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The script

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A mouse trap with a bloody paw in its grip. No sign of the rodent.

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A neat panel of buttons and dials. Watched over by dirtied litter.

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A non-lethal current runs through the cage.

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A not-so-casual lean -- he's guarding what's inside.

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A pair of discerning eyes scans you from one of the bars.

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A palatial cat run.

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A patch of dense greenery below, like an embassy for the forest.

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A phone line advertising itself with genuine girls.

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A photograph of a huge white cat.

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A picture of a great steel chariot, signed by the hands that built it.

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A pilgrim stops to catch her breath, looking up at the summit far ahead.

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A platoon of drawers towers above you, rattling as you walk.

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A portrait has been stencilled over the movie poster.

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A precision drill glints in the surgical light.

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A PROPAGANDIST'S STATION.

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A punch-card scanner. The screen would've shown on-site personnel.

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A rainbow of lipstick kisses covers the page.

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A reading pile in three languages. Mostly about psychic phenomena.

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A residual smell: burned paper, melted plastic.

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A rotary dial phone with a long-forgotten number.

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A row of mismatched clothing on wire hangers.

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A ruined sofa with a sad story to tell.

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A saucepan half full of black cigarette butts.

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A school uniform once hung here.

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A second pattern drawn in stains and cigarette burns covers the garish original.

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A sense of malignant mystery emanates from the fax machine.

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A shade in a leather jacket thrusts a decapitated head towards the reader -- its lolling tongue and dripping viscera a promise of what's…

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A shadow of the mess inside stains the window.

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A sharp drop, a broken ankle. You wince.

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A sheet of thick paper lies on the floor, folded in half and partially covered by shadow.

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A shit wagon.

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A shiver through your feet. It seems much higher from this angle.

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A short clamber down to the loamy shore.

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A SHRINE TO AN OBJECT GOD.

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A shutter door, freed from its hinges. It didn't make it very far.

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A sign warning that sale of contraband is punishable by law.

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A single leather glove with the middle finger cut out.

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A single threadbare groove directly in front of the TV.

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A small miracle to have just one tile missing.

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A small vessel that once tried to fill the emptiness with songs.

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A smear of dirt bisects your reflection. Both halves equally on edge.

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A soapy outline of someone's back.

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A sound like a rabbit's heartbeat escapes from the man's headphones.

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A sour smell rises, drawing flies and scuttling things.

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A sports bag, but no sports gear inside. Weak.

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A spray-painted smile. Seems unsure of itself, though.

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A stack of glossy, neat files. Too perfect to rifle.

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A stagnant smell -- black loam and rotten leaves.

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A stall recessed into brickwork; wear and scuffs suggest it's been here for years.

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A steel rod jammed between the blades. Death by sabotage.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 6 of 26