EXT. MACARTHUR PARK 1992, LOS ANGELES – NIGHT
A crescent moon shines on the park.
Swans drift, sleepy on the lake.
The leafy trees glow intermittently with small soft lights.
Shady figures move under the trees.
SUPER: MACARTHUR PARK, 1992
CLOSER UNDER TREES
JORGE DIEGO, 30ish; he sweats – something is wrong.
DON DIEGO, Jorge’s son, 5 years old, points up to the trees-
Where fairy lights slowly glow. On. Off. On. Off. On…
“Papa, what are the pretty lights?”
“Witches, Don Diego…”
Jorge grimaces, suddenly grabs his stomach.
Pain. Tries not to let his son know –
“…To steal our souls.”
Don reaches out for his father.
A moment. Worried.
“Papa? Can we go home?”
“No. I’ve got business.”
With a loud <GROAN>, Jorge doubles over.
His face contorts in pain.
EXT. MACARTHUR PARK, THE PRESENT – NIGHT
Another man’s face, beat to a bloody pulp, distorted in pain.
AZTLÁN, in his 30s, skinny, prison tats, shaved head.
He’s curled on the ground.
OFFICERS JEN CTVRTLANIK and VIRGIL DIAZ pound Aztlán.
OFFICER DIAZ accentuates his kicks.
“Don’t. You. Ever. Mouth. Off.”
Clubs and black cop shoes slam down on his body.
Aztlán gushes red.
“To. An. Officer. Got that, Aztlan?”
WIDE ON MACARTHUR PARK
Beside the police, a high cement wall.
SUPER: MACARTHUR PARK, 20 YEARS LATER
A man crouches in silhouette crouches high atop the wall.
SERIES OF SHOTS
His eyes narrow as he watches the assault-
Shoves a black bandana over his face.
Pulls low rider sunglasses down.
Spits in palm.
Slicks his pompadour, over the low hair net.
Pulls on black gloves.
Leaps from the wall.
Black Converse hit the dirt… He <CLICKS> his tongue.
The Officers turn.
“It’s that shitbird, Zorro!”
ZORRO: slight, fit; wearing old school 70’s/80’s.
Wife beater, high belted pants, long zoot suit chain.
Sunglasses and banana hide his face.
A harness with spray cans on his belt.
Zorro smiles at Officers Jen Ctvrtlanik and Virgil Diaz.
On the ground, Aztlán groans.
Ready when you are.
SERIES OF SHOTS
Diaz lunges forward.
Zorro’s fist pops his switch blade, then throws it.
Diaz’s pant cuff pinned to a tree.
Zorro whips his chain thought the air.
Ctvrtlanik’s legs tangle in the chain.
She hits the ground, hard.
Diaz tears his pant leg free.
Swings at Zorro.
Zorro steps aside, they barely brush.
Diaz reaches for his gun.
The holster is empty.
Zorro twirls the police gun around his finger.
Levels the gun at Diaz.
Diaz falls to his knees.
“Oh please, no…”
Zorro shoves the gun to Diaz’s temple.
“Look at me.”
“I’ve got a family.”
Zorro pulls the gun away.
“You know, you can’t trust these things…”
Zorro shrugs and tosses the gun into the bushes.
“Cause someone could get hurt.”
Diaz lunges for Zorro.
Zorro is ready with a spray can.
A stream of paint sprays into Diaz’s face.
The paint blasts Diaz’s eyes.
Zorro makes a “Z” on the Diaz’s face.
“Never did no one no harm.”
EXT. MACARTHUR PARK, MOMENTS LATER
Close on the cement wall, on colorful arcs of spraying paint.
The color plumes into a brilliant design.
This city could use a little more
Zorro backs up from painting.
Smiles at his spray paint creation.
The two officers are on the ground, in their own handcuffs.
Aztlán wipes blood from his eyes.
He smiles as he watches Zorro paint.
“You are one twisted vato.”
With a flourish, Zorro adds his “Z” tag to his graffiti.