TABLE OF CONTENTS

Jeanne Silverthorne

Interior: a room of ambiguous dimensions and location—part surveillance center, part boudoir. UMA THURMAN sits in front of a monitor and a mike, flanked by a makeup mirror. Ignoring all this, she bends over a paperback. Enter PATRICIA ARQUETTE. Throughout the scene, the camera suffers from attention-deficiency syndrome, sporadically drifting off from the speaker. A radio is tuned to white noise.

PATRICIA [squinting at monitor]: Who’s out there?

UMA: Quentin. He got very excited about us changing places like this—me in here watching. Every once in a while I give him an order to keep him happy—you know, like “Keep your paw prints off the fetish figure or you’ll be stuffing rags up your furniture polish for a month.” That satisfies him for a while and he whimpers “Oh, Mr. Wolf! ” appreciatively.

By the way, why in heaven’s name are you dressed in that bleached-blonde white-trash mode?

PATRICIA:

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