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THIRTEEN GHOSTS - Daily Script

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3 EXT. ROLLS-ROYCE 3<br />

The rear door opens, and CYRUS KRITICOS, 50s, wealthy,<br />

immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place, steps out.<br />

His hand rests on a shiny, silver-headed cane. He<br />

surveys the flares, shakes his head.<br />

CYRUS<br />

Their little crusade is wearing<br />

thin.<br />

RAFKIN (O.S.)<br />

I'll give them this... they are<br />

consistent.<br />

Stepping out next is DENNIS RAFKIN, 20s, unshaven,<br />

jittery. He holds his head in his hands, massaging his<br />

temples, obviously in pain.<br />

(NOTE: Whenever we cut to Rafkin we hear/sense a<br />

piercing tone, underscoring the psychic waves he's<br />

receiving.)<br />

Cyrus produces a thin, brown designer cigarette from a<br />

silver case. Taps it as he speaks.<br />

CYRUS<br />

As cancer...<br />

(lights his cigarette)<br />

Never bet against human nature,<br />

Dennis. You'll always lose.<br />

Behind him, Rafkin suddenly lurches forward, racked by<br />

spasms. Cyrus turns, with slight concern --<br />

CYRUS<br />

Is it bad tonight?<br />

RAFKIN<br />

(coughing, shaking)<br />

Bad is one way of describing it,<br />

but somehow...<br />

(wiping his sweaty<br />

forehead)<br />

... insane seems more appropriate.<br />

Rafkin doubles over in pain. Dry heaves.<br />

RAFKIN<br />

(recovering)<br />

It's my professional opinion that<br />

we get the hell out of here. Now.<br />

Two of Cyrus's team, dressed in assault gear, make their<br />

way over.<br />

2.<br />

(CONTINUED)

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