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.