24 INT. MOTEL - NIGHT

PATCH sits at a table, reading from a loose typewritten page. On the table are two piles of paper; one nice-sized, one barely a sheet thick. After several moments he slaps the page down on the big stack. He grabs the final page.

As he reads his face darkens. He reaches for another sheet, clutches air; he lifts his head slowly, something terrible taking shape in his eye.

He leaps up, knocking over the chair; he whirls.

SHADES stands in the doorway, gun in hand, the last page in the other. He crumples it slowly.