Someone got feared this afternoon by a clumsy Caltrain. Well, they got deaded, but before that I expect they got (iPhone autocorrect) feared. Probably clumsy person rather than clumsy train.
So I find myself in San Mateo waiting to be rescued and, curiously ambling along South B Street I encounter an Irish pub which draws me in with its Guinnessly wiles. I succumb and am rewarded with the shadow of the word Guinness cast obliquely onto its head through the glass and with a trickle of memories, or rather feelings… The gloom, the chatting people and the music.
I’m sorry someone died…
Moscow, Russia, 6 weeks before final cut of The Bourne Ultimatum
Scene: a small hotel room, mostly dark except where a lamp dimly illuminates the bedside table, on which we see an old black telephone, a packet of Gauloises, and an old sliver flip lighter. From out of picture left we hear indistinctly two arguing voices approaching outside. Suddenly, we hear a loud bang as one of the men is slammed into the hotel room door.
Ðо Ñ Ð½Ðµ могу, Ñто невозможно!” (shouting in Russian – subtitles: “But I cannot, it is impossible!”)
“ЕÑли у Ð½Ð°Ñ Ð½ÐµÑ‚ пленки в течение трех недель, вы подохнете!” (subtitles: “If we do not have the film in three weeks, you will die!”)
Another loud thump… running footsteps… a car door slams… screech of tires. Silence.
A key turns in the lock, and in staggers the Editor. A tall thin man, his clothes are ruffled. His face is mostly in shadow but we can discern a cut on his left cheek. His eyes are set into deep sleepless sockets. The door clicks shit behind him and he pauses for a moment in the hallway.
“God gammit!” he shouts suddenly, punching the wall. “It’s impossible!”
He walks into the room
Someone got feared this afternoon by a clumsy Caltrain. Well, they got deaded, but before that I expect they got (iPhone autocorrect) feared. Probably clumsy person rather than clumsy train.