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either end. Beneath one, Zippo and his gang stand menacingly. Zippo is bouncing a basketball up and down slowly. Beautiful Myron stands on a concrete picnic table; a towering, imposing figure. Beside him, Rollo stands with his hands clasped behind his back. Laverne is struggling to join them. Fifty or sixty other prisoners mill about, murmuring, clearly wondering what is in store. Five guards are positioned at strategic points, waiting.

 

                    MYRON

       (In a deep, booming voice)

          Gentlemen! Thank you for coming out this morning. I realize many of you have more important things to attend to, so I will be brief...

 

                    INMATE IN THE CROWD

          Yeah! We need to go hang the fuckin' cook!

 

A roar of laughter erupts. Several inmates closest to the man who spoke congratulate him roundly. The guards react by engaging their walkie-talkies. Zippo continues to dribble the ball.

 

                    MYRON

          That would be our own, dear, Philip Simple, Mr. Cavanaugh. I daresay he is doing the best he can with the provisions supplied.

 

(Groaning and murmuring throughout the crowd)

 

                    MYRON

          Perhaps at a future date we can address that subject...after we complete our first project.

 

                    FROM THE CROWD

          Project?

 

                    ANOTHER

          Faggot!

 

                    ANOTHER

          Shut up. Let 'im talk.

 

                    MYRON

          Thank you, Rolph. Now. Mr. Heinz and I, along with Mr. Budd, here...

 

Buddy continues to struggle, trying to climb onto the table.

 

                    MYRON (CONTINUING)

          ...have had a moment of clarity, an epiphany. A vision of sorts, if you will. It is my firm belief that God has touched the newest member of our community...sent a savior of sorts to instruct us...

 

                    FROM THE CROWD

          Community? This is a goddam' jail, not a country club!

 

More derisive laughter erupts. Zippo catches the ball, a scowl on his face.

 

                    MYRON

          You are correct, but even in a jail men must have hope and dignity; a direction in their lives. Our time together inside these walls might better be spent creating, rather than destroying. Violence begets violence. Hatred begets deeper hatred...

 

                    FROM THE CROWD

          He's gonna start a church!

 

                    ANOTHER

          Yeah, the Church of the Holy Faggots! Get outta' here!

 

                    MYRON

   (Calmly, raising his arms outward)

          Not at all, my friends, but I intend to start this. We will combine our talents and inspiration to lift ourselves out of self-loathing and bitterness. We shall give ourselves a reason to hope. We will remodel the jail!

 

Most of the gathered prisoners laugh loudly, mockingly. Many of the others, however, remain silent, looking at one another with quizzical looks on their faces. Laverne ceases his struggling and seats himself on the pavement beneath the table.

 

                     FROM THE CROWD

          How? We can't even fart without the goons bangin' our heads!

 

                    MYRON

          This is true, George. There are many things we can't do, but lifting ourselves and this institution by means of this endeavor is not among them. We will need painters and craftsmen...welders and carpenters and electricians. We will need to tap the vast artistic and intellectual resources of every man among us. More importantly, we will need to join hands and lay down our clubs and knives in order to succeed.

 

                    ZIPPO

                 (Shouting)

          You'd like that you fuckin' queer!

               (To the crowd)

          He's gonna' get us lacy sheets, you fuckin' idiots. Pretty soon he'll have us kissin' in the showers. I'm out!

 

Zippo throws the ball in disgust. He saunters off toward the steel yard door, followed by his gang.

 

                    AN INMATE

            (To a friend, quietly)

          I wouldn't mind that so much.

 

                    ANOTHER INMATE

                        (out loud)

          The warden'll never buy it, Myron.

 

                    ROLLO

          He already has.

 

                                                                                                                                             FADE

 

INT. WARDEN MARSTEN DICK'S OFFICE-CONTINIOUS

 

Marsten Dick is seated at his desk in his sparsely appointed office. A window to his right with potted plants beneath it overlooks the street outside. The walls paneled in Mahogany are decorated with lithos showing fighter planes in different formations. Across from his desk is a well-appointed floor to ceiling bookcase. The American flag stands on a wooden pole, anchored to a sturdy steel base next to the window. He is on the phone.

 

                    MARSTEN

          Yes sir...Yes, Mayor, I understand completely.

          I have taken every precau...

      No sir, I quite agree, but the population has been quiet. I will definitely...I understand...Yes...I understand. Further measures will be taken.

          Thank you, sir. I do wish to continue on here, and I know I can...

 

Marsten pauses and then holds the phone out in front of his eyes, looking at it with consternation visible on his face. He places it slowly onto the cradle on his desk. There is an urgent-sounding knock on his door.

 

                    MARSTEN

          Come in.

 

The door swings in and a swarthy-looking uniformed guard enters. GUARD JACK walks quickly across the room to Marsten's desk. Marsten peers up at him; grabs a pencil from the container near the phone.

 

                    MARSTEN

          What is it, Jack?

 

                    JACK

          Sorry to bother you, Warden, but something's up.

 

                    MARSTEN

          Christ.

 

                    JACK

          Not exactly, sir. Maybe someone who knows Him, though.

 

                    MARSTEN

          What the hell are you talking about?

 

                    JACK

          The big black guy...Fleur...he called a meeting out in the yard an hour ago...

 

                    MARSTEN

          A meeting? About what?

 

                    JACK

          Well, I was coming to that, sir. Seems he wants to redecorate the cells in Block 1.

 

                    MARSTEN

          You're joking.

 

                    JACK

          No sir. And further, the new inmate, Rollo Heinz...he came in last night...said they'd already gotten the go-ahead from you. Sounded crazy to me, but there didn't appear to be any threat of a fight, so we let both of them ramble on.

 

                    MARSTEN

          Get them in here right now. Jesus H. Christ.

 

                    JACK

          Not sure He's with them, but...

 

                    MARSTEN

          Just get out of here. Have them both in here in five minutes.

 

Jack leaves as quickly as he entered, not saying a word. Marsten tosses the pencil onto the desk, sits back in his chair, pondering.

 

                    MARSTEN (V.0.)

          Christ Almighty. Like I don't have enough problems already...

 

                                                                                                                                            FADE

 

INT. WARDEN MARSTEN DICK'S OFFICE-MORNING

 

An hour has elapsed since Jack left Marsten's office. There is a rap on the door. Marsten returns the phone to the cradle and then...

 

                    MARSTEN

                    (angrily)

          Come in!

 

The door swings inward. Rollo enters first; clip-clopping to the warden's desk, smiling. Laverne enters next, shuffling to reach his friend's side. Then comes Myron, ducking his head as he passes under the entry jamb. Jack follows,frowning. He takes his place beside, but not close to, the prisoners.

 

                    MARSTEN

          I thought I said five minutes.

 

                    JACK

             (apologetically)

          Sorry, sir, we couldn't find them...

 

                    MARSTEN

          What the hell are you talking about? You couldn't find inmates in a goddam' jail?

 

                    MYRON

          Begging your pardon, Warden, it wasn't his fault...

 

                    MARSTEN

          It was his fault! And shut up till I tell you to talk.

 

Myron complies. Jack's mouth begins to twitter as he formulates a response. He rubs his hands nervously on his trousers.

 

                    MARSTEN

            (addressing Myron)

          What's going on?

 

                    LAVERNE

          Heeth gonna' paint the jail!

 

                    MARSTEN

                     (to Jack)

          Why the hell is he in here?

 

                    JACK

          He's mixed up in it...

 

                    LAVERNE

          It wath my idea, Warden...

 

                    MARSTEN

          Be quiet, Budd.

 

Laverne

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