INT. BAR. NIGHT.
A puff of smoke is blown into the air and lingers there, curling in the soft light. The title flashes over the screen: “THE FACE OF DEATH” and wipes away. We fade to a hand holding a drink on the bar. As the owner takes a sip, it’s revealed to be a man in his early 30s, bald, wearing a hat and a rumpled, ill-fitting dinner jacket with patches over the elbows. He’s smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and has a five o’clock shadow; he’s seen better days. This is SAM…