EXT. BACKYARD - DAY
JOB, (early 30's) scrubs clothes on a washboard in a large
basin.
His movements are slow, laborious. He is melancholy.
From the back-door of a house comes OLIVER CROMWELL, (mid 50's)
holding two glasses of lime-aid.
He walks over to Job.
OLIVER CROMWELL
Lime-aid?
Job gives a tired smile. He extracts his hands from the soapy
water and wipes them on his shirt-front. He accepts the
beverage and sips.
OLIVER CROMWELL (CONT'D)
Hot day.
INT. JOB'S APARTMENT - MORNING
CAMERA PANS, SHOWING JOB'S IMMACULATE AND ECCENTRICALLY
APPOINTED LODGINGS. SHOT ENDS ON JOB.
JOB, (early 30's) is in bed, sleeping.
At his feet, curled into a black round, is his cat, FANGS.
ZOOM IN ON JOB'S FACE.
His mouth and brow twitch slightly; he is dreaming.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. JOB'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Job is in bed, sleeping.
He tosses.
He wakes suddenly, from a nightmare.
He looks around, dazed.
INT. POLICE HEADQUARTERS - EVENING
Phones ring and the office bustles with activity.
An OFFICER taps out six Advil into his palm and swallows them
with an energy drink. He is exhausted.
In his office is CAPTAIN RODIN, intensively studying some
reports.
LIEUTENANT REDDY knocks on the Captain's door. He holds up a
bag of baked goods and smiles.
The Captain smiles wearily.
Lieutenant Reddy sets the bag on the desk, leaves, then
returns with two tall coffees which he sets next to the bag
of pastries; closes the office door behind him and sits down.
The Captain smiles faintly as Lieutenant removes two
croissants, one chocolate, one plain, and sets them neatly on
the bag.
EXT. GRAUMAN'S CHINESE THEATRE - NIGHT
JOB, (early 30's) and his boyfriend COREY (late 20's), exit
the theatre amidst the late-night crowds of tourists, all
looking downward at the celebrity-made prints in the sidewalk
panels.
The marquee behind them reads "GRINDHOUSE".
COREY
You like it?
Job nods.
Beat.
JOB
Very much.
COREY
(chuckles)
You're glowing!
INT. JOB'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
JOB, (early 30's) pours boiling water from an electric kettle
into an heirloom mug.
His black cat, FANGS, races around the room, batting and
pouncing on a toy mouse.
Job carefully prepares a perfect cup of tea, then brings it
to his desk, where he sits in an antique, red leather chair.
He faces his computer. He brings up Final Draft.
He takes a moment to consider what to write.
From behind him, a voice speaks...
ANGEL
I know what you're gonna write
about.
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