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                         MIAMI VICE                        Written  by                        Michael Mann                    Based on "MiamiVice"                         created by                     Anthony Yerkovich                                                       FirstDraft                                                           9/22/04                                                              WGAw                                                  FADE IN:   FADE IN:   EXT. OCEAN - CLOSEUP:  WATER - MORNING LIGHT   We are at the delicate interface between ocean and   air...liquid and gas...the event horizon where molecules   evaporate.  This interchange is ethereal.  Then, low   frequenciesrumble through depths...louder...closer, now...   And the ocean surface is torn by a 46-foot catamaran and the   ROAR of 2,700 horsepower, rocketing at us at 140 knots...   OFFSHORE RACER:  "BORN TOWIN"   in PROFILE.   AERIAL:  "BORN TO WIN"   ...has a canopy, low like a B-1 bomber and extends a half   mile.  It launches off two-foot swells, goes airborne, pushes   to 150 knots with another 1,100RPM left...   INT. RACE BOAT - SONNY CROCKETT   pilots the "Born to Win" in full helmet.  On the throttle and   flaps is RICARDO TUBBS...   EXT. OCEAN - "BORN TO WIN"   leads the frontrunnerstowards a finish line demarcated by a   couple of $10 million yachts loaded with media.  At the last   moment occurs a small power loss, and "Born to Win" gets   nosed into second place by the 46-foot Skater,"Goddess"...                                                  CUT TO:   EXT. MARINA - "BORN TO WIN" - LATER   thunders to the dock, throttled down at low revs.  The canopy   is up.  Crockett and Tubbs'helmets are off.  Dockhands tie   it off.  It's the same crowd you catch at a Grand Prix:  nine-   figure money, tall, Northern Italian women and minor German   princesses with Swiss educations, no bimbos and noquestions   about asset origins.  The exception is "Born to Win's"   sponsor, a blonde, dreadlocked, bearded 6'4" SWITEK.  He   looks like a dot-com entrepreneur who got out in time.  Next   to him is a blonde Ukranianlady with high cheekbones.  We'll   see her again.   WINNING CIRCLE - CROCKETT + TUBBS   in second position to the Japanese driver and throttle man of   "Goddess," neither of whom speak English.  The #3boat,   "Bicardi Silver," was driven by David Scott and throttled by   John Tomlinson...   CROCKETT + TUBBS   leave the winning circle among Asian and Mexican   billionaires.  As the small crowd breaksup...   A DEEPLY-TANNED PLAYER   named NICHOLAS in Vuarnet wraparounds and buzz-cut white hair   glides by...                        NICHOLAS                  (low)             Burnett, what'scrackin'?                        CROCKETT             Nothing.                        TUBBS             Maxin' and relaxin'.                        NICHOLAS                  (doesn't believethem)             Sure.  Change your mind; get             inclined?  Let me know...   Whatever Nicholas is soliciting, Crockett and Tubbs don't   want.  (Nicholas brokers "go-fast" runs, moving loads from   offshore intoSouth Florida.  Among guys who pilot offshore   race boats, there are one or two who've never run a load, but   no one's found them yet.)  Meanwhile...                                                  CUT TO:   INT.ALONZO STEVENS' HOUSE - A KITCHEN - NIGHT   A couple-hundred-thousand-dollars worth of granite and steel.   Off-screen a restaurant-grade Sub-Zero opens with a hiss.   Fan starts.  Beyond the kitchen weSEE through a dining room   to a den.  A chair is overturned.  We HEAR muffled sounds.   We SEE feet extend through a door jamb.  Someone's on the   floor.  A television is playing, distantly.   INT. DEN - SEEFAMILY PICTURES   so close they almost come to life.  A Venezuelan family, two   boys and a girl in a pool.  Maria, Alonzo, the two boys at   their sister's baptism.  And we see holding the baby daughter   isRiccardo Tubbs.   A family dinner at a South American restaurant.  Tubbs sits   with the youngest daughter on his lap.  Maria is on the other   side of him.  This is the image that almost comes to life.   We hear thevivacious latin ambience late on a Sunday   afternoon when families take the grandparents and have   dinner.   INT. KITCHEN - SUB ZERO REFRIGERATOR   MOVE from the bright glare of the interiorONTO   the broad neck of a MAN.  A Viking is tattooed there.  The   image morphs into a naked woman presenting her rear to a   muscled biker next to a chopper above a swastika residing   between shoulderblades.  SS lightning bolts are on his neck.   PULL BACK from this MAN, who is bent into the frig because   he's hungry.  His head is shaved and he's naked from the   waist up.  A BLACK HEFTY GARBAGE BAG is tiedaround his   waist.  Yellow industrial gloves are on his hands.  Something   bad is happening in this house...                                                  CUT TO:   INT. HELICOPTER - NIGHT   It's a Sikorskiskimming across the water of Biscayne Bay on   a moonlit night at living-room level past stilt houses.   RICARDO TUBBS   pilots the chopper past the brightly lit windows of high-rise   Collins Avenue condos forthe fugitive rich...and heads   towards the MacArthur Causeway.                        CROCKETT             What's our deal?                        TUBBS             Backup in case the Russiansget             physical.                        CROCKETT             How lucky's Miss Universe gotta be?                        TUBBS             Skin has to touch skin.  That's the             requirement for thewarrant.  Then             he makes a credible excuse and he                                     stops....                  (beat)             Her crew blackmailed and asset-             stripped the last mark down to his             socialsecurity...                                          In the back - her long copper legs stretched out under a   short skirt - is GINA CALABRESE.                        GINA             This I gottasee...                  (beat)             ...the "make up an excuse and stop"             part.                        CROCKETT             Have faith.                        GINA             I have faith.  In horoscopesand             fortune cookies...                        TUBBS             So?                        GINA             Switek pulling this off...?  That's             not faith; that's delusional...   Wearing enough of nothing tohide the micro .380, which Gina   checks right now.  There's a round in the chamber.   AERIAL:  THE SIKORSKI crosses past the stacks of $5 million   condos to a landing pad on a roof.  The Miami of the '80's,   thattwilight-zone frontier built on coke-fueled cash flow,   is over.  The frontier development stage is passed.  It has   BECOME Casablanca.  Anything goes; everything has a price.                                                  CUTTO:   EXT. ROOFTOP LANDING PAD - WIDE   The chopper rockets in, settles.   INT. UTILITY STAIRCASE   Crockett, Tubbs and Gina descend to the 25th-floor penthouse,   the target.  AsCrockett and Tubbs continue down to 24, she   looks over her shoulder at Tubbs...                        TUBBS             Damn, girl...   INT. SURVEILLANCE APARTMENT (ONE FLOOR BELOW THETARGET)   PENTHOUSE - CROCKETT + TUBBS - NIGHT   enter.  Two surveillance technicians, RICK and FRANK, are   glued to a monitor showing a bedroom in which nothing   happens.  LT. CASTILLO isthere, out of a past somewhere   between CIA and the Jesuits...   Referring to the monitor on which there are NO PEOPLE in an   EMPTY BEDROOM.   They are watching airmove.                        TUBBS             This is exciting...                        RICK             That's 'cause nothing is happening.                        CROCKETT             Noshit...?                        FRANK                  (it goes past him)             Yeah.  This is their             surveillance...how they video their             marks?  See, we jacked their fiber             optics, like wepiggybacked their             signal.  Get it?                        TUBBS             Cooool...   They exit to...   INT. PENTHOUSE CONDO - CROCKETT + TUBBS   are met at the door by security, who recognizesthem, and are   welcomed by their host, UGO.  This is the Baccardi Cup After-   Party.  The same players from the marina...   OVER CROCKETT + TUBBS   enter an 8,000-square-foot penthouse...offshoreracer types,   players, So Bee models...                        UGO             Runnin' the Biscayne 200?   Crockett wanders off...                        TUBBS             If a coupla new exhaustmanifolds             show up...   CROCKETT   approaches a bar and female bartender...                        CROCKETT             Gin and Tonic.  Plymouthor             Boodles.                        BARTENDER                  (Scandinavian accent)             Lemon or lime?                        CROCKETT             Lemon doesn't go in Gin andTonics,             darlin'.  Where ya' from?                        BARTENDER                  (leaning in)             Gottingen.  That's in Sweden.                        CROCKETT             You in Miami workin' onyour             complexion...?   She's beautifully bronzed.                        BARTENDER                  (laughs)             No.  I was inNamibia...                        CROCKETT             Doing...?                        BARTENDER             With the United Nations High             Commission on Refugees.  Famine             relief.   Gina's listeningon her personal comms.                        CROCKETT             Really?  I did refugee relocation             in Somalia.  But they transferred             me out after I was wounded...   Gina rolls her eyes as shecrosses by Tubbs.                        GINA             Only African he ever "relocated"             was a $2,000-an-hour Nigerian model             for Gucci, and he got wounded when             she took an NBA draftchoice to the             Super Bowl instead of him...                        TUBBS             He did volunteer one time...                        TRUDY                  (entering)             For a massage parlorbust?                  (beat)             Why am I here...?   TRUDY JOPLIN is a tall African-American.  She whispers into a   small mic.  If you looked closely, she's ripped...as if steel   cables moved under her smoothskin.  She slides past Tubbs   and Gina...                        TUBBS                  (low)             ...to backup Switek.  But only if             it gets lethal.                        TRUDY             That'simpossible.                        TUBBS             Why?                        TRUDY             Because you cannot kill him.   SWITEK   all white bling, is arguing with his blade-thin,glassy-eyed,   adrenaline junkie partner, ZITO.  Approaching is "Miss   Ukraine."  High cheekbones suggest one of Genghis Khan's   horsemen found her maternal ancestor as attractive as Switek   finds her...   Tubbs


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Purple Cloud, by M.P. ShielThis 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.netTitle: The Purple CloudAuthor: M.P. ShielRelease Date: February 22, 2004 [EBook #11229]Language: English*** STARTOF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PURPLE CLOUD ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Garrett Alley, Maria Khomenko and PGDistributed ProofreadersTHE PURPLE CLOUDByM.P. Shiel1901[Greek: estai kai Samosammos, eseitai Daelos adaelos]_Sibylline Prophecy_INTRODUCTIONAbout three months ago--that is to say, toward the end of May of thisyear of 1900--the writer whose name appears on the title-page receivedasnoteworthy a letter, and packet of papers, as it has been his lot toexamine. They came from a very good friend of mine, whose name there isno reason that I should now conceal--Dr. Arthur Lister Browne, M.A.(Oxon.),F.R.C.P. It happened that for two years I had been spendingmost of my time in France, and as Browne had a Norfolk practice, I hadnot seen him during my visits to London. Moreover, though our friendshipwas of themost intimate kind, we were both atrocious correspondents: sothat only two notes passed between us during those years.Till, last May, there reached me the letter--and the packet--to which Irefer. The packet consistedof four note-books, quite crowdedthroughout with those giddy shapes of Pitman's shorthand, whose_ensemble_ so resembles startled swarms hovering in flighty poses on thewing. They were scribbled in pencil, withlittle distinction betweenthick and thin strokes, few vowels: so that their slow deciphering, Ican assure the reader, has been no holiday. The letter also waspencilled in shorthand; and this letter, together with the secondof thenote-books which I have deciphered (it was marked 'III.'), I nowpublish.[I must say, however, that in some five instances there will occursentences rather crutched by my own guess-work; and in two instancesthecharacters were so impossibly mystical, that I had to abandon thepassage with a head-ache. But all this will be found immaterial to thegeneral narrative.]The following is Browne's letter:'DEAR OLD SHIEL,--I havejust been lying thinking of you, and wishingthat you were here to give one a last squeeze of the hand beforeI--"_go_": for, by all appearance, "going" I am. Four days ago, I beganto feel a soreness in the throat, andpassing by old Johnson's surgeryat Selbridge, went in and asked him to have a look at me. He mutteredsomething about membranous laryngitis which made me smile, but by thetime I reached home I was hoarse, andnot smiling: before night I haddyspnoca and laryngeal stridor. I at once telegraphed to London forMorgan, and, between him and Johnson, they have been opening my trachea,and burning my inside with chromic acidand the galvanic cautery. Thedifficulty as to breathing has subsided, and it is wonderful how littleI suffer: but I am much too old a hand not to know what's what: thebronchi are involved--_too far_ involved--and as amatter of absolutefact, there isn't any hope. Morgan is still, I believe, fondly dwellingupon the possibility of adding me to his successful-tracheotomystatistics, but prognosis was always my strong point, and I say No.Thevery small consolation of my death will be the beating of a specialistin his own line. So we shall see.'I have been arranging some of my affairs this morning, and rememberedthese notebooks. I intended letting youhave them months ago, but myhabit of putting things off, and the fact that the lady was alive fromwhom I took down the words, prevented me. Now she is dead, and as aliterary man, and a student of life, you shouldbe interested, if youcan manage to read them. You may even find them valuable.'I am under a little morphia at present, propped up in a nice littlestate of languor, and as I am able to write without much effort, I willtellyou in the old Pitman's something about her. Her name was Miss MaryWilson; she was about thirty when I met her, forty-five when she died,and I knew her intimately all those fifteen years. Do you know anythingaboutthe philosophy of the hypnotic trance? Well, that was the relationbetween us--hypnotist and subject. She had been under another man beforemy time, but no one was ever so successful with her as I. She sufferedfrom_tic douloureux_ of the fifth nerve. She had had most of her teethdrawn before I saw her, and an attempt had been made to wrench out thenerve on the left side by the external scission. But it made nodifference: allthe clocks in hell tick-tacked in that poor woman's jaw,and it was the mercy of Providence that ever she came across _me_. Myorganisation was found to have almost complete, and quite easy, controlover hers, andwith a few passes I could expel her Legion.'Well, you never saw anyone so singular in personal appearance as myfriend, Miss Wilson. Medicine-man as I am, I could never behold hersuddenly without a sensation ofshock: she suggested so inevitably whatwe call "the _other_ world," one detecting about her some odour of theworm, with the feeling that here was rather ghost than woman. And yet Ican hardly convey to you the whyof this, except by dry details as tothe contours of her lofty brow, meagre lips, pointed chin, and ashencheeks. She was tall and deplorably emaciated, her whole skeleton,except the thigh-bones, being quite visible. Hereyes were of the bluishhue of cigarette smoke, and had in them the strangest, feeble, unearthlygaze; while at thirty-five her paltry wisp of hair was quite white.'She was well-to-do, and lived alone in old WoodingManor-house, fivemiles from Ash Thomas. As you know, I was "beginning" in these parts atthe time, and soon took up my residence at the manor. She insisted thatI should devote myself to her alone; and that onepatient constitutedthe most lucrative practice which I ever had.'Well, I quickly found that, in the state of trance, Miss Wilsonpossessed very remarkable powers: remarkable, I mean, not, of course,because peculiar toherself in _kind_, but because they were soconstant, reliable, exact, and far-reaching, in degree. The veriestfledgling in psychical science will now sit and discourse finically toyou about the reporting powers of the mindin its trance state--just asthough it was something quite new! This simple fact, I assure you, whichthe Psychical Research Society, only after endless investigation, admitsto be scientific, has been perfectly well known toevery old crone sincethe Middle Ages, and, I assume, long previously. What an unnecessary airof discovery! The certainty that someone in trance in Manchester cantell you what is going on in London, or in Pekin, wasnot, of course,left to the acumen of an office in Fleet Street; and the society, inestablishing the fact beyond doubt for the general public, has not goneone step toward explaining it. They have, in fact, revealed nothingthatmany of us did not, with absolute assurance, know before.'But talking of poor Miss Wilson, I say that her powers were_remarkable_, because, though not exceptional in _genre_, they were sospecial in quantity,--so"constant," and "far-reaching." I believe it tobe a fact that, _in general_, the powers of trance manifest themselvesmore particularly with regard to space, as distinct from time: thespirit roams in the present--it travelsover a plain--it does not_usually_ attract the interest of observers by great ascents, or bygreat descents. I fancy that is so. But Miss Wilson's gift was specialto this extent, that she travelled in every direction, and easilyin allbut one, north and south, up and down, in the past, the present, and thefuture.This I discovered, not at once, but gradually. She would emit a streamof sounds in the trance state--I can hardly call it _speech_,somurmurous, yet guttural, was the utterance, mixed with puffybreath-sounds at the languid lips. This state was accompanied by anintense contraction of the pupils, absence of the knee-jerk,considerable rigor, and arapt and arrant expression. I got into thehabit of sitting long hours at her bed-side, quite fascinated by her,trying to catch the import of that opiate and visionary language whichcame puffing and fluttering in deliberatemonotone from her lips.Gradually, in the course of months, my ear learned to detect the words;"the veil was rent" for me also; and I was able to follow somewhat thecourse of her musing and wandering spirit.At theend of six months I heard her one day repeat some words whichwere familiar to me. They were these: "Such were the arts by which theRomans extended their conquests, and attained the palm of victory; andtheconcurring testimony of different authors enables us to describethem with precision..." I was startled: they are part of Gibbon's"Decline and Fall," which I easily guessed that she had never read.I said in a stern voice:"Where are you?"She replied, "Us are in a room, eight hundred and eleven miles above. Aman is writing. Us are reading."I may tell you two things: first, that in trance she never spoke ofherself as "I," nor even as "we,"but, for some unknown reason, in the_objective_ way, as "_us_": "us are," she would say--"us will," "uswent"; though, of course, she was an educated lady, and I don't thinkever lived in the West of England, wherethey say "us" in that way;secondly, when wandering in the past, she always represented herself asbeing "_above_" (the earth?), and higher the further back in time shewent; in describing present events she appears tohave felt herself _on_(the earth); while, as regards the future, she invariably declared that"_us_" were so many miles "within" (the earth).To her excursions in this last direction, however, there seemed to existcertainfixed limits: I say seemed, for I cannot be sure, and only meanthat, in spite of my efforts, she never, in fact, went far in thisdirection. Three, four thousand "miles" were common figures on her lipsin describing herdistance "above"; but her distance "within" never gotbeyond sixty-three. Usually, she would say twenty, twenty-five. Sheappeared, in relation to the future, to resemble a diver in the deepsea, who, the deeper hestrives, finds a more resistant pressure, till,at no great depth, resistance becomes prohibition, and he can no furtherstrive.'I am afraid I can't go on: though I had a good deal to tell you aboutthis lady. During fifteenyears, off and on, I sat listening by her dimbed-side to her murmuring trances! At last my expert ear could detectthe sense of her faintest sigh. I heard the "Decline and Fall" frombeginning to end. Some of her reportswere the most frivolous nonsense:over others I have hung in a horror of interest. Certainly, my friend, Ihave heard some amazing words proceed from those wan lips of MaryWilson. Sometimes I could hitch herrepeatedly to any scene or subjectthat I chose by the mere exercise of my will; at others, the flightywaywardness of her spirit eluded and baffled me: she resisted--shedisobeyed: otherwise I might have sent you, notfour note-books, buttwenty, or forty. About the fifth year it struck me that it would bewell to jot down her more connected utterances, since I knew shorthand.The note-book marked "I.," [1] which seems to me themost curious,belongs to the seventh year. Its history, like those of the other three,is this: I heard her one afternoon murmuring in the intonation used when_reading_; the matter interested me; I asked her where shewas. Shereplied: "Us are forty-five miles within: us read, and another writes";from which I concluded that she was some fifteen to thirty years in thefuture, perusing an as yet unpublished work. After that, duringsomeweeks, I managed to keep her to the same subject, and finally, I fancy,won pretty well the whole work. I believe you would find it striking,and hope you will be able to read my notes.'But no more of Mary Wilsonnow. Rather let us think a little of A.L.Browne, F.R.C.P.!--with a breathing-tube in his trachea, and Eternityunder his pillow...' [Dr. Browne's letter then continues on a subject ofno interest here.][The present writer mayadd that Dr. Browne's prognosis of his own caseproved correct, for he passed away two days after writing the above. Mytranscription of the shorthand book marked 'III.' I now proceed to givewithout comment, merelyreminding the reader that the words form thesubstance of a book or document to be written, or to be motived(according to Miss Wilson) in that Future, which, no less than the Past,substantively exists in thePresent--though, like the Past, we see itnot. I need only add that the title, division into paragraphs, &c., havebeen arbitrarily contrived by myself for the sake of form andconvenience.][Footnote 1: This I intend topublish under the title of 'The LastMiracle; 'II.' will bear that of 'The Lord of the Sea'; the present bookis marked 'III.' The perusal of 'IV.' I have yet finished, but so far donot consider it suitable for publication.](_Herebegins the note-book marked 'III.'_)THE PURPLE CLOUDWell, the memory seems to be getting rather impaired now, rather weak.What, for instance, was the name of that parson who preached, justbefore the _Boreal_set out, about the wickedness of any further attemptto reach the North Pole? I have forgotten! Yet four years ago it wasfamiliar to me as my own name.Things which took place before the voyage seem to be getting alittlecloudy in the memory now. I have sat here, in the loggia of this Cornishvilla, to write down some sort of account of what has happened--Godknows why, since no eye can ever read it--and at the very beginningIcannot remember the parson's name.He was a strange sort of man surely, a Scotchman from Ayrshire, big andgaunt, with tawny hair. He used to go about London streets in shoughand rough-spun clothes, a plaid flungfrom one shoulder. Once I saw himin Holborn with his rather wild stalk, frowning and muttering tohimself. He had no sooner come to London, and opened chapel (I think inFetter Lane), than the little room began to becrowded; and when, someyears afterwards, he moved to a big establishment in Kensington, allsorts of men, even from America and Australia, flocked to hear thethunderstorms that he talked, though certainly it wasnot an age apt tofly into enthusiasms over that species of pulpit prophets andprophecies. But this particular man undoubtedly did wake the strong darkfeelings that sleep in the heart; his eyes were very singularandpowerful; his voice from a whisper ran gathering, like snow-balls, andcrashed, as I have heard the pack-ice in commotion far yonder in theNorth; while his gestures were as uncouth and gawky as some wild man'softhe primitive ages.Well, this man--what _was_ his name?--Macintosh? Mackay? I think--yes,that was it! _Mackay_. Mackay saw fit to take offence at the new attemptto reach the Pole in the _Boreal_; and for threeSundays, when thepreparations were nearing completion, stormed against it at Kensington.The excitement of the world with regard to the North Pole had at thisdate reached a pitch which can only be described as_fevered_, thoughthat word hardly expresses the strange ecstasy and unrest whichprevailed: for the abstract interest which mankind, in mere desire forknowledge, had always felt in this unknown region, was now,suddenly, athousand and a thousand times intensified by a new, concrete interest--atremendous _money_ interest.And the new zeal had ceased to be healthy in its tone as the old zealwas: for now the fierce demonMammon was making his voice heard in thismatter.Within the ten years preceding the _Boreal_ expedition, no less thantwenty-seven expeditions had set out, and failed.The secret of this new rage lay in the last willand testament of Mr.Charles P. Stickney of Chicago, that king of faddists, supposed to bethe richest individual who ever lived: he, just ten years before the_Boreal_ undertaking, had died, bequeathing 175 milliondollars to theman, of whatever nationality, who first reached the Pole.Such was the actual wording of the will--_'the man who first reached'_:and from this loose method of designating the person intendedhadimmediately burst forth a prolonged heat of controversy in Europe andAmerica as to whether or no the testator meant _the Chief_ of the firstexpedition which reached: but it was finally decided, on the highestlegalauthority, that, in any case, the actual wording of the documentheld good: and that it was the individual, whatever his station in theexpedition, whose foot first reached the 90th degree of north latitude,who would havetitle to the fortune.At all events, the public ferment had risen, as I say, to a pitch ofpositive fever; and as to the _Boreal_ in particular, the daily progressof her preparations was minutely discussed in the newspapers,everyonewas an authority on her fitting, and she was in every mouth a bet, ahope, a jest, or a sneer: for now, at last, it was felt that success wasprobable. So this Mackay had an acutely interested audience, ifasomewhat startled, and a somewhat cynical, one.A truly lion-hearted man this must have been, after all, to dareproclaim a point-of-view so at variance with the spirit of his age! Oneagainst four hundred millions, theybent one way, he the opposite,saying that they were wrong, all wrong! People used to call him 'Johnthe Baptist Redivivus': and without doubt he did suggest something ofthat sort. I suppose that at the time when hehad the face to denouncethe _Boreal_ there was not a sovereign on any throne in Europe who, butfor shame, would have been glad of a subordinate post on board.On the third Sunday night of his denunciation I wasthere in thatKensington chapel, and I heard him. And the wild talk he talked! Heseemed like a man delirious with inspiration.The people sat quite spell-bound, while Mackay's prophesying voiceranged up and downthrough all the modulations of thunder, from thehurrying mutter to the reverberant shock and climax: and those who cameto scoff remained to wonder.Put simply, what he said was this: That there was undoubtedlysome sortof Fate, or Doom, connected with the Poles of the earth in reference tothe human race: that man's continued failure, in spite of continualefforts, to reach them, abundantly and super-abundantly proved this;andthat this failure constituted a lesson--_and a warning_--which the racedisregarded at its peril.The North Pole, he said, was not so very far away, and the difficultiesin the way of reaching it were not, on the face ofthem, so very great:human ingenuity had achieved a thousand things a thousand times moredifficult; yet in spite of over half-a-dozen well-planned efforts inthe nineteenth century, and thirty-one in the twentieth, manhad neverreached: always he had been baulked, baulked, by some seemingchance--some restraining Hand: and herein lay the lesson--_herein thewarning_. Wonderfully--really _wonderfully_--like the TreeofKnowledge in Eden, he said, was that Pole: all the rest of earth lyingopen and offered to man--but _That_ persistently veiled and 'forbidden.'It was as when a father lays a hand upon his son, with: 'Not here, mychild;wheresoever you will--but not here.'But human beings, he said, were free agents, with power to stop theirears, and turn a callous consciousness to the whispers and warningindications of Heaven; and he believed, hesaid, that the time was nowcome when man would find it absolutely in his power to stand on that90th of latitude, and plant an impious right foot on the head of theearth--just as it had been given into the absolutepower of Adam tostretch an impious right hand, and pluck of the Fruit of Knowledge; but,said he--his voice pealing now into one long proclamation of awfulaugury--just as the abuse of that power had been followed inthe onecase by catastrophe swift and universal, so, in the other, he warned theentire race to look out thenceforth for nothing from God but a loweringsky, and thundery weather.The man's frantic earnestness,authoritative voice, and savage gestures,could not but have their effect upon all; as for me, I declare, I sat asthough a messenger from Heaven addressed me. But I believe that I hadnot yet reached home, when thewhole impression of the discourse hadpassed from me like water from a duck's back. The Prophet in thetwentieth century was not a success. John Baptist himself, camel-skinand all, would, have met with only tolerantshrugs. I dismissed Mackayfrom my mind with the thought: 'He is behind his age, I suppose.'But haven't I thought differently of Mackay since, my God...?       *       *       *       *       *Three weeks--it was aboutthat--before that Sunday night discourse, Iwas visited by Clark, the chief of the coming expedition--a mere visitof friendship. I had then been established about a year at No. II,Harley Street, and, though undertwenty-five, had, I suppose, as _Ã©lite_a practice as any doctor in Europe._Ãlite_--but small. I was able to maintain my state, and move among thegreat: but now and again I would feel the secret pinch


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<title>Basic Instinct - byJoe Eszterhas</title>
                                  BASIC INSTINCT                                        by                                  JOE ESZTERHAS                     INT. A BEDROOM -NIGHT          It is dark; we don't see clearly.  a man and woman make love           on a brass bed.  There are mirrors on the walls and ceiling.            On a side table, atop a small mirror, lines ofcocaine.  A           tape deck PLAYS the Stones "Sympathy for the Devil."          Atop him... she straddles his chest... her breasts in his face.            He cups her breasts.  She leans down, kisses him...          JOHNNYBOZ is in his late 40's, slim, good-looking.  We don't           see the woman's face.  She has long blonde hair.  The CAMERA           STAYS BEHIND and to the side of them.          She leans close over his face, her tonguein his mouth...  she           kisses him... she moves her hands up, holds both of his arms           above his head.          She moves higher atop him... she reaches to the side of the           bed... a white silk scarf is in herhand... her hips above his           face now, moving... slightly, oh-so slightly... his face strains           towards her.          The scarf in her hand... she ties his hands with it...            gently... to the brass bed... his eyesare closed...  tighter...           lowering hips into his face... lower... over his chest... his           navel.  The SONG plays.          He is inside her... his head arches back... his throat white.          She arches her back... herhips grind... her breasts are high...          Her back arches back... back... her head tilts back... she           extends her arms... the right arm comes down suddenly...  the           steel flashes... his throat iswhite...          He bucks, writhes, bucks, convulses...          It flashes up... it flashes down... and up... and down...  and           up... and...          EXT. A BROWNSTONE IN PACIFIC HEIGHTS -MORNING          Winter in San Francisco cold, foggy.  Cop cars everywhere.            The lights play through the thick fog.  Two Homicide detectives           get out of the car, walk into the house.          NICKCURRAN is 42.  Trim, good-looking, a nice suit; a face           urban, edged, shadowed.  GUS MORAN is 64.  Crew-cut, silver           beard, a suit rumpled and shiny, a hat out of the 50'sa face           worn and ruinedthe face of a backwoods philosopher.          INT. THE BROWNSTONE          There's money here -- deco, clean, hip -- That looks like a           Picasso on the wall.  They check itout.                                    GUS                        Who was this fuckin' guy?                                    NICK                        Rock and roll, Gus.  JohnnyBoz.                                    GUS                        I never heard of him.                                    NICK                               (grins)                        Before your time, pop.                               (abeat)                        Mid-sixties.  Five or six hits.                        He's got a club down in the Fillmore                         now.                                    GUS                        Not now he don't.          Past theuniformed guys... nods... waves... past the forensic           men... past the coroner's investigators... they get to the           bedroom.          INT. THE BEDROOM          They walk in, stare -- it'smessy.          It's like a convention in here.  LT. PHIL WALKER, in his 50's,           silver-haired, the Homicide guys; JIM HARRIGAN, late 40's,           puffy, affable;  SAM ANDREWS, 30's, black.  A CORONER'S MANis           working the bed.                                    LT. WALKER                               (to Nick and Gus)                        You guys know Captain Talcott?          Theynod.                                    GUS                        What's the Chief's office doin'                         here.                                    CAPT.TALCOTT                        Observing.                                    LT. WALKER                               (to the Coroner's                                Guy)                        What do you think,Doc?                                    THE CORONER'S GUY                        The skin blanches when I press it --                        this kind of color is about right                         for six or eighthours.                                    LT. WALKER                        Nobody say anything.  The maid                         came in an hour ago and found him.                        She's not alive-in.                                    GUS                        Maybe the maid did it.                                    LT. WALKER                        She's 54 years old and weighs240                         pounds.                                    THE CORONER'S GUY                               (deadpan)                        There are no bruises on hisbody.                                    GUS                               (grins)                        It ain't the maid.                                    LT. WALKER                        He left the club with hisgirlfriend                         about midnight.  That's the last                         time anybody saw him.                                    NICK                               (looks at body)                        What wasit?                                    THE CORONER'S GUY                        Ice pick.  Left on the coffee table                         in the living room.  Thin steel                         handle.  Forensics took itdowntown.                                    HARRIGAN                        There's come all over the sheets --                        he got off before he gotoffed.                                    GUS                               (deadpan)                        That rules the maid out for sure.                                    CAPT. TALCOTT                        This is sensitive.  Mr.Boz was a                         major contributor to the mayor's                         campaign.  He was Chairman of the                         Board of the Palace of Fine Arts--                                    GUS                               (to Nick)                        I thought you said he was a rock                         and roll star.                                    LT. WALKER                        Hewas a retired rock and roll                         star.                                    CAPT. TALCOTT                        A civic-minded, very respectable                         rock and rollstar.                                    GUS                        What's that over there?          We see the white powder laid out in lines on the small mirror           on the sidetable.                                    NICK                               (deadpan)                        It looks like some civic-minded,                         very respectable cocaine tome,                         Gus.                                    CAPT. TALCOTT                               (evenly, to Nick)                        Listen to me, Curran.  I'm going                         to get a lot of heat onthis.  I                         don't want any... mistakes.          Nick and Talcott look at each other a beat, then --                                    NICK                        Who's the girlfriend?          Lt. Walker looks at thenotepad in his hand.                                    LT. WALKER                        Catherine Tramell, 162 Divisadero.          Nick writes it down.  He and Gus turn, leave.  Captain Talcott           watches them.  Helooks disturbed.          INT. THE LIVING ROOM          As they head out --                                    NICK                        Talcott doesn't usually show up at                         the office 'till after his 18holes.                          What are they nervous about?                                    GUS                        They're executives.  They're nervous                         about everything.                                    LT.WALKER                        Nick!          He stops, turns, sees Walker behind them.  Walker comes up to           them.                                    LT. WALKER                               (toNick)                        Keep your three o'clock.                                    NICK                        Do you want me to work the case,                         Phil, or do you want me to --                                    LT.WALKER                        I said keep it.          EXT. A VICTORIAN ON DIVISADERO - DAY          It is more a mansion than a house.  They ring the bell.  An           Hispanic MAID answers.  They flash theirbadges.                                    NICK                        I'm Detective Curran, this is                         Detective Moran.  We're with the                         San Francisco Police Department.          We'd like tospeak to Ms. Catherine Tramell.                                    THE MAID                               (after a beat, an                                accent)                        Just moment.  Come in.          She leads them into alavish, beautifully done living room           that offers a sweeping view of the Bay.                                    THE MAID                        Sit, please.  Just moment.          They look around, impressed.  There is aPicasso on the wall           here, too.                                    GUS                        Ain't that cute?  They got his and                         her Pig-assos,son.                                    NICK                               (smiles)                        I didn't know you knew who Picasso                         was,Gus.                                    GUS                               (grins)                        I'm a smart sonofabitch.  I just                         hide it.          Nick smiles -- and at that moment a beautiful BLONDEwalks           into the room.  She looks like she has been asleep.  She is in           her early 20's.  She wears a very sheer robe.                                    NICK                        We're sorry to disturb you,we'd                         like to ask you some --                                    THE WOMAN                        Are you vice?                                    GUS                               (after abeat)                        Homicide.                                    THE WOMAN                        What do you want?                                    GUS                        When was the last time yousaw                         John Boz?                                     THE WOMAN                        Is he dead?                                    NICK                               (after a beat)                        Why do you thinkhe's dead?                                    THE WOMAN                        You wouldn't be here otherwise,                         would you?                                    GUS                        Were you with him lastnight?                                    THE WOMAN                        You're looking for Catherine, not                         me.                                    NICK                        Who are


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<TITLE>"MINORITY REPORT" -- Aug 15th 1997 rewrite by Jon Cohen</TITLE>
<FONTface="Courier, Courier New, Times, Arial, Helvetica" size=-1>               "MINORITY REPORT"                -- Aug 15th 1997 rewrite by Jon Cohen               DARKNESS               And then, slowlyemerging from the mists of darkness, a pale,               beautifully proportioned FACE.               The oval face is female, a woman of indeterminate age, her               features as fragile as porcelain.  Her eyes are closedin               sleep, or in death ... or in something in between.               Now TWO MORE FACES emerge out of the darkness.  They are               male, and they float into position on either side ofthe               female.  They are just as ethereally beautiful, just as pale,               and like the female their eyes are closed.               The ghostly lips of the female begin to twitch.  Her features,               which havebeen expressionless, suddenly contort, mask-like,               into the face of a woman in fear.  Her eyes open.               The male face on her right contorts too.  His features warp               into an angry snarl -- themask of a man enraged.  His eyes               open.               The male face on her left takes on the expression of a young               boy, a boy who is terribly frightened.  His eyes open wide.               As if they are lostin the same terrible waking dream, a               sudden and unnerving exchange begins ...                                     FEMALE                              (frightened woman)                         JOHNNY,PLEASE                                                           MALE RIGHT                              (mocking man)                         "Johnny, please.  Johnnyplease."                                     FEMALE                         You're scaring me.                                     MALE LEFT                              (child's voice)                         DADDY, DON'T.DADDY                      MALE RIGHT                              (considering)                         I don't like you any more,Carol.                                     FEMALE                              (imploring)                         Put the scissors down.  You'rescaring                         me.  Please.                                     MALE RIGHT                         Oh, Carol.                                     FEMALE                         Johnny!  Stop!-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------                                                                         2.                                     MALERIGHT                         Don't grab at me!  Let                                     MALE LEFT                         Daddy!  No!               All we see are three faces on the screen mouthing words but               we canimagine a terrible struggle taking place before us: a               man with scissors lunging at his wife, her anguished scream,               the whimpering cries of their son.               And then there is silence, and it is over,and the three               faces instantly return to their impassive porcelain state.               Their eyes slowly close.  They do not move.               So that when they do move again, it is startling.  Inabrupt               unison, the EYES flash open.  Three pairs of eyes stare               straight at us, accusing.               Three mouths open, but speak, in rasping tones, as one.                                     ALLTHREE                         Murderer!               The faces linger a moment, the weary eyes slowly close, and               the dark reaches forth, and takesthem.                                                               DISSOLVE TO:               EXT. SUBURBIA  DAY               Morning in America.  Just look at it.  America in the               midfifties, the suburbanlandscape stretching endlessly into               the sun drenched distance.  White house upon white house.               Emerald lawns, glistening with dew.               In each driveway, a big Chevy, or a Ford, muscled withchrome,               long tailfins that taper like the fins on rocket ships.               Kids burst out of the houses, and zoom down sidewalks on               trikes.  Mothers in bright dresses stand indoorways,               watching.  The smiling mothers wave to one another, then go               back into their houses.               Dogs bark, birds sing in trees of just the right height,               boys and girls laugh and ringthe bells on their trikes.  It               is a delicious world, where dogs and birds and children are               safe.               INT. A HOUSE               A family room with all the trappings of the era: aflagstone               fireplace, a console TV, a man's leatherette Barca-Lounger,               a pipe stand holding two pipes on a nearby table, boxes of               children's games neatly stacked on a wallshelf.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------                                                                         3.               A young mother, CAROL, her hair -in apony-tail, stands at a               picture window in a corner of the family room, staring mildly               at the scene outside.               CAROL'S POV - A LITTLE GIRL               A little girl bounces a red ball onthe sidewalk.  The ball               gets away from her, and rolls into the street.               At the same moment, a two-toned CHEVY, lush and huge, rounds               the corner.               The girl sees the car coming, butstill goes after the ball.               THE FAMILY ROOM               Carol sees what is about to happen -- but she doesn't cry               out, or bang on the window, or run for the frontdoor.  She               watches.  And smiles a little.               OUTSIDE               The girl careens gleefully into the middle of the street.               INSIDE THE CHEVY               The driver -- a man in aloose fitting dark green suit, white               shirt, thin brown tie -- sits behind the steering wheel of               the car.               Disturbingly, the man's hands are not on the steering wheel.               Not only that, he isholding the morning newspaper up in               front of him, reading, oblivious to the scene before him.               Through the windshield, we see the little girl in the road               in front of him, going for herball.               CAROL Watches, her smile in place.        OUTSIDE         The little girl picks up her red ball, as the Chevy bears        down on her.               INSIDE THE CHEVY               An alarmsuddenly CHIRPS.  The car automatically brakes to a               halt.  The man looks around the edge of his paper to see               what is happening.               THE STREET               The car has stopped,inches from the girl.               The girl giggles as, the man in the car gives her a big wink.               She waves, then runs back to the sidewalk with her redball.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------                                                                         4.               The man goes back to his newspaper,and the car, entirely on               its own, starts up again.  The car rounds a corner, and               disappears.               INSIDE THE HOUSE               Carol turns away from the window.  She startles whenshe               sees her husband, JOHNNY, is there behind her.  He is in his               pajamas.  How long has he been there, watchingher?                                     JOHNNY                              (gruff)                         Why'd you let me sleep so long?                                     CAROL                         It's Saturday, Johnny, youalways --                              (beat)                         Why are you staring at me like that?               He takes a step toward her.  He stands there, his thick black               hair tousled with sleep, scratching his stubbledjaw,               considering her.                                     JOHNNY                         I'm unhappy that you let me sleep so                         long.               He takes another step toward her.  She doesn't move amuscle.               A little BOY suddenly enters the room.  Johnny turns, looks               at his son, looks back over his shoulder at his wife.  Then,               without a word, he begins to walk out of the room.  Onhis               way out, Johnny's eyes flick to Carol's sewing basket, which               sits beside a sewing machine.  It is not the sewing that has               caught his attention, but a large pair of garmentSCISSORS               which lie across a fold of colored cloth.               EXT. THE HOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER               Johnny stands on the front porch, scratching.  He walks down               his front walk, andbends over to pick up the newspaper.               Carol stands in the doorway, watching him.               A SHADOW slides over Johnny, cast from above.  The air fills               with the piercing WHINE of anengine.  Johnny looks up,               alarmed.               In the sky above him, just beyond the tips of the suburban               trees, is a black PRECRIME POLICE HOVERCRAFT.               The children, the mothers, Carolin the doorway -- everyone               freezes in place, as Johnny is cast into an inexplicable               drama.               Racing SOUNDLESSLY down the street toward him, are SLEEK               TECHNOLOGICALMARVELS, lethal and efficient looking -- they               seem to be cars -- but they are so different from the fat               Fords and Chevies in the driveways that it is hard for us to               processthem.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------                                                                         5.               Helmeted police with mirrored visorserupt out of the cars.               More police drop from the hovercraft in harnesses.  Their               uniforms are black, seem actually to absorb light.  Their               left hands are bare, their right hands are encased insome               sort of complicated glove.               CLOSE               ON - A GLOVE               The glove is a weapon of some kind, the elongated index finger               ending in an openbarrel.               Clearly, this is not, as it first seemed, the past -- not               America in the 1950's.  It is the neo-past, the retro world               of America 2040, where the familiar of yesterdayis               intermeshed with hypertechnology.               And all of that hypertechnology is focused on JOHNNY, as he               makes a run for the house, sheets of newspaper scattering               behind him.  Hebursts up the front porch, shoving Carol out               of the way.               Eight Precrime police officers assemble in the yard. From a               backpack, one of them quickly removes an instrument witha               handle grip and an ovoid screen.  It is a holographic scanner.               He activates it, scans the OFFICER in front of him, and an               IDENTICAL POLICE OFFICER takes three-dimensional


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A DRY WHITE SEASON       Rewrite by      EUZHAN PALCY         May 1987   Revised First Draft   FOREDUCATIONAL    PURPOSES ONLY"IN THE WHOLE WORLDTHERE IS NOT A SINGLEPOOR DEVIL WHO IS LYNCHED,NOT ONE MISERABLE MANWHO ISTORTURED IN WHOMI TOO, I AM NOT MURDEREDAND DEGRADED."      Aime CesairePRE-TITLE:FADE IN:EXT. DAN PIENAAR SECONDARY SCHOOL FOR BOYS- DAYDan Pienaar school is a typical Johannesburg Afrikaanschool. The students are mainly from middle-classfamilies. School athletics are in progress. The stu-dents, in their smart school uniforms, arecheeringenthusiastically a relay race on the immaculately-keptsports ground.GORDON NGUBENE, a 47-years-old African laborer is work-ing in the school garden. A few feet away is his 15-years-old son JONATHANleaning against a wall watchingthe games.BEN DU TOIT, a 50-year-old Afrikaaner history teacher, isenthusiastically cheering his son JOHAN, a 15-years-old,who is leading neck-and-neck with another boy in the lastlegof the race. The excitement increases as theyapproach the tape. Ben is beside himself, egging his sonwith shouts. The young teacher, VIVIERS, standing nextto Ben, is shouting "come on Johan," and slapping thefatheron the back.Johan breasts the tape just ahead of the other boy. Theground is invaded by boys running to congratulate Johan.Ben hurries towards his happy but exhausted son; the proudfather pushing his way throughthe animated boys. As hereaches Johan he pats him on the back.                           BEN             This was your best race.                           JOHAN                    (excited)             I beat him,Papa.                           BEN                    (proudly)             You did son. Come on, shower.They walk happily towards the school buildings in conver-sation, Johan being slapped on the back by friends.Benstops to talk to Gordon who jumps to his feet.                         BEN           I'll be expecting you. There           isn't much to do, only weeding           the marigolds and watering the           lawn andflowers.                                             (CONTINUED)                                                         2.CONTINUED:                           GORDON             We'll be there, Mr.Ben'sir,             Jonathan come to help me.Ben hadn't seen Jonathan.    He turns to him.                           BEN             And how's the algebra?   Still             giving youtrouble?                           JONATHAN                    (with respect)             Just a little, Mr. Ben'sir.                          JOHAN             Metoo.                           GORDON                    (straightening himself)             He's working hard, Mr. Ben'sir,             and your money will not be             wasted. Emily and me will always             thankyou.                           BEN                    (as he leaves)             See you both later.Gordon returns to his work a little distance further. Agroup of students are laughing and pushing each otherboisterously. Asthey near Jonathan, two nudge eachother and giggle. Then, one of them trips Jonathan. Hefalls to the ground and jumps up aggressively, about toattack the boy. Gordon shouts "Jonathan."The headmaster, MRS.CLOETE, aged 65 years, has observedthe incident, but takes no action.Jonathan stands panting with rage.       He suddenly stridesaway towards the gate in arage.                           GORDON                    (shouting angrily)             U ya phi?             (Where are you going?)Jonathan turns to look at his father and continues towalk off.TITLES.EXT.SOWETO BEER HALL - AFTERNOONThe beer hall is a large complex with a drinking areawith long rows of lowbenches.                                           (CONTINUED)                                                      3.CONTINUED:Men sit drinking African beer in one-half and one gallonplasticscontainers. The place buzzes with noise.Several people are touting wares for sale.Suddenly a group of about twenty youths walks into thedrinking area, obviously to cause trouble. The LEADERstarts to address theclients.                           LEADER             Your children are starving and you             are drinking. We demand freedom             and our fathers are drunk. We ask             you to boycott these beerhalls.             Revolution and drink don't work             together!A large MAN WITH SIDEBURNS, obviously drunk, stands up, astick in his hand.                           MAN WITH SIDEBURNS             Since whendo children talk like             this to their fathers? They need             thrashing.The man and several others advance on the boys. The boysrun into the serving area, close the doors and startbreaking up the place. Twopolice Land Rovers SCREECH toa halt outside. The boys run out through a side en-trance. They are chased by the police who are black.Jonathan and his best friend Wellington, also 15 years,are walking towards the beerhall when the boys comerunning out chased by the police. It is prudent forthem to run down the street. The boys and police arebearing down on them. Their escape is cut off by theapperance of another police LandRover. Two policemen,two blacks and two whites join in the capture. Jonathan,Wellington and about ten of the boys are arrested.As they are hundled into the vehicle, they protest theirinnocence without success and aredriven away.INT. SOWETO POLICE STATION - CHARGE OFFICE - AFTERNOONThe charge office is sparcely furnished with a long benchalong a wall. There is a reception counter with Sgt:Van Zyl in charge. Theboys are lined up against a wall.The sergeant stands with a tall blond man with a scar onhis chin, CAPTAINSTOLZ.                                             (CONTINUED)                                                       4.CONTINUED:The sergeant reads out a name and    looks at Stolz; if henods the boystands aside. After     this ritual, the onesthat Stolz has chosen are marched    to a waiting police vanand driven away. The others are     taken to the cells atthe police station, these include    JonathanandWellington.EXT. DUTCH REFORM CHURCH - DAYThe MUSIC STOPS. The doors open. The 40 years-old-minister Bester comes to the door, then stands and greetshis parishioners as they file out of thechurch.Amongst them, Ben Du Toit -- his wife, SUSAN, a clean-cut, immaculate, "toe-the-line" beauty and his son, Johan-- the blond, blue-eyed, tanned and torsoed fourteen-year-old every father dreams of. Susangreets friendsand acquaintances, pausing to chat... mostly formalities.Johan, his eyes on a girl his age. She is with herfather, Mr. Cloete, the headmaster -- she smiles at Johanfrom a distance; he waves awkwardly asshe drives offwith her parents.SUZETTE his daughter, sophisticated -- groomed. Shetakes her baby from the black nanny waiting in the car,carries the child to the group chatting with CHRIS, herhusband. She shows itoff proudly. Ben is chatting,concerned, to a WOMAN. She looks drawn and worried.                           MRS. COETZEE (WOMAN)             He won't come to church. He lies             in bed all day, listening tohis             headphones.                           BEN             I wondered why he wasn't at             school. Would it help if I came             to see him? He's always seemed a             good kid tome.                           MRS. COETZEE             Oh, would you?                          BEN             Of course. I'll phone and we can             fix a time.Mrs. Coetzee smiles hergratitude.                           SUSAN             Ben!   Ben!She's waving impatiently at him.     He crosses back to her.Suzette's BABY isHOWLING.                                             (CONTINUED)                                                        5.CONTINUED:She rocks it back and forth, holding it at arm's length.The BABYSCREAMS. The nanny comes forward -- Suzettehands it over.                             SUSAN             Mrs. Coetzee.    She looked worried.                           BEN             She's having trouble with herboy.             He won't come to school.                           SUSAN             So you said you'd have a word with             him?                             BEN             Yes!She smiles and walks him to the caraffectionately.EXT. BEN'S HOUSE - BARBECUE - DAYThe Du Toit family.Susan is bringing out the salads. Chris, her son-in-law,is at the barbecue, stinging his eyes. Ben is bouncinghis grandson, little Hennie, ina small, portable pool.The black nanny sits in attendance in the shade, a towelat the ready. The good life...... Suddenly disturbed by... Gordon and Jonathan standinguncertain at the far side of the garden; Gordon'shatpressed flat against his chest, Jonathan defiant.Susan looks up -- as do each in turn -- curious at theintrusion... then the black nanny -- and finally Ben.After a moment, Ben walks up toGordon.                            BEN             Gordon!   What are you doing here?INT. BEN'S KITCHEN - DAYSix cuts, like six knife gashes, revealed on the blood-stained buttocks of Gordon's son, whostands in painful,truculent embarrassment.Ben is shocked by the severity of the canning.                           GORDON             That's not why I'm complaining,             Mister Ben, sir. If he didwrong,             I'd beat him myself. Buthe             didn't.                                               (CONTINUED)                                                           6.CONTINUED:                           GORDON             He didnothing and they wouldn't             listen. They wouldn't believe             him.                           BEN             I'm sorry, Gordon.    But there             must be areason.                           GORDON             He says he wasn't doing anything             wrong, Mister Ben, sir. And I             believe him, I know my son! It's             aninjustice!                           BEN             What about the court?    Didn't he             state his case?                           GORDON             What does he know about court?             Before he knew, itwas all over.                           BEN             I don't think there is anything we             can do about it now.Outside, peering     through the half-opened door, is Johan,shocked at what     he sees. Ben tapes


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story of Miss Moppet, by Beatrix PotterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Story of Miss MoppetAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: January 31, 2005 [EBook#14848]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net).[Illustration][Illustration]THE STORY OF MISS MOPPETBY BEATRIX POTTER_Author of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit," etc_[Illustration]FREDERICK WARNEFirst published 19061906 by FrederickWarne & Co.Printed and bound in Great Britain byWilliam Clowes Limited, Beccles and London[Illustration]This is a Pussy called Miss Moppet, she thinks she has heard a mouse!This is the Mouse peeping out behind thecupboard, and making fun of MissMoppet. He is not afraid of a kitten.[Illustration][Illustration]This is Miss Moppet jumping just too late; she misses the Mouse and hitsher own head.She thinks it is a very hardcupboard![Illustration][Illustration]The Mouse watches Miss Moppet from the top of the cupboard.Miss Moppet ties up her head in a duster, and sits before the fire.[Illustration]The Mouse thinks she is looking very ill. Hecomes sliding down thebell-pull.[Illustration][Illustration]Miss Moppet looks worse and worse. The Mouse comes a little nearer.[Illustration]Miss Moppet holds her poor head in her paws, and looks at him through aholein the duster. The Mouse comes _very_ close.And then all of a sudden--Miss Moppet jumps upon the Mouse![Illustration][Illustration]And because the Mouse has teased Miss Moppet--Miss Moppet thinks she willteasethe Mouse; which is not at all nice of Miss Moppet.She ties him up in the duster, and tosses it about like a ball.[Illustration]But she forgot about that hole in the duster; and when she untiedit--there was noMouse![Illustration][Illustration]He has wriggled out and run away; and he is dancing a jig on the top ofthe cupboard!End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Miss Moppet, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET ******** This file should be named 14848.txt or 14848.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin:        http://www.gutenberg.net/1/4/8/4/14848/Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net).Updated editions will replace the previousone--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in theUnited States withoutpermission and without paying copyright royalties.  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