The Watcher

FADE IN on a crumbling shack at dawn's grim edge. INSIDE, ragged legs protrude from a filthy tarp on the grimy floor, junk and rotten takeout strewn around. From a grimy, voyeuristic gaze, the tramp peels back the cover, rising to squint at sunbeams slicing through the warped door cracks. His hood conceals a hulking, menacing frame. He paws through trash, snatches a dog-eared fuck rag, and with a guttural rasp, flips its crusted spreads. TITLE: THE WATCHER. Hours drag on. The brute, face still shadowed, slumps against a sidewalk, rattling a cup for scraps. Strangers ignore his pleas. SUDDEN CUT to his mud-caked boots stumbling along the highway, camera crawling up to his clutched tallboy in a paper sack. He hits the park's gate. Through smeared eyes, he scans the void, then slinks in. CUT to him prowling a dense, isolated thicket at the park's rear, prime spot for his smut fix. He hunkers by the chain-link barrier, but a woman's husky laugh freezes him. From that tainted view, he eases up, stalking the noise like prey. Peering through branches, he spies a picnic spread under looming oaks: Jenny, sultry and teasing, mock-wrestles Paul, her stud, as their makeout turns feral, hands roaming with urgent heat.