A LONDON STREET - NIGHT
IN THE ROADWAY
A soaking wet black men's dress shoe is sitting on its side...lonely...curiously abandoned...as if it were discarded, or ejected from a passing car.
It's damaged slightly, scuffed, resting in a shallow murky puddle.
The sound of a speeding lorry, horn sounding, fast approaching. The lorry screams past, revealing a blindfolded man, 30, hands tied behind his back as he runs, stumbling into the motorway, falling to his knees. One look at him and we realize he's been worked over pretty good.
He's the unfortunate fellow who happens to be missing a single black shoe.
He tries to stand, leaning his head forward for balance, and he's almost struck by a series of cars, which continue on at high velocity, not noticing him in the darkness. Trucks thunder past, lights surging, hair-raising near misses, another, and another still, as he runs towards the centre lane, woefully helpless, oblivious to the perils as he inadvertently kicks an empty windshield washer fluid container littering the motorway.
He lurches, stepping on the spent container, which shatteres partially, allowing his foot to become stuck in it. He tries to get it off.
He's like a spooked, wayward dog who wandered onto the motorway; it's just a matter of time before he's killed. Another car illuminates him in its headlights. a ghastly image, for we can see blood on his shirt; we can see cuts and bruises.
Only thing certain here is Eddie Arlette has seen better nights.
The car manages to swerve into another lane, missing him by centimeters, continuing on its way, horn blaring. Veering in the wrong direction, as he finally frees his foot from the container, Eddie is spun around violently by another car, its chassis barely grazing him, sending him to the ground hard on the inside lane.
A massive lorry is speeding towards him like a freight train. Eddie turns to face the thundering noise, headlights brilliant, drawn to them like a moth. He steps one step... a small side step... the step that will save his life.
The lorry thunders past, no more than half a yard from his face. Eddie leans back, quite sure death is almost upon him, fighting the powerful suction of its air stream.
In a moment, he's lost his balance, feeling himself succumbing to the pull, instinctively, he heaves backwards, tumbling over the median, disappearing, falling down fifteen feet to the on ramp running below the motorway.
Lights illuminate him as he hits the pavement. A car screeches to a halt, swerving past him, just... missing... his head. The car jams into reverse and backs up, stopping at Eddie. Three men quickly get out and collect him.
One of them, Fishy, the largest, grabs his head and shoulders. The other, Bernard, takes his feet. The third, wearing a Cheap Trick t-shirt, opens the back door as they stuff Eddie into the car, looking around, hoping to not be observed.
Cheap Trick sees something on the ground where Eddie fell and runs to get it. It's his wallet, open, exposing a shiny gold NYPD Police shield. Cheap Trick picks it up, considering it, lost in it for a moment.
Put a jerk in it! yells Fishy. He runs back to the car, as called, and they speed off into the night.
In a moment, silence on the roadside. As if they were never there.
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I walk in to The Sticky Wicket Inn, London's finest American and Scottish ex-pat pub. One-Ball Bill waves me over to the U.S. side of the bar. I offer an apologetic nod to Johnny Red and his snarling Scottish defenders. One-Ball starts laughing at his partner. Snubbing Scotland is high on One-Ball's list of inciting the blood feud with his red-headed brother-in-law.