I'm back from an invigorating bike ride up the coast up through Venice Beach and Santa Monica and back, and I'm here at command central, ready to finish working on the bank heist sequence from GUN-WILD, and I flashed on a scene from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY.
Friday Foster, an unemployed screenwriter, has just had her power, phone, heat and water shut off. There's an eviction notice on her apartment door, and her car has just been reposessed.
In a fit of despair, she steals an empty pizza delivery car left untended with the engine idling, and finds a million bucks in cold, hard cash on the front seat, along with a 9mm Browning.
She sets off on 24-hour rampage of revenge, which will culminate in her taking the movie studio who killed her big deal hostage, where she demands an apology. Live, on TV.
But she's arrived 15 minutes before they open their doors.
So she stops off for a cup of java ...
EXT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - DAY
A despicable, over-priced hangout for wannabe-trendies
who don't have a clue about ambiance. Style. Passion. Reality.
Friday walks up to the door. Stops. Looks at her watch.
Fifteen minutes to go.
(looks in the window)
Yuck. The pause that depresses --
INT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - CONTINUOUS
Friday bursts in. SLAMS the doors open.
Greetings, fellow consumers!
People look up. Quizzical. Except for a
at a table with his laptop. Deep in his faux version of 'thought.'
Sips his latte. One-finger types on the keyboard.
Like shooting fish in your pants.
She takes the table next to his. Puts down her stuff.
Poseur's phone RINGS. He answers it.
This outta be good --
'Lo. This is Tykey --
Oh, yeah -- it's at Mark Wahlberg's joint.
S'gonna be a blowout --
Joint? Who the fuck do you think you are, Spike Lee?
(off his look)
Yeah, you -- I'm talking to you. Can you speak a little louder?
Cause I don't want to miss a SINGLE DETAIL
about your FASCINATING LIFE.
Excuse me. This is a private conversation.
No it's not, not when you're fucking broadcasting
it in a public place for everyone to hear.
A 'private conversation' is at home, or in the office --
but what you're doing is BOTHERING EVERYONE
with your STAR-FUCKING.
What is your problem?
My PROBLEM is fucking POSERS like YOU,
showing off in public,
PRETENDING to write some PIECE OF SHIT studio CRAP,
when all you're REALLY DOING is trying to GET LAID.
Fuck you. Mind your own business.
She GRABS his laptop --
Hey! Give that back!
Hold on -- let's just check this out --
Interior, dorm room. A kegger is raging.
Pure shit, I knew it --
Just let me -- erase this -- HA, done.
You fucking CUNT!
Friday WHIPS OUT her piece.
SHOVES it into his crotch.
WHAT did you call me?
Don't shoot! Don't shoot!
I asked you a QUESTION, asshole.
WHAT did you call me?
A -- cunt.
What did you say? I can't HEAR YOU.
A cunt, okay? I'm sorry. Please don't shoot me.
Prepare to meet your maker. Eunuch time.
A dark, WET STAIN forms on his cargo pant shorts.
Hey, you peed your pants. Bonus points. You get to live.
(lowers the gun)
Silly rabbit. Cocks are for kids.