EXT. NIGHT. A COBBLED STREET.
It could be London, or Paris, or for that matter a particularly
dank back alley in Venice. The street glistens with rain.
Two sodden figures, one noticeably more slumped than the other,
are outlined by a street light:
THE MASTER, international man of mystery, and quite full of
himself. Tall, dark and handsome, in a drug-induced unnatural
pallour-cum-unwavering bloodshot stare kind of way. He could be
anything from an extremely well-preserved octogenarian to a very
prematurely aged thirty-year old.
WITHERSPOON, his dogsbody. In his early forties, squat, loyal
to a fault. What he lacks in the brain department he makes up in
bubbly enthusiasm.
THE MASTER
And remember, Witherspoon: Mum's The Word.
WITHERSPOON
Erm. Begging your pardon. Master. I think
you'll find Grease is the w...
THE MASTER casually wheels about, grabs hold of WITHERSPOON’s
shoulders, positions himself squarely in front of the man and
unceremoniously knees him in the groin.
Think Mr. Hilltop in "Young Frankenstein": a dry thud and a
muffled groan.
WITHERSPOON
Uhng.
Yes... master.
THE MASTER
Quite.
Do let's carry on.
Gerelateerd