Loosely based on the real-life Wonderland Killings of 1981 in Los Angeles, California
Breathe it in…the crisp night air after the monsoon, as the clouds are still escaping to the east across dark sky, devoid of stars, the date palms drift and bend in a mechanized flow in the breeze and the crickets siren low from an invisible plain.
The buzzing of an electric doorbell. Stop, BZZZZ, stop, BZZZZ. WESKER stands in front of a gated door of a one-floor house in a poor Miami neighborhood. He is ragged, dirty looking, worn out and depraved. Patrick speaks from behind the door. The curtain is closed behind the door.
PATRICK: Who is it?
WESKER, drained: …It’s Wesker…Can I come in, man?
PATRICK: I told you you can’t come around here no more, you gotta go.
PATRICK: David doesn’t want to see you, man. We’re filming.
WESKER: You gotta let me---
PATRICK: Nah, nah, I don’t gotta let you do shit, man.
WESKER: I’ll be outta here, if I just speak to David---
PATRICK: Go away, Wesker---
WESKER: Two minutes. Just two minutes. Please, please. David, two minutes.
WESKER: Just two minutes. I need, I need help, Patrick. Just speak with him for two minutes, just open the door, man.
PATRICK: Let me see…
Patrick leaves. TOM and JEREMY appear from off stage, both in masks. They both carry pistols. Tom also has a knife sheathed at his hip.
TOM: He’ll open the door.
TOM: Wesker. I don’t want you flaking out on me.
WESKER: I’m not going to flake out.
TOM: Is David your friend?
WESKER: Of course not, man---
TOM: Is Billy?
WESKER: No. None of them.
TOM: Not anymore.
WESKER: No. They’re dead.
WESKER: He’s dead.
TOM: Name them.
TOM: Everyone in the house, name them. I want you to tell me all those people are dead.
WESKER: Patrick, Billy, David. They’re all…they’re nothing, shit.
TOM: Say it, say they’re dead.
WESKER: They’re dead, man.
PATRICK: He said he’ll talk, give you some food or money or whatever. But then he wants you gone.
WESKER: Great, great, thank you.
PATRICK: But he wanted me to tell you no blow.
WESKER: I’m not here for blow.
Just as Patrick begins opening the door, Tom and Jeremy rush in and charge through, knocking Patrick backwards into the main room. Wesker hesitates, then:
TOM, from inside: WESKER!
Wesker slowly enters the house.
Two police officers, CORTEZ and RORY, enter from off stage. Cortez wears a backpack. They approach and stop outside the door.
RORY: 415 Bailey.
RORY: Doesn’t look so bad from out here.
Cortez drops to one knee, unslings his backpack and unzips it. He rummages around, then takes out a video camera, then starts checking it for the right settings.
CORTEZ, absently: Wouldn’t know, would you?
RORY: No. Nobody messed around in there, right?
CORTEZ: Except for them?
RORY: Them, no, yeah, not them, our guys.
CORTEZ: Not that I know. We’re the ones who mess around.
RORY: How many kids you seen biking up the street?
RORY: Back there, going up that street, Maple Hill.
CORTEZ: I was watching the road. Why?
RORY: Just a lot of kids biking.
RORY: And now we’re here.
CORTEZ: Yeah, so?
RORY: Like little kids who live nearby. And this is a house like any other. Nobody knows anyone in this neighborhood. So who knows?
CORTEZ: Nobody called.
RORY: And now we’re here.
CORTEZ: Does this bother you?
RORY: Shouldn’t it?
Cortez shrugs and looks around.
RORY: There were a lot of people walking.
CORTEZ: They tend to do that.
RORY: But do they know?
CORTEZ: I don’t know. There was no call. Maybe. Fuck it.
RORY, repeating, hollow: Fuck it. Fuck, fuck it. Fuck me, fuck this city.
CORTEZ: Maybe we should go in now, mess around. Might clear your head.
RORY: Yeah. Fuck it.
Both men take out latex gloves from little pouches on their belts and put them on. Cortez opens the door, leading the way inside. The door is pulled back and swallowed by the curtain.
Curtain opens up: a table, an overhead light, a trash can on the floor, a camera on a tripod. On one side of the table sits CHERELINE, a 19-year-old girl-next-door type, horribly beaten, shaking underneath her skin. She stares blankly at the table.
From off stage walks PALMER, a Dade County Detective. Chereline watches him approach.
He sits down. He speaks with a careful distance.
PALMER: Can you tell me your name?
CHERELINE, trying to speak: Che…Chere…lin, Chereline.
PALMER: Chereline Myers.
CHERELINE: Uh huh.
PALMER: I am Detective Palmer. This session is being recorded. Can you state for the record your age?
PALMER: Nineteen. Place of birth?
CHERELINE: Springfield, Missouri.
PALMER: Are your parents in Springfield?
CHERELINE: Uh huh.
PALMER: Do they know that you’re in Miami?
PALMER: Can you state what you are doing in Miami?
PALMER: For the record.
CHERELINE: I feel really sick.
PALMER: Do you need to throw up?
CHERELINE: No. But I’m really sick, I don’t how long I can sit in here.
PALMER: We’re just talking.
CHERELINE: I want to go home.
PALMER: To Missouri?
PALMER: Can you tell me what you are doing here in Miami?
CHERELINE: I saw…saw a Craigslist ad…by that guy---
PALMER: David Hutch.
CHERELINE: ---and it said free trip to Miami cash now and I was like like okay that’s what I need to do I need to be in Miami I don’t I don’t know---
PALMER: Was this ad written by David Hutch?
CHERELINE: ---I sent David Hutch pictures of myself I just wanted to get out of my house oh God---
PALMER: What is it?
CHERELINE: I just wanted to go far away and I’m really sick, and I hurt all over.
PALMER: Do you want medical attention?
CHERELINE: I want to go home!
PALMER: David Hutch provided the flight?
CHERELINE: He emailed me a ticket…
PALMER: And provided you lodging.
PALMER: A home. A place to stay.
CHERELINE: Uh huh. Yeah, I stayed at his house.
PALMER: 415 Bailey Street.
CHERELINE: Uh huh.
PALMER: How long have you been staying in that house?
CHERELINE: Four days…I got here four days ago.
PALMER: What have you been doing in Miami since you arrived off the plane?
CHERELINE: I’m going to throw up.
PALMER: There’s the trash can.
CHERELINE: I want to go home.
PALMER: We’re almost done.
CHERELINE: Please, I can’t think…I feel like I’m dying, like there’s something inside me.
PALMER: We can call EMT---
CHERELINE: No, you don’t understand.
She weeps. Palmer just waits.
PALMER, patiently: What have you been doing in Miami?
CHERELINE, hesitating: Shooting pornos.
PALMER: In David Hutch’s home.
CHERELINE: Uh huh.
PALMER: Were you in David Hutch’s home two nights ago?
CHERELINE: Look at me.
PALMER: Just for the video tape.
PALMER: You were there in the main room, shooting a porno.
CHERELINE, bursting up again: Yes!
PALMER: Can you tell me what happened that night, while you were in David Hutch’s house?
Hesitation. Chereline continues to well up.
CHERELINE: Don’t you already know?
PALMER: We just need it for the video tape.
Chereline’s pain finally reaches the surface again, and she starts balling. Palmer continues to sit there, emotionless.
Curtains close, the open again.
An empty house. A refrigerator, small table with some chairs, staircase, closet, front door at stage right. It is dark there.
Wesker opens the front door and flips the light switch. In the new glow, we can see that Wesker’s clothes are drenched in blood.
He walks forward, looking all over the place. Part of him is still frantic, but another part is calm, sensing this place as a safe haven. A relieving feeling of letting go.
Still, he walks toward one of the chairs at the table, grabs the spine with both hands and leans in with his head down.
WESKER, muttering, barely audible, shaking his head: It was an accident it was a…a fucking accident…it was just accident…just an accident…just accident…
He lets go and raises his head, looking around again. Then he heads to the closet, opens it, searches wildly.
WESKER, repeating in a daze, louder: Just an accident, just an accident…fuck, fuck…it was…just an…accident…
Sally appears behind the refrigerator, taking cover with a knife. She peaks her head out, sees Wesker, and comes out from behind the refrigerator. She speaks calmly:
Wesker stops searching and looks at her. The silence thickens. Wesker is having trouble finding words, seeing the knife.
SALLY: I saw you in the surveillance. Skulking around outside.
Wesker takes a step forward---she raises the knife.
SALLY: No. I like you right there.
SALLY: So what’ve you been up to the past (with emphasis) few years? You had yourself an accident.
WESKER: Sally, I need, just, please, just put---
SALLY: Am I supposed to open my arms in loving embrace now? Was there some kind of redemption I don’t know about?
WESKER: It was an accident---
SALLY: That’s what you’ve been saying. It was just an accident. What are you looking through the closet for? All your clothes are gone, have been gone. I wiped your existence.
His body shifts and she raises the knife again.
WESKER: I…it was an accident, I’m sorry…I need…need you to help me…I messed up---
SALLY: I can see that---
WESKER: It was an accident, I messed up…
SALLY: Where did all that blood come from?
Right then, Wesker’s legs buckle, and he drops heavily to the floor and pukes into a trash can.
WESKER: I don’t…I don’t feel well, Sally…I need your help…please help me, Sally.
SALLY, still sternly, unwavering: Is that your blood?
WESKER: I don’t know.
SALLY: You don’t know if all that is yours.
WESKER: I don’t know, I feel sick.
SALLY: That isn’t your blood.
SALLY: Whose is it then?
SALLY: What happened to him?
WESKER: Oh, Jesus…Jesus…
SALLY: Tell me what happened to him.
WESKER: He’s dead.
SALLY: You killed him.
WESKER: I killed him.
WESKER: I-I-I, they wanted what was in the safe, he had a safe under the bed, they wanted…I told them…them no, I said no---
SALLY: You killed David.
WESKER: They wanted the cash, and the dope, I had no choice, Tom was going to kill me.
SALLY: Tom would have.
WESKER: Please, help me---
SALLY: But you killed David.
WESKER: It was an accident, I had no choice---
SALLY: It wasn’t an accident, you killed him---
WESKER: Sally, please---
SALLY: So don’t call it an accident. Stop telling me that it was an accident.
WESKER: Why are you saying this?
SALLY: And now you’re in my house? Now you’re asking me for help?
WESKER: I don’t know what to do---
SALLY: Shut up! You killed David. You said it, I didn’t. This was you. No, stay right there where I can see you.
Wesker uses the wall behind him to slither to his feet.
SALLY: Don’t…don’t. You know what this is? Listen to me. Do you know what this is? This is karma, this is history catching up with you.
WESKER: Sally, they’ll find me!
SALLY: Who will?
WESKER: God…God, the police, David’s guys---
SALLY: Good! Why don’t we expedite the process?
WESKER: No, please---
SALLY: Why not? Why should I be helping you? After everything…after what you made me do, what you did to me---
WESKER: I messed up---
SALLY: You messed up. You messed up…
WESKER: I’m sorry.
SALLY: For what? For hoaring me up and down Coconut Grove? For tricking me to leave home, for keeping me from my parents?
WESKER: It wasn’t a trick---
SALLY: For beating me, for burning me with steam and water, for, for taking everything away from me?---
WESKER: I don’t---
SALLY: ---You want me to help you?
WESKER: Why are you saying all this?
SALLY: You killed someone.
WESKER: I need---
SALLY: Don’t say it. You’re talking in circles now. You know, I’m sort of pleasantly surprised by all this. You think some old flame would rekindle inside me? You think seeing you again would be enough? No.
Wesker leans forward and starts bucking, heaving, with something about to give.
SALLY: Go ahead. Puke. Fucking do it, I hope you die from it.
Wesker starts lumbering forward---
SALLY: Don’t fucking get near me---
---and grabs Sally by the shoulders, wrestling with her, causing her to drop the knife.
SALLY: Let go---
WESKER: No, no, please, I know I was a terrible, I-I was bad, I know I did some…some…Some horrible things. And I’m sorry. But you have to help me, or else they’ll find me. Please…please, (screaming now) can you just fucking help me!?
Sally breaks away and grabs a little pocket pistol from behind the toaster on the counter. She aims it straight in front, arms locked, obviously uncomfortable holding the gun, but still:
SALLY: Get out.
WESKER: I’m dead---
SALLY: You’re insane, get out. Get out, get out! I’m gonna call the cops. You better get out.
WESKER: …This is on you.
SALLY: Nothing’s on me. Get out of my house. Piece of shit, fucking bastard! I hate you! I fucking hate you, get out of my home!
WESKER: You killed me, Sally.
SALLY: Good, fuck you!
Wesker exits the house. Sally falls into a chair and tiredly sets the gun on the table. She puts her head in her hands and pulls at her hair.
Curtains close. Open.
Front door at stage left. Pictures of Ocean Drive at dusk, Scarface, a piece of abstract art vaguely outlining the continent of South America hang on the back wall. A gilded cross sits on a shelf. A cheap couch at center, a coffee table in front of it. A few plants here and there. Slightly right, a door leading to a bedroom. Far right, a bed, lighting equipment, a couple of cameras pointed at the bed.
David sits on one of the armrests of the couch, watching intently at what plays out before him: TRACY, young, shirtless (though bra still on), sits on top of BILLY, young as well, he too with his shirt off, stroking his chest. Patrick holds a boom mic well over them. Tom and Jeremy just watch from the sidelines. Even though the two on the bed are half-undressed, and that everyone else in the house sports douchey urban clothing---gold chains, flat brimmed hats with the “Miami Heat” logo, shirts that say “Obey”, “Tapout” and the band “Pantara”---there’s an air of professionalism and concentration that permeates the crew.
The actors in the bed replicate David’s directing in slow motion:
DAVID, carefully: Tracy, bra…four…three…two…one…drop right…Billy, slowly unzip…slowly…slowly…four…three…two…one…good. Cut. Stay in position.
Patrick takes a different position, still holding the boom mic. David stands and walks closer to the bed.
DAVID: How you kids doing?
DAVID: Either of you need water?
TRACY: We just started.
DAVID: Next take should be a long one, so if you want some, you should have it now.
BILLY/TRACY: No/No thanks.
DAVID: Alright. (to Jeremy) Hey, can you change the lenses for me? I want it to be eighty-five.
JEREMY, already approaching the camera: …(nods)...
David goes back to the couch. He takes a THC pipe from his pocket and sucks in with his eyes closed. Tom gets close to him.
TOM, half-jokingly: This is a new direction for you. You might just get your nomination yet. It’s almost not smut.
DAVID: Please, I’m withering on the vine here.
TOM: I mean that in jest.
DAVID: Sure. Is it hot in here?
TOM: It’s always hot in Miami, brother.
DAVID: That’s sort of a cop out. We’re by the Gulf, we’re supposed to get ocean weather like The Valley. But the only place where we don’t need to use condoms is at the Tropic of Cancer.
TOM: It’s not so bad.
DAVID: I know, it’s…I’m just bitching.
TOM, after a pause, motioning to the table: Mind if I take a hit?
DAVID, absently: Sure.
Tom takes a spot on the couch and snorts a line through a straw. He quickly shoots his head back, wide-eyed, clapping, rubbing his hands together, snapping his fingers and cracking his joints.
TOM: It’s good, that’s some good…
DAVID: Don’t go sucking it all down, Tom.
TOM: Hey, I’m done performing today, man. But yeah, just a bump.
Jeremy snaps his fingers and nods: “We’re ready.”
DAVID: Couple minutes.
He sucks in again on his THC pipe.
Tom stretches out and lies down on the couch, putting his feet up. David notices and kicks his feet off.
DAVID: This is not David’s clubhouse, alright, feet off.
TOM, sitting up: Hey, I’m white, I come in peace.
A KNOCK on the door. Patrick sets down the boom mic and answers it. In walks Wesker, well-dressed, stoic in his presence.
PATRICK, in greeting: What’s good.
WESKER: It’s good, it’s good.
David just peers at him. Tom gives Wesker a peace sign with his fingers. Patrick goes back to the boom mic. Tracy brightens up as he walks in.
TRACY, almost like a child: Hey, Wes!
DAVID: Wesker…you’re not on today.
WESKER: I know. Just wanted to get out of the house.
DAVID: Sally called earlier. Thought you might be here.
WESKER: Yeah, that’s why I left.
DAVID: Everything good?
WESKER: Good? Yeah, it’s good. Good as good gets, right?
DAVID: Sure, Wes.
Wesker takes a look at Tom.
DAVID, tired: Wes, I’d like to cordially introduce you to young blood, Tom.
TOM: Now I’ve heard of you, man. Big, big fan. (holding his hand out for a shake) Local talent, Libertarian atheist secular humanist.
WESKER: Cool, cool. (to David) So what’s the plan, man?
DAVID: Well, Tom’s chilling to some Colombian vibes; I’m taking a little road trip to Colorado right here; and we’re trying to make some avant-garde, art house work. Real French.
WESKER: So like…what?
DAVID: I don’t know, middle aged women in Iowa like it. Total dream boat erotica. Slow and boring. Very gentle.
WESKER: That’s a new word for you.
DAVID: It’s a new era every day, Wes.
TOM, to Wesker: Wanna bump?
DAVID: Nah, man, that stuff does some funny things to you.
TRACY: Actually, can I have that water?
Jeremy exits into the bedroom for a moment, then about half a minute later comes out with a water bottle and gives it to Tracy.
DAVID: Hey kids, we’re actually gonna take a ten, alright? You can relax. Washup, whatever.
TRACY, hesitating leaving her position: Why, what’s the matter?
DAVID: It’s not working in here, I gotta get my head on straight. Tom, please, just go home, all non-essentials---
TOM: ---off the, okay, fine, David, fine.
WESKER: Anything I can do?
DAVID: No. You need to go too. Jeremy, you can head out too, I got the camera.
WESKER: You good?
DAVID: Yeah, good as good gets, right?
Tracy and Billy have since exited to the bedroom to wash themselves.
TOM, standing up: Don’t worry about him, man. His Catholicism’s just acting up. (leading Wesker out, with Jeremy following behind) Here, I want to show an old dog a new trick. You ever drive a mustang?
Tom, Wesker and Jeremy exit. The only two people in the room now are David and Patrick, who has set the boom mic down and stands idly.
David takes a seat at the couch and does a line of his own. He takes the hit with very little reaction, just staring out to the audience, almost in accusation. Then he stands up and knocks on the bedroom door.
DAVID, through the door: Billy, Chereline---shooting in two.
CHERELINE, through the door: Coming, coming!
The door opens: standing there is Chereline, all dolled up, fake looking in the makeup and fish nets she wears. Right off the bat, she seems stiff, nervous.
CHERELINE: Is it good?
DAVID: Yeah, it’s good, kid…Where’s Billy?
BILLY, calling: I’m shaving my pubes!
DAVID: Well can you please, Bill, shift it into fourth gear? I want this done in an hour.
BILLY, calling: Almost done!
KNOCKING at the front door.
DAVID: Patrick, can you get that?
Patrick walks to the door and exchanges silence with whoever’s outside.
CHERELINE: Do I seem, like, relaxed enough?
DAVID: Yeah, you do.
CHERELINE: ‘Cause I don’t want it to be like yesterday because I wasn’t relaxed then.
DAVID: That shoot was fine, and you’re gonna be fine in this one too.
CHERELINE: So I’m relaxed?
DAVID: Yes, you’re relaxed. Go wait on the bed.
Patrick backs a few steps away from the door, still looking at it, closing his eyes and sighing. He turns and comes up to David:
PATRICK: It’s Wesker…
DAVID, after a pause: It’s Wesker.
DAVID, mumbling, barely audible: That fucking shit---
PATRICK: He says he wants---
DAVID: More, more blow? Yeah? Yeah? He can eat shit---
PATRICK: Just said he wants to talk to you.
DAVID, now very irritated, impatient: Talk to---yeah, okay.
PATRICK: He said---
DAVID: ---About what.
PATRICK: He said he wants to talk to you for two minutes. I don’t know.
Pause. Chereline has caught on to the tension arising, and seems to retract into herself while on the bed, growing more nervous as Patrick and David continue speaking.
DAVID, through the bedroom door: Billy, get your fuckin’ ass out here right now!
BILLY, through the door: Slow your roll, bro, I’m coming!
DAVID: He knows not to be here.
PATRICK: I think he does.
DAVID: And yet---
PATRICK: I don’t know, David, he’s here now.
DAVID: To rip me off.
PATRICK: I don’t know, but he’s here.
DAVID: Is Tom out there too? Fucking rat.
PATRICK: I didn’t see anybody else.
DAVID: And Wesker---
PATRICK: He wants to---
DAVID: ---just talk---
PATRICK: Says he needs help, he looks really fucked up.
DAVID: Well he is really fucked up, so the appearance fits the man, doesn’t it.
PATRICK: I don’t know, David.
DAVID, hesitating, defying himself: Alright...alright, alright. Whatever. I’ll give the poor boy some bread, milk and cookies, fucking pocket change, but as soon he walks through that door he’s turning on his way out. He’s not getting any more from me.
PATRICK: Whatever you want.
DAVID: ...Alright...let him in…
Patrick nods and returns to the front door, continues trading silence with Wesker outside.
David slams his fist against the bedroom door, and after a few bangs, the door opens, and Billy emerges in a pair of boxer briefs.
BILLY: Yeah, me. What?
DAVID, pushing him toward the bed: Did you suddenly grow impotent? Get on the bed---
BILLY, pushed along: Jesus, fuck.
DAVID, pointing aggressively: Wait there.
CHERELINE, with a distance: Is everything alright?
DAVID: Yeah it’s...just wait there.
BILLY: Hey, what gives---
DAVID, aggravation flaring: Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear your voice, I don’t wanna hear anything about you, just shut up.
A split second of silence: Patrick just begins opening the door when he is thrown back and Tom and Jeremy rush in, weapons drawn. Chereline shrieks; Billy freezes. Patrick get to his feet, and Jeremy holds his gun on him so he doesn’t move. David just glares at Tom and Jeremy.
DAVID, relatively calm: Is that you, Tom? Hiding away under that mask? Always hiding?
TOM, calling behind him: WESKER!
DAVID: Don’t want me to see your face, Tom?
Wesker sulks into the house.
DAVID: And here he waltzes in. Tom’s bitch on a leash. Here to rip me off again.
DAVID: You want my help, huh?
TOM: Where’s the safe?
DAVID: ...Same place it’s ever been.
TOM: Know what you’re gonna do with that safe?
DAVID: What I’m gonna do with it?
TOM: Yeah, I think you know.
DAVID: Why don’t you say it out loud, Tom?
TOM, nodding toward the bedroom: You’re gonna go back there, open it up---
TOM: ---and I think you know what to do after that.
DAVID: Sure hope you’re sleep walkin’ there, ‘cause you’re living in a dream if you think I’m gonna be giving you anything.
TOM: See what I have? It’s not as farfetched as you think.
TOM: That’s right.
David regards Wesker for a moment. Cherline starts crying, leaning into Billy, who removes himself from the bed.
TOM, to Billy: Where you goin, stud? Don’t think you’re uninvolved.
BILLY: But I’m not involved.
TOM: Oh, yeah ya are.
DAVID: Shut up.
BILLY: Tell them---
DAVID: Fucking shut up.
TOM, still to Billy: Eh, muffin top---do you know the combination?
BILLY: Combination, to-to what?
TOM: The fuckin’ safe, what the hell do you think we’ve been talking about here?
BILLY: I’m-I’m gone, I’m not, like, I don’t know what’s going on here.
TOM: You’ll know soon enough.
David looks at Wesker---and smirks.
DAVID: You, Wesker...look at me...you come to me for help? You and the posse, come to rob me? You’re...wilted, you’re all dried up---
DAVID: ---You’re fuckin shit.
WESKER: David, I don’t want this---
WESKER: ---I always respected you---
DAVID: ---You’re one twisted fuck…
Wesker recedes, shutting up, almost hiding behind Tom. David turns his attention back towards Tom.
DAVID: So what? You’re gonna do what?
TOM: You want me to show you?
CHERELINE, weeping now: DAVID, WHAT’S GOING ON!?!
DAVID: Just stay there, kiddo. Tom’s a coward, he’s not gonna do anything too audacious.
TOM: That’s bold.
DAVID: You got a follow-up?
Pause. Silence lingers. Chereline tries to calm herself.
Then a huge CRACK across the stage; a flash from the end of Tom’s gun. Billy’s whole body buckles and goes limp, flaccid, falling, tumbling behind the bed, out of view of the audience. His hand gropes the surface of the mattress for some sort of grip, but his arm and hand disappear, slithering back, out of existence.
Chereline gazes behind the couch in horror. A scream fails to escape her. Her face balloons, fills with blood, eyes puffing in pre-shriek. Wesker turns away, closing his eyes. David peers behind him, then looks back at Tom.
DAVID: So that’s the path you’re going down, huh?
TOM: You’re gonna open that safe.
DAVID: That’s funny.
WESKER: He’s gonna kill you---
DAVID: I’m not listening to you. You’re just a child. You have nothing to say to me. You, the stilted mute in the corner, or you, Tom, the tough guy behind the mask.
TOM: I’m sorry you don’t take me seriously.
DAVID: Eh, don’t apologize.
TOM: It’s you that’s got it coming.
Chereline is gasping, contorting on the bed in fright. Tom shifts his head to look at her.
TOM: You poor thing.
CHERELINE: PLEASE...OH MY GOD…
TOM: Patrick---you know the combination, right?
PATRICK: ...I know it…
TOM: Let Jeremy in on what it is.
DAVID: Oh, yeah?
PATRICK: It’s not worth my skin, David. He shot Billy.
DAVID: Where’s your dignity? What the hell are you staying alive for?
PATRICK: For dignity?
DAVID: Whatever. Fucking give up.
TOM: What’s the combo, Pat?
TOM, to Jeremy: You got that?
TOM: Okay. Go ahead.
Jeremy nods again, then grips Patrick by the scruff of his shirt, and starts hammering him with the butt of his pistol. With each strike, Wesker flinches, Chereline gapes wider, and Patrick’s body goes more limp. Blood sprays, teeth shoot out of his mouth, his face caves in. Soon, Jeremy still holding onto his shirt, Patrick is brought to the ground, lifeless and cold.
Jeremy stands and looks down upon the corpse.
TOM, to David: You think I’m playing.
DAVID: I think you’re running low on cards to play.
TOM: What’s your hand lookin like?
Pause. David just stares.
TOM: Jeremy---go in the back and open the safe. Why don’t you try making our little sweet pea feel just a little more comfortable too?
Jeremy nods and points the gun at Chereline---who shrieks---and begins taking steps toward her. Wesker watches helplessly. David keeps looking at Tom.
Chereline tries kicking frantically at Jeremy, who manages to get a hold of her, and drag her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Shortly after, screams and moans can be heard.
DAVID, arms spread: And then there was one, right?
TOM: Not quite.
Tom unsheathes his knife and holds it out to Wesker, who doesn’t know what to do with it.
TOM: See this?
WESKER: What are you doing?
TOM: Take it.
WESKER: Take? Take---what? Why?
TOM: You said it yourself.
WESKER: Said what?
TOM: Patrick, Billy, David---
WESKER: Oh, c’mon, no---
TOM: You flaking?
WESKER: Don’t make me do this.
TOM: It’s out of my hands, Wes. You said the words. I bore witness to it. It’s in the air now, waiting for fruition. Do it.
DAVID, to Tom, with clear sarcasm: Since when were you so shamanistic?
TOM: We’re all a little spiritual, David. You’re about to find out.
TOM: Look at you now. You’re flaking, I knew it.
WESKER: I’m not---no...no, Jesus, Tom! I’m not doing this!
TOM: Where’s your dignity? Do you want what you do, what you say, to mean nothing? David knows. He wants to die for it. Isn’t that right?
DAVID: I’m done with you, Tom.
TOM: Take the knife.
WESKER: No...I wont.
Tom swings his aim to Wesker’s temple.
TOM: You’re going to do this.
Wesker looks at Tom, then at David.
DAVID: You’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life, Wes. You do this know, you’re sending your fate through the mail.
TOM: Bastard, take it. He’s rotten. Do it now.
Tom shoves the knife into Wesker’s grip, and guides him forward with the aim of his gun.
DAVID, to Wesker: You’re going to kill your creator? I fucking made you. I brought you here. You’d just be a kid from Ohio with a big dick if it weren’t for me. A freak. A troglodyte. Fucking pointless. Nobody gave a shit about you except for me. I saw something in you then, but I guess it’s gone now. You can’t even look at me. Craven. Weak.
TOM: Do it now.
DAVID: I’m done with you.
TOM, pressing the gun against Wesker’s head: Now, do it now.
DAVID: Are you waiting for something? I said I’m done with you.
Tom fires his gun just past Wesker’s head; Wesker lunges forward, a reflexive reaction, and begins plunging the knife into David over and over again. David falls, Wesker cries. The lights in the house flicker in a whirlwind of color---flashes, red, explosions of white, then settling on red again.
TOM, as Wesker goes to town: That’s it! Let’s go to work! Let’s get dirty, Wes! Get deep in there!
Now Wesker is leaning over the back of the couch, David dead behind it, hidden away. Tom has grown still and calm. He looks over and notices the lines of coke on the coffee table; he takes a seat and does a line, without a reaction as before, suggesting a long time of getting used to it.
Wesker makes sick noises, half hidden by the back of the couch. The moaning noises from the bedroom have stopped.
Jeremy appears from the bedroom, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Tom turns; Jeremy nods to him.
TOM, looking at the coffee table: I’m proud of you, Wes. I’ve always been a big fan. You never fail to disappoint.
WESKER, shrieking, standing up, shirt bloodied: Shit...shit, SHIT!
TOM, calmly: Don’t flake, man.
WESKER: I’m leaving...I’m leaving, I don’t want to be here anymore!
TOM: Go, then.
WESKER: Let’s get out of here.
TOM: Not yet.
TOM: I want to finish this.
Tom does another line. Jeremy just stands there, statue-like.
WESKER: What are you fucking crazy?
TOM: Are you?
WESKER: Fuck you!
TOM: Go. If you’re so concerned.
WESKER: Give me the keys.
TOM: You can wait.
WESKER: Tom, give me the keys.
TOM: We’ll be leaving shortly.
Wesker looks at Jeremy, then all around the house, frantically. He shoots to the door.
WESKER, stumbling out of the house: FUCK!
Tom and Jeremy watch him go. They exchange looks.
TOM: Is she dead?
Jeremy shakes his head.
Tom nods, takes a glance at the coke lines, then stands up.
TOM: I’d like you to introduce me to her.
Jeremy and Tom leave to the bedroom.
Rory and Cortez enter the house, which is blanketed in red.
CORTEZ: Oh my God.
RORY: This is---
CORTEZ: Like, like---
RORY: They had a bucket of blood. Just sloshed it all over the place.
CORTEZ: Painted with it.
RORY: Jesus, man.
CORTEZ: It’s what happens.
RORY: But the smell---
CORTEZ: I don’t---
RORY: ---It’s like that bug smell.
CORTEZ: ---No, I don’t smell it.
CORTEZ: No, like, it’s always there, so I don’t smell it.
RORY: That’s crazy. That bayou smell?
CORTEZ: I don’t know.
RORY: Blessed soul, I guess.
Rory and Cortez get to work at inspecting the bodies; Rory with Patrick, and Cortez with David.
CORTEZ: Guy really likes to embrace his inner Mariel. Very Caribbean Latin.
RORY: Maybe a little faggoty.
CORTEZ: Was he a fag? Like, did he---
RORY: ---Was just a thing I said.
CORTEZ: ---Did he do any of that gay shit?
RORY, vaguely: The, the porn, whatever?
RORY: I would know?
CORTEZ: I guess it doesn’t matter, no.
RORY: But I wouldn’t know.
CORTEZ: Okay, alright, guy.
RORY: ‘Cause I wouldn’t, you know…no.
CORTEZ, mimicking under his breath: ‘That porn, whatever…”
CORTEZ: The movies, the nudies---
RORY: The…no, I don’t, there something you getting (at)---
CORTEZ: Like you weren’t thirteen.
RORY: Neither the time---
CORTEZ: ---Yeah, alright, shit, yeah, we can’t like fucking talk about this?
CORTEZ: Like we’re here, aren’t we? In his house? He’s dead and we’re in his house?
CORTEZ: And I think it’s kind of okay in a lot of ways to be, while we’re here, like cleaning his, him, up, to be talking through this, about this.
RORY: I’m collecting fingerprints.
CORTEZ: But you watched his movies?
RORY: It matters? Are you trying to like---
CORTEZ: I’m not, no, trying---
RORY: ---confirm something?
CORTEZ: ---not, I’m just making talk.
RORY: I’d rather just be busy.
CORTEZ: So in silence?
RORY: Is this about the Latin furniture?
CORTEZ: You were, no, you were the one who said it.
RORY: Said what?
CORTEZ: You said faggoty.
RORY: I know, and now you’re all hung up about it.
CORTEZ: I’m looking at a bloodstain the shape and size of Alaska and I just want to talk, take the mind---
RORY: About porn?
CORTEZ: ---Something, whatever---
RORY: ---gay porn?---
CORTEZ: You’re fucked, this whole thing is fucked up.
RORY: Just get samples…fucked? How fucked? Oh-look-they’re-dead fucked? I-was-once-a-child-playing-with-legos-and-now-I’m-sampling-blood-from-a-dead-porn-producer fucked? Am I fucked, are you fucked?
RORY: Are we all fucked?
CORTEZ: Rory, I can’t just be a little tired---
RORY: “Fuck this city,” said the Miami-Dade---
CORTEZ: ---say I’m tired and leave it to rest?
RORY: Please, by all means.
Rory stands and goes to inspect Billy behind the bed.
RORY: Poor kid.
CORTEZ: Was he---
RORY: Yeah, shot.
CORTEZ: Stab wounds, serrated object.
RORY: Shot, stab wounds, and blunt trauma.
CORTEZ, standing up: Fucked, yes, yes.
The two look at each other. Rory looks at the bedroom door.
CORTEZ: C’mon. Let’s check out the back. We’ll do the video on our way out.
Rory and Cortez exit into the bedroom, leaving the house completely empty.