U.V. Ray

FADE IN INT. FRANK K. WINKLE’S HOUSE. EVENING. A dilapidated room. Bare floor-boards under foot and flimsy drapes covering a single window looking out onto the street. No real furniture, just an unmade bed against one of the four walls w/radio blaring on a stack of upturned beer crates that serve as a nightstand and a table and chairs in the middle. A fourteen inch portable TV sits on the countertop in the corner of the small kitchenette.

lights cigarette w/one he’s just finished. chain smoking marlboros again. keeps the foil out the packs for chasing dragons. picks up receiver. feeds coin in slot. coin drops. touches finger to bridge of his mirror aviators and punches in number. hears ringtone other end of line. amidst a city of millions beneath skyfull of stars, a big sense of nothing upon the somnambulant masses. streets lit up in neon. traffic noise resounds.