INT. BUS. DAY.
ADAM, a young man, is on a bus. Sweat is protruding from his face. A greasy fat lady is sitting next to him. A child is crying. A woman is breast feeding a man. A Mexican man, wearing a poncho and sombrero, is playing a guitar. Adam bleeds from his mouth. His teeth are falling out. The fat lady beside him is laughing, pointing her fat fingers into his face. The Mexican is playing a Mexican tune, singing a song in Greek. The breast feeding woman is now shoving her titty into Adam’s face, screaming “Drink up, Junior!”. He is trying to resist. The fat woman and bald man are now forcing him to suck on the tit.
The bus driver stops the bus that sends every one forward. Everyone stops. The bus doors open. A woman enters. She is beautiful. She walks over to where Adam sits. His mouth still gushing blood. Sweat slids down his cheek, meshing with the blood on his chin.
She grabs his hand. They walk over to the front of the bus to get off. They are looking over an orange and red desert. Adam looks at the woman. She points to a bath tub. It’s filled with red water. Adam looks back at the woman, she is holding a box. Again she points outwards. The bath tub is gone, replaced with a chair. Adam is sitting on the chair. The woman is on his lap. A loud CLAP shocks Adam. He looks around. He stares back at the woman. Another loud CLAP. The woman disappears. CLAP. Adam is now standing in the bath tub. CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
EXT. BUS STATION. DAY.
Adam wakes up. He is sitting on a bench. A homeless man is sitting next to him, banging his dirty shoes together. Adam gets up and walks past a man getting off a bus. The man looks up towards a bill board that reads:
“Today is the day. Quit now.”
It’s a anti-smoking ad. The man pulls a cigar to his mouth and lights it up.
EXT. STOOP. DAY.
REX, a tall bearded man, with a 6 inch scar stretching from his mouth to his left eye, is sitting outside a building. Kids are playing stick ball in the middle of the street.
JOHN, a Police officer, dressed in his uniform, walks down the street form the corner, a duffel bag in hand. John walks around Rex, and takes a few steps. Rex coughs. John looks back. Rex does not look at John. John walks into the building; leaving Rex alone with the game.
INT. BEDROOM. MIDDAY.
John lies in a bed. Next to John is MARCUS; a fit man reading a book. Marcus looks displeased. John is smoking a cigarette; his eyes fixed on a box across the room. John puts out the cigarette in an ash tray on the night stand.
John ignores him. He gets up to put his boots on.
Could you make me some eggs?
John looks over his shoulder, then back to the box. John finishes putting on his boots. He walks over to the dresser, his fingers gently swipe the box. He picks up his pistol and places it into his holster.
There’s jut something about another mans cooking…
Marcus ignores John.
I could repay you?
Marcus places his book down. His eyes set on John.
How about you make me some eggs and afterwards… I suck you clean?
Marcus licks his lips, gets up and walks over towards the bedroom door. John quickly grabs a hold of the box. Marcus turns just as John looks back at Marcus. John quickly places the box behind him.
Marcus leaves. John places the box in his duffel bag.
EXT. STOOP. MIDDAY.
John walks out the front door. His duffel bag sling-ed over his shoulder. Rex still sitting on the stoop. The children have all disappeared. John walks down the stairs past Rex. Neither men acknowledge the other. John vanishes around the corner. Rex gets up and makes his way to the front door. He stops at the top step. He pulls out a cigar, lights it and enters the building.
INT. DINER. AFTERNOON.
John is eating a plate of eggs. Adam sits across from him looking worried.
Where is it?
Yes. It. Is it here?
Here? Like right here?
Yes, here, like right here, with you.
John reaches in his bag for the box and passes it to Adam.
Is this? -
- it? No.
Where is it then?
I like salt on mine?
Adam opens the box.
INT. KITCHEN. NIGHT.
The lights are all off except for a few lit candles and a spot light. Marcus is sitting on a chair, his hands and feet tied with chicken wire. A ball gag in his mouth. Marcus is sweating. His breathing is heavy. Rex sits on a chair. Smoking his cigar. Rain drops on the kitchen window. Thunder booms, followed by lightning.
Rex stands up and walks behind Marcus. Rex bends over, his head inches away from Marcus. Rex takes a deep sniff of Marcus. Postures back upright, takes his cigar and touches Marcus on the back of his neck with the lit end. Marcus wants to yell but cant. Rex stops. This time he burns the left ear of Marcus.
Rex moves into Marcus’ view. Rex burns him again, this time on his bottom lip. Marcus shakes his head. Trying to avoid the pain. Rex looks over to the cabinets. He sees a pair of scissors lying on the counter. He walks over to the scissors. Rex stands in-front of Marcus. Rex looks at Marcus’ hand. Rex hunches over, grabs Marcus’ pinky and cuts it off. Blood gushes out. Marcus cries a muffled yell. Rex examines the severed pinky. He throws it to the ground.
INT. BATHROOM. DAY.
Marcus sits in the tub. The curtains cover his body. Rex is bent over, a saw in hand, he goes to work on the legs first. Then the arms. Then the head. Water washes the blood down the drain. He places the limbs, head, and torso into trash bags. Rex sits on the toilet. He reaches in his pocket for a cigar and tape recorder. With tape recorder in hand, the cigar placed between his lips, he begins to talk.
There are two kinds of people in this world: the kind that commit murder and the kind that die. And then there’s me. I’m different you see; I don’t murder, I don’t die - I just do. It’s not a hard concept to grasp, it’s not a complex riddle or some fucking mystery… I just do. That’s what this place really needs; more people like me or maybe just more people who aren’t afraid to just do. Ridding this planet of the weak is my job. The ones who wake up every morning, drinking their lattes, eating their croissants, talking about Bobs new tie and Carla’s new skirt - fuck that bitches skirt, fuck Bob’s tie, fuck the coffee, fuck the pastries, fuck it all! It’s just a waste of time. People don’t live; they’re too worried about their next check and their car payments. But they don’t worry anymore when my knife is in their gut. I hear their cries. Their pleads for mercy. Their sobbing. The way they look with their tears mingling with their blood… That’s why I wake up every morning. Yes sir, there are two kinds of people in this world and I’m not either of them.
INT. LIVINGROOM. DAY.
Rex is sitting on the couch, trash bags placed next to the front door; drinking a cup of tea and smoking a cigar.
Juno trailer I did earlier this semester. I think it’s pretty good. Do you?
INT. BUS. DAY.
ADAM, a young man, is sitting on a bus. He is headed from New York City to Philadelphia. Sweat is protruding from his face. A fat older lady is sitting next to him. Her armpits are greasy. Her shirt has orange stains covering the entire upper half. A child is crying in the back. Next to her is a woman. She is breast feeding a bald man. A Mexican man, wearing a poncho and sombrero, is playing a guitar near the front of the bus. Adam, who’s looking crazily around, his eyes bouncing from one passenger to the next, starts to bleed from his mouth. His teeth begin to loosen. He starts pulling them out. One by one . Blood gushes from his mouth. He starts to cry. The fat lady beside him is laughing, pointing her fat fingers into his face. The Mexican man has made his way towards their seats. he is playing a Mexican tune, singing a song in Greek. The breast feeding woman, who is now sitting on Adams lap, is shoving her titty into his face, screaming at him “Drink up, Junior!”. He is trying to resist. The fat woman and bald man are now forcing him to suck on the tit by shoving his face onto it.
The bus driver stops the bus with a great force that sends every one forward violently. Everyone stops what they are doing. Their attention, all except Adams, is focused towards the front of the bus. Adam tries to rid them of the hands that hold him tight, but they are just too strong. They won’t let go. The front of the doors open. A woman enters. She is beyond beautiful. She is beyond words. The passengers all stand up, except for Adam, they clear her a path. She walks over to where Adam sits. His mouth still gushing blood. His pupils grow. His jaw drops. A tear slides down his cheek, meshing with the blood on his chin.
The woman does not speak. She grabs his hand and pulls him up. They walk over to the front of the bus to get off. Adam and the woman are outside, looking over an orange and red desert. Adam looks at the woman. She points to a bath tub that wasn’t there before. The tub is filled with red water; A deep, dark red. Adam looks back at the woman, she kisses him on the lips. His teeth are back in his mouth. The blood is no longer on his chin. Adam looks down at her hand, she is holding a box. Again she points outwards. The bath tub is gone. Replaced with a chair. Adam is sitting on the chair. The woman is on his lap. She is caressing his face. A loud CLAP shocks Adam. He looks around. Nothing is there. He stares back at the woman. Her eyes are bleeding. Another loud CLAP. This one louder than before. The woman disappears. Another loud CLAP. Adam is now standing in a bath tub, filled with deep, dark red water. CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
EXT. BUS STATION. DAY.
Adam wakes up. He is sitting on a bench outside the Grey Hound bus station in Philadelphia. A homeless man is sitting next to him, banging his dirty shoes together. Adam gets up and walks away.
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INT. STUDIO APARTMENT. DAY.
A window is open. Wind is blowing past the curtains. Light cascades over the window sill. A turtle bobs its head out of its tank. A Koo-Koo clock is on the wall next to a door (it reads 12:38). Clothes are thrown all around the apartment. The refrigerator hums. The T.V. is set to static. A pot of water boils on the stove. A cup is placed on the marble counter-top. An empty bookshelf is in a corner; Its shelves are dusty. A young beautiful woman, JOHANNA, with long jet black hair, sits cross legged on the sofa. She is staring intently at the T.V. with an annoyed look upon her face. A remote in hand.
Johanna walks over to the stove. She pours the water into empty cup. She searches the cupboard for a tea-bag. A vehicle is heard stopping outside the window. Johanna goes to check it out. She sees a van labeled “FRESH DELIVERIES”in bright blue bold lettering. Johanna puts the found tea-bag into her cup and sits back on the sofa. Steam blows away from the cup.
Johanna’s phone vibrates. Johanna leans over the side of her sofa to see who is trying to contact her. A message appears on the front screen: STICKS: Hey. Johanna forces a laugh from her nose. Her head turns back to the T.V. She picks up the remote and starts pushing buttons; trying to flip through channels but all that appears are snow flakes disguised as static.
There is a knock at the door.
Who is it?
There is no answer. Johanna gets up, she walks towards the door. She is a few inches away.
Who is it?
Still nothing. She gets to the door and places her face upon it, her left eye peaking through the peep hole. A hiss travels through her head. Johanna falls backward. Her head hits the ground. Blood leaks from her skull. A key opens the door. In walks Rex; A cigar in his mouth. He shuts the door behind him.
Rex sits down on the couch. Johanna’s body lays motionless on the floor, the hardwood floor stained with blood, fragments of her skull and brain scattered across the room. Rex takes a few puffs from his cigar. He takes a sip of the fresh tea on the end table. He sees Johanna’s phone, the message still lights up the screen. Rex looks intrigued, he opens the phone and reads the messages. Rex looks at Johanna, still dead, still bleeding, he gets the contact information out the phone.
INT. BATHROOM. DAY.
Johanna sits in the tub. The curtains cover her body. Rex is bent over, a saw in hand, he goes to work on the legs first. Then the arms. Then the head. The water is running, washing the blood down the drain. He places the limbs, then head, and finally the torso into trash bags.
INT. STUDIO APARTMENT. DAY.
Rex is sitting on the couch, the trash bags placed next to the front door. He is watching static. Smoking his cigar.
INT. BATHROOM. DAY.
Rex sits on a toilet. A tape recorder in hand, hovering near his lips, a cigar in his mouth.
There are two kinds of people in this world: the kind that commit murder and the kind that die. And then there’s me. I’m - different, you see, I don’t murder, I don’t die, I just do. It’s not a hard concept to grasp, it’s not a fucking riddle or some fucking mystery… I just do. That’s what this place really needs; more people like me or maybe just more people who aren’t afraid to just do what it is that needs to be done. Rid this disgusting planet of its weak and pathetic beings. The ones who wake up every goddamn morning, drinking their lattes, eating their croissants, talking about Bobs new tie and Carla’s new lipstick - fuck that bitch and her new lipstick, fuck Bob and his tie, fuck the coffee, fuck the pastries, fuck it all. It’s all just a waste of time. They never just live; spending too much time worrying about dying and that scares them… trust me, I know. I hear their cries, their pleads for mercy, their sob-ass-begging, the way they look with their tears mingling with their blood… That’s why I wake up every morning. Yes sir, there are two kinds of people in this world and I’m not either of them.
INT. ROOM. DAY.
KYLE, a scruffy looking man, sits in chair. Rolling a cigarette; his hands shake.
It had already happen. You open a port-o-potty and someone fucking shot themselves in the fucking head. (Pause) (laughing)And that was it - that was it… we just opened a fucking - it was someone opened a fucking port-o-john and someone committed suicide in that bitch… And they were just sitting there like “Ugghhhh” - all fucked up… and shit. And then you know, they had to get the Ugandin fucking umm (slight pause), military; they were guarding the base at the time. And they called up our people and we cleared that shit the fuck out. Probably cleaned that shit and everyone kept taking their shits. I don’t know who it was, like it was a some-fucking-body, some military person fucking shot themselves; killed them-self. Somebody fucking “KAPOWED!” and I was like ‘damn man I’m trying to take a shit and now I have to throw up’. I think it was an Army guy or something - might have been a Navy guy actually… it’s kind of blurry. But I remember they cleared that mother fucker out of there.
When I get home I’m gonna post some excerpts from my screen play; one that I’ve been working on since the 2nd half of this semester. They should be good. One of them, the scene of the excerpt, is from a real event.
Confessions is a public art project that invites people to anonymously share their confessions and see the confessions of the people around them in the heart of the Las Vegas strip.