El diablo asustado (the frightened devil)

Scene inspired by Kirilov's sucide scene on F. Dostoyevski's the

devils and ending sequence on Werner Herzog's Stroszek.

1.Int. Kitchen, night.

Half-rural house, located on the borders of an urban scenario.
Frontal Middle Frame.
Big wall dressed with flower patterns. The place is stiffed with
kitchen dishes, spatulas, dirty small towels, etc. In the middle of
the frame KIRILOV (mid 50's, poorly shaved face, deep facial lines)
waits sitting while appears the title in small brown letters.
With a slightly alcoholic mood he observes outside of the frame from
where we may hear the constant and loud noises of someone's eating.
Four living chickens are standing or crossing through the table,
disturbing around. Kirilov playfully strokes them from time to time.
On the other side of the table an old rifle lays.
When KIRILOV speaks he does it somehow randomly, filled with
interruptions in an uneven and paced, half drunk, rhythm. He allways
seems to be talking a little bit for himself:

KIRILOV
...and it's enough to do one thing like
that. Just one...
I'm saying... he never used to touch
anything with his fingers besides bread.
Besides the bread.
He was that good with knife and fork that
he could leave a piece of chicken cleaner
than you with your teeth...
uhm...
fish: knife and fork...
ribs... chops, wings, legs, the goddam'
cow's ankles:
knife and fork

Knife and fork

Knife and fork... you name it.
He would drie the fat out of the beef
ribs. They'd remain smoothed... the way
they remain in a cow after months laying
dead in the field.
(stops, swallowes a snut. (silence) the sound of the second
person eating and nodding prevales. KIRILOV looks in his
direction with displaseur. One of the chicken stands on the tip
of the rifle)...
A
full
gentleman.
gentleman (hold) ...

He

was.

full

... I bet the food organized itself while

on his mouth. I can not even imagine
chicken and potatoes mixing together
inside in between bites, just to say
something. He probably had
adressed
teeth, y'know?, haha-hmpf
(laughs for himself on his own idea,
chokes a little)
... The kind of person from which you'd
think the food he swallows once in his
stomach has kept his shape.
Besides that, his teeth were allways so
clean. And it's weird 'cause, when it
comes to other things, clean clean that
you'd say, he wasn't. It's not like I
mean dirty either...
Abruptly he stops. A chicken draws his atention out of frame.
He clumsily tries to get to the chicken and moves from his place.
Frame opens: we discover the back of PIOTR diskised by the light
(48, still dressed in his coat), who's been eagerly eating and
stops himself in the middle of a bite when the moving KIRILOV

pushes the table and the dish with the food slides.
Without actually stoping from chewing, PIOTREK looks at KIRILOV
condescendent, as urging him to finish his speech.
KIRILOV
(coming back to his place)... The art
prevales in knowing how to wipe with the
fork's tip the edge of the bones. But,
you know, it's not just precisely that.
There were all of us assholes, all of the
other assholes, so concerned about our
manners.
Eating as some source of imposed thing
for which everyone is wearing his tight
diskise While he was allways taking the
silverware for the first time. The only
one taking the fork again after something
else. The only one that was actually
choosing it everytime and... no, he never
used his hands but with the bread. The
food must be organized by colors in
there... (laughs again for himself), and
the teeth adressed to, who knows,
acids
solids
craking
softers
on the left ones, upper ones, under (He
makes gestures with his hands and slight
onomatopoeic sounds with his lips...) He
probably dosen't even used the tongue.
Just to do one think like that. Just one.
And the way in which food vanished over
his plate
Like seeing someone eat perfume
Kirilov runs out of words. Looks into the space in front

of him, where Piotr takes the last bite to his mouth and
stops at the same time. He is using fork and knife.
Roughly.
So what... you're going or no?
He pushes the rifle from the other side of the table in
his direction.
They both look at it and at each other. There's no fear or suprise in
KIRILOV's eyes. Barely an unexpected calm and softness, he looks at
the table sideways as much as to his guest.
Takes the gun calmly.
Looks at it.

KURILOV
This things make a horrible noice.
Stands up and walks into the next room closing the door behind him.
PIOTR stays alone. Seems immutably satisfied.
Waits for the sound of the gun on the other side which refuses to
come.
The seconds pass and the door keeps silent. The room seems suddenly
bigger, the initial triumphal expression on PIOTR'S face slowly turns
into anxiety while he expects for the unwilling gun thunder. He gives
a couple of steps into the door's direction.
He doesn't dare to cross it. Instead he walks back to the other side
of the room, searching something to disguisse the upcoming and
telltale sound.
In an almost thoughtless way he turns on every firebox on the stove
at the same time. Pours a pressure cooker filled with water to the
fire.
Opens wide the faucet and allows a buckett to fill slowly with the
water.

Tights a long cord from a chicken's leg to the buckett's handle and
at last he holds another one botween his hands which begins to flap.
Piotr seems to find some source of relief in the increasing noice and
sits in the middle of the room, right in front of the door again.
The door keeps silent. But a series of other sounds in the room start
to accumulate in the space. The pressure cooker releases it's steam;
the water fills the bucket which in turn falls all over the chicken,
which grows mad and starts running all over, pulling the bucket down,
hitting another anxious chicken and running all over the place, etc.
Sonny Terry's song Sonny's Squall plays in the soundtrack,
gathering together with the reigning chaos, and imposing a cheerful
rhythm that grows accumulating.
In the middle of it all, PIOTR finds a momentary lapse of calm before
standing and going inside the room.
If there where any gun shot, anyway it wouldn't be heard.