ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Washington IrvingThis 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: The Legend of Sleepy HollowAuthor: Washington IrvingPosting Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #41]ReleaseDate: October, 1992Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW ***Produced by Ilana M. (Kingsley) Newby and Greg NewbyTHE LEGEND OF SLEEPYHOLLOWby Washington IrvingFOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.        A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,          Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;        And of gaycastles in the clouds that pass,          Forever flushing round a summer sky.                                         CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the easternshore of theHudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominatedby the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they alwaysprudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholaswhen they crossed,there lies a small market town or rural port, whichby some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properlyknown by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, informer days, by thegood housewives of the adjacent country, from theinveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the villagetavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact,but merely advert to it, for thesake of being precise and authentic.Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a littlevalley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of thequietest places in the whole world. A small brookglides through it,with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasionalwhistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only soundthat ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.I recollect that,when a stripling, my first exploit insquirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades oneside of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all natureis peculiarly quiet, and was startled by theroar of my own gun, as itbroke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberatedby the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I mightsteal from the world and its distractions, anddream quietly away theremnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than thislittle valley.From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of itsinhabitants, who are descendants from theoriginal Dutch settlers, thissequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, andits rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all theneighboring country. A drowsy, dreamyinfluence seems to hang over theland, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the placewas bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of thesettlement; others, that an old Indian chief, theprophet or wizard ofhis tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered byMaster Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues underthe sway of some witching power, that holds a spell overthe minds ofthe good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They aregiven to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances andvisions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voicesinthe air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots,and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener acrossthe valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare,withher whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of hergambols.The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, andseems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is theapparitionof a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by someto be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried awayby a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War,and who isever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along inthe gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are notconfined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, andespecially to the vicinityof a church at no great distance. Indeed,certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have beencareful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning thisspectre, allege that the body of thetrooper having been buried in thechurchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightlyquest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimespasses along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, isowing to his beingbelated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which hasfurnished materials for many a wild story in that region ofshadows; andthe spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of theHeadless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is notconfined to the nativeinhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciouslyimbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awakethey may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they aresure, in a little time, to inhalethe witching influence of the air, andbegin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in suchlittle retired Dutch valleys, found here and thereembosomed in thegreat State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remainfixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which ismaking such incessant changes in other parts of thisrestless country,sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of stillwater, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw andbubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in theirmimicharbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though manyyears have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yetI question whether I should not still find the same trees and thesamefamilies vegetating in its sheltered bosom.In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of Americanhistory, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of thename of Ichabod Crane, whosojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried,"in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of thevicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies theUnion with pioneers for the mind as wellas for the forest, and sendsforth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters.The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall,but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders,long arms and legs, handsthat dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served forshovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head wassmall, and flat at top, with huge ears, large greenglassy eyes, and along snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon hisspindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding alongthe profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothesbagging andfluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius offamine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from acornfield.His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room,rudely constructedof logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves ofold copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by awithe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes setagainst thewindow shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease,he would find some embarrassment in getting out,--an idea most probablyborrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mysteryof aneelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation,just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, anda formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the lowmurmurof his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heardin a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now andthen by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menaceorcommand, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as heurged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth tosay, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the goldenmaxim,"Spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainlywere not spoiled.I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruelpotentates of the school who joy in the smart of theirsubjects; onthe contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather thanseverity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it onthose of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at theleastflourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims ofjustice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some littletough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelledandgrew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called "doinghis duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisementwithout following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smartingurchin, that "hewould remember it and thank him for it the longest dayhe had to live."When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmateof the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some ofthesmaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or goodhousewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed,it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenuearising fromhis school was small, and would have been scarcelysufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder,and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to helpout his maintenance, he was,according to country custom in thoseparts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose childrenhe instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thusgoing the rounds of the neighborhood,with all his worldly effects tiedup in a cotton handkerchief.That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rusticpatrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievousburden, and schoolmasters asmere drones, he had various ways ofrendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmersoccasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to makehay, mended the fences, took the horses towater, drove the cows frompasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all thedominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his littleempire, the school, and became wonderfully gentleand ingratiating.He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children,particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom somagnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on oneknee,and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of theneighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing theyoung folks inpsalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him onSundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a bandof chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried awaythe palm from theparson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far aboveall the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers stillto be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off,quite to the opposite side ofthe millpond, on a still Sunday morning,which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of IchabodCrane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which iscommonly denominated "by hook andby crook," the worthy pedagogue got ontolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of thelabor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.The schoolmaster is generally a man of someimportance in the femalecircle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle,gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments tothe rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior inlearning only to theparson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stirat the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerarydish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade ofa silverteapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in thesmiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in thechurchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for themfromthe wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for theiramusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with awhole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while themorebashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superiorelegance and address.From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette,carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house tohouse, so thathis appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover,esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had readseveral books quite through, and was a perfect master ofCotton Mather's"History of New England Witchcraft," in which, by the way, he mostfirmly and potently believed.He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simplecredulity. His appetite for the marvellous,and his powers of digestingit, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by hisresidence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrousfor his capacious swallow. It was often his delight,after his schoolwas dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed ofclover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, andthere con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gatheringdusk ofevening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as hewended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhousewhere he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature,at thatwitching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,--the moan of thewhip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, thatharbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or thesuddenrustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. Thefireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, nowand then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream acrosshis path; andif, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winginghis blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give upthe ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. Hisonly resource on suchoccasions, either to drown thought or drive awayevil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of SleepyHollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled withawe at hearing his nasal melody,"in linked sweetness long drawn out,"floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winterevenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by thefire,with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, andlisten to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and hauntedfields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses,andparticularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of theHollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally byhis anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentoussights andsounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times ofConnecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations uponcomets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world didabsolutely turnround, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling inthe chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from thecrackling wood fire, and where, ofcourse, no spectre dared to showits face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walkhomewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst thedim and ghastly glare of a snowy night!With what wistful look did heeye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields fromsome distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub coveredwith snow, which, like a sheeted spectre,beset his very path! How oftendid he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on thefrosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lesthe should behold some uncouth being trampingclose behind him! And howoften was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howlingamong the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one ofhis nightly scourings!All these, however, weremere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mindthat walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time,and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonelyperambulations, yetdaylight put an end to all these evils; and he wouldhave passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all hisworks, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes moreperplexity to mortal man thanghosts, goblins, and the whole race ofwitches put together, and that was--a woman.Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week,to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina VanTassel,the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was ablooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and meltingand rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universallyfamed,not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal alittle of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which wasa mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to setoffher charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which hergreat-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the temptingstomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat,todisplay the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it isnot to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in hiseyes, more especiallyafter he had visited her in her paternal mansion.Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented,liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes orhis thoughts beyond theboundaries of his own farm; but within thoseeverything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was satisfied withhis wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the heartyabundance, rather than the style inwhich he lived. His stronghold wassituated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered,fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. Agreat elm tree spread its broad branches over it,at the foot of whichbubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little wellformed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, toa neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders anddwarf willows.Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for achurch; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with thetreasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding withinit frommorning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about theeaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watchingthe weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried intheirbosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames,were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers weregrunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whencesalliedforth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air.A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond,convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobblingthroughthe farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, likeill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Beforethe barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, awarrior and a finegentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowingin the pride and gladness of his heart,--sometimes tearing up the earthwith his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family ofwives and children to enjoythe rich morsel which he had discovered.The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promiseof luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured tohimself every roasting-pig running


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of McTeague, by Frank NorrisThis 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 it under theterms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: McTeagueAuthor: Frank NorrisRelease Date: March 12, 2006 [EBook #165]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MCTEAGUE ***Produced by Pauline J. Iacono and David WidgerMcTEAGUEA Story of San Franciscoby Frank NorrisCHAPTER 1It was Sunday, and, according to his custom on that day,McTeague tookhis dinner at two in the afternoon at the car conductors' coffee-jointon Polk Street. He had a thick gray soup; heavy, underdone meat, veryhot, on a cold plate; two kinds of vegetables; and a sort ofsuetpudding, full of strong butter and sugar. On his way back to his office,one block above, he stopped at Joe Frenna's saloon and bought a pitcherof steam beer. It was his habit to leave the pitcher there on his waytodinner.Once in his office, or, as he called it on his signboard, "DentalParlors," he took off his coat and shoes, unbuttoned his vest, and,having crammed his little stove full of coke, lay back in his operatingchair at thebay window, reading the paper, drinking his beer, andsmoking his huge porcelain pipe while his food digested; crop-full,stupid, and warm. By and by, gorged with steam beer, and overcome by theheat of the room, thecheap tobacco, and the effects of his heavy meal,he dropped off to sleep. Late in the afternoon his canary bird, in itsgilt cage just over his head, began to sing. He woke slowly, finishedthe rest of his beer--very flat andstale by this time--and taking downhis concertina from the bookcase, where in week days it kept the companyof seven volumes of "Allen's Practical Dentist," played upon it somehalf-dozen very mournful airs.McTeaguelooked forward to these Sunday afternoons as a period ofrelaxation and enjoyment. He invariably spent them in the same fashion.These were his only pleasures--to eat, to smoke, to sleep, and to playupon hisconcertina.The six lugubrious airs that he knew, always carried him back to thetime when he was a car-boy at the Big Dipper Mine in Placer County, tenyears before. He remembered the years he had spent theretrundling theheavy cars of ore in and out of the tunnel under the direction of hisfather. For thirteen days of each fortnight his father was a steady,hard-working shift-boss of the mine. Every other Sunday he becameanirresponsible animal, a beast, a brute, crazy with alcohol.McTeague remembered his mother, too, who, with the help of the Chinaman,cooked for forty miners. She was an overworked drudge, fiery andenergetic for allthat, filled with the one idea of having her son risein life and enter a profession. The chance had come at last when thefather died, corroded with alcohol, collapsing in a few hours. Two orthree years later a travellingdentist visited the mine and put up histent near the bunk-house. He was more or less of a charlatan, but hefired Mrs. McTeague's ambition, and young McTeague went away with himto learn his profession. He had learntit after a fashion, mostly bywatching the charlatan operate. He had read many of the necessary books,but he was too hopelessly stupid to get much benefit from them.Then one day at San Francisco had come the newsof his mother's death;she had left him some money--not much, but enough to set him up inbusiness; so he had cut loose from the charlatan and had opened his"Dental Parlors" on Polk Street, an "accommodationstreet" of smallshops in the residence quarter of the town. Here he had slowlycollected a clientele of butcher boys, shop girls, drug clerks, and carconductors. He made but few acquaintances. Polk Street called himthe"Doctor" and spoke of his enormous strength. For McTeague was a younggiant, carrying his huge shock of blond hair six feet three inchesfrom the ground; moving his immense limbs, heavy with ropes ofmuscle,slowly, ponderously. His hands were enormous, red, and covered with afell of stiff yellow hair; they were hard as wooden mallets, strongas vises, the hands of the old-time car-boy. Often he dispensedwithforceps and extracted a refractory tooth with his thumb and finger.His head was square-cut, angular; the jaw salient, like that of thecarnivora.McTeague's mind was as his body, heavy, slow to act, sluggish. Yettherewas nothing vicious about the man. Altogether he suggested the draughthorse, immensely strong, stupid, docile, obedient.When he opened his "Dental Parlors," he felt that his life was asuccess, that he could hopefor nothing better. In spite of the name,there was but one room. It was a corner room on the second floor overthe branch post-office, and faced the street. McTeague made it do fora bedroom as well, sleeping on the bigbed-lounge against the wallopposite the window. There was a washstand behind the screen in thecorner where he manufactured his moulds. In the round bay window werehis operating chair, his dental engine, and themovable rack on whichhe laid out his instruments. Three chairs, a bargain at the second-handstore, ranged themselves against the wall with military precisionunderneath a steel engraving of the court of Lorenzo de'Medici, whichhe had bought because there were a great many figures in it for themoney. Over the bed-lounge hung a rifle manufacturer's advertisementcalendar which he never used. The other ornaments were asmallmarble-topped centre table covered with back numbers of "The AmericanSystem of Dentistry," a stone pug dog sitting before the little stove,and a thermometer. A stand of shelves occupied one corner, filledwiththe seven volumes of "Allen's Practical Dentist." On the top shelfMcTeague kept his concertina and a bag of bird seed for the canary. Thewhole place exhaled a mingled odor of bedding, creosote, and ether.But forone thing, McTeague would have been perfectly contented. Justoutside his window was his signboard--a modest affair--that read:"Doctor McTeague. Dental Parlors. Gas Given"; but that was all. It washis ambition, hisdream, to have projecting from that corner window ahuge gilded tooth, a molar with enormous prongs, something gorgeous andattractive. He would have it some day, on that he was resolved; but asyet such a thingwas far beyond his means.When he had finished the last of his beer, McTeague slowly wiped hislips and huge yellow mustache with the side of his hand. Bull-like, heheaved himself laboriously up, and, going to thewindow, stood lookingdown into the street.The street never failed to interest him. It was one of those crossstreets peculiar to Western cities, situated in the heart of theresidence quarter, but occupied by smalltradespeople who lived in therooms above their shops. There were corner drug stores with huge jarsof red, yellow, and green liquids in their windows, very brave and gay;stationers' stores, where illustrated weeklieswere tacked upon bulletinboards; barber shops with cigar stands in their vestibules; sad-lookingplumbers' offices; cheap restaurants, in whose windows one saw piles ofunopened oysters weighted down by cubes of ice,and china pigs and cowsknee deep in layers of white beans. At one end of the street McTeaguecould see the huge power-house of the cable line. Immediately oppositehim was a great market; while farther on, over thechimney stacks of theintervening houses, the glass roof of some huge public baths glitteredlike crystal in the afternoon sun. Underneath him the branch post-officewas opening its doors, as was its custom between twoand threeo'clock on Sunday afternoons. An acrid odor of ink rose upward to him.Occasionally a cable car passed, trundling heavily, with a stridentwhirring of jostled glass windows.On week days the street was verylively. It woke to its work about seveno'clock, at the time when the newsboys made their appearance togetherwith the day laborers. The laborers went trudging past in a stragglingfile--plumbers' apprentices, theirpockets stuffed with sections oflead pipe, tweezers, and pliers; carpenters, carrying nothing but theirlittle pasteboard lunch baskets painted to imitate leather; gangs ofstreet workers, their overalls soiled with yellowclay, their picks andlong-handled shovels over their shoulders; plasterers, spotted with limefrom head to foot. This little army of workers, tramping steadily inone direction, met and mingled with other toilers of adifferentdescription--conductors and "swing men" of the cable company going onduty; heavy-eyed night clerks from the drug stores on their way home tosleep; roundsmen returning to the precinct police station tomake theirnight report, and Chinese market gardeners teetering past under theirheavy baskets. The cable cars began to fill up; all along the streetcould be seen the shopkeepers taking down their shutters.Betweenseven and eight the street breakfasted. Now and then a waiterfrom one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk to theother, balancing on one palm a tray covered with a napkin. Everywherewas the smell ofcoffee and of frying steaks. A little later, followingin the path of the day laborers, came the clerks and shop girls,dressed with a certain cheap smartness, always in a hurry, glancingapprehensively at the power-houseclock. Their employers followedan hour or so later--on the cable cars for the most part whiskeredgentlemen with huge stomachs, reading the morning papers with greatgravity; bank cashiers and insurance clerks withflowers in theirbuttonholes.At the same time the school children invaded the street, filling the airwith a clamor of shrill voices, stopping at the stationers' shops, oridling a moment in the doorways of the candy stores.For over half anhour they held possession of the sidewalks, then suddenly disappeared,leaving behind one or two stragglers who hurried along with greatstrides of their little thin legs, very anxious andpreoccupied.Towards eleven o'clock the ladies from the great avenue a block abovePolk Street made their appearance, promenading the sidewalks leisurely,deliberately. They were at their morning's marketing. Theywere handsomewomen, beautifully dressed. They knew by name their butchers and grocersand vegetable men. From his window McTeague saw them in front of thestalls, gloved and veiled and daintily shod, thesubservient provisionmen at their elbows, scribbling hastily in the order books. They allseemed to know one another, these grand ladies from the fashionableavenue. Meetings took place here and there; a conversationwas begun;others arrived; groups were formed; little impromptu receptions wereheld before the chopping blocks of butchers' stalls, or on the sidewalk,around boxes of berries and fruit.From noon to evening thepopulation of the street was of a mixedcharacter. The street was busiest at that time; a vast and prolongedmurmur arose--the mingled shuffling of feet, the rattle of wheels, theheavy trundling of cable cars. At fouro'clock the school childrenonce more swarmed the sidewalks, again disappearing with surprisingsuddenness. At six the great homeward march commenced; the cars werecrowded, the laborers thronged the sidewalks,the newsboys chanted theevening papers. Then all at once the street fell quiet; hardly a soulwas in sight; the sidewalks were deserted. It was supper hour. Eveningbegan; and one by one a multitude of lights, from thedemoniac glare ofthe druggists' windows to the dazzling blue whiteness of the electricglobes, grew thick from street corner to street corner. Once more thestreet was crowded. Now there was no thought but foramusement. Thecable cars were loaded with theatre-goers--men in high hats andyoung girls in furred opera cloaks. On the sidewalks were groups andcouples--the plumbers' apprentices, the girls of the ribboncounters,the little families that lived on the second stories over their shops,the dressmakers, the small doctors, the harness-makers--all the variousinhabitants of the street were abroad, strolling idly from shopwindowto shop window, taking the air after the day's work. Groups of girlscollected on the corners, talking and laughing very loud, making remarksupon the young men that passed them. The tamale men appeared. Aband ofSalvationists began to sing before a saloon.Then, little by little, Polk Street dropped back to solitude. Eleveno'clock struck from the power-house clock. Lights were extinguished. Atone o'clock the cable stopped,leaving an abrupt silence in the air.All at once it seemed very still. The ugly noises were the occasionalfootfalls of a policeman and the persistent calling of ducks and geesein the closed market. The street wasasleep.Day after day, McTeague saw the same panorama unroll itself. The baywindow of his "Dental Parlors" was for him a point of vantage from whichhe watched the world go past.On Sundays, however, all waschanged. As he stood in the bay window,after finishing his beer, wiping his lips, and looking out into thestreet, McTeague was conscious of the difference. Nearly all the storeswere closed. No wagons passed. A fewpeople hurried up and down thesidewalks, dressed in cheap Sunday finery. A cable car went by; on theoutside seats were a party of returning picnickers. The mother, thefather, a young man, and a young girl, and threechildren. The two olderpeople held empty lunch baskets in their laps, while the bands of thechildren's hats were stuck full of oak leaves. The girl carried a hugebunch of wilting poppies and wild flowers.As the carapproached McTeague's window the young man got up and swunghimself off the platform, waving goodby to the party. Suddenly McTeaguerecognized him."There's Marcus Schouler," he muttered behind hismustache.Marcus Schouler was the dentist's one intimate friend. The acquaintancehad begun at the car conductors' coffee-joint, where the two occupiedthe same table and met at every meal. Then they made thediscovery thatthey both lived in the same flat, Marcus occupying a room on the floorabove McTeague. On different occasions McTeague had treated Marcus foran ulcerated tooth and had refused to accept payment.Soon it came to bean understood thing between them. They were "pals."McTeague, listening, heard Marcus go up-stairs to his room above. In afew minutes his door opened again. McTeague knew that he had comeoutinto the hall and was leaning over the banisters."Oh, Mac!" he called. McTeague came to his door."Hullo! 'sthat you, Mark?""Sure," answered Marcus. "Come on up.""You come on down.""No, come on up.""Oh, youcome on down.""Oh, you lazy duck!" retorted Marcus, coming down the stairs."Been out to the Cliff House on a picnic," he explained as he sat downon the bed-lounge, "with my uncle and his people--the Sieppes, youknow.By damn! it was hot," he suddenly vociferated. "Just look at that! Justlook at that!" he cried, dragging at his limp collar. "That's the thirdone since morning; it is--it is, for a fact--and you got your stovegoing." Hebegan to tell about the picnic, talking very loud and fast,gesturing furiously, very excited over trivial details. Marcus could nottalk without getting excited."You ought t'have seen, y'ought t'have seen. I tell you, it wasoutasight. It was; it was, for a fact.""Yes, yes," answered McTeague, bewildered, trying to follow. "Yes,that's so."In recounting a certain dispute with an awkward bicyclist, in which itappeared he had become involved,Marcus quivered with rage. "'Say thatagain,' says I to um. 'Just say that once more, and'"--here a rollingexplosion of oaths--"'you'll go back to the city in the Morgue wagon.Ain't I got a right to cross a street even, I'dlike to know, withoutbeing run down--what?' I say it's outrageous. I'd a knifed him inanother minute. It was an outrage. I say it was an OUTRAGE.""Sure it was," McTeague hastened to reply. "Sure, sure.""Oh, and wehad an accident," shouted the other, suddenly off on anothertack. "It was awful. Trina was in the swing there--that's my cousinTrina, you know who I mean--and she fell out. By damn! I thought she'dkilled herself;struck her face on a rock and knocked out a front tooth.It's a wonder she didn't kill herself. It IS a wonder; it is, for afact. Ain't it, now? Huh? Ain't it? Y'ought t'have seen."McTeague had a vague idea that MarcusSchouler was stuck on his cousinTrina. They "kept company" a good deal; Marcus took dinner with theSieppes every Saturday evening at their home at B Street station, acrossthe bay, and Sunday afternoons he and thefamily usually made littleexcursions into the suburbs. McTeague began to wonder dimly how itwas that on this occasion Marcus had not gone home with his cousin. Assometimes happens, Marcus furnished theexplanation upon the instant."I promised a duck up here on the avenue I'd call for his dog at fourthis afternoon."Marcus was Old Grannis's assistant in a little dog hospital that thelatter had opened in a sort of alley justoff Polk Street, some fourblocks above Old Grannis lived in one of the back rooms of McTeague'sflat. He was an Englishman and an expert dog surgeon, but MarcusSchouler was a bungler in the profession. His fatherhad been aveterinary surgeon who had kept a livery stable near by, on CaliforniaStreet, and Marcus's knowledge of the diseases of domestic animals hadbeen picked up in a haphazard way, much after the manner ofMcTeague'seducation. Somehow he managed to impress Old Grannis, a gentle,simple-minded old man, with a sense of his fitness, bewildering him witha torrent of empty phrases that he delivered with fierce gesturesandwith a manner of the greatest conviction."You'd better come along with me, Mac," observed Marcus. "We'll get theduck's dog, and then we'll take a little walk, huh? You got nothun todo. Come along."McTeague wentout with him, and the two friends proceeded up to theavenue to the house where the dog was to be found. It was a hugemansion-like place, set in an enormous garden that occupied a wholethird of the block; and whileMarcus tramped up the front steps and rangthe doorbell boldly, to show his independence, McTeague remained belowon the sidewalk, gazing stupidly at the curtained windows, the marblesteps, and the bronze griffins,troubled and a little confused by allthis massive luxury.After they had taken the dog to the hospital and had left him to whimperbehind the wire netting, they returned to Polk Street and had a glass ofbeer in the backroom of Joe Frenna's corner grocery.Ever since they had left the huge mansion on the avenue, Marcus had beenattacking the capitalists, a class which he pretended to execrate. Itwas a pose which he often assumed,certain of impressing the dentist.Marcus had picked up a few half-truths of political economy--it wasimpossible to say where--and as soon as the two had settled themselvesto their beer in Frenna's back room he tookup the theme of the laborquestion. He discussed it at the top of his voice, vociferating, shakinghis fists, exciting himself with his own noise. He was continuallymaking use of the stock phrases of the professionalpolitician--phraseshe had caught at some of the ward "rallies" and "ratification meetings."These rolled off his tongue with incredible emphasis, appearing at everyturn of his conversation--"Outraged constituencies,""cause of labor,""wage earners," "opinions biased by personal interests," "eyes blindedby party prejudice." McTeague listened to him, awestruck."There's where the evil lies," Marcus would cry. "The masses mustlearnself-control; it stands to reason. Look at the figures, look at thefigures. Decrease the number of wage earners and you increase wages,don't you? don't you?"Absolutely stupid, and understanding never a word,McTeague wouldanswer:"Yes, yes, that's it--self-control--that's the word.""It's the capitalists that's ruining the cause of labor," shoutedMarcus, banging the table with his fist till the beer glasses danced;"white-livereddrones, traitors, with their livers white as snow, eatunthe bread of widows and orphuns; there's where the evil lies."Stupefied with his clamor, McTeague answered, wagging his head:"Yes, that's it; I think it's theirlivers."Suddenly Marcus fell calm again, forgetting his pose all in an instant."Say, Mac, I told my cousin Trina to come round and see you about thattooth of her's. She'll be in to-morrow, I guess."CHAPTER 2After hisbreakfast the following Monday morning, McTeague looked overthe appointments he had written down in the book-slate that hung againstthe screen. His writing was immense, very clumsy, and very round, withhuge,full-bellied l's and h's. He saw that he had made an appointmentat one o'clock for Miss Baker, the retired dressmaker, a little old maidwho had a tiny room a few doors down the hall. It adjoined that of OldGrannis.Quitean affair had arisen from this circumstance. Miss Baker and OldGrannis were both over sixty, and yet it was current talk amongstthe lodgers of the flat that the two were in love with each other.Singularly enough, they


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                                             <title>"Made" -- by JonFavreau</title>
               MADE               INT. SPORTSMAN'S LODGE - SAN FERNANDO VALLEY - DAY               A large crowd has gathered to watch two WHITEBOXERS square               off in a temporary ring in the center of a converted banquet               hall. One is BOBBY, the other is RICKY. They are drawn               together to start the bout by a bell and a hand gestureas               the REFEREE backs away. Immediately the two fighters unload               a relentless barrage of POWER PUNCHES. Neither man is               holding back, and the punches all find purchase inthe               swelling faces of their opponent. The crowd rises to its               feet in appreciation of this rare level of competition in               the lower strata of the heavyweightdivision.                                                                    CUT TO:               EXT. BOBBY'S CAR - COLDWATER CANYON - LOS ANGELES - SUNSET               Bobby drives Ricky home through the winding twists ofLA's               landmark canyon. Both their faces are swollen, verging on               the grotesque. Bobby drives a black Special Edition 1979               Trans Am with the gold Firebird stenciled across thehood.               The car is not in great shape, but in its day ruled the               road. A Hawaiian mini warrior mask hangs from the rear view.               The T-top is out, and Ricky struggles to light his               cigarettein the wind. He finally ignites the whole book of               matches in frustration, lights up, then tosses it out.               It lands, still flaming, at the base of a 'No Smoking in               the Canyon' sign. They drive downthe palm tree lined               stretch of road bordering Beverly Hills. They turn East on               Sunset Boulevard. The Strip lights are first flickering to               life.               EXT. RICKY'S APARTMENT - YUCCACORRIDOR - NIGHT               The opening SCORE dies away as Ricky sits beside Bobby. The               neighborhood is awful. The light of the corner liquor store               and a menthol cigarette billboard make up forthe broken               street lamps. Ricky smooths out his running suit and steals               an instinctive cautionary look, scanning all the blind spots               for predators. The swelling has now truly set in. He'sa               mess.                                     RICKY                         Did Max mention anything about any                         jobs?                                     BOBBY                         What aboutboxing?                                     RICKY                         What about it?                                     BOBBY                         What are you saying?                                     RICKY                         You said if you didn'thave a                         winning record after eleven fights,                         you'd talk to Max.                                     BOBBY                         So?                                     RICKY                         So, it was adraw.                                     BOBBY                         Yeah, I'm 5-5 and 1.                                     RICKY                         So, it's not a winning record.                                     BOBBY                         It's not losingrecord.                                     RICKY                         That's not what you said. You said                         if you didn't have a winning record-                                     BOBBY                         Don't beshitty.                                     RICKY                         How am I being shitty?                                     BOBBY                         Don't be shitty.                                     RICKY                         I wouldn't keep buggingyou, but                         you said he said he would have a job                         for us.                                     BOBBY                         I'm not gonna bring it up tohim.                                     RICKY                         Of course I don't want you to bring                         it up to him... But if it comes up...                                     BOBBY                         I'll pageyou.                                     RICKY                         Yeah. Page me. You know the number?                                     BOBBY                         Yeah. I know thenumber.                                     RICKY                         Cause if you don't know the number,                         I can page you with the number so                         you'll have thenumber.                                     BOBBY                         I know the number.                                     RICKY                         I'll page you with the number. I'll                         see you later. What time youdone?                                     BOBBY                         I got no idea.                                     RICKY                         Ask if he said anything to her.                                     BOBBY                         Iwill.                                     RICKY                         I'll page you with the number.                                     BOBBY                         Bye.               He drives off. Ricky checks his pager, still furtively               scanningthe street.               EXT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - BLACKBURN - LOS ANGELES - NIGHT               Bobby pulls up in front of the quaint Spanish Colonial               two-flat. He bounds up the stairs to the upperunit.               INT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS               He lets himself in, searching for his girlfriend. The               apartment is Z-Gallery, with a few accents ofBobby's               HAWAIIANA.                                     BOBBY                         Honey?                                     JESS (O.S.) (O.S.)                         Where were you?               He finds her in the bedroom. JESSICA isa knockout. Too               pretty. The pretty that makes a woman a full-time job.               What's worse is she's decked out like a whore. She's wearing               slutty lingerie covered by a bland terry cloth bathrobe.Her               ridiculously long legs are garnished with candy-apple porn               star sky high heels.  Bobby watches with cultivated patience               as she applies tasteless amounts of make-up from a Maccase               the size of a tackle box. She's in a hurry.                                     BOBBY                              (swallowing utter                              contempt)                         So, what kind of gig isthis?                                     JESS                         Easy night. Bachelor party. Can we                         give Wendy a ride?                                     BOBBY                         No. What kind of bachelorparty?                                     JESS                         The easy kind. They're young and                         rich and well mannered.               She turns to look at him and reacts to hishorrifying               appearance.                                     JESS (continues) (CONT'D)                         Oh my god. What happened?                                     BOBBY                         A draw. What makes youthink                         they're well mannered?                                     JESS                         Bobby, this is a plumb gig. It's a                         bunch of young agents and it's at a                         restaurant. It's gonnabe easy and                         we'll make a lot of money.                                     BOBBY                         I don't like you working with                         Wendy. Why are you workingwith                         Wendy?                                     JESS                         They requested her. It was her gig.                         Max put me on as a favor.                                     BOBBY                         Somefavor. I hope they know you're                         not like Wendy.                                     JESS                         Oh, please.                                     BOBBY                         If they asked for her,they're                         probably expecting blowjobs all                         around.                                     JESS                         Will you cut it out! Get ready,                         we're alreadylate.                                     BOBBY                         Who's watching the baby?                                     JESS                         She's downstairs with Ruth.Get                         ready.                                     BOBBY                         I'm ready.                                     JESS                         Bullshit. These are classy                         customers. You can't show upall                         fucked up with a Fila running suit                         on.                                     BOBBY                         They're not too classy to have tits                         rubbed in their face.               She risesand swaps her robe for a floor length overcoat.               God, is she hot.                                     JESS                         Stop. I love you.               She leans in for a kiss. He lets his anger melt. He leans               in tokiss her. She gives him last minute cheek to save the               perfection of her sparkling twenty minute lips.                                     JESS (continues) (CONT'D)                         Let's go.               He follows, slightlyslighted.               EXT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - BLACKBURN - LOS ANGELES               As the couple hurries down the stairs, The face of a SMALL               GIRL peeks out the first floor window. This is CHLOE,Jess'               daughter. Her age is somewhere between Paper Moon and Jerry               Maguire. She watches without expression as her mom leaves               for work.               EXT. HAVANA ROOM - BEVERLY HILLS- NIGHT               They valet the car and approach the members only cigar               lounge. Bobby opens the door for her.               INT. HAVANA ROOM - LOWER LOBBY - NIGHT               An attractive femaleHOSTESS sees Bobby's undesirable               appearance.                                     HOSTESS                         May I help..?               She then sees Jessica and guesses heroccupation.                                     HOSTESS (continues) (CONT'D)                         Oh, hi. They've been expecting you.                         Take the elevator upstairs. You can                         change in the cardroom.               INT. ELEVATOR - HAVANA ROOM - NIGHT               They stand side by side in silence as the lift rises. Jess               adjusts her bosom. Bobby continues to percolate. His pager               goes off. Herecognizes the number.                                     BOBBY                         You talk to Max today?                                     JESS                         I'm not gonna mention Ricky tohim.                                     BOBBY                         Don't expect you to mention it to                         him. I'm just saying, if-                                     JESS                         The only way he'll go with Rickyis                         if you're in too.                                     BOBBY                         Well, that's not gonna happen.                                     JESS                         Fine. You want to help Ricky, talk                         toMaxie yourself.                                     BOBBY                         I feel weird asking him.                                     JESS                         You shouldn't. He likes you.                                     BOBBY                         Ijust wish he never brought it up.                         Ricky won't shut up about it.                                     JESS                         Forget Ricky. You should be glad                         Max got you driving for


   <title>"Demolition Man," by Daniel Waters; and Jonathan Lemkin</title>
                             DEMOLITION MAN                          ParticipatingWriters:                              Peter Lenkov                              Robert Reneau                              Daniel Waters                               Fred Decker                             Jonathan Lemkin                                Storyby:                              Peter Lenkov                              Daniel Waters                             Screenplay by:                              Daniel Waters                             Jonathan Lemkin        SILVERPICTURES                                                  November 19, 1992                                                  c 1992        [NOTE: THE FOLLOWING SCREENPLAY HAD NUMBERED SCENES.        THESE HAVE BEEN OMITTED FORTHIS SOFT COPY.]                                 "The world of the future will                                 be an ever more demanding                                 struggle against the limitations                                 of ourintelligence..."                                                    Norbert Wiener                                 "On the whole, I'd rather bein                                 Philadelphia..."                                                    W.C.  Fields                             DEMOLITION MAN        FADE IN:        EXT. BLACK SKY - NIGHT        Dark, ominous clouds ofsmoke.  A beat of semi-calm.        And then... A long blast of TRACER FIRE cuts through.        And another.  And another.  We TILT DOWN to discover we        are --        EXT. LOS ANGELES - AIRBORNE - MOVING -NIGHT (1998)        A city on fire.  A block here, block there.  More TRACER        FIRE.  A cross between the LA riots and Gulf War.  A        SUPERED TITLE:  LA RIOT III.  And then FADING IN BELOW:        MONTH4.  We CONTINUE MOVING ABOVE the ravaged city --                                VOICE #1 (V.O.)                         (filtered)                  You imagine what it was like when                  they had to fly choppersthrough                  this shit?                                VOICE #2 (V.O.)                  Not even.        Gliding totally silently INTO FRAME is the biggest,        darkest, midnight blue blimp you've ever seen.  Small        goldletters on the side -- LAPD.  Fully armored beneath.        Woven kevlar on the sides.  BULLETS REBOUND with a long        ZZZZZIP off the sides.  PING SOFTLY off the plastic armor        on thebottom.                                VOICE #1 (V.O.)                  I don't understand where we're                  going and why the hell we're                  bothering anyhow...        A new voice responds.  This one brooks nodiscussion --                                SPARTAN (V.O.)                  Because there's anger and there's                  frustration, and then there's pure                  fucking evil...        INT. BLIMP POD - CONTINUOUS ACTION -NIGHT        JOHN SPARTAN peers down into the fiery landscape.                                SPARTAN                  Where we're going is pure fucking                  evil.                         (beat)                  Thirty people whowere riding that                  muni bus are still missing.  I've                  got this bad hunch about who took                  them and where they are...        EXT. EXTREME SOUTH CENTRAL LA - FROM ABOVE - AIRBORNE-        NIGHT        Way up ahead, amid the flames, is a fortress.  A square        city block.  Walled.  Something out of the middle ages.        The walls are entirely made from stacked abandoned cars.        INT. BLIMPPOD - NIGHT        Spartan is dragging a heavy bag up towards the door.        PILOT #2 looks at him curiously.                                PILOT #2                  How come they call you Demolition                  Man?  Are youwith the bomb squad?        Spartan gets his bag into position.                                SPARTAN                  I just...                         (shrugs                          apologetically)                  ... demolish things.        He checksout the window.  They're not quite there.                                SPARTAN                  I do my job, shit happens.                         (to Pilot #1)                  Get a thermo.        The PILOT takes a thermogram of thebuilding in the        middle of the compound.  We see a series of heat-outlined        figures moving inside.                                PILOT #1                  Six.  One still, in the middle.                  The rest moving around.  Idon't                  see any thirty people.                                SPARTAN                         (checking the thermo)                  What's that?        To the naked eye, out the window, tucked against the        wall of cars, alarge tarp.  To the thermo, the still        warm inner workings of the muni bus.  Faint outlines of        the engine, drive train, even seats and frame.  Bingo.        Spartan takes a deep breath.  Loosens up hisright        shoulder.  Loosens up his left.  Checks the gun on his        right hip.  Checks the gun on his left.  They both cross        draw.  Reaches down to the bag at his feet.  LAPD in        reflective letters on the side ofa backpack.  Spartan        yanks some kind of rope out of it.                                PILOT #2                  Isn't that for getting people out                  of burningbuildings...                                SPARTAN                  Yeah, sometimes...        Slaps a carabiner onto a big eyebolt by the door.  They're        dead center now over the complex below.  He opens the        door.  Jumpsout.        EXT. BLIMP - NIGHT        Spartan falls three hundred feet from the blimp.  Dead        silent.  The line runs free behind him.  It's a giant        fireproof bungee cord.  As the downward force of gravity        andthe upward pull of the bungee become exactly the        same, Spartan stops dead in the air for just the briefest        moment.  Whips out a Bowie knife and slashes the cord        above his head.  Falls free the last tenfeet to the roof        of the building.  Lands on his feet.  Lightning cross        draw.  A gun appears in each hand.        EXT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - ROOFTOP - NIGHT        A lookout pops up on Spartan'sright.  Spartan clobbers        him.  Another lookout pops up on Spartan's left.  Spartan        ducks, rolls quietly, clobbers him, too.  Listens.  No        one's taken notice.  Holsters the guns.  Moves in towards        theroof hatch.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - THIRD FLOOR - NIGHT        Stacked with armaments and stolen goods.  M70's straight        outta the National Guard Armory.  Crates of ammo.  Stacks        oflooted Sony HoloSets still in the boxes.        Spartan makes his way carefully along.  Ready.  Spins at        a SOUND.  Nothing there.  Spartan crouches low.  Slips        around the crates.  At the far end, a very largeguard        is doing just the same thing to peer at where Spartan        just was.        Spartan launches himself at the guard.  Hammers his head        against the floor.  This guy is not getting up again for        a longtime.  Spartan spins at a SOUND.  Another equally        large guard dives on Spartan from behind.  He never makes        contact.  Spartan uses his momentum to fling him past and        into the wall.  This guy isn'tgetting up again in the        near future either.  Now the room is clear.  Moves        towards the stairs.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - SECOND FLOOR - NIGHT        SIMON PHOENIX snorts a long pale blue lineup one        nostril.  A long pink line up the other.  One blue eye,        one brown eye.  Blond hair.  Black skin.  Looks up at        another thug.  Punches up the security cams on half a        dozen slightly futuristicmonitors.  Unconscious guards        can be seen on all of them.  And on the last, Spartan,        coming... Phoenix jabs a loaded orange syringe into an        arm.  The drugs all hit variouslobes.                                PHOENIX                  Motherfucker.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - STAIRWELL - NIGHT        Spartan creeps quietly down.  Looking, watching,        listening.  Suddenly, the stairsare racked with MACHINE        GUN FIRE.  Chips of concrete fly from around his feet.        Spartan flattens against the wall.  Half a beat.  Steps        out FIRING.  The machine gun stops.  A body plummetsby        down the center shaft of the stairs.                                SPARTAN                  That's a warm welcome.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - SECOND FLOOR - NIGHT        Phoenix is dumping can after canof gas all over the        floor, the walls, everything.        ANOTHER ANGLE - STAIRWELL AND LANDING        Spartan steps onto the landing.  Checks high and low.        Room is clear.  He can smell the gas.        BACKTO PHOENIX        Simon pries open the fuse box.  Flips off all the        breakers.  Building is plunged into darkness.        BACK TO SPARTAN        Spartan quietly speaks into the LAPD button mike onhis        lapel.                                SPARTAN                  How 'bout some light, guys?        Half a beat later, blinding white light blows through        the windows.        EXT. FORTRESS - FROM ABOVE - NIGHT        Theblimp casts down a wall of light.  32 million        candlepower pours straight down.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - SECOND FLOOR - NIGHT        A wild melange of white, white light and dark,dark        shadows.  The gas fumes ripple, refract in the air.        Lights bounce off the pools of gasoline.  Spartan rolls        into the room.  Both guns come up.                                SPARTAN                  SimonPhoenix.  You're under                  arrest.                         (then)                  Where are the muni passengers?                                PHOENIX                  Fuck you, Spartan.  They're gone.                  I told the city noone comes down                  here anymore.  Cops figured it                  out, postmen figured it out.  Damn                  bus drivers wouldn't listen.                  Arrest me?  You've got no                  jurisdictionhere.  You're in my                  kingdom now.  Fifty blocks in                  every direction.  And it's mine.                                SPARTAN                         (simply)                  It'sover.                                PHOENIX                  It's over?!                         (knows it's true)                  Yeah.  It's over.  But I've been                  king once, and I ain't ever going                  back tojail.        Spartan keeps the guns trained on Phoenix.  Simon        scratches his arm.  It's a junkie's twitch.  Or is it...        Spartan can't see it, but there's a kitchen match tucked        behind Simon's ear.  Phoenixreaches up to scratch        another itch.  Frees the match in one gestures, strikes        it and tosses it into the pool of gas.  Smiles.  A        friendly happy smile.        The room bursts into flames.  He throws back hishead and        laughs.  Spartan dives on him.  Tries to hurl them both        through the window.        But Phoenix is either stronger or just far crazier and        drugged up.  Smashes the two of them into thewall        instead.  They trade blows.  The building gets worse.        AMMO starts to EXPLODE downstairs.        EXT. FORTRESS - MAIN YARD - NIGHT        A giant LAPD wrecker with a cow catcher frontblasts        through the main gates.  LAPD Humvees follow.        A young cop (ZACHARY LAMB) gets out, looks at the main        building, shakes his head in amusement at the        destruction--                                LAMB                  It's Spartan again...        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - SECOND FLOOR - NIGHT        The battle continues.  The two trading blow for blow in        this fiery arena.  Thetwo men are practically on fire.        Finally Spartan knocks Phoenix cold, a clean shot        straight in the face.  Phoenix drops in a heap to the        floor.  Spartan shakes his head, sighs, bends down to        retrieve hisprisoner and...        INT./EXT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - NIGHT        The BUILDING EXPLODES.  Long and LOUD and high and        mighty.        OVERHEAD POV        The fireball rockets by the blimp.        INT.BLIMP - POD - NIGHT        The Pilots with mouths agape as the fireball crashes by.        EXT. FORTRESS - MAIN YARD - NIGHT        The EARTH RUMBLES.  Those who aren't thrown to the        ground dive forcover.  The SECONDARY EXPLOSION kicks        in.  Everything that didn't blow straight up in the air        blows out what remains of the sides of the building.        Nothing's left standing.        EXT. FORTRESS - MAINYARD - NIGHT (AFTERMATH)        The dust begins to settle.  Flaming wreckage and embers        are still dropping from five hundred feet up.  A beat.  A        beam shifts in the wreckage.  It's a big beam.  Itmoves        aside.  Spartan emerges dragging his prisoner out behind        him.  As he's being dragged along, Phoenix comes to.        Spartan hands him off to another officer to be booked.        Captain STEVE HEALY,Spartan's long-suffering captain and        friend, comes out of the crowd of officers.                                HEALY                  What's the matter with you?                  That's why nobody ever invites                  youover.                                SPARTAN                  I hate small talk.  You sent me to                  do a job, I did it.  It wasn't even                  me who blew everything up thistime.                                HEALY                  Yeah.  Sure.        Healy continues to shake his head in consternation.  No        way he believes that... Spartan ignores him.  Wipes the        soot from his face.  Shakes hishead in disgust, walks        away...        The Tactical Fire Response vehicles have arrived.  Fully-        armored firemen wearing bulletproof gear fight the blaze.        Spartan continues to stride away.  And theneverything        fucks up.  One of the TFR OFFICERS in the wreckage calls        out --                                TFR OFFICER                  Captain.  Captain!                         (shocked)                  There's a lot of bodies inhere.        Spartan stops dead.  He looks sick.  Healy's not        thrilled, but he knows what's required of him --                                HEALY                         (to Spartan)                  You have the right toremain                  silent.                                                   SMASH CUT TO:        INT. CRYO PRISON - STARK WHITE CORRIDOR - DAY        Spartan in stark white overalls.  A beautiful, shaken        woman holding thehand of a small child.  About six.        Spartan bends down to the little girl.  Unclenches his        fist.  His LAPD badge inside.  Pins it on the little        girl, KATIE.                                SPARTAN                  I'm going tobe back.  I'll still                  be your dad.  I promise.        She holds the badge, nods solemnly.  Spartan kisses her        on the cheek.                                KATIE SPARTAN                  I love you, Daddy.        She'syoung enough that it's unclear whether she        understands that her father is going away for good.        Spartan chokes back a sob.  Stands back up.  Kisses his        wife.  Everything that can be said, has beensaid.  They        kiss again.        Behind him, in front of two locked doors, are a pair of        prison guards in odd, heavily-insulated uniforms.  Tanks,        heater batteries, guns.  Spartan heads towards thefar        doors.  They follow.  Spartan steps through the doors,        the guards now at either elbow.  And into --        INT. CRYO PRISON - MAIN ROOM - DAY        The CryoPenitentiary is a Godel-esque nightmareof        architecturally-perverse layers and levels, the        Guggenheim mixed with industrial meat locker.  All still        half under construction.        Spartan is led along the middle ring to where a doctor,        twowhite-coated technicians and a young-looking WARDEN        SMITHERS are waiting.        Above him prisoners are encased into the ground in        massive glass hockey pucks, contracted into painedfetal        positions.  Their faces are hauntingly twisted into        gargoyle expressions of tortured struggle.        The group arrives at an empty chamber.  The technicians        nod to Spartan.  He drops off the whiteoveralls.  Steps        free.  Stands naked.  Doctor injects him with luminescent        blue fluid.  The techies slap on sensor pads.  Head,        heart, all over... Spraying him down with Freon.  Mist        everywhere... Wesee the temperature dropping on the        monitors.  The Warden looks at a crib sheet.  Clears his        throat.                                SMITHERS                  John Spartan.  You've done great                  deeds for thecity of Los Angeles,                  so it is with some regret that I                  hereby...                                SPARTAN                  Skip it...        Spartan shivers, contemplating one of hisstiffening        hands.                                SMITHERS                  John Spartan.  You've been                  sentenced to 70 years in the                  California CryoPenitentiary for                  the involuntarymanslaughter of                  thirty...                                SPARTAN                  Skip it...        Spartan is beginning to shake from the cold.  His lips        turning blue before our eyes.  Color just drainsaway.                                SMITHERS                  I'm sorry, John.                         (then; a smile)                  Don't catch cold.                                SPARTAN                  Fuh... fuf... funny.        The techniciansattempt to help Spartan into the chamber.        He shakes them off to stagger down on his own.  Let's not        kid ourselves, he's scared --                                SPARTAN                  See ya next century...        TITLESBEGIN as...        The casing door is closed over him.  MONITORS down the        lining of the circular chamber show a digital rap sheet,        a dropping thermometer, a parole date, and today's date:        November 20,1998.  A super-chilled clear goo flows in,        packing and preserving isolated Michelangeloesque        segments of the defiant statue that is John Spartan.        But he's still conscious.  Still even struggling abit.        On the arm above the chamber, inside a vacuum bell a        small vial is auto unscrewed.  LOCKED and SAFETY lights        cycle.  We see a tiny white chip inside.  The vial is        moved into place by a tinyrobot arm.  Bottom vent is        opened.  The chip is dumped into the chamber.  It's the        opposite of watching ice shatter.  Instead, the whole        hockey puck goes solid in an instant and a half.  The        thermoread-out drops in an instant to a half degree        above 0 degrees Kelvin.  It's done.        The VIEWER makes a GENTLY DIZZYING JOURNEY AROUND the        chamber, SETTLING FOR A MOMENT ON Spartan'scontorted-        into-a-defiant-sneer face.        INT. CRYO PRISON - MAIN ROOM - DAY (2042)        The VIEWER'S VIEWPOINT KEEPS PULLING OUT to see that the        date on Spartan's MONITOR now reads August 3,2042.        Warden Smithers, now a bespectacled, gray-haired old        man, in a peculiar uniform, shuffles past the completely        unaged Spartan.        He grumbles by in a phone headset equipped withfiberoptic        video gear, and OUT OF FRAME we see that the        prison has become vaster, stranger, with multiple grated        catwalks and more networks of artfully-engineered piping.        And heavily, heavilystocked with prisoners...        Smithers looks up at his holoset.  Hovering in front of        him in the air is Lenina Huxley.                                HUXLEY (IMAGE)                  Mellow greeting, Warden JohnJ.                  Smithers.                                SMITHERS                         (this again)                  Yeah.  BE well.  Lieutenant                  Lenina Huxley.        EXT. SAN ANGELES - STREETS - DAY(2042)        A 2042 police car glides INTO FRAME.  We MOVE WITH it        as it passes by a series of austere geometric buildings.        Green, green glass.  Blue, blue sky.  Cleaner than        Disneyland.  The future isperfect.  More emissionless        cars gliding silently by.                                HUXLEY (V.O.)                  As it is a beautiful Monday                  morning, and as my duty log                  irrationally requiresit...        INT. LENINA'S POLICE CAR - MOVING - DAY        Behind the wheel, the mischievously-beautiful LENINA        HUXLEY.  A heads up display announces she is calling        Warden John J. Smithers.  The order ofbusiness is        "Prison Population Informative Query."  And future or        not, Lenina fusses with her hair.  With both hands.        The steering wheel is not present atall.                                HUXLEY                  I am hereby querying you on the                  prison population update.                         (hopefully)                  Does the tedium continue?        ON HEADS UPDISPLAY        Warden Smithers gently reminds her that ---                                SMITHERS (IMAGE)                  Incontrovertibly and unequivocally,                  yes.  The prisoners are ice cubes.                  They do


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              For Your Consideration            Best Adapted Screenplay By    Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, Peter Jackson       Based on the Book byJ.R.R. TolkienTHE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE RETURN OF THE KINGBLACK SCREEN . . .SUPER:                New Line Cinema PresentsSUPER:               A WingNut Films ProductionBLACKSCREEN:EXT. RIVER ANDUIN - DAYANGLE ON: SMEAGOL and his cousin, DEAGOL, sit in a SMALLCORACLE, their FISHING LINES draped over the side . . . SUNSHINEglinting off the surface of thewater.An idyllic image.SUDDENLY . . . DEAGOL's FISHING ROD BENDS under the weight of aLARGE FISH.                        DEAGOL                 (excited)            Smeagol, I've got one!                 (helaughs)            I've got a fish, Smeagol!                       SMEAGOL                 (excitedly)            Go on, pull it in.DEAGOL pulls on his ROD, but is HAULED OVERBOARD anddisappears underwater with aSPLASH!ANGLE ON: SMEAGOL leaning over the BOAT . . . CONCERNED.                       SMEAGOL (cont'd)                 (worried)            Deagol!EXT. UNDERWATER, RIVER ANDUIN - DAYANGLE ON: DEAGOL istowed to the RIVER BED by a LARGE FISH. . . he suddenly lets go of the line . . . eyes fixed on aSHINING GOLD RING, lying in 'the SILT.                                     Final Revision - October, 2003 2EXT.RIVER ANDUIN, GLADDEN FIELDS - DAYCLOSE ON: DEAGOL climbs out of the WATER, onto the RIVERBANK.CLOSE ON: the RING   revealed in DEAGOL'S PALM . . .ANGLE ON: SMEAGOL peers over hisshoulder . . . the GOLDreflects in SMEAGOL'S EYES!ON SOUNDTRACK: The HUM of the RING growing LOUDER . . .                     SMEAGOL           Give us that, Deagol, my love!DEAGOL turns to look at him, asmirk on his face.                      DEAGOL           Why?CLOSE ON: SMEAGOL moves towards DEAGOL . . .                     SMEAGOL           Because its my birthday, and I wants it.ANGLE ON:SMEAGOL jumps on DEAGOL . . . STRANGLING HIM! SMEAGOLrips the GLITTERING RING from DEAGOL'S LIMP HAND.                      SMEAGOL (cont'd)           My precious!CLOSE ON: SMEAGOL slips the RING onto hisFINGER and DISAPPEARS.                                                       DISSOLVE TO:INT. MISTY MOUNTAINS CAVES - DAYIMAGES: SMEAGOL descending into madness. His body TWISTS andDISTORTS . .. he becomes a CREEPY, SHRIVELLED wretch . . . finallycrawling into a DARK CAVE beneath the MISTY MOUNTAINS.                     SMEAGOL V/0           They cursed us. Murderer. Murderer they           calledus. They cursed us and drove us           away.                      (M°RE)                            (CONTINUED)                                      Final Revision - October, 20033.CONTINUED:                        SMEAGOL V/0 (cont'd)             And we wept, Precious, we wept to be so             alone. And we forgot the taste of bread,             the sound of trees, the softness ofthe             wind . . . We even forgot our own name.                  (in a choking cough)             Gollum! Gollum!ANGLE ON: GOLLUM in the CAVE staring at the RING in hishand.                        GOLLUM             It's mine! My own. It came to me.                        SMEAGOL                  (ecstatic)             My Precious.                                                        DISSOLVETO:EXT. CULVERT, VALE OF MORGUL - DAWNANGLE ON: A GRIM LANDSCAPE, covered in THORN BUSHES and thescars of RECENT FIRES. The DARK MORGUL VALLEY disappears uptowards theMOUNTAINS.SETTLE ON: FRODO and SAM in a FILTHY CULVERT.SAM twitches in a RESTLESS SLEEP. But FRODO is awake . . . Hishand trails down to the CHAIN around his NECK ...A SUDDEN HISS! FRODO quicklyhides the RING as GOLLUM peersat them with GLEAMING EYES.                        GOLLUM             Wake up! Wake up! Wake up, sleepies! We             must go, yes, we must go at once!SAM STIRS, looks atFRODO . . .                        SAM             Haven't you had any sleep, Mr Frodo?FRODO shakes his HEAD.                        SAM (cont'd)             I've gone and had toomuch!                                                        (CONTINUED)                                        Final Revision - October, 2003 4.CONTINUED:SAM looks at the dead, BROWN TWILIGHT, below theLOWERINGCLOUD.                        SAM (cont'd)             It must be getting late.                        FRODO             No . . . no it isn't. It isn't midday yet.             The days are growing darker.TheGROUND suddenly QUIVERS, as a ROLLING, RUMBLING NOISEECHOES down the VALLEY.                        GOLLUM             Come on, must go, no time ...                        SAM             Not before MrFrodo's had something to eat.                        GOLLUM             . . . no time to lose, silly.SAM shoots GOLLUM a HOSTILE LOOK and turns back to rummage inhis KNAPSACK. He holds up a piece of driedLEMBAS BREAD toFRODO.                        SAM             Here.                        FRODO             What about you?                        SAM                  (lying badly)             I'm nothungry - leastways, not for lembas             bread.                        FRODO             Sam.                        SAM                  (confessing)             Alright. We don't have that muchleft.                         (MORE)                                                          (CONTINUED)                                     Final Revision - October, 2003 5.CONTINUED: ( 2)                      SAM (cont'd)            We have to be careful or we're going to run            out. You go ahead and eat that, Mr Frodo.            I've rationed it. There should be enough.FRODO looksa t SAMquestioningly.                        FRODO            For what?                       SAM            The journey home.FRODO says nothing.                                            .EXT. CULVERT, VALE OF MORGUL -DAYWIDE: FRODO and SAM follow GOLLUM as he leads them on thewining, torturous path ... clambering through BRACKEN andover JAGGED ROCKS.                       GOLLUM            Come, Hobbitses.Very close now. Very close            to Mordor! No safe places here. Hurry!            Shhh.EXT. THE FOREST OF ISENGARD. DAYGANDALF leads ARAGORN, LEGOLAS, THEODEN and GIMLI throughdark woodland. . .The MOVING FOREST of FANGORN ...opens before them . . .creating an AVENUE of TREES, which allows them access alongthe old ISENGARD ROAD. A THICK, HUMID MIST fills the forest.SUPER:             The Returnof the KingANGLE ON: The FOEST SEPARATES ahead, REVEALING: the RUINS ofISENGARD.EXT. ISENGARED GATE - DAYWIDE ON: All about, the GREAT STONE WALL is cracked andsplintered intocountless jagged shards.                                                     (CONTINUED)                                          Final Revision - October, 2003 6.CONTINUED:Far off, half veiled int he swirlingSTEAM, the TOWER ofORTHANC stands ... Unbroken by the storm. Pale waters lapabout its feet.ANGLE ON: TWO SMALL HOBBITS are sitting on the SMASHED WALL. . . MERRY and PIPPIN! SPREAD before them is afeast ofBREADS, MEATS and WINE. They PUFF on long pipes as they lieback in the SUN.                       PIPPIN             I feel like I ' m back at the Green Dragon,             after a hard dayswork.                       MERRY             Only, you've never done a hard days work.MERRY cuts PIPPIN off before he can respond in kind.                       MERRY (cont'd)             Welcome, my Lords, toIsengard.                        GANDALFANGLE ON: GANDALF, ARAGORN, LEGOLAS and GIMLI stare at theSIGHT before them . . .                       GIMLI             You young rascals! A merry hunt you'veled             us on, and now we find you feasting and             smoking.                        PIPPIN                  (mouth full)             We are sitting on a field of victory,             enjoying a few well-earnedcomforts.             The salted pork is particularly good.                        GIMLI                  (suddenly interested)             Salted pork?                        GANDALF                  (shaking hishead)             Hobbits!                                                         (CONTINUED)                                         Final Revision - October, 2003 7.CONTINUED:(2)                     MERRY           We're under orders from Treebeard, who's           taken over management of Isengard.WIDE: GANDALF leads the company through the flotsam andjetsam which floatsupon the muddied waters surrounding theTOWER ... TREEBEARD, the GIANT ENT, strides towards them,ALARMING all but GANDALF.                     TREEBEARD           Huraroom ... Young Master Gandalf, I'mglad           you've come. Wood and water, stock and ,           stone I can master, but there's a wizard to           be managed here ... Locked in his tower.                      GANDALF           And there Sarumanmust remain, under your           guard, Treebeard.                     GIMLI           Let's just have his head and be done with           it.                            .GANDALF stares up the long length of the DARK TOWER .. .                      GANDALF                (quietly)           No. He has no power any more.THE OLD ENT nods his head wisely . . .                       TREEBEARD           The filth of Saruman is washing away...           Trees will come back to live here, young           trees . . . wild trees.CLOSE ON: PIPPIN, his eye caught by something lying in the WATERANGLE ON: The MUDDY waters GLOWING wit a golden light . ..ARAGORN turns as, quick as a FLASH, PIPPIN has jumped off hisho rse an d pi cke d u p -- th e PA LAN TIR !                                                        (CONTINUED)                                      FinalRevision - October, 2003 8,CONTINUED: ( 3 )                      TREEBEARD (cont'd)            Well bless my bark!                        GANDALF                 (urgent)            Peregrin Took! I'll take that, mylad!PIPPIN doesn't move, his eyes staring in wonder at the smoothblack stone ...                       GANDALF (cont'd)            Quickly, now!RELUCTANTLY, PIPPIN hands the PALANTIR to GANDALF ... whoimmediatelysmothers it in his cloak.ANGLE ON: GANDALF looks back at PIPPIN . . . troubled.EXT. EDORAS - DAYWIDE: BACK SHOT - a GROUP OF RIDERS gallop towards the ROHANCITY of EDORAS . . .PUSH IN: EOWYNstanding alone outside the GOLDEN HALL,waiting . . .                                                               CUTINT. EDORAS, GOLDEN HALL - EVENINGWIDE: A ROARING FIRE; a LAMB ROASTING on SPI;LONG TABLESladen with FOOD; BARRELS of WINE; a banquet is-laid ready forthe returning soldiers.                       THEODEN            Tonight we remember those who gave their            blood to defend this