FADE IN:

INT. HOME OFFICE - DAY

A work desk is decorated with a mess of fauna, sales receipts and contracts. Travel ornaments, from the boat keychain from San Diego and the Eiffel Tower from Paris tucked away in each corner.

A gentle spill of daylight curls from behind the curtains and splashes onto a silver revolver half-buried in the scribblings on stickie notes. You would double-take; but — no. Some scratches on the tinged metal, oil stains here and there. This gun is real. Looking fully-loaded heavy as it lies there.

We meet ARTHUR(30s), this room doesn’t look like it was decorated by a man like him; but, he’s fish in his own pond. He’s wearing a white-collar shirt, a near-perfect fit, with a blue and grey-striped tie, beige khakis and even dress shoes; but yet, he seems free — giddy, even.

Few strokes of his pen on a contract as a phone rings. He finds it buried under the paperwork, answers.

ARTHUR

Orwell Law.

Listens a moment before realizing the mistake.

ARTHUR

No, ma’am. I — I’m sorry about your back. Yeah — yes, but, I’m not a lawyer. I’m a private gun for justice. — Well, I wouldn’t call myself that; but, sure.

Listens for a while longer. His confidence returns.

ARTHUR

What’s your budget?