Assassins

FADE IN:

EXT. PLAZA COLON/INT. BANK - DAY (1980)

BLACK and WHITE. The past was so clear-cut. Or was it?

Tiled roofs, the stark white stucco of a colonial town

square. Black iron bars at a bank. A briefcase carried

in a man's hand. A sniper's rifle being assembled. Thick

blocks of hundred dollar bills. Placed in the briefcase.

A man's teeth as he smiles grimly at the sight.

Sounds over a SUBJECTIVE VIEW. The BRIEFCASE SNAPS SHUT.

A VAULT DOOR SLAMS. RUBBER SOLES WALK a tiled floor.

Ahead, brilliant, white light suffuses the exit. Like

the way people describe near-death eperiences. We're

either going outdoors or over to the other side.

A long rifle silencer juts from a window. We see the

shooter FROM BEHIND, a view OVER his shoulder.

In the bank, the man crushes out a cigarette. A pause

and a DEEP EXHALE as we step outside into a flood of light.

In answer, the LOW PUFF of a SILENCER.

Only the plaza pigeons notice. As they take flight...

A man lies dead on the cobblestones. And as we look UP

TOWARD the window, there's nothing there. The pigeons

wheel above the plaza. We FOLLOW, finally losing them

to the sky. SLOWLY that sky BLEEDS from gray to blue.

And as we PAN BACK DOWN...

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. MARSH - SUNSET

We're no longer in a plaza, but in a vast marshland. Not

in the past, but in the present. The sun sparkles over

the water. Two silhouetted figures move past in the dis-

tance. One walks a little behind the other.

The man in front is KETCHAM. He wears an expensive suit

and Gucci loafers. He swats at flies nearly too small to

see, curses under his breath at the calf-deep mud.

The man behind is RATH. He moves easier; the flies don't

seem to bother him at all. His jeans are tucked into

rubber boots. He holds a silenced .22 at his side. Like

it was part of him.

They continue until one of Ketcham's shoes is sucked off

by the mud.

KETCHAM:

Aw-sh*t...

Ketcham balances on one leg, holding his silk-socked

foot in the air. The shoe disappears, filled with mud.

KETCHAM:

When I first saw you I wasn't

scared. I was just wondering why

you were dressed like that.

(re:
mud)

Now I know.

Ketcham pulls off his sock, sticks his foot in the mud.

He smiles. It feels good. He pulls off the other shoe,

tosses it. Grabbing for the other sock, he loses his

balance and sits down in the mud.

Rath waits patiently as Ketcham laughs at the absurdity

of it all. Ketcham finally pulls the sock off, then

stands, digs his toes into the dark, wet earth.

KETCHAM:

This feels good.

They move on, Rath still a little behind. Ketcham enjoys

the new sensation, but after a bit, the pleasure fades.

KETCHAM:

It's twisted, but I'm honored.

You're the best. It means at

least they're still afraid of me.

Ketcham looks ahead as they close on a grove of trees.

He knew they were going somewhere, but it's a chilling

realization all the same.

KETCHAM:

I knew this day would come. But

this morning, I could've sworn I

was going to live forever.

They're only a few steps away from the first of the

trees. Desperation begins to creep into Ketcham's voice.

KETCHAM:

Any chance of you telling me who

the Contractor was? Huh?

(off no answer)

At least tell me how much I was

worth. A dime? Two?

They're into the trees. Ketcham doesn't need to be told.

He stops just where a dead branch hangs from a tree.

KETCHAM:

Here?

Rath uses the .22 to gesture Ketcham to the left. Ketcham

gives the branch a wistful smile. Leaving his last hope

behind, he takes a few steps over.

KETCHAM:

We both play the game, Rath.

Sooner or later the wheel turns.

For everybody. Who's got your

bullet? What kind of shoes'll

you be wearing when the day comes?

Rath's answer is to move directly behind him. Ketcham

is finally showing his fear.

KETCHAM:

Whatever the contract is, I'll

double it. Just say you couldn't

find me. Buy yourself some good

karma.

Ketcham can't see, but he almost senses it as Rath raises

the silenced .22 to the back of his head.

KETCHAM:

Oh, God. Don't pull yet, not yet.

Christ, I've done some bad things

in my time.

(trembling)

I can't die like this. Not like

a mark. I'm not a mark!

Finally, Ketcham begins to just cry. Nothing left to say.

A man in mourning for himself. But Rath is not

unaffected, not without his own peculiar version of mercy.

Keeping the .22 steady, an inch behind Ketcham's head,

Rath reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a second,

nearly identical silenced .22. Ketcham looks down,

curious as the clip drops into the mud at his feet.

Rath, ready to fire at any sign of trouble, gently eases

the gun into Ketcham's hand. Ketcham looks down, smiles.

It's his gun, his dignity.

KETCHAM:

Hello, old friend.

(hefts it; knows)

One in the chamber.

Slowly, so Rath can see, Ketcham raises the .22, sets the

tip of the silencer against the side of his head. He

squints at the sun, the last thing he'll ever see.

KETCHAM:

Last few years I've been looking

for a sunrise. Maybe a sunset's

better.

(a beat)

Thanks, Rath.

The sun disappears over the horizon. Ketcham squeezes

the trigger. The SILENCER WHISPERS and he crumples,

begins to sink into the mud.

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