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B & B (BLOOD & BREAKFAST) By Jeffrey W.

Sass

An Original Screenplay

(c) 2005 - 2009 Jeffrey W. Sass All Rights Reserved

Jeffrey W. Sass jwsass@gmail.com (800) 934-3887

FADE IN CLOSE on a thin, wooden paintbrush, the bristled tip covered in white paint, delicately sprinkling a light dusting of snowdrops over a winter scene. THE BRUSH moves in swift, staccato jerks, strained and almost spasmatic, yet the resulting painting is clearly a work of professional artistic quality. THIN, BONEY, DIRTY FINGERS are all we see of the painter as his hand clutches the brush with an intense, knucklewhitening grip. WE SLOWLY PAN Along the painting, revealing a charming panorama of a New England Town on a snowy winter’s eve. A row of quaint colonial buildings, set against a backdrop of rolling country mountains and a sky filled with thick, colorful clouds reflecting the light of a setting winter sun. All in all, a beautiful scene... It could be Norman Rockwell’s famous painting of MAIN STREET IN STOCKBBRIDGE on Christmas Eve... but it is not... CLOSER On the painting reveals some more details of the town, and from various signs and markings, we glean that this is a painting of the town of "STERNBERG"... THE PAINTING Shows us several buildings on the mainstreet of the town... There is a sign pointing off to the side that says "STERN INSTITUTE"... SLOWLY PULL BACK To reveal the artist. Immediately we see why his brush strokes are so strained... His arm movements are clearly restricted by the STRAIGHT JACKET he is wearing! The artist of the delightful scene we have been enjoying is a clearly deranged mental patient in a stark white padded cell. He is in his late 70’s, sickly thin, with a tossled mop of unruly white hair atop his wiry frame. His pale and gaunt skin is covered by loose fitting white scrubs, which in turn are covered (at the torso) by the tight white straight jacket, causing the artist to hunch over the simple easel and canvas before him.

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The only color in the room is the color of the painting on the canvas and the small artist’s palate delicately balanced on the artist’s lap. Everything else is white. In spite of the frantic nature of his painting motions, he whistles a simple, almost childlike tune as he works... CLOSE ON THE PAINTING As the artist touches up a stately colonial mansion at one end of the town. The classy and classic looking home has dramatic colonial columns and a gravel filled circular driveway. At the entrance to the driveway there is a small sign lit by a single flood light on the ground. The artist is touching up the sign, which is neatly set amidst a bed of colorful flowers. THE ARTIST Dips the tip of his paintbrush in the black paint on the palate and then goes back to the painting of the wooden sign in front of the house... In neat block letters he paints on the sign: "MAYFIELD HOUSE" And underneath it, "NO VACANCY" CUT TO: EXT. MAYFIELD HOUSE - LATE THE REAL SIGN In front of the REAL Mayfield House on Main Street in Sternberg. It is SNOWING pretty hard, thick flakes blowing past us, occasionally obscuring the pretty perennial flowers and carved wooden sign... A GLOVED HAND Reaches into frame and flips over a wooden block on the sign in order to cover the word "NO" so that the sign now reads, "VACANCY" WIDER ANGLE

(CONTINUED)

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To reveal THE MAN whose gloved hand just adjusted the sign. He wears jeans, a heavy, outdoorsy looking sweater, and a bright red woolen skull cap. An exceedingly long scarf is wrapped several times around his neck and up and over his mouth and nose so only his wind teared eyes are visible. As he breathes, thick puffs of condensation burst through the scarf and glide like clouds in front of his covered mouth. THE MAN Backs away from the sign. NEW ANGLE As he leans down and starts dragging a large, thick, black plastic garbage bag. CLOSE ON THE BAG As it drags across the snow silted gravel of the driveway. A corner of the bag catches on a rock, and as THE MAN continues to drag THE BAG Rips and tears enough for A HUMAN HAND To pop out. THE MAN Shit! As he notices THE HAND, now dragging through the snow. CLOSE ON THE HAND And we see that the pinky finger is missing...a rough and bloody stump in its stead. THE MAN Stops and, quite aggravated, stuffs THE HAND back into the tear in the bag. THE MAN (CONTINUING) Fucking shit!

(CONTINUED)

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He scoops up the snow that was bloodied by the four fingered hand and stuffs the reddish ice through the hole in the bag as well. Then he continues to drag the bag, which we now know is a body bag... THE MAN (CONTINUING) Goddamn fucking fuck shit! It is COLD out here! SEVERAL ANGLES As THE MAN huffs and puffs and drags the body bag past the house and through some bushes where he comes to a small shed, behind which is a deep ravine. We hear the sound of RUSHING WATER in the distance. Next to the shed there is a neat stack of cinder blocks, probably twenty or thirty of them tidily arranged. THE MAN lets go of the corner of the bag he has been dragging. THE MAN (CONTINUING) GODDAMN! COLD!!! THE SHED Is dusted with snow. He pries some ice off the latch and pops it open. With a bit of effort and a loud CREAK, he pries open the door of THE SHED. THE MAN Disappears inside the shed. We hear some things being moved and bumped around inside. THE MAN (O.S.) FUCK! ING! COLD! And as he comes out of the shed carrying a roll of thick twine... THE MAN REALLY, REALLY COLD OUT. DAMN! And we hear him blowing through the scarf. THE MAN(CONTINUING) Can’t even freakin’ whistle while you work! Pausing a moment to rub his hands together and blow on them through his scarf, the man starts to unwind a long stretch of twine from the roll...

(CONTINUED)

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CUT TO: THE BODY BAG At the edge of the RAVINE, now with a half dozen CINDER BLOCKS tied to it, the twine wrapping thickly around both the CINDER BLOCKS and the body in the bag. CUT TO: THE MAN As he shoves the block laden body over the edge and into the Ravine below. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back and counts aloud. THE MAN Five... four... three... two... one! And we hear a distant SPLASH below. THE MAN (CONTINUING) Haha! CUT TO: INT. MAYFIELD HOUSE - CONTINUING A DOG An old CHOCOLATE LAB is facing the front door, tail wagging eagerly, WHINING impatiently in anticipation of the return of his owner. THE DOOR Opens, letting in swirls of icy snow as THE MAN Slips into the house and swiftly shuts the door behind him. THE DOG Happily steps forward and starts licking the now melting snow off the man’s shoes as THE MAN unravels himself from his scarf. THE MAN Good boy Rocky...good boy. Daddy’s home from the fucking COLD! (CONTINUED)

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He takes off his coat and hangs it on a large antique coat rack, along with his scarf and hat. He slips off his wet shoes and steps into a pair of worn old Penny Loafers that were waiting for him by the door. THE MAN (CONTINUING) Good boy Rock... let’s go get a treat! Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. THE MAN Pauses to look at a small table in the front hall, opposite the front door. On the table there is a bowl of shiny green apples, a neat stack of "MAYFIELD HOUSE" brochures, and a keychain with two keys on it, resting on top of an envelope that says, "WELCOME MR. AND MRS. WHITE" THE MAN regards the keys and looks at a big old GRANDFATHER CLOCK in the corner of the hall. THE MAN (CONTINUING) Rock... looks like our new guests are running a bit late tonight. Must be the snow... Not a problem, we got work to do anyway, right boy? THE DOG Is not listening to his master. Instead he is crouched by the recently removed boots. CLOSE ON THE DOG As he licks some reddish, melting snow off the sides and soles of the boots. CUT TO: EXT. WINDING SNOWY ROAD - NIGHT A non-descript FORD SEDAN turns a corner too fast for the slushy road and skids off the pavement, slamming into a quaint wooden roadside sign. CLOSE ON THE SIGN As it creakily swings back and forth from the impact. The sign reads, (CONTINUED)

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WELCOME TO STERNBERG HOME OF THE WORLD FAMOUS STERN INSTITUTE OF CLINICAL CARE (S.I.C.C.) WHERE THE THERAPIST IS ALWAYS IN NEW ANGLE As the sign cracks into pieces and splits in half. Dividing the word THERAPIST, it now reads, THE RAPIST IS AL WAYS IN

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