CUT TO: FIRING RANGE - DAY
TRAVIS stands at the firing range blasting the .44 Magnum with a rapid-fire vengeance.
He sets down one gun, picks up the next, then the next. Quickly reloading, he fires again.
The targets spin and dance under his barrage. The piercing sound of GUNSHOTS ring through the air.
CUT TO: INT. APARTMENT
TRAVIS is again writing at the table. His western shirt is open, exposing his bare chest.
A note of despair and doom has entered into TRAVIS' normally monotone narration voice: this will be the last entry in his diary.
TRAVIS (V.O.): My whole life has pointed in one direction. I see that now. There never has been any choice for me.
CUT TO:
LENGTHY P.O.V. SHOT from TRAVIS' taxi: we see New York's nightlife as TRAVIS sees it. CAMERA TRACKS down midtown sidewalks in SLIGHTLY SLOW MOTION. There we see:
COUPLES, walking in SLOWING MOTION, young couples, middle-aged couples, old couples, hookers and johns, girlfriends, boyfriends, business friends -- the whole world matched up in pairs, and TRAVIS left wandering alone in the night.
Others would notice the breasts, the asses, the faces, but not TRAVIS: he notices the girl's hand that rubs the hair on her boyfriend's neck, the hand that hangs lightly on his shoulder, the nuzzling kiss in the ear.
TRAVIS (V.O.) (CONTD): Loneliness has followed me all my life. The life of loneliness pursues me wherever I go: in bars, cars, coffee shops, theaters, stores, sidewalks. There is no escape. I am God's lonely man.
MATCHCUT TO P.O.V.: another neighborhood, LATER IN THE NIGHT.
Still in SLIGHTLY SLOW MOTION.
The CROWDS are more sparse here, the streets darker. A JUNKIE shudders in a doorway, a WINO pukes into a trash can, a STREET-WALKER meets a prospective CLIENT.
TRAVIS (V.O.) (CONTINUED): I am not a fool. I will no longer fool myself. I will no longer let myself fall apart, become a joke and object of ridicule. I know there is no longer any hope. I cannot continue this hollow, empty fight. I must sleep. What hope is there for me?
CUT TO: INT. APARTMENT
TRAVIS, his shirt fastened, stands beside table. C.U.: He lays a brief hand-written letter on the table. We read it.
Dear Iris,
This money should be enough for your trip. By the time you
read this I will be dead.
Travis
TRAVIS stacks five crisp hundred dollar bills beside the letter, folds them up with the letter, and puts them into an envelope.
TIMECUT: A SHORT WHILE LATER.
TRAVIS has cleaned up his apartment. Everything is neat and orderly.
CAMERA PANS across room. The mattress is bare and flattened out, the floor is spotless, the cans and bottles of food and pills put out of sight. The wall is still covered with Palantine political paraphernalia, but when we reach the desk we see only four items there: an open diary and three loaded revolvers: .44, .38, .25.
TRAVIS, freshly shaved and neatly dressed, stands in the middle of his clean room. The empty holster hangs on his shoulder. Metal .25 gliders can be seen under the slit in his right sleeve. He turns toward table.
CUT TO:
TRAVIS, envelope in hand, closes the door behind him and walks down the corridor. He passes a ajar door and we are suprised to see the room is empty--and trashed. Travis lives in a decaying, if not condemned building.
EXT.
TRAVIS places the envelope to IRIS in his mail box.
BACK IN APARTMENT.
CAMERA CLOSE ON revolvers lying on the table in neat array.
CUT TO:
FADE IN:
SOUND of a political rally: cheering, laughing, a band playing, talking.
AFTERNOON. A CROWD of about 500 PERSONS is assembled before a platform outside a Brooklyn union hall. A DIXIELAND BAND is playing on the platform.
C.U. CHARLES PALANTINE's feet climb out of a limousine. There is a ROAR from the nearby CROWD.
PALANTINE, a bulky SECRET SERVICE MAN to the right and left of him, pushes his way through the CROWD toward the platform. Still cameras click, and TV cameras purr.
SLIGHT TIMECUT: PALANTINE is speaking on the platform.
CUT TO:
TRAVIS' empty taxi sits parked a few blocks away from rally. At this distance, the rally sounds are almost indistinguishable.
C.U. of TRAVIS' boots walking. They make their way past one person, then two, then a cluster of three or four. SOUNDS of rally increase.
We see a FULL FIGURE SHOT of TRAVIS: he is standing alone in an opening near the fringes of the CROWD.
TRAVIS looks like the most suspicious human being alive. His hair is cropped short, he wears mirror-reflecting glasses. His face is pallid and drained of color, his lips are pursed and drawn tight. He looks from side to side. One can now see the full effect of TRAVIS' lack of sleep and sufficient diet -- he looks sick and frail.
Even though it is a warm June day, TRAVIS is bundled up in a shirt, sweater and Army jacket buttoned from top to bottom. Under his jacket are several large lumps, causing his upper torso to look larger than it should. He is slightly hunched over and his hands shoved into his pockets.
Anyone scanning the crowd would immediately light upon TRAVIS and think, "There is an assassin."
TRAVIS pulls the vial of red pills from his pocket and swallows a couple.
CUT TO:
SECRET SERVICE MAN standing beside the platform, scanning the CROWD. It is the same SECRET SERVICE MAN TRAVIS spoke to at the first rally. TOM, dressed in a conservative suit, stands beside him.
PALANTINE is wrapping up his short speech:
PALANTINE: ... and with your help we will go on to victory at the polls Tuesday. (applause)
TRAVIS begins moving up into the crowd.
PALANTINE (CONTD): On to victory in Miami Beach next month (building applause) and on to victory next November!
PALANTINE steps back, smiling and receiving the applause. Then, nodding, at the SECRET SERVICE MAN he descends the stairs and prepares to work his way through the CROWD.
TRAVIS unbuttons the middle two buttons of his jacket, opening access to his holster. With the other hand he checks the .44 hooked behind his back.
PALANTINE smiles and shakes a few of the many hands outstretched toward him.
The SECRET SERVICE MAN, scanning the CROWD, spots something that interests him. He looks closely.
SECRET SERVICE MAN'S P.O.V.: TRAVIS, his face intense, pushes his way through the CROWD.
PALANTINE works his way through crowds and cameras.
SECRET SERVICE MAN motions to SECOND SECRET SERVICE MAN and points in TRAVIS' direction.
TRAVIS slips his hand into his jacket.
The SECOND SECRET SERVICE MAN converges on TRAVIS from the
side.
TRAVIS and PALANTINE draw closer to each other.
SECRET SERVICE MAN, walking just behind PALANTINE, grabs the candidate's hand and pulls him backward. PALANTINE looks sharply back at SECRET SERVICE MAN who motions for him to take a slightly altered route.
TRAVIS sees this: his eyes meet the SECRET SERVICE MAN's. He recognizes the situation. To his right he spots the SECOND SECRET SERVICE MAN.
TRAVIS' eyes meet PALANTINE's: candidate and would-be assassin exchange quick glances.
TRAVIS hastily works his way back through the CROWD. He hears the SECRET SERVICE MAN's voice call out:
SECRET SERVICE MAN: Detain that man!
OVERHEAD SHOT reveals TRAVIS has the jump on his pursuers. He is breaking free of the CROWD while they are still mired in it.
TRAVIS, free of his pursuers, quickly makes his way down the sidewalks. The SECRET SERVICE MEN look futilely about.
TRAVIS jumps in his cab. Sweat covers his face.
