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Roads Less Travelled.

LOCATION: Rural crossroads at night. Distant lights of a funfair, sounds of music, hubbub of generators and people moving as a fairground organ plays.


ACTION: A Buick pulls up and stops at the intersection.

THE MARK, a thirtysomething Caucasian man in military parka and jeans gets out the car, goes to the trunk and pulls out a shovel and rucksack. Pan to feet clad in scuffed black trainers and ratty black jeans. He whistles a mournful tune as he finds a patch of earth and begins digging, soon a small hole is made.

He digs in his rucksack and places a small metal biscuit tin punched with holes into the hole. The tin moves and rattles as if something living is inside it. Then he buries the tin under the earth, pats down the earth with the shovel then leaning on it, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one. He takes a drag, sniffs and coughs, then turns around and spits at the feet of the new arrival.

THE DEMON is a young twentysomething woman, dressed in jeans, fringed leather jacket and cowboy boots. Her eyes are pitch and her voice is smoker-rough.

THE DEMON: “Classy greeting.”

THE MARK: “Sorry. A bit heavy on the brimstone?” (waves his hand in front of his nose)

THE DEMON: “Better get used to it. Now, what’ll it be?”

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