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.