of course you do, but we're running behind, dearest.
fine. it's done. right after this next shot. a strident beeper goes off on milo's belt. he turns to the two-man crew and claps his hands for attention.
okay, let's do it. roll camera.
and.  action! the closet door opens. a hulking man emerges. he is carrying a chainsaw. the girl on the bed stares, incredulous.
not at all, dearest. it's what's known as a snuff film. the hulking man pulls the starter cord. the saw roars to life.
easy, pablo. she's not a piece of meat. he exits. closes a sound-proofed door behind him.
yes, mr. marcon? how can i help you?
one hundred percent, sir. i wouldn't have used your name otherwise.
who is he working for?
yes, sir. and then?
good morning, joseph. he fires point-blank. the electrode hits hallenbeck in the chest. a crackle of electric current. hallenbeck jerks spastically. the world spirals away. he plunges down into darkness. cut to:
is there a problem?
oh, my. oh, goddamn. joseph, joseph, you don't disappoint me. he draws a walther ppk and approaches hallenbeck. smiling and cheerful.
you seem to have killed one of my men.
you took an awful risk. pablo here could have shot you dead.
yes, that's true. i suppose introductions are in order.
yes. i'm the bad guy.
something like that.
i don't see why not. pablo, please take chet's corpse into the other room, and then fix mr. hallenbeck a drink. suddenly a voice rings out from the doorway:
we took the liberty of researching your background.
that's a temporary condition, joseph. as you may be aware, there are distributors in mexico who positively crave snuff films. and unless you do every fucking thing mr. marcon tells you.  your wife will make her motion picture debut. he meets joe's murderous gaze.  and smiles.
easy, pablo. i want him conscious. pablo is kicking joe's prone form.
careful, pablo. we don't want to get mrs. hallenbeck all excited in front of hubby. he squats next to joe.
hello, joseph, guess what? time to go, and remember: you follow orders, or the missus pays the price.
perhaps. but there are ways to die, and then there are.  ways to die. capisce? you determine your wife's fate. he yanks hallenbeck to his feet. propels him toward the boat. as her husband is being led away, sarah calls out:
you're wasting my time, joseph. let's go. hallenbeck turns. dirty. tired. unshaven. bloody. he looks at milo.  and grins:
it's milo, sir. we're now underway and should be lying off catalina within two hours.
very good, sir.
no, we're getting along famously.
i assure you, neither he nor the senator will see another sunrise.
if it annoys you, i could always adopt a texas drawl, though i'm afraid i don't know any stories about fucking pigs. sir.
i'll remember that, sir. he hangs up. marcon replaces the receiver and chuckles.
your wife's very pretty.
my, my. little testy this evening. he pulls a switchblade out of his windbreaker.
that's not very polite, you know, calling someone a cocksucker. a lot of hard ks. very abusive sounding. hallenbeck says nothing.
what would you do, joseph, if someone called you that? would you cut out one of his eyes?
what would you do?
it occurs to me, joseph, that i would very much like to hear you scream.
you're so cool, aren't you? so.  if you'll pardon the expression.  hard-boiled. i'd like, just once, to hear you scream in pain.
fascinating.
come now, joseph, did you really think that i'd hand you a loaded gun? you're not really going to kill anyone.
no. he leans forward.
you're going to be framed for the senator's murder.  when they find your corpse at the scene of the crime.
at eight-fifteen, senator baynard will leave the party, hopefully unobserved. he and his entourage will board a fast boat, and rendezvous with us at sea.
baynard will not leave his boat. one of his men will board us, and inspect the contents of the suitcase. this suitcast. he opens one of the cases. hallenbeck stares.
then we pull a simple switch. when the man returns to his boat, he's carrying this suitcase. he points to the identical twin.
detonation upon opening. enough to kill the passengers, not enough to sink the craft. and when we place your charred corpse amidst the wreckage, the police will draw the inevitable conclusion: a down-on-his-luck p.i. makes a suicide strike against the man who cost a career.
maybe i'll get to hear you scream, after all.  just then, one of milo's crew sticks his head in the door.
i'm sorry, sir. this boat is island security, we're under strict orders to stay within this sector.
i'm sorry, we can't help you.
excuse me. sir? the fisherman turns. his family beside him.
fuck you, sir.
problem solved. get over there and put the bodies below where they can't be seen. he saunters away as if nothing unusual has occurred.
roger, air one, over and out. up anchor, gentlemen, we have a go. gag him and stash him. as milo goes topside, one of the men tapes joe's mouth. the other opens a cramped storage compartment. they stuff him inside. shut and lock the door.
hey! any of you stupid fucks bother to frisk this goombah?
exactly, you didn't think! goddammit, that's two million bucks there, now frisk the fuckin' guy!
fuck easy. against the wall, spread 'em!
we're cool, baby. he hands over the suitcase.
hard to starboard, get us out of here. back off a hundred yards and wait for the blast.
air one, air one, where the fuck is he?
who the fuck is he? a crewman grabs a pair of binoculars. meanwhile --
air one, air one, follow the senator, roger? i'll take the sport boat, you take baynard, over.
okay, let's go. full throttle.
is draped over a piece of wooden wreckage. half his hair is burned away. his face is blistered. he looks up, pleading, at the ensign, as:
advances. changing clips. methodical. precise. like a robot. he is obsessed. all vestige of sanity gone.
you fucked up my face, joseph! joe starts to climb. scales the wooden structure. swings himself onto the raised platform. flattens behind the billboard.
don't try to hide, joseph. i've got all night, you fucked up my face. he sprays a burst of gunfire up at the billboard.
you ruined my flesh!