Terminal Page #7

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Stockings, suspenders?

You know, you really do

have such a lovely jaw.

Wait right here.

Yeah.

Hello?

Sugarplum.

Sugarplum.

[click]

I really hate that nickname.

Drop the gun,

hands up where I can see them.

One wrong move, handsome,

you'll have that gaping

exit wound in your face

we talked about.

Drop it.

Kick it away.

Good boy.

I thought we were partners.

I've already got a partner.

Cripple?

[laughs]

So all of this was, what?

An overelaborate scheme

perpetrated mercilessly upon you

by highly motivated, highly

intelligent individuals...

With a penchant

for amateur dramatics.

It's pronounced penchant.

You are correct, Alfred.

Two weeks you had me

in that f***ing apartment,

waiting to kill someone

who was waiting to kill me.

- Why?

- Because we like to have

all our dollies

lined up on the shelf.

Sh*t!

ANNIE:
Our starving rats

locked in a cage,

tearing each other apart

just for our pleasure.

And... you never

really liked me?

Me? No.

Has anyone ever told you

that you are a two-faced,

treacherous, manipulative,

callous little b*tch?

Oh, you have no idea.

[laughs]

Annie, darling, I don't

suppose you'd consider...

No.

Look, I know

you wanted to keep him,

but we got bigger

fish to fry, okay?

I've got the ID papers.

Give me his gun.

[yelps]

Stand and deliver!

Oh, Christ!

You nearly gave me

a heart attack.

You're early.

Give me that gun.

Where'd you put Vincent?

What you gonna do

with them both?

Can we chuck them

in the river?

No.

I've got a better idea.

Give me a hand.

[grunts]

Ah, for a fool such as this.

I shall think nothing

of tumbling downstairs.

Curiouser and curiouser.

See you around, Supe.

Oh, good day.

[whistling "Danny Boy"]

[ringing]

[ring]

[ring]

Yes?

It's done, Mr. Franklin.

- Yes?

- Both of them.

Good.

And the little favor,

the teacher?

I'm forever in your debt.

Did you have fun, sweetie?

It was like jelly and ice cream.

The cripple was very useful.

End of the Line cafe.

- He's just the messenger.

- Mum's the word.

- All right, son?

- Cleaning service.

He has his uses.

Are you suitably impressed,

Mr. Franklin?

Most definitely.

Good.

So I can rely

on your business then?

I have a limited

range of choice.

You've suppressed

the competition admirably.

How do I know you're not

going to double-cross me?

You seem very adept at it.

MR. FRANKLIN:

How, indeed. But remember,

I like loyalty I can buy,

and you are unique.

You're one of a kind.

You have proved

your value to me.

So is this the start of

a beautiful relationship then?

Most definitely.

- Good night.

- Good night.

[whistling "Danny Boy"]

Excellent.

What do you want?

There are two things in life

for which we are never

truly prepared.

Twins.

Well, well, well, he lives.

I'm sorry, Mr. Franklin,

is the light bothering you?

Where am I?

You like what we've

done with the place?

[straining]

A woman's touch

is what was needed.

How... How the f*** did you...

Look through the looking glass,

Mr. Franklin.

Or shall we call you...

Clinton?

A rose by any other name.

You've tumbled down

the rabbit hole

far beyond hope

or rhyme or reason,

flushed away

in a river of tears.

You're mad!

Stark raving mad!

Oh, we can't help that,

said the cat.

We're all mad here.

I'm mad. You're mad.

Have you ever read it?

It's our favorite book.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

Mommy used to read it to us

every night.

We know it front to back,

cover to cover.

Inside and out.

If you gave us

a page and a line,

we could give you the words,

verbatim.

We hear tell it's hereditary.

Like eye color.

Or homicidal impulse.

Blood will out.

May we tell you a story,

Mr. Franklin?

Are you sitting comfortably?

- Then let us begin.

- Then let us begin.

A long time ago in a place

not dissimilar to this,

as a point of fact,

identical to this,

there lived a young woman

called Chloe Merriweather.

Now, Chloe Merriweather

had a gleam in her eye.

She wanted adventure.

One night in the aptly named

Anything Goes,

Chloe Merriweather

succumbed to the wiles

of one Clinton Sharp,

a low-level criminal

with aspirations of grandeur,

who whispered sweet nothings

in her ear

and kept her drink topped up

and his powder dry.

Theirs was a knee-trembling

relationship.

Then for a time, very little

was heard of Chloe Merriweather

until a year or so later

she reappeared.

She'd grown up,

like all little girls do.

She waited tables by day,

and she danced on them

by night.

For Chloe had a secret

that nobody knew

buried deep within

her heart of hearts.

She had two little girls

at home.

Twins.

The result of her passionate

tryst with Mr. Sharp.

- Daddy.

- Daddy.

But Chloe Merriweather knew

better than to involve Clinton

in her daughters' lives,

for she had seen

the shadow in his soul,

the murder in his eyes.

She kept them hidden

from the world

and from Clinton Sharp.

Deliciously sweet

were those times.

But life is cruel,

and the world is small,

and fate laughs mercilessly

at us all.

One deep, dark night,

Chloe Merriweather saw something

she ought not to have seen.

[men arguing]

Clinton Sharp working.

Chloe Merriweather

ran for her life

through that deep, dark night.

But it wasn't long

before Clinton Sharp

came calling for Chloe

with a canister of petrol

and his cigarette lighter.

Rumor has it

he whistled while he worked.

[whistling "Danny Boy"]

But Chloe Merriweather

was a fighter,

a wildcat with fierce tears,

unwilling to go gently

into that good night.

Chloe saved her little girls,

but the wildcat could not

get herself to safety.

[Chloe screaming]

And so it was we found ourselves

wards of the precinct,

taken into the mercy

and kindness

of St. Catherine's Orphanage.

To the welcoming arms of

the priests and the teachers

with their wandering hands

and their sticky fingers.

Here we learned how to close

our eyes and bite our lips.

We learned how to go elsewhere

in our hearts and our heads

when the lights went out.

As soon as our legs

would carry us,

we ran far, far away.

Survival was

all we hoped for.

A feral existence.

Until one day,

who should we see

shuffling by with his cart

and his broom and his limp,

but Clinton Sharp.

[whistling "Danny Boy"]

In all his crippled glory.

That selfsame whistle

that had haunted

our nightmares for so long.

So we hunted you, Daddy,

and before long, we discovered

your clever little secret.

Mr. Franklin,

a master villain marionette.

The legendary black briefcases,

the infamous voice messages,

the lost art of mystery.

What's in it?

VINCE:
Another f***ing

locker number.

ALFRED:
Oh, you gotta love

Mr. Franklin, don't you?

Who says mystery's a lost art?

MR. FRANKLIN:
Who says

mystery's a lost art?

And we let you track us, Daddy,

as we tracked you.

Inch by inch,

we laid our plans against you.

We baited our traps

and cast our lures.

We pulled the strings

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