The Ladykillers Page #17

DORR:

Ahh but gentlemen, we delude

ourselves. Think of the woman's

piteous moans as we lay tier upon

tier of brick. Think of her

lamentations as we fit the last brick

into place, appealing to our better

selves, the higher angels of our

nature, our recollections of our own

sainted mothers... No, I fear that

we lack the sand to commit such an

act. No... no... shortest and most

painless is best. Let us confront

reality. Gawain's gun... the retort

muffled by a pillow... into the

brain... the affair of an instant.

The only question is... who wields

the weapon.

He looks around the table. Silence. No volunteers.

DORR:

...I believe it is traditional, in

such circumstances, to draw straws.

PANCAKE:

Well, sure, fair enough.

He takes a broom leaning against the wall, bends back and

snaps a handful of its bristles.

PANCAKE:

...I'm thinking, though, that since

I lost my finger -- I mean, literally

lost it because of that goddamn cat --

maybe I should be excused from this

thing. Hard for me to squeeze a

trigger anyway--

GAWAIN:

You one whiney motherf***er! I squeeze

your nutsack you keep that up!

PANCAKE:

Listen, punk--

DORR:

Gentlemen, no special pleading, no

exceptions. It's in the nature of

the situation that we would all prefer

to be excused.

Pancake grumbles as he counts out five bristles, takes one

and snaps it in half, displaying the short straw to the group,

and then hands the four long and one short to the Professor:

PANCAKE:

Well, okay... it was just a trial

balloon...

With a flap of his cape the professor jumbles the straws and

encloses them in one hand.

Sweaty CLOSE-UPS. Each man stares at the straws. Some

hesitant, some resolute, they draw:

First, the General: long straw. His reaction: impassive.

Next, Lump:
long straw. His reaction: relieved.

Next, Pancake. Long straw.

PANCAKE:

Long straw. You all see it. All your

fuss over nothing, punk.

Two straws left. Gawain stares at them, licks his lips.

He reaches for one straw, touches it, hesitates.

GAWAIN:

...Motherf***er...

He touches the other straw, hesitates.

He goes back to the first straw, closes his hand around it,

closes his eyes, and pulls.

He lifts the straw into frame before his squeezed-shut eyes,

raises his eyebrows, and slowly opens fluttering eyelids to

look:
short straw.

The Professor, smiling, opens his fist to confirm that he

holds the last long one.

Gawain moans.

INT. MUNSON HOUSE - CELLAR - NIGHT

PULLING HIM UP THE STAIRS

Slowly, slowly, Gawain mounts the cellar stairs. Behind him,

gathered in a semi-circle and looking up from the foot of

the stairs, the other men wait.

As he plants one plodding foot in front of the other Gawain

raises the gun, slides back its primer to make sure there is

a round in the chamber, and then slides it shut as he reaches

the door.

INT. MUNSON - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

In the foreground Mrs. Munson sits knitting, humming an old

temperance tune. In the background the cellar door swings

open. Marva Munson doesn't notice; her knitting needles

continue their rhythmic clack.

We PULL Gawain, gun at the ready, as he takes slow, cautious

steps across the floor.

We INTERCUT his POV of the back of the old lady's head, bowed

over her knitting.

As Gawain passes the sofa he picks up a cushion and buries

in it his hand holding the gun.

He looks back up at the old lady. But now, still cautiously

approaching, he c*cks his head, his expression bemused.

HIS POV:

nearing the old lady is now different somehow. The perspective

is somewhat lower; the humming woman sounds not quite the

same; the rocking chair and the room itself are subtly

different.

WHEN WE CUT BACK TO GAWAIN

he is a runty, TEN-YEAR-OLD CHILD walking slowly across the

floor; he is cradling not a gun in a pillow but a squirming

little puppy dog.

The dog yips; the woman turns to look at us. It is not Mrs.

Munson, but another black woman of about the same age.

MAMA:

What you got there, Gawain?

CHILD GAWAIN:

Why -- nothin', mama.

MAMA:

Nothin' my ass! You got a dog there!

CHILD GAWAIN:

No, Mama!

MAMA:

A filthy noisy little pest of a puppy

dog gonna sh*t all over the house!

CHILD GAWAIN:

He won't sh*t in the house, Mama,

I'm gonna train him, I promise, gonna

train him real good--

WHAP! She cuffs him on the side of his head.

MAMA:

I'm gonna train you real good! I

told you don't bring no stray dogs

into this house!

WHAP! Another slap.

MAMA:

...You wait til your Daddy gets home,

he gonna lay into you proper!

WHAP!

The little boy, weeping, throws his arms around his mother:

CHILD GAWAIN:

Please don't hurt me no more! I love

you, Mama!

MAMA:

Daddy gonna kick your ass!

WHAP!

MAMA:

...Bringin' in a filthy dirty dog!

WHAP! Gawain's little brothers and sisters, drawn by the

commotion, have gathered excitedly to watch.

SISTER:

Mama's whuppin' Gawain's ass!

BROTHER:

(eagerly)

Ain't you gonna use the strap, Mama?

WHAP! WHAP! Gawain is sobbing:

CHILD GAWAIN:

Please don't hurt me, Mama!

Now it is the adult Gawain blubbering.

The clack of knitting needles stops and Mrs. Munson turns to

look.

MRS. MUNSON

What you doin'? What you doin' with

my pillow there?

He surreptitiously slides the gun into his pocket, sniveling:

GAWAIN:

I'm sorry, ma'am, I--

WHAP! She cuffs him on the side of the head.

MRS. MUNSON

I'm displeased with you! Colored boy

like you, falling in with that trash

downstairs!

WHAP!

MRS. MUNSON

...Ashamed a yourself! Didn't your

mama raise you right!

INT. MUNSON HOUSE - CELLAR - NIGHT

Gawain is tramping down the stairs.

GAWAIN:

I can't do it!

The men are stunned.

DORR:

Why... this is most... irregular.

GAWAIN:

She reminds me of my mama. I can't

shoot my mama! You motherfuckers

just draw straws again.

PANCAKE:

Wait a minute. You've got to accept

your responsibilities, young man.

GAWAIN:

F*** you. And your irritated bowel.

I can't shoot that old lady.

GENERAL:

Must shoot!

PANCAKE:

Now look here, it's the easiest thing

in the world. Pretend her head is a

casaba melon, and the gun is a melon-

baller, and--

GAWAIN:

What the f*** you talkin' about,

man? You think this a melon-baller,

you do it, man!

DORR:

My my, this is most irregular.

PANCAKE:

Look, with equal rights come equal

responsibilities--

DORR:

I'm afraid that Mr. Pancake is right,

my dear fellow. We cannot draw straws

again; the exercise loses all

credibility if you show that the

loser can simply beg off doing the

job.

GENERAL:

Must shoot!

Gawain shoves the gun toward Pancake.

GAWAIN:

She just an old colored lady to you --

you do it, man!

PANCAKE:

Why you sniveling little coward!

GAWAIN:

What you say, you whiney motherf***er?

I come up your irritated ass with

this -- motherfuckin' gun--

He is waving the gun.

PANCAKE:

You think you scare me, you mewling

punk! You don't scare me! Bull Connor

and all his dogs didn't scare me!

He shoves Gawain.

PANCAKE:

...Be a man!

GAWAIN:

You f***!

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