Sunday. A day of rest. For some. Not moi. I'm always here, always vigilant, always criminally inclined. So put on your seatbelt. Pour a black cup of java. Light up a smoke. Kick back, and kick-start your heart with another piping-hot episode from WILSHIRE BOULEVARD ...
Screened DIE HARD 3: DIE HARD WITH A VENGENCE last night, and my action-movie jones has been satisfied. For awhile at least. Much better than DIE HARD 2, for sure. Had my man Samuel L. Jackson in it, and Jeremy Irons, the villian du jour, chewing up the scenery like Bruce Willis at the local Hooters. Good times were had by me and Bobby D. The Dog. Good, old-fashioned popcorn blockbuster action.
Onto today's episode of Wilshire Boulevard. Things are about to get NASTY and DARK. Carrie's house catches on fire, and we meet the bastard that did it, her asshole neighbor, Paul Martune. A bit of trivia -- I lost my home and everying I owned in a fire 12 years ago, and although I've been okay for the last 8 years or so, writing this scene finally gave me closure. And, btw, 'Paul Martune' is based on a real person. A real asshole. And yes, he did live next door to me. The thing I love about this device in the story is that it raises the stakes to another level. Not only is Carrie about to get framed for murder ... but she's now lost everything.
A little noir for ya ...
EXT. OZONE AVENUE - NIGHT
Carrie and Jenny walk down the leafy avenue.
Foliage glowing from a dim street lamp.
Weaving a little from cocktail time.
So why do you work there?
I’m a writer. It gives me access to producers.
Agents. You know --
So you write TV movies?
God, no. I write really dark crime thrillers.
With a lot of blood.
Hey. My kind of girl.
Jenny blushes. Turns away.
Maybe you can tell me.
When I saw Yavo at The Office,
he was with this really creepy-looking skinny guy.
Cajun, I think.
That’s Hub Flower.
He owns the biggest production company in New Orleans.
We’ve made a few movies with him.
And now the FBI is investigating him --
That must have been what they were arguing about --
A SIREN SCREAMS into the night.
That’s coming from right down the street.
They walk toward the noise.
See clouds of BLACK SMOKE.
People start SHOUTING.
FEMALE VOICE (O.C.)
Carrie, FIRE! Get out, GET OUT!
What? I’m right --
She starts TEARING down the street.
EXT. CARRIE’S JOINT - FRONT PATIO - MOMENTS LATER
The house is ENGULFED IN FLAMES.
A crowd of NEIGHBORS stands nearby. Watching.
A LITTLE GIRL starts crying.
Oh my FUCKING GOD!
Somebody DO SOMETHING!
Where is the fucking FIRE DEPARTMENT?
Another SIREN WAILS a few doors down.
The walkway street.
The fire truck is too big.
Carrie sees the truck.
Come on, over here! Hurry UP, GODDAMN IT!
It’s MY HOUSE, MY HOUSE, MY HOUSE!
A pair of FIREFIGHTERS
race toward her with a long hose.
Everybody out of the way! STAND BACK.
Move it people, make room!
But the house is a goner.
Rich, red FLAMES engulf the roof, the walls.
Searing, shimmering waves of heat.
Carrie GRABS Jenny.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOO -- !
(grabs her back)
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.
A MALE VOICE
behind them snickers.
MALE VOICE (O.C.)
Anybody got any marshmallows?
Carrie WHIPS her head around.
PAUL MARTUNE(28) natty in Billabong.
Not. A bit flabby.
Cruel goatee wrapped around a stogie.
Grey eyes crinkle.
Hey, Carrie. Guess you got to hell a little early, huh?
You fucking ASSHOLE.
She GRABS Martune.
THROWS him to the ground.
PUNCHING, KICKING, SPITTING.
He tries to fight back,
but years of flabby TV-watching on the couch do him in.
Stop it, you’re going to KILL HIM.
That’s the fucking IDEA!
PUSH IN ON Carrie.
As she BEATS his face to a pulp.