Yes, I am Writing a Phantom Movie

What of it?

INT. BAR. NIGHT. A filthy ramshackle dive in the worst part of a town whose best part is nothing to write home about. Through a window can be seen a sky of glittering stars and waves lapping at a pristine beach, but inside beauty is thin on the ground. Men of great size and greater ugliness sit and drink and avoid provoking each other. In dark corners dark business is being discussed. Behind the bar a watchful brute serves drinks and prepares for violence.

ENTER through the swinging saloon doors a man in a long grey trenchcoat and dark fedora: MR WALKER. By his side is a huge yet friendly WOLF.

Upon Mr Walker’s entry, conversation ceases and all eyes swivel to fix on the newcomer - it’s almost like a scene in a movie.

Mr Walker doesn’t seem too fussed by any attention on him: looking straight ahead, he walks to the bar. As the BARTENDER eyes him dubiously, we get a better look at Mr Walker’s face. He is wearing opaque SUNGLASSES and a faint smile as he opens the conversation.

MR WALKER: Evening.

BARTENDER: (wary grunt)

MR WALKER: A glass of milk, please.

A ripple of amused murmurs runs around the room.

BARTENDER: Say that again?

MR WALKER: A glass of milk.

The WOLF whines.

MR WALKER: Oh. And a bowl of water.

BARTENDER: You want a drink for the dog?

MR WALKER: He’s not a dog.

The Bartender continues to look at Mr Walker strangely, but he produces a milk bottle from beneath the bar and pours out a glass, which he shoves towards the customer.

BARTENDER: Don’t got no dog bowls. Five bucks.

The faintest ripple of surprise crosses Walker’s face.

MR WALKER: For a glass of milk?

BARTENDER: Supply and demand.

MR WALKER: Fair enough.

He slides a note across the counter. Bartender takes it, opens the till, starts taking out change.

MR WALKER: You can keep the change. If you give me some information.

Bartender looks warily at Walker. The watching punters stiffen. The atmosphere in the bar becomes just that teensy bit tenser.

MR WALKER: I’m looking for a man.

BARTENDER: Sounds about right.

MR WALKER (smiling): A particular man. Name of Hansen.

If possible, the atmosphere tensens up even more. The bartender’s face turns to stone. Out of shot, the sound of chairs being pushed back is heard.

BARTENDER: Don’t know him.

MR WALKER: Strange. I was told he’s a regular here.

Suddenly Walker is made aware of six enormous men who have appeared in close proximity behind and around him. He is hemmed in at the bar by a curtain of immense, scarred flesh and angry scowls. One of the ROUGHNECKS opens the conversation.

ROUGHNECK: Finished your milk?

Walker takes a sip.

MR WALKER: Not just yet, as it happens. Excuse me, I’m just having a conversation.

He turns back to the bartender. The first roughneck grabs his shoulder and spins him back round to face him.

ROUGHNECK: No you’re not. You’re leaving. Now.

Walker looks down at the hand on his shoulder. There is a significant and pregnant pause. And then…

In a dizzying blur of action Mr Walker’s arm comes up and he punches the lead roughneck square on the jaw. Almost in the same motion he lifts both his elbows and catches the men on either side of him. As all three reel back, their compadres advance: Walker extends a leg and uses it to flip the barstool next to him up into his hands, before sweeping it in a broad circle and smacking all three across the face.

The stunned men continue to try to advance, but the next three are each met by that steel fist. Another coming from the side with a stool in hand is met by Walker’s boot in his stomach, then in his face. He drops the stool, which Walker catches and uses against the one coming from the other side.

Behind the bar, the bartender decides to pitch in and picks up a large bottle, preparing to smash it over Walker’s head. As he raises it, Walker reaches behind and grabs the bartender’s arm. His grip causes him to drop the bottle, and then Walker casually TWISTS and snaps the poor bastard’s arm right in the middle. With a yelp he goes down. Walker looks back to see one last roughneck still trying to make an attack. One more fist to the jaw and the fight is definitely over.

Walker peers over the bar at the whimpering barman.

MR WALKER: So…?

The bartender feebly points with his remaining good arm at a door behind the bar. Walker nods, rounds the bar, opens the door.

INT. BACK ROOM. It’s a grimy dim storage room. Against the back wall cowers HANSEN.

MR WALKER: You must be Hansen.

HANSEN: Please…don’t…

MR WALKER: Don’t worry, I’ll be very gentle.

Back in the bar, with bodies in various states of consciousness strewn about the floor, Walker exits the back room, dragging Hansen by his collar behind him.

A COMIC BOOK CAPTION appears at the top left of the screen, reading “PHANTOM IS ROUGH ON ROUGHNECKS - Old Jungle Saying”.

CUT TO:

INT. SKULL CAVE.

(to be continue)