadwipes it dry on hispants.                       RYAN            Watch it dude, I gotta return that            thing in seven days.                       CHAD            They aren't giving you shityet?                       RYAN            Nah, whenever I return it, I just            list off why the phone sucks and            they give me a new model. Figure            by the tenth time I'll have to go            somewhereelse.Ryan's car finally CRASHES in a wall of flames.       Game Over.                                            CUT TO:THE OCEANAs seen looking over the rail of the pier.      The tide is in,but it's still a fortyfoot drop.RYAN stares over the railing like a death row inmatecontemplating his last meal.                      CHAD           Go already. No one's looking.His left hand holds hisWALLET.                 CHAD (CONT'D)           (re: wallet)           Need me to hold that?Ryan sticks it in the pocket of his surfer shorts -- he zipsa zipper, tucks a Velcro flap. Pats his pocketproudly.                     RYAN          Waterproof.But as soon as Ryan covertly CLIMBS ONTO THE RAIL, his leftleg starts trembling like crazy.                     RYAN (CONT'D)          This is stupid. I couldget          killed. Pick another dare.Chad lowers the phone, irritated.                     CHAD          My ass. Not after you made me          march in the Gay Pride Parade          wearing athong.                     RYAN          Screw it then. In one... Two...          Two and a half--                     CHAD          Whole numbers only, Rabbitfoot.Ryan stares at the waves crashing below. His legstartssnaking like crazy... And he chickens out, hopping back tothe deck.                    CHAD (CONT'D)          Just so you know, I'm emailing this          to every chick you ever met.But suddenly Ryan'soblivious to the dare.   His eyes areglued to something else--                CHAD (CONT'D)          (speaking like HAL 900)          Transmitting pussy file now.CHLOE, early 20s, a head turner, confident, funny;she canpull you in like a tractor beam. She and some CUTE FRIENDScarry heavy cardboard boxes toward a table set up for the"Heal The Bay" rally.Ryan walks over like he owns theplace.                      RYAN           Got any more? I'm here to help.                      CHLOE           Thanks, but no, we got 'em all.                      RYAN           What's in 'em?Chloeopens the box.    Hands him a "Heal The Bay" pamphlet.                      RYAN (CONT'D)           Cool, you're handing these out           during the concert?                     CHLOE          Yeah, wannahelp?Ryan tries to ignore his thundering heart.                       RYAN          Hell yeah.     I'm all about "Heal the          Bay. "His eyes ricochet off the pamphlet in his hand.                     RYAN


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                                                   GO                                                  written by                                                 JohnAugust                1/14/98       -   PRODUCTION DRAFT                3/18/98       -   BLUE REVISIONS                3/25/98       -   PINK REVISIONS                4/20/98       -   YELLOWREVISIONS                4/27/98       -   GREEN REVISIONS                5/05/98       -   GOLDENROD REVISIONS                8/20/98       -   BUFFREVISIONS                8/26/98       -   SALMON REVISIONSThis script is copyright © 1998 John August             EXT. A DITCH - NIGHT             A light rain and crickets CHIRPING.Somewhere in the night,             DANCE MUSIC is blaring, but here it's only a whisper with a             beat.             Water trickles out of a jagged pipe. Splashing up mud, the             riverlet weaves throughhamburger wrappers and sunbleached             beer cans, spent condoms and an old Spin magazine.             The tiny stream ripples past glass and trash and the body of a             woman. Face up, breathing. Deadgrass caught in her braids.             Her name is RONNA MARTIN. She's eighteen and bleeding.             Bleeding a lot.             She tries to         push herself up, but the dirt around her crumbles.             Her legsare         useless. Despite it all, there's a smile of             perverse joy         to her face, like she's just remembered the             punchline to         a favorite joke.                                          CLAIRE(V.O.)                               You know what I like best about Christmas?                               The surprises.                                                                             CUT TO:    2        INT. A DARK PLACE- DAY? NIGHT?                                           2             Pitch black. We hear an ENGINE and ROAD NOISE.                                          CLAIRE (V.O., CONT'D)                               It's like, you get thisbox, and you're                               sure you know what's in it.             SPARKS. A cigarette lighter flares.             We're in the trunk of a car with SIMON BAINES (22), a skinny             Brit with surfer hair. He looksaround, realizes where he is.             Panicked, he starts POUNDING and KICKING.                                          CLAIRE (V.O., CONT'D)                               You shake it, you weigh it, andyou're                               totally convinced you have it pegged. No                               doubt in your mind.             The lighter goes out. It's black again.                                                                             CUTTO:This script is copyright © 1998 John August                                                                           2.                                         "GO" 8/26/98 Revisions (SALMON)3   INT.UNIDENTIFIABLE ROOM - DAY                                               3    We keep tight on CLAIRE MONTGOMERY (19) as she talks to an    unseen guest. Christmas lights blink behind her.                          CLAIRE(CONT'd)               But then you open it up, and it's               something completely different. Bing!               Wow! Bang! Surprise! I mean, it's like               you and me here.    She takes a sip of coffee, smiles. Shehas a bewitching smile.                          CLAIRE               I'm not saying this is anything it's not.               But c'mon. This time yesterday, who'dda               thunkit?                                                                       CUT TO:    TITLE OVER BLACK:                                 Part One:                                    `X'    Christmas MUZAK plays. A babyCRIES.    FADE IN:4   INT. SUPERMARKET - DAY                                                       4    A cash drawer slides shut.    On the far side of the checkout stand, a STRINGY HAIRED WOMAN    countsfood stamps. Her eyes are sunken, black. She's got a    screaming BABY on her arm and two rambunctious BOYS in the    cart. They're wearing pajamas and raincoats.    It's five a.m. and the store is almostempty.    Containers of frozen orange juice spin endlessly on the    conveyor belt. Ronna Martin -- the girl in the ditch -- is    bagging groceries.                          RONNA               Paper or plastic?    She wearsa green apron with a red "Yule Save More"button.                                                                (CONTINUED)                                                                              3.                                            "GO" 8/26/98 Revisions(SALMON)4   CONTINUED:                                                                     4                            RONNA                 Paper or plastic?    She's been working for fourteen hours, and it shows.Her    intonation doesn't change at all.                            RONNA                 Paper or plastic?                           STRINGY HAIRED WOMAN                 Both.    Finally satisfied she has all her stamps,the Woman starts    looking through the receipt. In the cart, the boys knock gum    from the stand.                            STRINGY HAIRED WOMAN                 You didn't double mycoupons.                           RONNA                 They're at the bottom. In red. Where it                 says, double coupons.    She finishes one bag and starts another. The Woman is watching    hercarefully.                            STRINGY HAIRED WOMAN                 You can't do that. You can't put bleach                 in the same bag as food. It's poison.    Ronna fishes out the bleach and makes a big showof wrapping it    in a plastic bag.                            STRINGY HAIRED WOMAN                 Don't think you're something you're not.                 I used to have your job.    Ronna puts the bag in the cart. Looksher dead in the eye.                            RONNA                 Look how far it got you.5   INT. SUPERMARKET AISLE - DAY                                                   5    Ronna pulls off her apron as she headsfor the back. In the    BACKGROUND, the Stringy Haired Woman is bitching to an    overweight STOREMANAGER.                                                                            4.                                          "GO" 8/26/98 Revisions(SALMON)6    OMIT                                                                        66A   INT. SUPERMARKET STOCKROOM - DAY                                        6A     Dark and dusty, packed floor to ceiling withcrates and     palettes. Offscreen, a SOAP OPERA plays on TV.     Ronna comes around the corner, a thundercloud of anger and     frustration. She passes by CLAIRE (19) and the British SIMON     (21) at the phone,sorting through a crumpled list.     Simon's eyes track Ronna as she passes.                           CLAIRE                   (low)               Don't.                           SIMON               Whynot?                          CLAIRE               She's been on for fourteen hours.     At her locker, Ronna misdials the combination. Frustrated,     she POUNDS the locker, then re-dials.     Simon approaches Ronnagingerly. Claire gives up on him,     setting to work opening a box of expired cookies.                           SIMON               Ronna?                           RONNA               No.     She trades her apron forher coat.                          SIMON               I haven't asked you yet.                         RONNA               Answer's still no.     She slams her locker. She crosses to the timeclock.                          SIMON               Are you menstrual? Pre-menstrual,post-               menstrual?                                                                 (CONTINUED)                                                                            4A.                                          "GO" 8/26/98Revisions (SALMON)6A   CONTINUED:                                                               6A                             RONNA                  One of the three.                      (punches out)                  Okay, Simon.In case you haven't heard                  the buzz, the scoop, the word on the                  street, I'm getting evicted. Tomorrow.                  So pardon me if I'm not in a holly-jolly                  mood right now.     Clairelooks over, looks away. Ronna heads for the door     leading outside.                            SIMON                  Ronna, they wouldn't evict you at                  Christmas. You'd be ho-ho-homeless.     He follows herout the door.6B   EXT. BEHIND THE STORE - CONTINUOUS                                       6B     Ronna forges ahead, ignoring him.                             SIMON                  Is that why all the overtime?How much do                  you owe?                            RONNA                  Three eighty.                            SIMON                  That's nothing.                             RONNA                  Morethan I got.                             SIMON                  I'll give you twenty right now for a                  blowjob.     She stops, turns on him. Her look could freezelava.                             SIMON                  Handjob?     A beat. The start of a smile. Simon's just pushing her     buttons.                             SIMON                  Ronna, do you want my shift?                             RONNA                  Serious?                                                         *                                                                   (CONTINUED)                                                                            4B.                                          "GO" 8/26/98 Revisions (SALMON)6B   CONTINUED:                                                               6B                             SIMON                  I haven'tpunched in yet.                                          *     She only half-believes him. Simon's not prone to benevolence.                             SIMON [CONT'D]                  Look, my best mates are going to LasVegas                         *                  this weekend. I've never been -- I'm told                  it's incredible. If you took my shift, I                  could go with them. Everybody wins.                      (beat; she's notsold)                  Cash up front.     He peels off three twenties from his clip. She looks at the     money, thinking. Finally, she takes it.                            RONNA                  Deal.     Beyond exhausted, shestarts walking back to the store. After     a beat...                            SIMON                  Ronna? Are you certain I couldn't have a                  blowjob?     Without turning back, she flips him off.7    OMIT                                                                        7                                                                   (CONTINUED)                                                                           5-6.                                         "GO" 8/26/98 Revisions (SALMON)7    CONTINUED:                                                                   78    OMIT                                                                         88A   INT.