John Ransom Miller reclines on the sofa. White male, 42, dead or sleeping. He wears white linen pants and a straw hat and nothing else. Miller is a homicidal Zen Buddhist with a degree in criminal law, originally from Florida.
Enter Molly Jones. White female, 27. Miller’s girlfriend. She came to California from Tennessee six years ago, hoping to become an actress, and is currently a student at Berkeley studying theater. Molly is epileptic. She wears a white cotton sundress and brown cowboy
boots. Her blond hair is pulled into a ponytail. She glances at Poe, who stands in the doorway, then averts her eyes. Molly sits down on the edge of the coffee table before Miller.
Zoom slow on Poe. He scratches his head, scowls at the camera.
Poe- What’s happening, Molly?
Molly- Phineas…you’re here. Thank god.
Poe- What?
Molly- It’s begun.
Poe- I can see that. Where the hell is Jude?
Enter Jude, white female, 35. Last name and place of birth unknown. Estranged girlfriend of Phineas Poe. Jude is a professional killer, formerly of the Army’s special forces, who honed her skills with an Israeli death squad. She has a long white scar on the left side of her face. Black hair, unkempt. Jude wears red velvet jeans and a white tank top, black motorcycle boots and no jewelry. She crosses the room and sits down on the sofa beside Miller.
Poe- What’s going on, Jude?
Jude- I just heard the funniest joke. I almost died.
Poe- You brought a kid in here, just now. I saw you.
Jude- Are you sure about that?
Molly- There’s a kid in the house?
Poe- A little boy.
Molly- I don’t understand. Where did he come from?
Poe- They snatched him, apparently.
Molly- They?
Poe- My girlfriend, there. And your husband.
Molly- He’s not my husband.
Poe- Whatever. Hey, Miller. Wake up.
Jude- Do you want to hear it?
Poe- What?
Jude- The joke.
Poe- (glaring at Miller) What the hell is wrong with him?
Molly- I know. He looks dead.
Jude- He’s depressed, maybe. He’s afraid you don’t like him.
Poe- I don’t. I don’t like him.
Molly- He looks dead.
Poe- Are you high?
Jude- He’s not dead.
Molly- But he’s not breathing.
Jude- It’s a Buddhist thing.
Poe- That would explain the funny hat.
Jude- Anyway, the joke concerns Billy the Kid…
Poe- Enough of this shit. Where is the boy?
Jude- Do you want to hear this joke, or not?
Poe- Please. Tell us a fucking joke.
Jude- Billy the Kid was in a shootout with his pal Charlie. Billy shot Charlie in the throat, but didn’t kill him. Charlie fell in the dirt and started rolling around like he was drowning in yellow dust. He was taking forever to die. While he was thrashing, a chicken waddled over to Charlie where he lay and grabbed hold of this exposed vein in his neck, grabbed it up in his beak and just yanked it out like a purple rope, then tugged and tugged until it was like ten feet long. And what do you think Charlie said?
Molly- I don’t…I don’t know.
Jude- Get away from me yer stupid chicken.
Molly- That’s not a joke.
Jude- No. It’s kind of a poem, by Michael Ondaatje. He wrote the
English Patient.
Poe and Molly exchange glances.
Jude- Come on. You can’t tell me that’s not funny.
Molly- I hated that movie.
Jude- Don’t even think of fucking with me, honey.
Molly- Yeah, well. I just kept wishing the English guy would die, already.
Poe- Where is the boy, Jude?
Jude- I can’t tell you.
Jude begins to laugh. Molly chews a thumbnail, worried. As Poe exits the room, Miller opens his eyes and draws a finger across his throat.
Cut to black-and-white overhead surveillance cameras and follow Poe as he searches the house. He moves from one room to the next but finds nothing. In the basement, he comes upon Jeremy and Huck, who are surrounded by an array of sound and video equipment. The three of them stare at one another.
Huck- You. You fucked up my boom mike.
Poe- Unreal. This is unreal.
He stalks around the room and comes upon a large box marked props. He throws open the box and methodically digs through it, tossing aside cell phones and wristwatches and eyeglasses and a prosthetic arm until he finds what he’s looking for: A small snub-nosed pistol, a .32.
Jeremy- You’re wasting your time, man. Blanks in it.
Poe- I don’t want to kill anyone, yet.
He glances up, suddenly aware of the tiny camera in the corner. He gets up and stares into the lens, then wearily smashes it with the pistol. The picture goes to snow for a moment.
Fade to interior, living room. Day.
Miller sits on the sofa with Jude. Their heads are bent together, as if sharing a secret. Jude smokes a cigarette, reading from a page of the script. Miller has a red pencil in his mouth. There are more pages of script on coffee table and floor. Molly paces around the room, turning now and then to glare at the camera.
Molly- Does the camera have to be on for this?
Miller- The making of the film and the film itself will overlap and become one.
Molly- It’s self-indulgence. It’s bullshit.
Miller- Maybe. But I think the making of the film might ultimately be more interesting than the film itself. And more frightening.
Jude- What’s with this scene between me and Poe?
Miller- Which scene?
Jude- This sex scene on page 36. It says here that I make his nose bleed without touching him.
M i l l e r -
Yeah. I’m thinking you have telekinetic powers, or something. I haven’t sorted that out, yet.
Molly- What sex scene?
Jude- Don’t tell me you’re jealous.
Enter Poe, holding the gun. He looks at Molly, then down at the child’s footprints. He bends to touch the paint and his finger comes away red. He shakes his head, disgusted. He kicks the glass coffee table sideways with his boot. The loose pages of script fly into the air. Poe points the gun at Miller.
Miller- Improv. I love it.
Poe- This is going to hurt, I’m afraid.
Miller- Please…you must be joking.
Poe- Where is the boy?
Miller- The boy?
Poe- Don’t do that. Don’t fucking echo me.
Miller- The script does mention a boy. But I haven’t decided what to do with him. Child actors can be such a nightmare.
Poe- I saw Jude bring the boy in here.
Jude- He’s imagining things.
Molly- What about these footprints?
Poe stares directly at the camera again.
Miller- I wish you wouldn’t do that. I hate it when actors address the camera.
Poe- What are you afraid of?
Miller doesn’t answer and without warning, Poe swings around and fires the gun at him. The shot is loud, deafening. Everyone jumps.
Miller- Missed. He missed me, by god.
Poe- I missed on purpose. For effect.
Molly- What about these footprints?
Jude- I can’t stand the smell of this fucking place. Did you ever notice how every family has its own terrible smell?
Pan to Molly, who stands on far side of the room, in the puddle of red paint. She has removed her cowboy boots and her feet are smeared red. Now she unbuttons her sundress as Jude reads aloud from the script.
Jude- The smell of furniture polish and dead flowers, the smell of shampoo and dirty boots. The smell of ashtrays and garlic and spilled gin.
Molly steps out of her dress and throws it aside. The dress flutters toward Poe, who catches it. His face is blank. Molly stands in red paint, wearing white underpants and bra. The camera moves closer and closer.
Jude- Every family has its own smell and if you’re not careful that smell will attach itself to you, it will sink into your skin and wipe out your own smell. It will become your smell. And ever after you will smell like a family.
Molly sits down on the chrome loveseat and buries her face in her hands. Poe goes to her. He stands over her but does not touch her.
Miller- Beautiful. Print it.
I
SIT DOWN ON THE CHROME LOVESEAT
beside Molly, who wears just a thin white bra and panties. Her feet are stained, red. I have a gun in one hand and her crumpled sundress in the other. I offer the dress to her and she takes it, holding it in both hands as if she doesn’t quite recognize it. I look around the room and Jude is at the bar, mixing drinks. Her hair falls shadowy around her face. The muscles jump in her brown arms and I can see that she’s glowing.
Jude loves this shit.
Miller is bent over the coffee table, making notes on the script. I look over his shoulder and my eye catches on a random line of dialogue, attributed to me: Who is the shadow that walks beside you? It sounds like something I might say when drunk. It seems like this should disturb me but I don’t much care. Daphne has opened a window and now sits on the ledge, smoking a joint.
Will somebody please tell me what’s happening?
Miller peers at me, confused. Jude brings me a margarita on the rocks.
I would like some of that weed, says Molly.
You might want to get dressed, says Jude.
Oh, says Molly. You’re right.
When did you change the furniture? I say.
Molly touches my thigh. While we were out, this morning.
Do you like it? says Miller. I think it makes for a nice set.
Molly gets up and pulls her dress over her head and buttons it slowly, her bra and panties exposed in flashes. The monologue, I think. She got a charge out of Jude’s psycho monologue. Molly reaches back and pulls her ponytail apart, shakes her hair as if wet. She glides across the room and takes the joint from Daphne. They whisper to each other briefly, like two thieves. Daphne yawns and stretches lazily and announces that she wants to take a dinner break.
Okay, says Miller. But don’t be long. We’ll be shooting tonight.
Daphne nods. Do you mind if I take one of the cars?
Take the Mustang, says Molly. The keys are in the kitchen.
Daphne exits, pausing to pluck a dead yellow flower from a vase.
I take it you know her, I say.
Molly nods. Daphne goes to school with me.
I can’t trust you, can I?
Why do you say that?
Did you fake that seizure today?
No, she says. No.
Please, I say. Button your fucking dress.
Molly looks at me, hurt.
I’m sorry. I’m an asshole, I say.
This is breaking my heart, says Jude.
You love this, I say. Don’t you.
What do you mean?
I mean you’re a compulsive liar.
Everybody shut the fuck up, says Miller. We need to talk.
The whine of a power saw from downstairs.
Hammering, grinding. I wonder what the hell Huck and Jeremy are up to. Molly comes over and hands me the joint. I take a long, grateful drag. I stare at Jude, who lounges on the edge of the couch, stroking herself like she wants to fuck somebody.
The boy, I say. I want to know about the boy.
You’re wondering how he will fare in the film, says Miller.
Exactly.
The fundamentals of
The Velvet
are simple, he says. One of us in this room will die. That has not changed. But relationships can be tedious, I think. This is not a comedy, after all. It’s a postmodern horror. And so now we are making a film about four people who have kidnapped a small boy to finance an independent film about four people who have kidnapped a small boy. Or something like that. The boy will be the focal point of the conflict between these four characters. The sexual relationships will be secondary.
You like to throw that word around, I say. Postmodern. You realize it doesn’t mean anything?
Miller shrugs. I like the way it sounds.
Where is the boy?
Upstairs, says Jude. Downstairs. In a secret room.
Did you know about this? I say to Molly.
No, she says. Of course not.
I want to see him.
Jude shrugs. And if I say no?
Don’t fuck with me, Jude.
She lays one hand flat on her stomach and thrusts her hips once, twice. But it’s so much fun, she says.
I know this is a bad idea but I walk toward her, my hands out wide to show her that I am unarmed. I shuffle my feet, as if I want to dance with her. Jude raises her arms over her head and pumps her hips faster now, fucking the air. I am a terrible dancer but I’m not shy and I drift close to her, shaking my ass like a fool. I close my eyes for a moment and I see her in a Mexico City motel room, an electric bone saw dripping blood in one hand and a pint of vodka in the other. Her raincoat is covered in blood and she sways back and forth, slowly grinding her pelvis against mine. I look down and her boots are slick with blood, she’s dancing in blood and now I open my eyes and throw my right fist at Jude’s head, a short compact swing that should knock her flat on her ass but she vanishes, she ducks under my fist and when she rematerializes she is to my left and slightly behind me and she hits me with a jab in the side of the throat, then casually sweeps my feet out from under me. I go down like a sack of fertilizer and now Jude is squatting on my chest with a scowl on her face. I am having difficulty breathing and I will be eating nothing but ice cream for a while. I take shallow, gasping breaths, my hands at my throat and I have a feeling she pulled that punch, that she could have crushed my fucking esophagus, that she could have killed me if only she wanted to.
Wow, says Miller. I wish we’d got that on tape.
Are you okay? says Jude.
I see a dark and thorny bramble of emotions in her face. Worried that she has really hurt me, scared but angry as well. Jude bends to kiss me softly on the side of the mouth and I know she loves me, she hates me.
Don’t speak, she says. It’s going to hurt for a while.
Get away from him.
This comes from Molly, who stands a few feet away, a baseball bat in her hands. She has a nice, relaxed grip on it and I believe she knows
how to use it. But she doesn’t know Jude very well.