DISCLAIMER: Pacifists encouraged to view this as an anti-violence screed; Humorists entitled to dispute that view; Sadists encouraged to change their line of work. FADE IN: "TWO GUYS & A LITTLE MAYHEM" INT. CROWDED CITY STREET, CHICAGO -- DAY An INSANE MAN in a ratty plaid suit topped off by crazy hair and "MEAT IS MURDER" written across his forehead stumbles out of the entrance to a busy downtown garage. It is not readily apparent, but the man has rows of PLASTIC EXPLOSIVES taped to his chest. The bulky suit jacket opens occasionally. A hapless garage ATTENDANT notices the man. ATTENDANT Excuse me sir, have you been validated? The Insane Man stumbles along. INSANE MAN Beef is murder; chicken is murder; tuna fish? ATTENDANT Sir, if you're not validated, you may be towed. The Insane Man, who is an avid gum chewer, ignores the snippy attendant. Oblivious to the DOZEN PASSERSBY who stare at him, the man halts his progress for a moment, debating whether tuna fish is also murder. INSANE MAN Tuna is murder; veal is murder; Stroganoff is murder; ham sandwich is murder. EXT. CHICAGO METRO OFFICE COMPLEX – CONTINUOUS A high-rise office building wedged in between a camera store and a row of apparel stores in this busy urban center. Insane man gathers a CROWD. POV TWO WINDOW WASHERS Twenty feet above the hubbub created by the militant vegetarian below, two window washers, CHAD STIFFMAN, 23, and HARROLD KIPLING, 21, lower their squeegees and take stock of the situation. CHAD Is that guy going to juggle or what? HARROLD He doesn't look like a street performer. They strain to hear the man. INSANE MAN Every year 150,000 chickens die. Pressed turkey. Dicing, slicing... They watch as the insane man rips off his jacket and reveals the complicated arrangement of highly volatile plastic explosives strapped to his chest. CLOSE ON: EXPLOSIVES Very impressive. Cautionary warnings are printed in five languages on this war-game hardware. INSANE MAN BURRITOS ARE MURDER. Instead of fleeing the scene, a bigger crowd gathers. People in stalled cars rubber-neck the scene from traffic. BYSTANDER Did he say burritos? EXT. SCAFFOLDING ABOVE -- CONTINUOUS Up on the scaffolding, Chad and Harrold are bored with the delay. They are still unsure of the severity of the problem. Their employer MR. HABBIB, the building manager, POUNDS on the glass behind them. He doesn't know why their progress has been stymied. Mr. Habbib jams open one of the windows and leans out on the ledge. MR. HABBIB What you doing? Five dollars an hour to watch the traffic? Chad and Harrold straighten up at the sight of their red-faced employer. HARROLD It's some kind of protest, Mr. Habbib. There's a man down there who's about to explode, seriously. Mr. Habbib surveys the situation. He WHISTLES at the Insane Man to get his attention. MR. HABBIB Hey you! The Insane Man becomes jittery at the shouting; he fingers his detonator nervously. The crowd shrinks back momentarily. The Insane Man grips his detonator. INSANE MAN SAUSAGE IS MURDER. MR. HABBIB That's good sausage. Blow it out your ear. The Insane Man's finger slips suddenly. A LOUD EXPLOSION ensues. A FIREBALL spins up into the air. Shards of broken glass, human tissue, and the man's plaid suit fly up into the air. Chad and Harrold are spattered with blood; the once-clean windows are spattered; Mr. Habbib is spattered. Below on the street, a ring of soot and scattered debris had leveled the crowd. Nobody is badly hurt, but all are shaken. POLICE SIRENS are heard; squad cars approach. Chad and Harrold are stunned. MR. HABBIB Okay. Now I’ll pay five hundred an hour. EXT. BUILDING STREET LEVEL -- DAY Chad works like a bandit, successfully hoses off the bloody mess on the side of the building. CHAD We don't just do windows; we do crime scenes, suicides, maiming. We could get into domestic disputes, tap into the mass murder market. HARROLD Maybe I didn't get into medical school; maybe I'll never be a doctor, but I refuse to go into gore. Not full-time anyway. INT. OFFICE BATHROOM Chad and Harrold, who've stripped off their outer stained COVERALLS, are washing up in Habbib's bathroom. Harrold is ill; he sits on the bathroom floor. HARROLD What will we call ourselves? Out Out Damn Spot? The Suicide Scrubbers? Chad and Harrold's Crime Cleaners? CHAD Something simple: ACME Murder Cleaners. We'll mention suicides and domestic disputes in the brochure. CUT TO: MR. HABBIB'S OFFICE -- DAY Mr. Habbib counts out the money he owes Chad and Harrold. He fingers SMALL BILLS and occasionally counts four quarters in change. Harrold is still in the bathroom. Chad is recounting the money as Habbib speaks. MR. HABBIB My friend, all you need is a phone; I get you business. My friends all have office buildings, apartments. You can even use an office here. OFFICER SAM LAMONTA, a uniformed cop, ENTERS. LAMONTA You boys discovered the head? CHAD It just came to us. LAMONTA Come downtown. INT. SARGEANT'S OFFICE DAY SARGEANT EDDIE SITWELL is a friendly and paunchy career bureaucrat, 57. He hasn't seen the scene of a crime for years. He thinks Chad and Harrold have a first-rate business proposal, but he has certain reservations. SITWELL The smell; the mess. Most people probably wouldn't commit murder if they knew what a mess it is. CHAD But it's legal to clean up a crime scene? I mean, once the officers have done their job, right? SITWELL It's legal, but it ain't pretty. Harrold fidgets, he's anxious to get out of there. CHAD So, if you hired us, as subcontractors, you could tell us if there are any cases where the evidence has all been collected -- SITWELL I could tell you that right now. We got everything from the Subway Slasher case, except the man himself. HARROLD The Subway Slasher? Lamonta visibly disturbed. LAMONTA Say Sarge, that's a bad example. SITWELL (Whispers) Maybe it'll discourage them. CHAD Who's paying us? SITWELL Since it happened on city property, the PD's Crime Management Task Force. We've got the budget for it. Name your price. CHAD Four thousand dollars. Lamonta and Sitwell trade glances. SITWELL Fifteen hundred bucks to start. Officer LaMonta will outfit you. (to LaMonta) Issue them rubber gloves, boots, rubber aprons -- whatever the coroner's office can spare. INT. SUBWAY TUNNEL DAY Harrold and Chad, escorted by Officer Lamonta, venture into the crime scene. Harrold is toting a tune box; Chad is lugging a couple of flood lights and a bag full of cleaning supplies. They're both wearing subway worker's utility hats, complete with lights on top. The dank subway tunnel is smeared with BLOODY HANDPRINTS and SMUDGED STREAKS along the interior. Murder, mayhem and general de-beautification have occurred in this place. They march deeper into the cavernous hell-hole. CHAD Can you be more specific about it? How far do these marks go? LAMONTA You haven't gotten to murder scene yet. HARROLD This is far enough. Chad pulls him along. LAMONTA We've bagged and tagged everything we needed. Anything you see can be discarded, cleaned up. HARROLD Anything like what? LAMONTA Extraneous tissue, bodily fluids -- let's leave it at that. INT. INNER TUNNEL SUBWAY DAY They reach their destination. On one side of the tunnel, blood, hair, possibly fecal matter, ripped clothing and a broken umbrella litter the ground. It's not fun to look at. CHAD I'm so glad this guy's in jail. LAMONTA Who said he was in jail? Officer Lamonta EXITS. The fellows are stunned. Maybe this isn't their line of work after all. Chad manages to quell his fears and hook up the lights. He also plugs in the tune box. CHAD Can you believe this? Chad shines the lights on the scene. Pieces of splattered women's clothing, a ripped bra, are strewn everywhere. HARROLD I say if you're going to kill someone, poison them. A lot less property damage. CHAD I hear women are big on poison. Chad arranges the cleaning supplies. HARROLD Do we all have to kill each other every day? CHAD Arson strikes me as a solution. With GLOVED HANDS, they begin stuffing the debris into trash bags. HARROLD Do you know how many people show up at your typical murder scene? CHAD Should I? Chad rubs the bloody handprints with a swatch of the cloth. The gruesome mural is still slightly damp. HARROLD First, the paramedics show up. Then the police. They can't touch anything, though. CHAD Did we bring the foamy stuff? That'll take this right off. Harrold, feeling more secure, turns on the tune box. Chad coils up some yellow police tape and puts it in his pocket for a souvenir. HARROLD Then the photographers show up, and a graphic artist to sketch the scene with accurate measurements. CHAD How'd you know all this? HARROLD I looked it up in the PD's Policy and Procedures manual. It's about 500 pages long. CHAD 500 pages? Do they have recipes in there too? HARROLD Next lab technicians arrive, they do fingerprinting; others check for DNA, scientific stuff. CHAD That's a lot of people all right. A lot of people with jobs. I mean, you got turned down at Wendy’s, right? A SCRATCHING NOISE interrupts their conversation. The sound abates, and they continue their task. HARROLD Sometimes it takes hours. Days if the coroner is backed up with a lot of cases. CHAD Violence is the only growth industry. Now DRAGGING FOOTSTEPS can be heard. Harrold and Chad disconnect the lights and run for cover. They hide behind the stuffed garbage bags. HARROLD (whispering) Clean up after murders, hah. You've just gotten us both killed. CHAD (whispering) It's probably a bum who got lost. A SHADOW appears on the wall. The SUBWAY SLASHER, wielding his KNIFE above his head, ENTERS. POV: THE SUBWAY SLASHER His face is POCKED and SWEATY. At age 38, he's seen and done things too horrible to remember. This is not your garden variety psycho, but a wiley butcher. The Slasher shuffles over to the tune box. He kicks it. SLASHER Music. Screams are my music. The Slasher dances a weird jig, throws himself against the smeared wall as he relives the mayhem. But then he freezes. Glares from side to side; he realizes he may not be alone. He touches the wet spot where Chad was cleaning the wall.