VS - Act 3: The Endgame – “Kill or Be Killed”

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The programmer, the dyke, the actor, the cheerleader and the sales guy won their opening match, each leaving a corpse lying dead on the bloodstained canvas. All winners advance to the semi-finals, where they will be forced to fight again, as will the winners of the three remaining first round matches. Sound of baseball bats smacking against a head to the dying grunt of the victim. Gangsta will face bodybuilder, old lady will square off against husband, but first, the match many of the betters watching from the comfort of their homes have been waiting for. It's Boss Lady versus the Nazi. Chew the lights, roll the cameras and let the betting begin. It's time for the Versus tournament, where every match is sudden death. Sound of three strikes of a boxing bell echoing to a fade along with ominous music. Broadcast angle, insert kale of the table. Boss Lady's picture is from an interview with the enforcer. Even her snapshot is a scowl. The Nazi's photo is clearly from his passport. This poor German bastard was just out for a vacation, but now he's knee deep in the bracket. He's six foot one, but carrying a few extra pounds at 245, and at 47 years old, he is no spring chicken. And he probably won't reach 48 by the looks of this ball breaker. Boss Lady owns her own business and look at this Facebook profile quote. Insert Boss Lady's Facebook page showing the quote below. She has an I quote, fought her way to the top as a woman amongst an endless army of backstabbing men. An answer angle. That can bone well for friends. Certainly not. She's a tall one at five foot 10, runs two hours every morning and said she can bench press 180. This cupcake is no cupcake. If you know what I mean, angle on canvas. The two fighters hold fire axes. The boss lady looks pissed. The Nazi tries to look intimidating. You don't come here, me woman. But I work hard. Boss Lady says nothing. The Nazi shouts to the rafters, turning as he talks. Please let me out. I only came to America to see your country. I don't want to fight. He faces the announcer's table, turning his back to the boss lady. She starts to walk toward him. I am a German citizen. Boss Lady starts to wind up. This is not possible. Enough is a joke. I demand a civil. Basketball horn sounds. The boss lady is already swinging. The instant the basketball horn ends, her axe drives into the Nazi's head. The Nazi drops, pushing and pleading. Broadcast angle, announcers. Holy cow! Did you see that? Dunk you very much. One second, that's a new versus tournament record. Insert the bracket. Boss Lady moves forward. The West bracket is now set. Boss Lady versus Sales Guy, Hector versus Programmer. Bracket image switches over to Old Lady versus Husband. Then insert, tail of the tape. Old Lady and Husband's photos are both from interviews with enforcer. And now we go to the bottom half of the East Bracket. Coming up is this round's main event of gangster versus bodybuilder. But first we'll do Old Lady versus Husband. Husband is 5'9", 170 pounds, and he played college football as a wide receiver for Bemidji State University. Bahooji? Bahumidji! He's up against a little dynamo, or at least that's what she was back in the day. She must have been something before electricity, Mr. Jones. Old Lady is 30 pounds overweight and stands at 5'5". She's like a potato with legs. That spud is gonna get French fried, Mr. Jones. Let's go to the mat. Angle on canvas. Old Lady is on her knees, crying and praying. A pair of gleaming, 6-inch-long poultry sheers sits in front of her. She's crying so hard she can barely stay upright. Basketball horn sounds. Husband is crestfallen. He can't believe what he has to do. He slowly walks toward Old Lady. Lord, please forgive me for all the sins I've done in my life. I wasn't nice enough to my kids. I know that. Husband stands over her. He is holding the scissors as if they were a poisonous spider. I want to see my grandchildren grow up, be a part of their lives. I'm so sorry. Oh Lord, please give me strength. My time is at hand. Husband kneels down behind Old Lady. He puts his left arm around her. He's not sure how to do it, how to kill her quickly. He holds the scissors in his right hand, prepares to stab her in the neck. Old Lady flops forward weekly. The emotional husband doesn't see her grab the scissors. I'll try to make it quick. She sits up, calmly jabs the scissors into husband's throat. How's that for quick, fuck-tart? She yanks the scissors free. Blood sprays all over her face. Husband's hands clutch at his neck, trying to stem the squirting blood, but it's too late. He falls back. The broadcast angle girder. That was shock-ding! Do you believe in miracles? Yes, she is Kaiser Sosei. What an upset. Old Lady gives husband a throat full of chicken scissors to advance to the next round. Angle on canvas. Old Lady walks off as enforcer drags away husband's body. She seems unfazed by the whole thing. Broadcast angle. Insert tail at the table. Both gangsta and bodybuilder's photos are from an interview with enforcer. And now for the fight we've been waiting for. Versus tournaments always wind up with a couple of odds on favorites that can really fight. And this tournament is no exception. Gangsta certainly talks a good game, but can he back it up? He's six foot even, 180 pounds, and he's supposedly trying to go legit and get a real job. He better be too legit to quit, Mr. Jones, because look at the monster he's up against. Bodybuilder is 6'2", 260 pounds. He reportedly can bench-press 225 15 times, so he is strong like bull. And if you mess with the bull, you get the horns, right, Mr. Smith? Right you are, Mr. Jones. Basketball horn sounds. Let's go to the action! Angle on canvas. Gangsta and the bodybuilders are slowly circling. Light on their feet like professional boxers. They are holding fireplace pokers. They are no longer hateful toward each other. There is mutual respect, sadness, and understanding at what must be done. But before in the lobby, that wasn't real. This is. This ain't my choice, man, but I ain't going on like this. I know. None of us have a choice. I'm sorry, man. Me too. This is a fight between two athletic men who know how to move. They are not afraid of each other. They dance for a bit, then bodybuilder lands a blow, ripping a huge gash in Gangsta's shoulder. Blood flies everywhere. Gangsta falls, but doesn't cry out. Bodybuilder moves in for the kill with a big overhead swing, but Gangsta rolls out of the way just in time. Bodybuilder's poker point sticks in the canvas platform. From his prone position, Gangsta sweeps out with his poker and buries the point in bodybuilder's foot. Bodybuilder falls. He is now unarmed. Gangsta hops up and starts swinging his poker over and over at bodybuilder's head. Bodybuilder tries to fend off the blows, but after a couple of partial blocks, the poker point drives through his head. He screams in pain. He knows he's done for. Gangsta swings again and buries the point in bodybuilder's head. The point sticks. Bodybuilder twitches as Gangsta puts a foot on his head to fry the poker free. Broadcast angle, Gerter. Here the drummer gets wicked. I ain't saying nothing, but that ain't right. Gangsta keeps swinging, crushing the bodybuilder's skull, even though the man is clearly dead. He'd cry no moss, but I think being dead qualifies as a speech impediment. Angle on canvas. Enforcer runs onto the warehouse floor. He has to shock Gangsta to get him to stop. Gangsta stumbles to his cage. Broadcast angle, Gerter. Wow, that was everything we thought it would be. Gangsta is definitely the guy to beat now. Picture changes to close up of Gangsta in his cage, holding his right shoulder with his left hand. There is a lot of blood. Gangsta is in pain. Not so fast, Mr. Jones. Just take a look at that wound. Gangsta is losing blood fast. You can't hold your mud, Loudon. Well, folks, that's the end of round one. As you know, all bets you placed at the beginning are still valid, but we'll recalibrate the odds for round two. Feel free to put even more money on the line. We'll post the new odds right after promoter says a few words. Angle on canvas. Promoter is standing on the platform, which is now badly stained with blood, bits of bone, and clumps of brains. The enforcer and executioner stand with him. Congratulations! You have made it to the round of eight. You have shown you have what it takes to survive. Now you fight again to make it to the final four. The rules are the same. Win or die. Angle on Randall and Dana, they are clinging to the doors of their cages, fingers locked in the chain link. Let us go! Randall, shut up! Let us go, you motherfucker! All that you go, programmer! All you have to do is kill three more people. Win and you go free. Good luck to you all. Broadcast Angle. The bracket with the victors filled in. Well, Mr. Smith, Vegas is chimed in with the new odds. The loss of old man and bodybuilder really shook things up. Actor has jumped into the favorite role. He's at five to one odds to win it. Gangsta is eight to one, which is surprising. Like your mama, gangsta's got one ugly gash, Mr. Jones. The rest of the odds are listed on your screen from the sales guy at ten to one all the way down to old lady at three hundred and fifty to one. Insert tale of the tape, Randall versus Actor. Actor remains a number one seed. He should dust the programmer and move into the final four. Picture switches to enforce her pushing a cart, tossing cans of sudden coronary energy drink to the survivors. And look at that! The survivors get to fuel up with sudden coronary energy drinks, which does not endorse this tournament in any way, shape, or fashion. That's sudden coronary energy drinks. For those that don't really care about living past the age of thirty. Insert Randall's cage. Lock turns from red to green. The cage door slowly swings open. Get out there. Don't even have to. Over the shoulder shot. Camera follows Randall as he stumbles out of the cage in a daze. He walks to the platform. On the platform sits new weapons, heavy chains. He picks up the chain with a shaking hand. Angle on Actor. He won't come out of his cage. I won't do it. I won't kill another human being. Actor grabs his neck as he's shocked. He clutches the chain link cage with his fingers. He's fighting it, taking the shock. The shock grows more and more intense, but his will cannot be broken. Finally, the enforcer stops. Actor slides to the ground. Actor extends one hand and gives the bird. Go ahead. Kill me. I won't do it. That too. Interior monitor room. I believe he is serious. So am I. I have to wonder if he has some other motive, don't you? Other motive? Doesn't matter if he does. He's the favorite now. People want to see him fight. Don't worry. This ain't my first rodeo. Cut to interior warehouse. Angle on Actor lying limp. Actor, you need to fight. I won't play this sick game. Just shoot me. It's not you that will shoot. Can we turn your attention to the announcer's screen? Actor looks up, seems worried. Angle on the screen beside the announcers. The bracket fades away, replaced by a series of Facebook photos. A little boy on a swing set. Same boy with a birthday cake. Same boy laughing, being lifted and held by Actor. Actor is stunned. It's his son. I believe you know this handsome young lad. How did you- You idiots put your entire lives online for the whole world to see. We know so much about you. He's just a little kid. You wouldn't beat. The show must go on. He's just a child. Announcers screen splits, showing both the series of son photos and promoter's white mask face. Important people paid their money to watch this tournament. If I don't put on a show, those people will be angry with me. If they get angry with me, I get angry with you. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry, Actor. I... I can't... I... I can't kill again. If you kill the programmer, your child lives. If you die, either by the executioner's bullets or the programmer's hand, then we will kill your son. Actor nods. He has no choice, and he knows it. Oh, come on. If I win, I don't just kill him, I kill his son? Actor is a quitter. If his son's life isn't on the line, he just walk onto the platform and let you bash his brains in with that chain. The audience paid to see fighting, not suicide. Actor stands, takes a deep breath, strides out to the canvas. He picks up the heavy chain. It dangles as he talks. Programmer, I got no choice. My name is Randall. Yes. Randall, I... My son... This is bullshit. So if I win, I'm actually killing two people? That's not fair! Play the hand you've been dealt, programmer! My name is Randall, motherfucker! Basketball horn sounds. Actor wastes no time. He rushes to attack. Randall ducks Actor's first swing in the following backhand. Actor presses the attack. He times a swing that smashes into Randall's neck. Randall's collar saves him from a broken windpipe. Actor swings the chain, wraps it around Randall's left foot and yanks. Randall falls. Actor jumps on Randall, punches him in the face three times. Blood pours from Randall's nose and mouth. Randall jabs his thumb into Actor's eye. These men are fighting for their lives. Actor screams and mirrors back. Randall wraps his chain around Actor's neck, pulls as hard as he can. Randall is primitive, panicked, fighting on pure instinct and desperate will to live. Actor gasps, chokes. He claws at the chain, but his fingers can't move the metal. Actor struggles, weakens. Randall keeps pulling. Actor's eye is bulged out. He is dead. Broadcasting. Coon Birder. And that's why they play the game. If it bleeds, we can kill it. Does Marcellus Wallace look like a bitch, Mr. Smith? Well, he must because the programmer just treated him like a bitch. What a shocker. The programmer is the first member of the Final Four. Keep in mind this guy was a last second edition, then he was a 90 to 1 odds to win. Insert the Bracket. Randall's name moves into the Final Four slot. Angle on canvas. Randall stumbles back to his cage. He is going insane. He has brutally killed two people in the last half hour. Dana has no words to offer him this time. She sits with her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth, mumbling to herself. Insert Old Lady's Cage. Lock turns from red to green. Door swings open. Gangsta stumbles out of his cage. His arm is a sheet of blood. Where he once looked cocky and angry, he now looks like he can barely stay conscious. He falls onto the platform, smearing his blood on the canvas. He stands and picks up his weapon, a lead pipe. A shaking gangsta slowly looks up to face his opponent. Old Lady is holding a lead pipe. Basketball horn sounds. Angle on canvas. Gangsta stumbles forward, swings. Old Lady shows she's surprisingly nimble, moves out of the way fast, gangsta falls. She moves fast for an old lady. There's more to this girl than meets the eye, Mr. Smith. Old Lady winds up and hits gangsta in the head. Her swings aren't strong, but are steady, efficient, and powerful. Repeated strikes take their toll. After repeated blows, gangsta's skull caves in. Respect your elders, asshole. Old Lady stops, drops the pipe, then spits on gangsta. She walks off the canvas, holding both hands high in the number one symbol. Broadcast angle, girder. Break her off a little so she can't see. High in the number one symbol. Broadcast angle, girder. Break her off a little something, something, Mr. Jones. You say potato, I say that's one bad grandmother fucker. Two upsets in a row. This could be the versus tournament of all time. Anyone who bets she can make it into the final four just raked in the dough. Angle on Randall. He falls into a fetal position, then reaches for his collar. He pauses knowing a shock will come, but he has to try again. He grabs it, preparing to take the shock and try to rip off the collar, but no shock comes. He quickly lets go as if he's been caught doing something wrong. He grabs it again, slowly this time, still no shock. Hey, hey, listen. What? Are you alone? My collar is broken. No shocks. What? They don't know the triers. Dana reaches up and grabs her collar. It shocks her. God damn it. It must have happened when the actor hit me in the throat. Keep quiet about it. Maybe it will give us a chance. A buzz sounds as Dana's locks switches from red to green. She stands, head hung low. She starts to cry. She walks onto the platform. The weapons are crowbars. Dana picks hers up and waits. After a pause, cheerleader comes running out of her cage, hence clutching at her collar. Stop it. Stop it. Cheerleader gets on the platform. Her eyes are bloodshot from crying. Mascara streaks her face. Please, lady. I don't want to die. Then fight. I don't want to fight. Please. I can't help you. Basketball horn sounds. No. Jesus Christ, please help me. No. Dana looks to Randall. He is in his cage, fingers clutched in the chain-linked fence door. He can't help. No one can. Somebody, please, please help me. Dana is almost hyperventilating. She lets out a primal roar and rushes forward. Cheerleader screams in terror and does a quiet wheel away. Dana stops, surprised. She rushes cheerleader again. Cheerleader does flips across the canvas. She is going to stay away and is faster than Dana. Cheerleader's moves look oddly normal in her uniform. Dana's expression changes from sadness, fear, and surprise to anger. She's not going to die because this girl won't fight. Dana rushes forward again. The cheerleader flips away. As she finishes her flip, Dana throws the crowbar. It hits the cheerleader in the face. Cheerleader falls. Dana picks up her crowbar and swings twice more with sharp, strong strokes. The crowbar's claw head punching into cheerleader's face. Dana tries to pull it free, but it is stuck. The effort lifts cheerleader's head off the mat. The girl's eyes are still blinking when they close. Dana lets go. The girl falls to the canvas, dead. Dana runs back to her cage. Broadcast angle, announcers. Doing it and doing it and doing it well. The Dyke is in the Final Four. You have to think she's a lot for the finals, Mr. Smith. Old Lady is a plucky broad, but come on! The Dyke looks unstoppable. Who knows, Mr. Jones? Maybe Old Lady Luck will win again. Picture switches to photos of Boss Lady and Sales Guy. Let's go down to our final second round match. Picture switches to shot of Boss Lady striding out to the platform. Inset, the tail of the tape, between Boss Lady and Sales Guy. Let's go down to the action. Angle on canvas. Boss Lady and Sales Guy prepare to fight. They are holding branch cutters. Five foot long wooden shafts with jagged 12 inch saws on the end. You ready to die, asshole? I don't want to hurt you. It works for me because I certainly want to hurt you. She lunges at him, thrusting and stepping forward repeatedly. The Sales Guy backpedals quickly. He was unprepared for such a fast assault. Angle on Randall and Dana. Look how he moves! I'm telling you, this guy is good. What do you want me to do about it? You better watch him. He could be facing him in the finals. Him? Or you? Randall says nothing. He hadn't thought that far ahead. Angle on canvas. Sales Guy circles around the outside edge of the platform. The Boss Lady attacks constantly. Sales Guy slips on the edge and briefly loses his balance. Boss Lady reaches out and cuts Sales Guy across the lower leg. Broadcast angle girder. Close shot of Boss Lady's snarling face. Oh, she drew first blood! She's a bitch, Mr. Jones, and we wouldn't want it any other way. Angle on canvas. He covers, limping. His expression changes. He spins the branch cutter like a martial arts staff. This guy has combat skills. Angle on Randall, nodding. Cut to interior control room. Knock it off, you idiot. Is there a problem? Uh, no. No problem. Cut to interior warehouse floor. Boss Lady attacks again, but Sales Guy parries and goes on the offensive. He stabs a couple of times, then swings an overhand attack. Boss Lady lifts her trimmer to block. Sales Guy's trimmer snaps hers in half. The blow cuts her face. The lower half of her trimmer skits to a halt in front of Randall's cage. Broadcast angle girder. Close shot on Boss Lady. Half of her face dangles from exposed skin and muscle. One hand tries to push her bloody face back into place. The other weakly brandishes a half length of trimmer. She's hurt. Terrified. I guess you could say Sales Guy trimmed her lead. Oh, that's bad. Broadcast picture switches to a wide shot of the fight. Sales Guy fakes low, drawing down Boss Lady's guard, and he quickly goes up, his saw blade slicing Boss Lady's throat. She falls, hands clutching her gushing throat. Booyah! Bye-bye, baseball. This one's over. Sales Guy throws down the branch trimmer, and then back to his cage. He seems like a completely different person. Angle on Randall's cage. Randall is looking down at the broken piece of trimmer shaft. Insert trimmer shaft. Randall can see that the shaft is broken, but there are several neat drill holes in addition to the splintered wood. What the hell? Randall looks up, sees that the Sales Guy is looking right at him with a cold, chilling stare. Their eyes meet. Randall knows the fights are fixed for the Sales Guy, and the Sales Guy knows that Randall knows. Then Forcer hustles out and picks up the broken shaft, then drags away Boss Lady's body. Broadcast angle. The bracket again. Only four names left. Programmer, Sales Guy, Dana, and Old Lady. And then there were four. Upset central, Mr. Jones, not a one-seat left in the tourney. Angle on Randall's cage. Announcers' voices continue to rattle on about the big matchups. Background noise. Hey. What? I think the Sales Guy's a plant. A plant? What do you mean? Boss Lady's broken trimmer handle. There were drill holes in it. What does that mean? It means her weapon was sabotaged. It was going to break the first time that she used it to block. But why? Sales Guy is in this, the same as us. It's gotta be the betting. Sales Guy's a ringer. They have this fixed. So he wins, maybe. So what are you gonna do? Randall thinks he has to get his mind around going on the offensive instead of just fighting to stay alive. I'm not gonna be their pawn. If I make a move, get you out of this cage, will you fight with me? You can get us out of here? I don't know. I'm done waiting here to die. If I pull it off, you're gonna have to kill. You can't hesitate. Can you do that? Make it happen, Blaa. Randall puts his hand palm up on the cage, as if he's pressing against a window pane. Dana puts her hand up, matching his. Their hands touch through the chain link fence. It's not a love moment, but a bond forged through combat. They're in this together. Insert Randall's lock. The light switches from green to red. Medium shot. Slow motion on Randall. He turns to walk out of the cage. He's not the same terrified man he was a few hours ago. He's a warrior, ready to fight and die. Broadcast angle, Girder. Mean-faced Randall stepping out of his cage and striding to the platform. Wow, just look at the programmer. Looks as mean as a hungry werewolf with a cattle prods suppository. He's not the same diary of a wimpy man we saw in the beginning fo' shizzle, but he's still got to beat Sales Guy to reach the finals. Angle on canvas. Randall steps onto the platform. Sales Guy is standing there holding a sword. Sales Guy is barefoot. His bloody socks are tied tight around his ankle, where Boss Lady cut him. Randall looks down, reaches, comes up with his own sword. Inserts sword blade. There are several tiny pinholes in Randall's blade. It will break the first time Randall blocks a really strong hit. Cut to interior control room. Executioner is again seated, a new handkerchief on his chair. The old handkerchief sits on the floor. Promoter is watching the monitors, which show Randall closely examining the blade. Oh, shit. Is there something wrong with his weapon? Promoter realizes he almost let it slip again. No, it's fine. Don't worry about it. Is there anything you'd like to share with me? Uh, no. No. Let's just watch the fight. Cut to interior warehouse. Angle on canvas. Sales Guy is trying to look afraid, but it's a bad acting job. Basketball horn sounds. Randall turns, runs off the mat, and sprints at the enforcer. Enforcer is surprised. He pushes Randall's button, but nothing happens. Momentarily confused, the enforcer pushes the button again and again as Randall closes in. The enforcer drops the panel and reaches for his pistol, but it's too late. Randall swings. The enforcer dives back, trips over his chair, turning the chair over and landing on the other side. Randall runs around behind the chair, drives the sword through the enforcer's heart. Broadcast angle announcers. Uh, what the hell is this? That's not supposed to happen. Angle on warehouse floor. Sales Guy sees what happened, runs toward Randall. Randall picks up the control panel and starts hitting buttons. Insert Dana's cage. Her lock turns from red to green. She comes rushing out. Insert old lady's cage. Her lock turns from red to green. The door swings open. An evil smile creeps across her face. That's my good little geek. Angle on canvas. Dana rushes onto the canvas and grabs Randall's sword. Sales Guy sees her, slows down, trying to keep his eye on the double thread of Randall and Dana. Randall finds the Sales Guy's shock button. He hits it. Sales Guy just winces. Come on, come on. Hey, mine's just well enough so I know when I'm being shocked. You idiot. Cluck to interior control room. Promoter in middle ground, enforcer in background. The enforcer heard what Sales Guy just said. He slowly reaches for his luger. Come to interior warehouse floor. Broadcast Angle announcers. They don't know what to do. What the fuck? It's aint in the script, man. As they stare, we see old lady's hand reach into the weapons bin. Normal angle. Sales Guy rushes at Randall. Randall realizes enforcer has a gun. He tries to pull it out of the holster, but it sticks. Sales Guy closes and swings. Randall ducks behind the chair that is between him and the Sales Guy. Sales Guy's swing cuts into the chair. It sticks a little. He tries to pull it free as Randall again tries for enforcer's gun. Angle on announcers. Let's get the fuck out of here. I heard that. A shovel swings down, hits Mr. Jones on the back of the head. He falls, clutching the now bleeding spot. Surprised Mr. Smith turns to face the attacker. Old lady is there with a bowie knife. Smith hesitates a moment. That's all she needs. Old lady stabs him in the stomach. Mr. Smith falls backward on top of Mr. Jones' legs. Old lady dives on Mr. Jones, stabs him in the shoulder. She pulls the knife out to strike again, but this time he gets his hands up and grabs her wrists. Old lady snarls. The knife point hovers just inches from Mr. Jones' face and it's getting closer. Angle on Randall. Sales guy pulls the sword free and swings again. Randall falls back to his ass, barely avoiding the blow which cuts into enforcer's corpse. Sales guy pulls the blade free, raises it to strike. He's got Randall cold. Randall raises his arm. Just as sales guy starts to swing down, a bloody sword point juts out of his chest. Dana stabbed him from behind. Sales guy falls. Thank God. Get that gunplay. Let's fly. Randall kneels down and tries to yank the gun free from the holster. It's buttoned. He didn't notice. As he undoes the flap, promoter runs out of the control room. Dana smiles. She wants payback. She starts to move toward promoter, but stops when there is a gunshot. Her forehead blows out in an exit move. No! Angle on executioner was a few feet behind promoter. Executioner's luger is pointed, a curl of smoke trailing out of the barrel. The executioner turns to fire, but Randall pulls the enforcer's gun free and fires off three hurried shots. Executioner dives for cover. Two of Randall's shots miss. The third grazes promoter in the arm. promoter spins and goes down. A series of angles. Executioner finds cover at the edge of the canvas. He rises up and starts shooting. Now Randall has to stay ducked behind the chair. An ozwer's platform. Old lady is on top of Mr. Jones trying to drive the bowie knife into his face. Trapped by both her weight and the weight of Mr. Smith's body, he is barely holding her off. He kicks, knocking over the weapons bin. A shovel bounces across the floor, stopping near the executioner's feet. Executioner pops up and fires three shots, barely missing Randall, who hides behind the chair, terrified, looking for a chance to shoot. promoter dives in front of the announcer's platform. In the foreground, we see executioner aiming. In the middle ground, we see old ladies struggling with Mr. Jones. In the background, we see Randall trying to overcome his fear and get off a shot. promoter. promoter crawls to Dana, pulls the sword out of her hand. Angle on Randall. Terrified, panicking, Randall pops up and fires three shots as he moves to hide behind the announcer's platform. Old lady. Get off him, you old bitch! Granny's got a treat for you, punk! She lets go of the knife with her right hand, reaches down and punches Mr. Jones in the nuts. He gasps in pain and his arm loses strength. Old lady grabs the bowie knife with both hands and puts her chest on top of the hilt, driving the knife point slowly into Mr. Jones' heart. Wait! Oh god, no! Mr. Jones twishes once, then dies. promoter stands with the sword, looking for somewhere to run. Executioner sees promoter, calmly stands, aims at the white-suited man. Put the weapon down. Randall, he comes around far side of announcer's table. He has a clean shot on the executioner who is looking at the promoter. Randall stands, has the drop on executioner. Die, motherfucker. Randall pulls the trigger, but his revolver clicks on empty. Ain't that a pisser? Okay, I need Randall, die motherfucker, and old lady, ain't that a pisser way bigger on both of those. Okay. That was the sexy version. Your sexy version is gonna get you killed in this crap. Die, motherfucker! Randall pulls the trigger, but his revolver clicks on empty. Ain't that a pisser? Executioner pauses for only a second, then turns and shoots old lady. She falls on top of Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. Before Randall can react, executioner aims the luger at him. Come out of there, programmer. Now. Randall pauses, then walks out. It's over. Go ahead. Get it over with. No. I believe your services are still needed. Promoter's left arm is pressed against his left leg. Bright red blood stains his all-white suit. He still holds a bloody sword in his left hand. What are you gonna do? I'm not going to do anything. He's going to finish the tournament. You fucking moron. Who's he gonna fight, huh? Everyone is dead! Executioner slowly moves his aim from Randall to promoter. Not everyone. Promoter realizes what's happening. What? In a way, you're a defending champion. I think the audience would love to watch you defend your title. Are you out of your mind? I'm not in the show. I run the show. Our customers pay to see a championship match. They're going to see a championship match. This is ridiculous. Kill the sound feed for a moment. Beat. It's cut. We're quiet, but still have visual. Our employers suspected you were fixing the fights. That's why they sent me to make sure you were acting in a proper fashion. And to take care of things if you were not. Fix the... that's ridiculous. He did fix it. Sales guy was a plant. Look at my sword. Executioner keeps his aim on both of them as he walks over to the enforcer and pulls Randall's sword out of the dead body. Executioner looks carefully. Insert the tiny pinholes in the sword. Executioner tosses the sword at Randall's feet. You are correct, programmer. I didn't know anything about that. Executioner fires around at promoter's feet, interrupting the man's protest. Enough talk. But... but I'm wounded. I won't bother with the shock collar. Get on that platform, pick up your weapon, or I'll shoot you. You too, programmer. My name is Randall. I think you have more important things to worry about at the moment. Pick up your weapon. Randall picks up the sword. But it's gonna break. I am starting to get bored with all of this. You can either get on that platform and have a chance to live, or stay off of it and simply be dead. No more warnings. Randall and promoter get onto the platform. Turn on the sound. Let them hear all of it. Sound back on. We're live with audio and visual. Broadcast angle. Randall and promoter on the canvas. Normal footage. Angle on Randall. He wants this fight. Maybe he'll die, but it's a chance to avenge Dana's death, Samantha's death, the death of all these innocent people. Executioner walks to the announcer's table. He reaches up to the control panel and hits a button. Basketball horn sounds. The promoter moves instantly, swinging his sword in a long-reaching stroke that catches Randall in the right shoulder. Randall howls in pain. Blood pours down his arm. You like that? Randall swings faster than we would ever expect. The point of his sword cuts across the promoter's mask, sending it flying in two pieces. Promoter's hand covers his bleeding face. He pulls the hand away. It's Joseph Cameranelli. You! Joseph reaches into his pocket and pulls out Randall's keys. Insert keys in the silver flash drive. I told you not to fuck around! Randall knows that as messed up as this is, promoter is at least a little correct. Randall could have walked out had he not copied the information. And what about Dana? The dyke! She wanted to sneak off and try and get another job. That's not my problem. Randall screams, rushes in. AHHHHHHHHHHH! Joseph easily parries the thrust, cuts Randall in the leg. RANDALL IS HURT, bleeding BAD. He's in pain. RANDALL SCREAMS Joseph puts the keys back in his pocket. He is stalking Randall. Joseph looks very confident, despite his wounded arm. What? You thought I couldn't fight? Take a look up there, asshole! Joseph gestures to the canvases hanging up above, pointing at the one marked with the Roman numeral one. Who do you think won the first bracket tournament? It was me! Joseph is stalking back and forth. Randall keeps his sword point up, but he's hurt pretty bad, and he's getting weaker. You fought in one of these? How could you make other people go through it? At first I wouldn't fight. So they killed my son. My son. You think I give a shit about anyone else? I fought, and I won. I took the million dollars and started IDG. And you used that as a front for more tournaments? It wasn't like I could just go back to our normal life now, could I? Someone did it to me, so I did it to someone else. That's karma. Joseph rushes in fast, cuts Randall across the thigh. Joseph dances away. He's enjoying this. He talks to the cameras. Broadcast angle, angle on Joseph. He's disturbingly gleeful, excited to fight, almost on the verge of insanity. Woo! How's this for drama, folks? Did you miss the champ? Yeah, what a fight. Ha ha ha! What a finish. Randall is weak. He staggers, barely able to raise his sword. And now, it's time to end this bullshit. Now, you die, programmer. Angle on canvas. Randall watches. He holds the sword horizontally near his waist. Slow motion. Joseph starts to run in. Randall has a hand on the sword hill, another near the tip. He brings the flat of the sword down hard on his knee. The metal breaks at the pinholes. As Joseph rushes in, Randall throws the top part of the sword at Joseph. The sharp flying object makes Joseph flinch. Coming in fast, the flinch throws him off balance, makes him stumble. Randall steps to the side as Joseph comes in. With both hands on the hilt, Randall swings his shortened sword hard, slicing through Joseph's neck and decapitating him. Normal speed. Joseph's severed head bounces, then rolls to a stop on top of the bottom half of his white mask. Randall stands over Joseph's corpse, victorious. He kneels, screams at the corpse. My name is Randall! You asshole! The sound of one man clapping echoes through the warehouse. Executioner gently claps, still holding his luger. Nicely done, programmer. You won. Randall stands, faces the executioner. So... So now are you gonna kill me? Are you still breathing? Yeah. Then no, I'm not going to kill you. People ask such stupid questions. Randall falls onto his ass. Close shot. Randall cut on the arm, the leg, the forehead. His eye is blackened, he's covered in blood. I am not gonna let this shit. I'm calling the cops. The same law enforcement officials that would watch a video of you murdering four people. The words shock Randall. He never considered that. But... it was self-defense. Not when my employers are finished editing the video. The bodies of your victims will be spread around the city. If you talk, if you say anything, the police will see you killing those people. You'll be on death row. Randall is screwed. Life as he knew it is over. What do I do now? It would seem that the promoter position is suddenly available. Are you seeking gainful employment? Executioner hands Randall a card, insert business card. The card has a phone number, nothing else. Call that if you want the position. Executioner reaches under the wreckage of the announcer's table and pulls out a metal briefcase. He opens it, sets it at Randall's feet. The winner's purse. One million dollars. Enjoy. Angle on briefcase from Randall's POV. Stacks of hundreds. Randall caresses the money, leaving bloody streaks on some of it. He wipes his hands and stuffs a stack into his pocket. Is it okay if I... hear my car keys? Yes, but I wouldn't recommend driving in your condition. You need a doctor, and I do think you should avoid ambulances. You think a cab is gonna pick me up looking like this? Randall gestures to himself soaked in blood. Executioner points to the money in the suitcase. Wave one of those stacks around. I don't think there will be an issue. Randall reaches into promoter's pocket, insert key chain with flash drive. Randall pockets the keys slowly as if he's waiting for Executioner to figure out he has secret information. But Executioner just stares. Someone's gonna pay. What's that? I'm... really in pain. Executioner walks to the production room, stops at the door. On the back of my card is the number for a doctor. He will take care of you. No questions asked. Insert, Randall flips the card over. A handwritten address. He takes cash. Randall looks up at Executioner. What about the actor's son? Are you gonna kill him? Why is everyone so obsessed with death around here? The actor did what we asked. His boy will not be touched. But what if he doesn't have a mother? I will see to the boy's welfare. You should worry about bleeding to death. Farewell, Randall. Executioner walks into the production room and he is gone. Randall hears a moan from the broadcast table. He closes the briefcase, runs to the table. Old lady is trying to sit up. Randall has seen her in action, knows she's dangerous. Where's the douchebag that shot me? He's gone. We get to live. You just gonna stand there pulling your putt? Are you gonna take me to a goddamn hospital? The old lady's dress is covered in blood. Randall moves to help her, then sees something, backs away quickly. What's your problem? Put down the chicken scissors. Old lady glares, then smiles. She pulls her hand out from behind her back. She's holding the same scissors she had from her first fight. She slides them inside her collar, grunts as she cuts the collar free. She tosses the scissors at Randall's feet. He carefully starts cutting his own collar. Good thing for you, the fucker left. What's that? That championship was mine, you skinny fuck. You got lucky. Randall's collar falls free. He tosses the shears away. Should he help her? He gets under her shoulder and helps her to her feet. Credits roll over. Together Randall and old lady walk to the production room. We see the equipment used by promoter and the others. Randall finds another door. They find stairs, climb a flight. We start to hear traffic sounds filtering in. They climb a second flight, passed by the server room door. Traffic gets louder as they go up. Cut to interior lobby day. Randall and old lady walk through lobby toward interior garage door. Randall's hands on the garage door controller. Cut to exterior garage door day. Door slowly rolls up. Dramatic reveal of bloody Randall and old lady. They step out into bright sunlight. Garage door stays open. They blink, adjusting their eyes. People stop and stare. Traffic goes by. Randall raises a hand for a cab. Two cabs ignore him. He pulls the stack of hundreds out of his pocket, waves it. Cab screeches to a halt. Randall helps the old lady in. Hands the driver three $100 bills. The cab drives off. Camera stays fixed on garage door throughout. Randall limps back into the garage, disappearing from sight. Beat. Randall's car drives out of the garage, drives down the street. Garage door starts to slowly close. It stops. It goes back up. Engineer drives out. He stops. Shades his eyes to look after Randall's direction. Engineer nods, smiles, then drives the other way. Garage door slowly closes. Fade to black. Good job everybody.