A crime novelist whose research on Victorian serial killers has turned him into a paranoid wreck must confront his worst fears when a film executive takes a sudden interest in his movie script.

Jack: Well, actually, writers and serial killers are very similar. They're practically brothers.
Sangeet: He's police.
Jack: He's not even armed. Look at him. They haven't even given him a fucking whistle.
Jack: [they wonder why they are tied up in an abandoned cellar] We've been abducted by a crazed psychopath whose sole intention is to terrorize, torture and terminate our existence!
Sangeet: ...No, you're - you're paranoid. You're jumping to conclusions.
Jack: Lady, there is a time and a place for accusing a man of being paranoid AND THIS IS NOT FUCKIN' ONE OF THEM!
Dr. Friedkin: You're fucked up Jack. You need therapy.
Jack: Oh I haven't got time. I've got a meeting in about an hour.
Jack: I didn't mean to become a children's author. It was a terrible accident!

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