Phil

The Hollywood system did not murder David Kahane. Not the $98 million movie, not the $12 million actor, nor the million-dollar deal that David Kahane never landed. No, the most that we can pin on Hollywood is assault with intent to kill, because society is responsible for this particular murder, and it is to society that we must look if we are to have any justice for that crime. Because someone in the night killed David Kahane, and that person will have to bear the guilt. And if David were here right now, I know in my heart that he, he would say, "Cut the shit, Phil. What did you learn from this? Did you learn anything from all of this?" And I'd say, uh, "Yeah, David, I've learned a lot. We here will take it from here." And the next time we sell a script for a million dollars, the next time we nail some shit bag producer to the wall, we'll say that's another one for David Kahane! David was working on something the day he died, I'd like to share it with you.

Blackness. A mangy dog barks. Garbage cans are lifted as derelicts on the street hunt for food. Buzzing, a cheap alarm clock goes off. Interior: flophouse room, early morning. A tracking shot moves through the grimy room. Light streams in through holes in the yellowing window shade. Moths dance in the beams of light. Track down along the floor, the frayed rug, stop on an old shoe. It's empty.

That's as far as he got. That's the last thing he wrote. So long, Dave. Fade out. Thank you.