Àííîòàöèÿ: Hey,-ho, one of my first scripts (English, guys!)
FADE IN:
INT. ROOM - FLOOR - MORNING
A BIG BLACK COCKROACH scuttles towards a wall, heading for a tiny crack. A GIANT FOOT OF A WRITER steps on the roach, smashing it.
VOICE OF WRITER (O.S.)
Do the roaches have soul?
INT.ROOM - MORNING
A dingy room of a cheap hotel. The WRITER (30s) stands next to the back wall, looking down at the smashed roach.
A BRICKLAYER (40s) sits in a chair next to a window, staring dully at the rain outside.
BRICKLAYER
Which roaches?
WRITER
What do you mean, `which roaches'?
BRICKLAYER
There are different kinds of them.
See, I'm a bricklayer, sometimes people
ask me to work in their cellars, or fix
their garden fences. Loads of roaches in
there, different kinds, all sizes. Used to them.
You know, those black, huge beasts, haunting
your kitchen, they make your wife scream
her lungs out. Then brown, and also these funny
big ones, living in gardens. Look a lot like
armadillos, they make me laugh.
Writer looks at bricklayer like as if the last was a huge specimen of cockroaches. Then he starts pacing the room nervously.
WRITER
May I ask you a question- how in the world did
YOU get the visa?
BRICKLAYER
Oh, that's another funny story. You see, they were
selling these lottery tickets, and me and several
BRICKLAYER (CONT'D)
my buddies, we decided-why not? Saved some money
and bought one. Then-now the funny part goes-it had
won! So, long story short, we cast lots. Imagine
their faces when I won!
WRITER
I can imagine.
BRICKLAYER
(cackling)
Bet you can't. And you know why- I never wanted
the bloody thing, ever. They guys were craving for
it, sweltering for it -and there I have it!
Writer stops dead in his tracks. Stares at Bricklayer, wide-eyed.
WRITER
You...you don't want it? Don't want a visa to
Happiness?
BRICKLAYER
Nay, pal, I don't, and I never did.
WRITER
How could it be?
BRICKLAYER
Look, I don't know anything 'bout this
Happiness. They mean good, of course. But what
if they live there in glass palaces? I gonna
lose my job, then. Nah, may be it's good, but not
for me, thank you very much.
Writer's startled, then a thought dawns at his face.
WRITER
Then...why did you come here? If you don't go,
why do you need to meet Ambassador?
BRICKLAYER
That's what the rules say, pal. You get the visa,
you have to meet the bloody Ambassador. Don't
worry, I'll tell him that I wouldn't go and he'll -
pick up you, buddy.
Writer bits his lips, resumes his pacing, then...
WRITER
Listen... listen to me. I...I suffered so much.
This world-it's not for me.
He rushes to the window, points at the landscape outside
We glimpse rainy clouds, dirty streets, small lop-sided houses, church with ravens circling over its spire.
WRITER (cont.)
They had burned my books, then I spent seven
years in jail, just for telling the truth in their
faces. Please...We still have several minutes. Leave.
Please leave. I'll tell the Ambassador that you
didn't show up.
BRICKLAYER
Look, I'm sorry. I'm real sorry for you, buddy.
But it ain't gonna work.
WRITER
But why?
BRICKLAYER
Because they have rules. The guy gonna choose one
of us. I say, I'll ask him to do you a favour.
WRITER
No. They are not human beings. They have their
own ideas about good and bad. But...
Writer bits his lips again, leans against the wall, frowning.
WRITER (cont.)
...but I'll pay you. Two hundred. Now.
Here you go.
Writer pulls several crumpled banknotes out of his pocket, hands them to Bricklayer. Bricklayer refuses to take them.
BRICKLAYER
Nay, guy, the game is the game. No one could buy
his way to Heavens. You abide the rules.
Writer steps backward, then turns around, his shoulders sunk.
BRICKLAYER
My Mom used to say...Hey, kiddo, what ya think ya
are doin'?
Writer looks straight in Bricklayer's eyes. Gun clutched in his hand. Gun points at Bricklayer's chest. Writer cocks the gun.
BRICKLAYER
You better put this gun down, pal.
WRITER
I don't think so. It's because of you...
people like you. You don't read books,
you don't read anything, you don't need me in
your filthy little society. You are no more than
crowd of gobbling, drinking, fucking maggots.
You defy me. And I defy you.
He fires. He fires again and again, Bricklayer's chest explodes, and he hits the floor dead. Writer looks at his watch, checking the time-it's almost 12 o'clock. He turns to check the big clock on the wall.
BRICKLAYER (O.S.)
The answer is- no.
Thunderstruck, Writer whirls around to see the Bricklayer, standing next to the back wall, very much alive. No trace of blood, nothing. NOT TOO MUCH SURPRISE, BECAUSE HE'S THE AMBASSADOR!
WRITER
What...how?...
BRICKLAYER/AMBASSADOR (CONT'D)
No, roaches don't have soul. I'm sorry, Mr. Writer,
but your visa to Happiness is nullified. I wish you
good luck in your own world.
Bricklayer steps backward and the wall opens. Bricklayer steps through the opening and disappears. Writer runs to the hole, he's almost there, he glimpses outer landscape: sun, green trees, river...Then the picture fades and the wall closes again. Writer hammers into the wall, flings himself against it, cries, then collapses onto the floor, shaking.
INT. ROOM-FLOOR-DAY
As a big black cockroach scuttles past Writer's foot, climbs onto the wall and disappears into the tiny crack.