Another Short Visit With Morgan Freeman

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INT. FLOOR 103 WORLD TRADE CENTER ONE— NIGHT

The doors to the elevator open and JEFF enters the large conference room. The room is empty of furniture except for a tall white lacquer bar. On the bar is a sterling silver bucket of ice with tongs, a rocks glass, an opened bottle of Jack Daniels and a liter bottle of Coca-cola. 

MORGAN FREEMAN stands near the far window with a Jack and Coke in his hand. 

MORGAN FREEMAN: There he is! Help yourself to a drink.

JEFF: I’m fine actually, thanks.

Jeff crosses to join Morgan Freeman at the window. The view of the city below is beautiful, lights twinkling in the night. 

MORGAN FREEMAN: So how did the writing go today?

JEFF: Well I did get some writing done. I started out with morning pages which I feel good about since I’d let those slip a couple of times over the past week or two. Then, like you suggested, I worked on the script before heading to the gym and well (laughs nervously) obviously since we’re hear having this conversation, I’ve gotten to the blog tonight.

Morgan Freeman seems unimpressed. 

MORGAN FREEMAN: I don’t think we’re counting morning pages toward the time goal.

JEFF: No, but still I’m proud that I—

MORGAN FREEMAN: Now when you say you worked on the script, how long would you say you worked on it?

JEFF: I’m not sure really. I tried to keep up with the pomodoros but I—

MORGAN FREEMAN: ‘scuze me, the what?

JEFF: Pomodoro. The other Jeff Key told me about it.

MORGAN FREEMAN: The other Jeff Key? You mean some kind of alter-ego thing?

JEFF: No! The other Jeff Key. He lives in Chicago and he told me about the Pomodoro technique. It’s a time management thing.

MORGAN FREEMAN: Yeah. I really don’t care about that. I didn’t ask about any Pomo…

JEFF: Pomodoro.

MORGAN FREEMAN: Whatever. I asked you about how long you wrote.

Jeff is taken aback by Morgan Freeman’s cruel abruptness. 

JEFF: Uh, well, that’s what I was trying to say— I’m not really sure. I think I probably worked on the screenplay for a couple of hours.

MORGAN FREEMAN: And when you say you were working on the screenplay, what exactly does that mean? You actually spent that two hours writing?

JEFF: I mean, uh, well today I went back to the beginning to read it from the start so that when I pick up where I left off I can—

MORGAN FREEMAN: So what you really did is read for two hours?

JEFF: My screenplay! I need to be fresh with what I’ve written so far so I can pick up with—

MORGAN FREEMAN: What do you mean? Didn’t you write what’s been written so far on the screenplay?

Jeff is feeling increasingly under attack.

JEFF: W’yeah.

MORGAN FREEMAN: And you don’t know what’s in it?

JEFF: I mean I—

MORGAN FREEMAN: How long has it been since you worked on this screenplay?

JEFF: I don’t know, a couple of months I guess.

MORGAN FREEMAN: So you are going to stand there and tell me that the last words written at the point where the screenplay ends at present were written by you a couple of months ago?

JEFF: (sad, busted) No. The last new words I wrote on it about two years ago.

MORGAN FREEMAN: You really care about it don’t you?

JEFF: Why are you being so cruel?

MORGAN FREEMAN: You want to know what’s cruel? It’s cruel for you to continue to pretend to be a writer. It’s cruel that there are talented writers working two or three jobs just to be able to write, bloody-eyed, through the night on project they actually care about. It’s cruel that they would give anything  to have the opportunity you’ve had to write while not having to worry about living in the streets. How long have you sat on your ass when you could have been churning out the literature. Some writer! If those real writers who are working multiple jobs just to be able to do what they love—  if they didn’t continue to— you know, you make me sick, you!

Jeff is crumbling. 

JEFF: Please stop.

MORGAN FREEMAN: (mocking) “Pweez sthop!”

Morgan Freeman’s  homophobic attack cuts Jeff to the bone.

MORGAN FREEMAN: How long did you say you were going to write today?

JEFF: Four hours!

MORGAN FREEMAN: And how many hours did you write— not read— but write? Which I only count as putting new dialogue on the page!

JEFF: (now yelling, tears) None! None okay? I didn’t feel like I could trudge forward if I didn’t remember well what I had written before!!

MORGAN FREEMAN: And what was the last thing I said to you last night? The last thing! 

Jeff staggers as if snake bit.

JEFF: (timid, defeated) You said that I shouldn’t go to the gym or write the blog until I’d gotten my four hours in.

MORGAN FREEMAN: And did you go to the gym?

JEFF: I did.

MORGAN FREEMAN: And did you write the blog?

JEFF: Well we’re standing here aren’t we?

MORGAN FREEMAN: That’s what I thought. (turning his back) No wonder Adam didn’t want to be with you any more. Is this the same shit you were pulling when the two of you were together, while you were telling everyone you’re a writer?

JEFF: I’m not doing this.

Jeff’s pain is transformed to anger. He turns to leave and takes a few steps toward the elevator. 

MORGAN FREEMAN: (yelling after him) That’s right, run. Run like you always do. Run you little faggot!

Jeff’s trajectory has changed and he is headed toward the bar. Morgan Freeman laughs with glee.

MORGAN FREEMAN: Haha! I knew you’d eventually do it. Go back to your old friend! Have a fucking drink faggot!  The old dog returns to his tricks. Have a drink for God’s sake! Maybe then you’ll start to write.

Jeff has reached the bar but instead of going for the Jack Daniels, the slams an open palm on the bar. The movement causes a door to slide open on the top of the bar revealing a hidden compartment. 

Jeff reaches into the compartment at withdraws a M-16 A2 assault rifle with M26 modular shotgun assembly attached. He levels the weapon toward Morgan Freeman walking quickly towards him. 

Morgan Freeman continues to taunt and mock.

MORGAN FREEMAN: Oh look! She’s got a gun! You wouldn’t do it! You don’t have the ba—

Jeff pulls the shotgun trigger and blows a whole through Morgan Freeman’s abdomen. What’s left of Morgan Freeman falls backwards and lands flat with a thud. 

A pool of inky black blood begins to pool on the gloss white floor under the corpse. 

From the blood a figure rises, made of the blood, shaped like The Demon. The wet blackness disappears revealing The Demon himself. The demon appears as a thirty-five year-old man, hunched over and skinny. He has the remnants of a goatee and mustache—skin is white and thin revealing blue veins and a scoliotic spine. His eyes are like inverted moons.  His troll-like feet clutch the floor with yellow toenails. He hisses and laughs at Jeff. 

Jeff pumps a handle beneath the shotgun loading a second shell. He pull the trigger and the Demon explodes. 

From the parts of the Demon on the floor rise a dozen more, each a miniature version of the larger. They all laugh and his and begin to scatter. 

Jeff moves his hand to the rifle pistol grip, flips the indicator switch to “burst” and fires. He sprays rounds into the crowd of Demons and all but one fall dead. 

The remaining Demon grows to the size of the original. He laughs an evil laugh at Jeff before running to the wall and diving into a vent. He morphs into black smoke as he disappears between the slats of the vent. 

Jeff fills the room with a primal scream and hurls the weapon system at the vent, striking and denting it. 

He turns toward the center of the room panting. 

The elevator doors open and THE REAL  MORGAN FREEMAN enters, smiling. 

Jeff can’t help but smile, shakes his head. 

Morgan Freeman crosses to Jeff, offers him a handkerchief to mop a splatter of demon blood from his forehead. 

MORGAN FREEMAN: You have a little, uh— (points to Jeff’s forehead) 

JEFF: Thanks.

MORGAN FREEMAN: You’re getting better at this, you know.

JEFF: What, spotting the fakes?

MORGAN FREEMAN: Oh they’re not really fakes. They’re real all right. They’re just not what they appear to be. So in that sense, yes, “the fakes.” When did you know?

JEFF: From the minute I walked in the door.

MORGAN FREEMAN: (laughing) Yeah, right!

JEFF: Okay, okay. I’m sort of ashamed to admit but wasn’t really until the “have a drink faggot” bit.

MORGAN FREEMAN: You don’t think I’d say that?

Jeff’s look says “you gotta be kidding me.” 

Morgan Freeman looks at the bar.

MORGAN FREEMAN: Buy you a coke?

But Jeff is already walking toward the elevator. It opens automatically as he nears it. 

JEFF: How ‘bout a hot shower and a comfy bed?

He boards the elevator and turns to face Morgan Freeman still standing by the bar. 

MORGAN FREEMAN: Try again tomorrow?

Jeff offers up a little laugh by way of a puff of air from the nostrils and a droll smile. 

JEFF: See y’all tomorrow.


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