Stories and Scripts: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

TITLE: AN EVENING IN MERCER HOUSE

DRAMATIS PERSONNAE:
JOHN BERENDT
JIM WILLIAMS

The scene opens with middle aged men sitting in large, luxurious chairs in a beautifully furnished room, facing one another. Famous paintings hang on the walls and antiquities line the room. The man on the right is Jim Williams, the owner of the home. On the left is John Berendt, a tourist who is interviewing Jim Williams for a travelogue he is writing. Jim Williams is a tall, dark, handsome man with classic features: a well kept moustache, hair graying at the temples and deep, black eyes. John is plain in comparison with his dark hair, a large nose, warm eyes and a welcoming smile. In the distance, a staircase is seen spiraling upwards towards an unseen skylight. The Victorian home is graced with 15 foot high ceilings and spacious rooms. Jim speaks very openly as John has a tape recorder in his hands and listens intently.

JIM: (taking a long drag on a cigarillo, speaking with a slight southern drawl) What I enjoy most (JIM pauses to exhale deeply) is living like an aristocrat without the burden of having to be one. (JIM pauses to think) Blue bloods are so inbred and weak. (JIM smiles. JIM is speaking calmly and without malice) All those generations of importance and grandeur to live up to. No wonder they lack ambition. I don't envy them. It's only the trappings of aristocracy that I find worthwhile – the fine furniture (JIM gestures around the living room as he lists these things), the paintings, the silver – the very things they have to sell when the money runs out. And it always does. (JIM smirks) Then all they're left with are their lovely manners. Anyhow, royalty is better. (JIM drops his cigarillo into a silver ashtray. A dark grey cat jumps up onto his lap and he begins to stroke its fur) You know, I'm apt to give you the wrong impression, living the way I do. But I'm not trying to fool anyone. Years ago I was showing a group of visitors through the house and I noticed one man (JIM stops stroking the cat to mimic what the man did) giving his wife the high sign. I saw him mouth the words 'old money!' Well! (JIM resumes stroking the cat) I took him aside and said 'Sir, I was born in Gordon Georgia. The biggest thing in Grdon is a chalk mine. My father was a barber and my mother worked as a secretary for the mine. My money – what there is of it – is about eleven years old.' Well, the man was completely taken aback. 'Do you know what made me think you were from an old family,' he said 'apart from the portraits and the antiques? Those chairs over there. (JIM gestures at the chairs in the left corner of the living room) The needlework on the covers is unraveling. New money would mend it right away. Old money would leave it as it is.' 'I know that,' I told him. Some of my best customers are old money.' (JIM laughs at his own joke).

Memories of Murder: Six Feet Under

They took him out to the shrubs where they could hide while doing such a dishonest deed. Being rather unintelligent, Kwang-Ho would obviously refrain from denying these allegations. They forced a shovel into his hands and told him to dig.

"Look at you..." Detective Cho Yong-gu utters with disgust. "Hey bastard, give me that! Can't you eve hold a shovel right? Here, watch me." He grabbed the shovel from Kwang-ho and continued to loosen the dirt of the cold, hard ground. He watched carefully, like a small child watching his mother do something exceptionally complicated.

"KWANG-HO! You punk. Did you come here to play?" Park Doo-Man strides over to Kwang-ho, arrogance overflowing from every pore on his sweaty body. Kwang-ho looks up, confused. "Do you know where this is?" Park asks, slapping the back of Kwang-ho's head. "We came here to bury you."

"What? Why? Why?!" Kwang-ho wails, even more flustered than before. Cho, still digging, at the now-frightened little boy. Park is becoming angrier as the moments pass. "Because you won't listen, you bastard."

Kwang-ho tries to avoid his fate. "But I'm a good boy!"

"THEN TELL ME!" Park interrupts. "Out here, in the fresh air, with that face..." Park grazes his fingers over Kwang-ho's burns. Kwang-ho cringes away. "Hey, come here. Women have this face, don't they? They grimace and all fucking run away."

Kwang-ho nods in vehement agreement. "It's true. I'll kill them all. Everyone who...grimaces at my face. I'll kill them all" Cho drops the shovel and pulls out a tape recorder, ecstatic over finally convincing this boy that he's the murderer. A sick smile spread across Kwang-ho's deformed face. In the distance, Detective Seo Tae-Yoon's attention has been captured.

Park pushes Cho away and greedily grabs the recorder. "Hyang-sook too?"

"Hyang-sook?" Kwang-ho look up, perplexed as he repeated the dead girl's name.

"Hyang-sook," Park clarified, "you always followed her around." Comprehension failed to dominate Kwang-ho's childlike face as he said, "Hyang-sook is pretty."

"Oh yeah, she's pretty. But Hyang-sook, she grimaced too, huh? She said "Fuck! Get away!" Didn't she? Because you liked her. So you killed her, huh?" Park continued on his triade, speaking quickly and giving away more information that was needed. The tape recorder continued to digitize their conversation. In a trance-like state, Kwang-ho murmured, "By the train tracks. In that rice paddy."

"The train tracks! RIGHT!" Park replied, coaxing Kwang-ho to continue. Seo and Cho stand idly by, listening in silence.

"Her throat. Hyang-sook's throat..." Kwang-ho began, "...strangled her tightly"

"With what?" Park interrupted.

"Her brassiere. With her white brassiere, strangled her tightly." Kwang-ho breathed out softly.

Park spoke to match the boy's tone. "And then?"

"Her stockings...pulled off her leg." Kwang-ho remained in his trance through Park's growing urgency.

"Then in was the stocking...THIS GUY'S SMART, HUH?" Park gets up and looks around at Cho and Seo, the latter watching with cool and reserved disbelief. "And then?"

"What...what was it? Something with a strap..." Kwang-ho scratched his head like some juvenile cartoon character. Coercing a satisfactory answer, Park replied, "A handbag strap?"

"Right, a bag strap. Strangling Hyang-sook's throat with it tightly." Kwang-ho imitated the morbid movements.

"And?"

"Then, Hyang-sook's body shook a bit. She looked completely dead."

"And then?"

"Her head was covered up." Kwang-ho smiled that sick smile once again.

"With what?"

"Her panties. Covered her head with her panties"

"Do you mean a girdle? That women wear?" Not having received the proper response to his previous question, Park had to rectify this business. Mimicking the the girdle girdle sliding over his head, Kwang-ho happily replied, "Right, girdle! Looked like it covered her head right up."

"And then?"

"Umm...had to dress her again," Kwang-ho said with certainty.

"And why was that?" Park inquired, anger slowly broiling again.

"I don't know. Put the clothes back on."

"Why was that?" Cho cut in, intent on solving this crime.

"How would I know?" Kwang-ho laughed. Park quickly got up and kicked Kwang-ho down. "YOU WERE DOING WELL! BASTARD! WHAT DID YOU DO NEXT?"

"Then...running!" Cho had started beating down the startled Kwang-ho.

"WHERE?"

"It was raining!" Was all he could manage to say. Seo, dissatisfied with this turn of events, started to walk away from his less than respectable colleagues.

"WHERE DID YOU RUN?" Cho screamed.

"Kept running!" Kwang-ho pled. Cho, very prone to violence, was absolutely livid.

"Oh, you little shit!"

"The lightning struck!" Kwang-ho cried in his defence.

"Where the hell were you running, you bastard!" Cho screamed again. Ending the fight, park ordered, "Yong-gu, start digging."

Elections 08

If Barack Obama's current lead signifies the "ineptitude of youth," let's hope that their ineptitude is overwhelmingly unanimous.