Episode One - YELLOW AMENDS - 10/04/12
4.
A look for the COPPER and he’s striding away, disappearing into the darkness... INT. DOCKSIDE WAREHOUSE - NIGHT 1/6 A FIST strikes out toward us. And a man’s nose SPLINTERS beneath it. The atavistic roar of a crowd greets us as two BARE-KNUCKLE FIGHTERS in a makeshift ring withdraw and circle each other. One of them - BENNET DRAKE (early 40s), grins for his opponent. Tight on his fist as he inspects it. Withdraws a fragment of bone that’s lodged in the fleshy webbing. Tosses it back to his OPPONENT -- DRAKE Yours, shitspade. And he launches another left right combination. Enough for his OPPONENT to seek time out. He deliberately drops to a knee. Check DRAKE out - a huge bear of a man. A couple of TATTOOS on his bicep: Sergeants stripes; and a snake coiled about it, eating its own tail. Boos ring out. SECONDS move in to their men, soap and water them. An UMPIRE jumps in. Moves to the centre of the ring and with a piece of chalk draws a yard length’s square. A number 3 beside it. THE CROWD - booming out a count. Thirty downwards. Take them all in. A seething, bawling maelstrom. All creeds, all classes. Stevedores and traders; a few blacks; Lascars, Chinamen, Micks. And the Upper Crust too, easily spotted in their evening dress. All as one in their blood lust -- CROWD ...27, 26, 25.... Find HOBBS now. Pushing through, his eyes desperately scanning them all, and finding who he seeks now. This man, stood the opposite side of the warehouse -- Flinty, piercing eyes, handsomely moustached. This is REID (late 30s), and he’s not counting. He’s lent against a pillar, conferring and drinking with another man - JOSEPH SMEATON (40s), wily, weasel eyes. Both have a dolled-up TART draped around them. SMEATON - watching the boxer DRAKE. Waiting for the count - and despite his heaviness - he dances nimbly from foot to foot. SMEATON (above the clamour) He’s tasty alright.
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