Terminal Page #4

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You know what?

I'm getting a little bit old

for all these parlor games,

bottle blonde.

Evening, gorgeous.

These are for you.

You're in trouble, Alfred.

I'm always in trouble,

sugarplum.

Spare me the heroics.

You're in real trouble.

Targeted,

shot in the back of the head

unless you pay attention

trouble.

I'm listening.

Good, because I like you.

You're handsome,

and you're chivalrous,

and I like your jaw.

It's manly.

I want to keep you.

- Well, I think you're...

- Shut up.

Understood.

There's someone here to see you.

Listen to what he's got to say

or that handsome face of yours

will have a gaping exit wound

slap bang in the middle of it.

- Okay.

- Good.

Come on out.

He's not gonna bite.

[door slides closed]

Hello?

[ringing]

[ring]

MR. FRANKLIN:

Good evening, Vincent.

Mr. f***ing Franklin,

I presume.

- The very same.

- Let me get this straight.

You drag me out

in the middle of the night,

halfway across the city,

freezing cold,

up 20 flights of rickety stairs

just so that you can speak to me

on the f***ing phone?

Who says mystery's a lost art?

Yeah, fair enough.

Now, the contract.

You and your partner

start tomorrow.

The target will be

lured to this window.

It faces the apartment

where you will be waiting.

One shot to the head.

A clean kill. No mistakes.

Now, I have another deal,

a side part, for you.

VINCE:
Okay, go on.

MR. FRANKLIN:
When you've

executed the contract,

I want you

to kill your partner.

Why?

I don't like crowds.

And I like loyalty I can buy.

Double the original offer,

in cash.

What you want,

his head on a silver platter?

His ID papers and

trigger finger will suffice.

I'm offering you double

the money and a one way split.

I believe I can trust

your mercenary greed.

Now, do we have a deal?

Yeah.

Consider it done.

MR. FRANKLIN:
Good.

Where'd you get ahold

of that there thing?

Where the f***

did you get that?

Stop it, Alfred.

He's just the messenger.

Who is about to get very shot

on the count of three.

One, two...

Locker!

Locker in the terminal!

Black briefcase.

Note inside.

A man...

A man paid me.

An envelope with money.

Please don't kill me!

- Three.

- [gun clicks]

Now f*** off.

Go on.

F***!

F***, f***, f***, f***!

F***er!

[sighs]

Feel better?

[groans]

It's all bullshit, isn't it?

No job, no hit.

Oh, no, handsome.

There most definitely was a hit.

Me?

Not anymore.

We can find a new target.

We?

Now tell me something,

sugarplum.

Why should I trust you, eh?

Aren't you part of

this whole conspiracy?

I told you.

I like you.

I need someone

to butter my buns for.

Well, I suppose I do need

a new partner now, don't I?

My old one seems to have

become rather untrustworthy.

But I will warn you, Alfred.

I'll need a firm hand and a

regular lash of the tongue.

I can't wait

to have you under me.

Good.

Let's have a cup of tea

and plot our bloody revenge.

You tidy that up.

I'll put the kettle on...

partner.

The way I see it,

you've got two options.

Go on.

Option A:
suicide.

I see. And B?

Well, you've got to hear

the case for Option A first.

- I do?

- You do.

I'm all ears.

- You're dying.

- Apparently.

- You're not happy about it.

- Not really.

You're miserable, touchy.

Quite frankly,

not great company.

Oh, thank you.

Want my advice?

No.

Just end it.

Have you ever considered

counseling?

Every minute of every day,

you're bombarded with

a series of hazardous

and potentially life-ending

situations to choose from.

Jump in front of a bus.

Have a bath with your toaster.

Fall on your butter knife.

Tall buildings,

rivers, bridges, trains.

There are more ways

to end your life

than there are ways to live it.

All this pissing around

in train stations

in the middle of the night

would be over.

End this nothing,

and all it takes is some balls.

And my immortal soul?

Overrated.

Overrated?

Have you done something to put

your immortal soul in jeopardy?

Well, there you go then.

Nothing to worry about.

Are you Catholic?

Yeah.

[coughing]

Religious?

[coughing]

Oh, f*** me.

Oh, sorry. Um...

Forgive me, Father,

for I have sinned.

To be honest, I can't recall

the last time I took confession.

I think it's more than 10,

but less than 20.

Days?

Months?

Not years, surely.

Don't get pissed off at me

for telling you the truth.

That's just mean.

If I'd known you were like this,

I would've just said three days

and taken my chances

with the Almighty.

[coughs]

Sorry.

That was uncalled for.

I apologize.

Are you still there?

[sniffing]

I know you're there.

I can smell sherry.

[flicks lighter]

Define religious.

Lolly?

I'll take that

as a big fat no.

Maybe it's divine retribution.

Oh, yeah, that sounds tasty.

You know,

my sins revisiting me

and my past

coming back to haunt me...

I'm all ears, William.

Let me hear your confession.

Repent and thou shalt be saved!

That's not even from the Bible.

Okay, that is the graffiti

that's written on the bus stop

opposite the terminal.

That's disappointing.

That's pretty much my entire

knowledge of scripture.

Try this one:

Repent, turn back,

and thy sins

will be blotted out.

Not really as catchy, is it?

[laughs]

How's my case

for suicide progressing?

Am I quaking your foundations?

You're giving me a headache.

Oh, how's this for a headache?

Take a pencil,

jam into tabletop,

slam head down onto pencil,

dead in five seconds.

- That's foul.

- Isn't it?

And every time

I suggest this to someone,

they think it goes

up your nose.

You've suggested this

more than once?

It can't go up your nose.

That's impossible.

Think about

the trajectory involved.

It would go in your eyeball,

right?

Through the socket,

into your brain.

I... Well, it depends on the

angle of the head, I suppose.

Let's test the theory.

It's not very sharp, is it?

Use your fancy pen then.

It's heavier.

Nib's sharper than yours.

Probably get it further into

the table, better purchase.

It would feel more proper,

wouldn't it?

More ceremonial.

A pen does have more purpose

than a pencil.

More stature.

Definitely a better choice.

Definitely,

and how resonantly poetic.

The English professor found

impaled on his own fountain pen.

It's epic.

It's inspired.

We've cracked it!

Time, place, method,

it's all there.

Don't you think

it'd be a bit painful?

You're missing the point.

Hmm?

Get it?

- Brilliant.

- God, you're not very keen.

Do you want to

kill yourself or not?

I'm not so sure now.

Oh, pathetic.

Can I have that pen then?

I never had one like that.

- No.

- Why?

Because it's mine.

Thought you were

about to top yourself?

What do you need a pen for?

Come on, please. It'll be

like you left it for me.

- Bequeathed it, not left.

- Oh, my God.

Shut up!

I'm taking the pen.

You've got no use for it,

and I want it.

Here, you can have my pencil

to make up for your loss, okay?

Done, swapped, over.

[rock]

ALFRED:
How long have

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