DISCLAIMER: Pacifists encouraged to view this as an anti-violence screed;
Humorists entitled to dispute that view; Sadists encouraged to change their
line of work.
FADE IN: "TWO GUYS & A LITTLE MAYHEM"
INT. CROWDED CITY STREET, CHICAGO -- DAY
An INSANE MAN in a ratty plaid suit topped off by crazy hair and
"MEAT IS MURDER" written across his forehead stumbles out of the
entrance to a busy downtown garage.
It is not readily apparent, but the man has rows of PLASTIC EXPLOSIVES
taped to his chest.
The bulky suit jacket opens occasionally.
A hapless garage ATTENDANT notices the man.
ATTENDANT
Excuse me sir, have you been
validated?
The Insane Man stumbles along.
INSANE MAN
Beef is murder; chicken is murder;
tuna fish?
ATTENDANT
Sir, if you're not validated,
you may be towed.
The Insane Man, who is an avid gum chewer, ignores the snippy attendant.
Oblivious to the DOZEN PASSERSBY who stare at him, the man halts his progress
for a moment, debating whether tuna fish is also murder.
INSANE MAN
Tuna is murder; veal is murder;
Stroganoff is murder; ham sandwich is
murder.
EXT. CHICAGO METRO OFFICE COMPLEX – CONTINUOUS
A high-rise office building wedged in between a camera store and a row of
apparel stores in this busy urban center. Insane man gathers a CROWD.
POV TWO WINDOW WASHERS
Twenty feet above the hubbub created by the militant vegetarian below, two
window washers, CHAD STIFFMAN, 23, and HARROLD KIPLING, 21, lower their
squeegees and take stock of the situation.
CHAD
Is that guy going to juggle
or what?
HARROLD
He doesn't look like a street
performer.
They strain to hear the man.
INSANE MAN
Every year 150,000 chickens die.
Pressed turkey. Dicing, slicing...
They watch as the insane man rips off his jacket and reveals the complicated
arrangement of highly volatile plastic explosives strapped to his chest.
CLOSE ON: EXPLOSIVES
Very impressive. Cautionary warnings are printed in five languages on this
war-game hardware.
INSANE MAN
BURRITOS ARE MURDER.
Instead of fleeing the scene, a bigger crowd gathers. People in stalled cars
rubber-neck the scene from traffic.
BYSTANDER
Did he say burritos?
EXT. SCAFFOLDING ABOVE -- CONTINUOUS
Up on the scaffolding, Chad and Harrold are bored with the delay. They are
still unsure of the severity of the problem. Their employer MR. HABBIB, the
building manager, POUNDS on the glass behind them. He doesn't know why their
progress has been stymied.
Mr. Habbib jams open one of the windows and leans out on the ledge.
MR. HABBIB
What you doing? Five dollars
an hour to watch the traffic?
Chad and Harrold straighten up at the sight of their red-faced employer.
HARROLD
It's some kind of protest, Mr. Habbib.
There's a man down there who's
about to explode, seriously.
Mr. Habbib surveys the situation.
He WHISTLES at the Insane Man to get his attention.
MR. HABBIB
Hey you!
The Insane Man becomes jittery at the shouting; he fingers his detonator
nervously.
The crowd shrinks back momentarily.
The Insane Man grips his detonator.
INSANE MAN
SAUSAGE IS MURDER.
MR. HABBIB
That's good sausage. Blow it
out your ear.
The Insane Man's finger slips suddenly. A LOUD EXPLOSION ensues.
A FIREBALL spins up into the air. Shards of broken glass, human tissue,
and the man's plaid suit fly up into the air.
Chad and Harrold are spattered with blood; the once-clean windows are
spattered; Mr. Habbib is spattered.
Below on the street, a ring of soot and scattered debris had leveled
the crowd. Nobody is badly hurt, but all are shaken. POLICE SIRENS are
heard; squad cars approach.
Chad and Harrold are stunned.
MR. HABBIB
Okay. Now I’ll pay five hundred
an hour.
EXT. BUILDING STREET LEVEL -- DAY
Chad works like a bandit, successfully hoses off the bloody mess on the
side of the building.
CHAD
We don't just do windows; we do
crime scenes, suicides, maiming. We
could get into domestic disputes,
tap into the mass murder market.
HARROLD
Maybe I didn't get into medical
school; maybe I'll never be a
doctor, but I refuse to go into gore.
Not full-time anyway.
INT. OFFICE BATHROOM
Chad and Harrold, who've stripped off their outer stained COVERALLS, are
washing up in Habbib's bathroom.
Harrold is ill; he sits on the bathroom floor.
HARROLD
What will we call ourselves? Out Out
Damn Spot? The Suicide Scrubbers?
Chad and Harrold's Crime Cleaners?
CHAD
Something simple: ACME Murder Cleaners.
We'll mention suicides and domestic
disputes in the brochure.
CUT TO:
MR. HABBIB'S OFFICE -- DAY
Mr. Habbib counts out the money he owes Chad and Harrold. He fingers
SMALL BILLS and occasionally counts four quarters in change. Harrold
is still in the bathroom.
Chad is recounting the money as Habbib speaks.
MR. HABBIB
My friend, all you need is a
phone; I get you business. My
friends all have office buildings,
apartments. You can even use
an office here.
OFFICER SAM LAMONTA, a uniformed cop, ENTERS.
LAMONTA
You boys discovered the head?
CHAD
It just came to us.
LAMONTA
Come downtown.
INT. SARGEANT'S OFFICE DAY
SARGEANT EDDIE SITWELL is a friendly and paunchy career bureaucrat, 57.
He hasn't seen the scene of a crime for years. He thinks Chad and Harrold
have a first-rate business proposal, but he has certain reservations.
SITWELL
The smell; the mess. Most people
probably wouldn't commit murder
if they knew what a mess it is.
CHAD
But it's legal to clean up a
crime scene? I mean, once the
officers have done their job, right?
SITWELL
It's legal, but it ain't pretty.
Harrold fidgets, he's anxious to get out of there.
CHAD
So, if you hired us, as subcontractors,
you could tell us if there are any
cases where the evidence has all been
collected --
SITWELL
I could tell you that right now.
We got everything from the Subway
Slasher case, except the man himself.
HARROLD
The Subway Slasher?
Lamonta visibly disturbed.
LAMONTA
Say Sarge, that's a bad example.
SITWELL
(Whispers)
Maybe it'll discourage them.
CHAD
Who's paying us?
SITWELL
Since it happened on city property,
the PD's Crime Management Task Force.
We've got the budget for it.
Name your price.
CHAD
Four thousand dollars.
Lamonta and Sitwell trade glances.
SITWELL
Fifteen hundred bucks to start.
Officer LaMonta will outfit you.
(to LaMonta)
Issue them rubber gloves, boots,
rubber aprons -- whatever the
coroner's office can spare.
INT. SUBWAY TUNNEL DAY
Harrold and Chad, escorted by Officer Lamonta, venture into the crime
scene.
Harrold is toting a tune box; Chad is lugging a couple of flood lights
and a bag full of cleaning supplies. They're both wearing subway worker's
utility hats, complete with lights on top.
The dank subway tunnel is smeared with BLOODY HANDPRINTS and SMUDGED STREAKS
along the interior. Murder, mayhem and general de-beautification have
occurred in this place.
They march deeper into the cavernous hell-hole.
CHAD
Can you be more specific about
it? How far do these marks go?
LAMONTA
You haven't gotten to murder
scene yet.
HARROLD
This is far enough.
Chad pulls him along.
LAMONTA
We've bagged and tagged everything
we needed. Anything you see can be
discarded, cleaned up.
HARROLD
Anything like what?
LAMONTA
Extraneous tissue, bodily fluids --
let's leave it at that.
INT. INNER TUNNEL SUBWAY DAY
They reach their destination. On one side of the tunnel, blood, hair,
possibly fecal matter, ripped clothing and a broken umbrella litter the
ground. It's not fun to look at.
CHAD
I'm so glad this guy's in jail.
LAMONTA
Who said he was in jail?
Officer Lamonta EXITS.
The fellows are stunned. Maybe this isn't their line of work after all.
Chad manages to quell his fears and hook up the lights. He also plugs
in the tune box.
CHAD
Can you believe this?
Chad shines the lights on the scene. Pieces of splattered women's clothing,
a ripped bra, are strewn everywhere.
HARROLD
I say if you're going to kill
someone, poison them. A lot
less property damage.
CHAD
I hear women are big on poison.
Chad arranges the cleaning supplies.
HARROLD
Do we all have to kill each other
every day?
CHAD
Arson strikes me as a solution.
With GLOVED HANDS, they begin stuffing the debris into trash bags.
HARROLD
Do you know how many people show up
at your typical murder scene?
CHAD
Should I?
Chad rubs the bloody handprints with a swatch of the cloth. The gruesome
mural is still slightly damp.
HARROLD
First, the paramedics show up. Then
the police. They can't touch
anything, though.
CHAD
Did we bring the foamy stuff?
That'll take this right off.
Harrold, feeling more secure, turns on the tune box.
Chad coils up some yellow police tape and puts it in his pocket for a
souvenir.
HARROLD
Then the photographers show up, and
a graphic artist to sketch the scene
with accurate measurements.
CHAD
How'd you know all this?
HARROLD
I looked it up in the PD's
Policy and Procedures manual.
It's about 500 pages long.
CHAD
500 pages? Do they have recipes
in there too?
HARROLD
Next lab technicians arrive,
they do fingerprinting; others
check for DNA, scientific stuff.
CHAD
That's a lot of people all right.
A lot of people with jobs. I mean,
you got turned down at Wendy’s, right?
A SCRATCHING NOISE interrupts their conversation.
The sound abates, and they continue their task.
HARROLD
Sometimes it takes hours. Days
if the coroner is backed up with
a lot of cases.
CHAD
Violence is the only growth industry.
Now DRAGGING FOOTSTEPS can be heard. Harrold and Chad disconnect the
lights and run for cover.
They hide behind the stuffed garbage bags.
HARROLD
(whispering)
Clean up after murders, hah. You've
just gotten us both killed.
CHAD
(whispering)
It's probably a bum who got lost.
A SHADOW appears on the wall. The SUBWAY SLASHER, wielding his KNIFE
above his head, ENTERS.
POV: THE SUBWAY SLASHER
His face is POCKED and SWEATY. At age 38, he's seen and done things too
horrible to remember. This is not your garden variety psycho, but a wiley
butcher.
The Slasher shuffles over to the tune box. He kicks it.
SLASHER
Music. Screams are my music.
The Slasher dances a weird jig, throws himself against the smeared wall as
he relives the mayhem.
But then he freezes. Glares from side to side; he realizes he may not be alone.
He touches the wet spot where Chad was cleaning the wall.