(Close-up on the chessboard. Close-up further on the white pieces -- a pawn, and several bishops. Close-up further on the board. Pull back to white pieves in lines. Pull back further to a chessboard, fully set up. Pull back further to a generator. Pull back further to a lunar, byzantine landscape within a huge abandoned building.)

(The abandoned building is spectacular. Rusted pylons frame a geometric concrete surgace, overgrown with ivy, weeds, and moss. Light pours in from cracked windows and charred, gaping holes in the ceiling. Asbestos and fiberglass strips hang from low, damp rafters. A rusted tractor. Strange, unspecified netting, ladders, and a staircase leading to nowhere. The predominant color is a slate grey, but lush vegetation and copious brick completes the palate with deep reds and greens.)

(Rain patters through the holes in the ceiling.)

(GILLIGAN and BHOPAL stand, leerily, at the cavelike entrance to the building. BROCCOLI ROB stands in a shaft of light, motioning to the chessboard.)

GILLIGAN

(Walking gingerly across a pile of slate.) Couldn't we have done this, in, back at the chess club?

BROCCOLI ROB

Ain't this beautiful? Used to be a church.

GILLIGAN

It used to be a factory, what...

THE TOILET BOWL

(Emerging from a back room.) Glad you made it. Hope you don't spect to get out alive. (He laughs.)

GILLIGAN

What? Huh?

BROCCOLI ROB

No, it used to be a church.

THE TOILET BOWL

(Pointing toward a chamber with a weird, iridescent green light.) Where we keep the bodies of mo fuckas we don't care for.

GILLIGAN

Why can't we do this, at the Grove Street, I think --

BROCCOLI ROB

(Sincerely.) Shit well if that isn't, I bring you to a real beautiful place, and you don't even appreciate it.

THE TOILET BOWL

Some mothafuckas have no manners.

BHOPAL

(Chipping in.) Wouldn't you rather have an audience for a match of this magnitude?

BROCCOLI ROB

In that little, hole, where I beat that Russian dude? No!

GILLIGAN

That way, we could, you know, we could go back to square one, get official recognition from the chess federation, that way, the game isn't an exhibition, you win, you're the, you get to be champion.

BROCCOLI ROB

If I beat you. I know I'm champ. If I beat you, you'll know I'm champ.

GILLIGAN

That's, just between us, though. (Pause.) Not officially.

BROCCOLI ROB

Let's play chess.

(GILLIGAN and BROCCOLI ROB before the chessboard.)

 

BROCCOLI ROB

You ready?

GILLIGAN

Wait, wait. Am I white or black?

BROCCOLI ROB

You're white.

GILLIGAN

You know, I, we can forego the formality, I, as incumbent, I don't have to start --

BROCCOLI ROB

It's cool. I like to be black.

GILLIGAN

Wait, no, that's stupid, nobody wants to be black.

BROCCOLI ROB

I do. I want to be black. Besides, I can see that you're comfortable being white.

GILLIGAN

Well, everybody is more comfortable, are, are we talking about the same thing, here?

BROCCOLI ROB

Sure we are, sure we are... cracker.

(Andrew moves his queen pawn to queen pawn three. The match is on.)

(We swirl around the board. GILLIGAN and BROCCOLI ROB remain locked in desperate concentration. They study the board ferociously, move deliberately, and lock eyes with fierce enmity.)

THE TOILET BOWL

(To GILLIGAN.) Man, you call that a king side castle? I seen my grandmother make better king side castles.

(This is part of a running sideline commentary meant to unnerve GILLIGAN. BHOPAL covers his ears.)

BHOPAL

Must you?

THE TOILET BOWL

You get laughed right outta the part tryna make a knight bishop split like that. Yo. You can't, you can't, you can't check my boy.

BHOPAL

I loathe the trash talking element of the game.

THE TOILET BOWL

Well, you better get used to it, kid. It is here to stay. Yo, Gilligan! Ima get a rook in your back row and fuck you up good.

(And so on. Meanwhile, GILLIGAN is on the ropes. Down a rook and two pawns, his Invincible Fortress forgotten, he launches a desperate counterattack which catches BROCCOLI ROB off guard. With a nasty pin involving his queen, his king, and two knights, GILLIGAN abandons his pawn formation and forces a draw.)

BROCCOLI ROB

(Exerted, surprised.) Nice game.

GILLIGAN

(Winded, sweating.) Thanks.

BROCCOLI ROB

You're a hell of a lot better than that Russian.

GILLIGAN

I try.

BHOPAL

(Calling to BROCCOLI ROB from the sideline.) Your endgame sucks!

(Shocked, all stare.)

BHOPAL

I, um, just trying it out, to see how it feels. (Pause.) One must experiment.

(BROCCOLI ROB's withering attack with the white pieces opens the second game. But GILLIGAN is ready with a staggered pawn formation, and again uses his king aggressively. Written all over BHOPAL's face is an awareness of a careless error made by GILLIGAN -- leaving his queen exposed to a three-move pickoff... Twisting his arms and mouth, using all the body English he can muster, BHOPAL attempts to keep BROCCOLI ROB from exploiting the mistake.)

THE TOILET BOWL

You having a mental breakdown, kid?

BHOPAL

(Contorting himself bizarrely.) Oh, no, Why do you ask?

THE TOILET BOWL

I ain't authorized, to administer a twelve-step program. So heal thyself.

BHOPAL

No, I was stretching, and, and enjoying the night. It is the nicest night I could possibly wish up for a chess match. (Clearing his throat.) Knight to wishup for. A chess match.

(GILLIGAN nonchalantly moves his queen knight to bishop four. Beating back a final assault, Andrew again forces a draw.)

BROCCOLI ROB

(Irritated, flustered.) Another draw.

GILLIGAN

(Now sweating terribly, loosening his collar.) Yes.

BROCCOLI ROB

Draws all you do?

GILLIGAN

No, I, uh, win and lose also.

BROCCOLI ROB

Little kid opens his mouth again, they gonna find him inside one of those crates. Understand?

GILLIGAN

I, uh, I don't know what you're, um, yes.

BROCCOLI ROB

Good. Let's go.

(Now BROCCOLI ROB has seen Andrew's game twice, and flaws in concentration and repetition are beginning to give him an advantage. Offering a highly unconventional, imbalanced defense, he lures Andrew's white pieces into a trap. Deftly pinning the white queen against the right side of the board, he strikes a sudden attack with a rook and two pawns, and forces GILLIGAN to capitulate.)

BROCCOLI ROB

Mate.

GILLIGAN

(Now completely addled.) Oh, damn.

BHOPAL

That was brilliant.

BROCCOLI ROB

Uh, you want to, re-assess, my endgame, Bobby Fischer?

(Game four. BROCCOLI ROB disorients a genuinely confused GILLIGAN with idiosyncratic, contrary motion. Elaborate feints and veiled assaults further fluster GILLIGAN, who can now do nothing but offer a deft defense. Andrew is sweating heavily now, and looks about ready to collapse from constant concentration. Mopping his upper lip with the back of his hand repeatedly, his moves come slower now. BROCCOLI ROB, on the other hand, proceeds relentlessly, confidently, with the single-minded confidence of youth. Delirious, exhausted, GILLIGAN prepares to stitch together a final defense. Eyes partially shut, he fingers a black rook.)

(There is a beat of wings.)

(A clatter of footsteps. Striding into the chamber, a look of fury on his face, comes Guy de Mauppassant RABINOWITZ.)

RABINOWITZ

(In motion.) Stop! Stop zees match!

THE TOILET BOWL

Fucking bums just wander in and out of this place.

RABINOWITZ

(Arriving at the chess table.) Gee-lee-gahn! You must stop your playing eemeediately!

GILLIGAN

(Trapped between relief and a growing fear.) Um, Guy de, could you, like...

BROCCOLI ROB

What? But I was just about to --

THE TOILET BOWL

(Walking up to the table.) You motherfuckers identical twins or something?

RABINOWITZ

Yes, yes, we are eedentical tweens. Eedeeological tweens. I am here on fameely business, zees ees a fameely matter. (Dragging GILLIGAN up by the arm.) I must have a wor, een private, wees my.... brozzer.

BROCCOLI ROB

Man, you come up with some bullshit tactics.

GILLIGAN

No, really, it's, I didn't plan this, I --

RABINOWITZ

(As he pulls GILLIGAN toward the iridescent green chamber.) Do not attempt to tarneesh, deemeeneesh, zees crucial conversation. Upon which many French lives hang, at stake.

THE TOILET BOWL

You got five minutes, Gilligan. More than five minutes, you forfeit. (To BHOPAL.) That sound fair?

(A dazed, bewildered BHOPAL nods.)

THE TOILET BOWL

I oughta go in there and make sure they don't never come out.

BROCCOLI ROB

Naah. Let 'em talk.

(The green chamber is a brick box, roughly twenty feet square. Inside, the floor is covered with what appears to be dog shit. Strips of fiberglas insulation hang down from the ceiling like silver streamers. The ceiling is covered by a translucent green plastic roof, which bathes the entire room in a weird, verdant glow. Rain patters hard on the green covering, and the wind is audible.)

(Andrew, exhausted and resigned to his fate, stands against the brick wall. RABINOWITZ, the interrogator, gets in his face ferociously, brandishing his baguette. They speak in rough whispers.)

RABINOWITZ

You deesgust me, Geeleegahn. You deesgust me!!

GILLIGAN

(Frightened.) Guy de, I, I've never seen you like this, I....

RABINOWITZ

How can you, ze noble, educated, cultured son of France let ze championship fall into ze hands of zees pheeleesteenes?

GILLIGAN

What, he's, he's really good, maybe next time, I'll be able to --

RABINOWITZ

(Really brandishing the baguette now.) We make you a Frenchman! We geeve you the culture, class, and bearing! And then! You turn around, and you deesgrace me! You deesgrace yourself!

GILLIGAN

Look, I'm sorry, I'm, I wish I could make it up to you, I...

RABINOWITZ

(Nodding.) Le suicide.

GILLIGAN

No, no, that's, I mean, that's really out of the question.

RABINOWITZ

Zen you must make an excuse. We must leave zees place, zees place of deesgrace, at once. You must make an excuse, and leave wees your head held high, for ze glory of France.

GILLIGAN

You want me to chicken out for the glory of France?

(Back in the main room. RABINOWITZ storms out of the green chamber, followed by a contrite GILLIGAN. BROCCOLI ROB, annoyed, looks up at them.)

RABINOWITZ

(Holding back tears.) We are leaving at once. Eet ees our poor fazzer. We must be by hees side.

GILLIGAN

Hes, um, dying.

BHOPAL

(Huh?) Andrew?

RABINOWITZ

He eez a French Legionnaire, dying of ze Legionnaire's disease. A valiant man.

BROCCOLI ROB

(To GILLIGAN.) You conceding?

GILLIGAN

Yeah. No, I mean, I, it's --

RABINOWITZ

We concede nossing!

THE TOILET BOWL

(Getting up, standing behind BROCCOLI ROB.) Ima concede this guy's face in.

RABINOWITZ

Zees whole match has been conducted wees complete deesregard for propriety. Look at zees suroundings! (Pulling out a huge, intimidating book.) Don't you know you are een violation of ze Chess Code?

BROCCOLI ROB

(Bewildered.) The what?

RABINOWITZ

(Pointing to the chessboard.) Let me see one of zose pieces.

(Shrugging, BROCCOLI ROB tosses RABINOWITZ a white pawn.)

RABINOWITZ

(Inspecting it like a baseball umpire, showing it to GILLIGAN.) As I suspected. Ze scuff marks.

BROCCOLI ROB

What? What does that --

RABINOWITZ

I call you a dirty cheat! I call you a dirty, low class scoundrel, who, because you cannot compete weez zose of true eenteligence and culture, must rezord to eeenteemeedation and dirty tricks!

(BHOPAL, ashamed, covers his ears.)

BROCCOLI ROB

(Rising, not too angrily; even a bit uncertainly.) I don't know who the fuck you think you are coming in here, accusing me of shit, but I didn't --

(BROCCOLI ROB does.)

RABINOWITZ

(Flashing a badge with a rook on it.) I am from ze Chess Federation. You are under arrest.

BROCCOLI ROB

What?!?

(BHOPAL, ashamed, covers his eyes.)

THE TOILET BOWL

O you so full of shit, ass face.

RABINOWITZ

Eensolance!

THE TOILET BOWL

You talk about cheating, but you the bullshitter coming in here, tryna pretend my man didn't win fair. Your father is sick, what type of shit is that? Legionnaire's disease, what, that was some shit from the seventies, what?

RABINOWITZ

(Furious.) Audacity! I demand an apology!

GILLIGAN

C'mon, let's, let's just...

BROCCOLI ROB

(For whom the spell has been broken.) Yeah, you know, they ain't twins. They ain't even brothers. You can tell.

GILLIGAN

Well, you know, it's --

RABINOWITZ

You leetle sheet!

BROCCOLI ROB

Check it out. You ain't his brother. (Indicating GILLIGAN.) He's French. (To RABINOWITZ.) Anybody can see that you're not French.

RABINOWITZ

(Now purple with fury.) Whaaaat!!

BROCCOLI ROB

You look like somebody dressed up French for a birthday party.

RABINOWITZ

You weel pay for zees!

BROCCOLI ROB

I bet you a Jewish guy.

RABINOWITZ

Whaaaaat!!!!

THE TOILET BOWL

Hey, it's cool, we all Americans.

(RABINOWITZ grabs the edge of the chesstable, leans across at BROCCOLI ROB.)

RABINOWITZ

Zose who eensult ze French, and ze culture of ze French, are eensulting ze highest aspeerations and achievements of ze human race. Even you, alienated zough you are from ze bess zings een life, musy understand zees. Must understand ze reesk you court when you eensult ze superior people.

BROCCOLI ROB

I'll court that risk.

(A dark city street in the Greenville section of Jersey City. No trash, no crack vials, just bleak alleys, vacant lots, and shabby-looking tenements. Saturday night, but nobody's out. Rain is still falling. BROCCOLI ROB, chess set under his arm, walks home. He knows he's the champ, and he walks like one, but his face is unsettled. Weird day, wasn't it?)

(BROCCOLI ROB passes a Spanish meat market, locked up tightly for the night. Through the only part of the window not covered by the metal gate, the headlines in El Diario discuss a pack of wild dogs. It's unclear whether they mean animals or criminals. Beside the store is a large, graffiti-covered billboard for "Bobbin' And Slobbin", the WMNK Radio show featuring Slobberin' Bob. Bob's vacant, smiling visage looms frighteningly over the street in surreal, two-dimensional excitement.)

(A lonesome kitty cat, cleaning its little face, stares up from teh window of a burnt-out store. BROCCOLI ROB waves at the cat as he walks by. He's whistling a bit. Is he nervous?)

(BROCCOLI ROB passes by a link of fence in front of a vacant lot. A car, rolling by on a perpendicular street, illuminates the block. A silhouette appears on the chain link fence -- that on a man with a beret and a jacket, holing what appears to be a long stick. BROCCOLI ROB is looking the other way. The car drives away, and the silhouette fades.)

(A streetlamp, hissing on and off, casts a feeble glow at the intersection. BROCCOLI ROB steps up his pace a bit, heading toward it. Crossing in front of a cavernous tenement, he notices a suspicious shadow. He stops. Hothing.)

(BROCCOLI ROB looks around. Convinced that he's freaked himself out, he begins to walk again. One step toward the intersection, step two into the dry alcove before the tenement doors. The shadow reappears. The silhouette of the long stick begins to swing. It's a baguette. It strikes BROCCOLI ROB on the back of the head. He falls.)

BROCCOLI ROB

(As he tumbles to the ground.) Hey, what the --

(The baguette comes down again, with a vicious thud. BROCCOLI ROB groans, calls for help, lets out a muffled scream. The baguette flashes down again, this time on his exposed neck.)

(Above, the billboard of Slobberin' Bob leers down mindlessly on the rain-drenched street.)

BROCCOLI ROB

Stop it, hey, help! Somebody!

 

Return to Fit #7.

Forward to Fit #9.

Take it from the top.