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3INT -- PLYMOUTH -- NIGHT (1946)

ANDY DUFRESNE, mid-20's, wire rim glasses, three-piece suit. Under normal circumstances a respectable, solid citizen; hardly dangerous, perhaps even meek. But these circumstances are far from normal. He is disheveled, unshaven, and very drunk. A cigarette smolders in his mouth. His eyes, flinty and hard, are riveted to the bungalow up the path. He can hear them fucking from here. He raises a bottle of bourbon and knocks it back. The radio plays softly, painfully romantic, taunting him: You stepped out of a dream... You are too wonderful... To be what you seem... He opens the glove compartment, pulls out an object wrapped in a rag. He lays it in his lap and unwraps it carefully -- -- revealing a .38 revolver. Oily, black, evil. He grabs a box of bullets. Spills them everywhere, all over the seats and floor. Clumsy. He picks bullets off his lap, loading them into the gun, one by one, methodical and grim. Six in the chamber. His gaze goes back to the bungalow. He shuts off the radio. Abrupt silence, except for the distant lovers' moans. He takes another shot of bourbon courage, then opens the door and steps from the car.