VICTORS APARTMENT COMPLEX ROOFTOP MORNING

The sun is rising over New York City, the apartment buildings exterior glowing dimly as the red bricks all
stained black from the smog reflect the light. Smoke billows from the chimney of a nearby building, but
everything else is still. The sound of the wind sliding across the rooftops, weaving its whispers into the
veins of the city, acts the part of the orchestra.
Cut to:
Credit Sequence:
WHILE THE WIND ROARS
VICTOR sits cross-legged on the edge of the rooftop, arms braced on his knees. He is still as a statue,
eyes shut, silvery-grey hair fluttering in the breeze. The only clothing he wears is a pair of ragged jeans.
Ancient scars stretch over his bare back. His soft breathing is near unnoticeable. He could pass for part
of the scenery.
The streets below are almost bare, the usual daytime roar of cars going to and fro that never seems to
cease during the worlds business hours slowly beginning to trickle into the serenity up so far above the
ground.
Offscreen, the squeal of a door opening, followed soon by the sound of approaching footsteps. A pair of
black suede shoes and pinstriped suit pants appears beside VICTOR. They set down a small black
briefcase and take a seat on the edge of the world. The legs belong to a small Italian man in his early
30s, freshly ironed black and white striped suit wrinkling as he makes himself comfortable. The MANs
mouth is set in a cold frown, contrasting his thick laugh lines. His pompadour haircut and thick goatee
are displayed proudly.
MAN
So its done?
He speaks with a thick Brooklyn accent.
VICTOR nods slightly.
Good.
(he smirks)
Good.
One of his hands reaches into a pocket on his suit and removes a pack of cigarettes. He pulls one of
them out with his teeth and raises his lighter to it. He inhales, savoring the first puff of the day. He offers
one to VICTOR.
MAN
You want one?
VICTOR remains silent and still.
Fine then, suit yourself Captain Crooked Ass.
He shoves the pack back into his pocket, slightly indignant. He spews white smoke from his nostrils and
chuckles.
MAN
How ya doin, Vic? Whats new?
VICTOR
Same as always, Paul, not a damn thing.
PAUL
(laughing)
For such a miserable old bastard, youre pretty fuckin boring. Most other miserable old bastards at least
try to inflict their misery upon other people. You?
(he motions with his hands)
Content to sit on a fuckin roof all day and freeze to death, yeesh.
Another puff from his cigarette.
PAUL opens the briefcase and pulls out a stack of dossiers that sits atop the layers and layers of clipped
together bricks of twenty dollar bills. He sifts through them, pulling out one labeled in large red letters J.
RHODES.
PAUL
(while fingering through the folder)
Rapist, murderer, dealer, gangbanger...
(he shakes his head disapprovingly)
A real scumbag, this one. Good fuckin riddance if you ask me.
He presses the lit end of his cigarette to the dog-eared white paper until it catches aflame, soon
consumed in fire. He drops the flaming documents off the rooftop, watching them scatter and flutter
away in the breeze, a dangerous and curiously beautiful spectacle.
PAUL
Riposa in pace, asshole.
(he spits at the road)
PAUL grabs three stacks of bills and begins putting them down beside VICTOR.
One, and two, and
(placing down the third)
Three. Six grand, every last penny.
The money sits on the cold, hard concrete of the roof. VICTOR makes no move to grab it. He continues
his meditation.
PAUL
You hear about that Bundy fella? Sick fucker killed like twenty women. Raped em too. Said he dressed
up like a cop or some shit.
(he takes another drag from his cigarette)
Not like he acted much different from real pigs though.
PAUL lays down across the roof, staring up at the sky
Its shit like this that keeps me awake at night. Not cuz its, yknow, scary or anything, but just because
its so fucked up. Like, what the fuck possesses a person to lure some poor girl, still in fuckin college,
whole life ahead of her, into some dingy ass alleyway and kill em, then rape em, then chop em into
little bits and dump them in a river. What the fuck could make any ordinary person do that?
He chews the end of his cigarette, contemplating
Gotta be fucked in the head to start with right? Now, dont get me wrong, I was raised in a Catholic
home, went to the boring ass sermons every Sunday like a good little Italian boy should, but it makes me
fuckin wonder, if the big guy really wants everyone goin up to the big bowlin alley in the sky, makin
some people so fucked in the head from the start. What chance did this fucker, Bundy, what chance did
he have? Nothin he couldve done for him, nothin anyone couldve done for him. My priest always
used t go on about how youre judged by your works and whateva, but what about this guy and all the
other crazy sonsabitches like him? And my mother, Lord rest her soul (he forms the sign of the cross on
his chest), she tried her damnedest to make sure me and my sister werent fuckups, and succeeded on
one account there. But after my dear old Dad came home from the butchers shop in a bodybag, she fell
to god damn pieces. Id visit her, one, two oclock in the aftanoon, swearin like a sailor and drunk as one
too, this woman who heard me drop an f-bomb once and slapped me so hard that I had her fuckin
handprint lit up across my face for a week. Shed curse that mans name until she was so trashed she
couldnt pronounce it anymore, then go lay in bed and cry until she passed out. I knew she didnt mean
any of what she said, but Id never call her on it.
(he pauses for a moment, a look of grim remembrance flashing across his usually jovial features)
Maybe I shouldve. Before she proved me right, at least. Took all those pills, the one night. Too late by
the time I found out.
(he takes another drag, pondering once more)
Maybe its better if she ended up in Hell. Then she can keep the old man company.