Lights, camera, action!


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.


          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.


          Yes... master.

                       THE MASTER

          Do let's carry on.

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