Onto today's joint from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY. For some of you more recent fans, a bit of background. This was written a few years ago, based on my experiences working at New Line Cinema, and the revenge I dreamed of of having on them. (Trust me, it's a long story.) The story was originally much more dark, much more like TAXI DRIVER .... but a couple of producers had me rewrite it to make it more of a media satire. Which it now is. The tone is a little lighter than my usual stuff, but it's still a lot of fun. (At least I think so, and that's all that matters.)
First up, white slave trafficker/former Marine Bland Loosener makes it to shore after his SUV went into the drink ...
Then, recently suspended police detective Carrie Love spars with her ex-partner/ex-husband Bernie Keko, and vows to go and help ...
Friday Foster, her former flame, who discovers her illegal exploits have made the news ...
And meanwhile, at the local print rag, reporter Kelly Klaven, a one-stand of Friday's, also decides to try and help her ... or, at the very least, get the story ...
INT. SANTA MONICA - OCEAN SHORE - DUSK
A postcard sunset. Riot of orange and red smears the sky.
A lone SURFER lies on his board. Waiting for a wave. Stoic.
A hulking FIGURE IN BLACK rises out of the water behind him.
LUNGES. Big, thick arms GRAPPLE him. FLIP the board --
the surfer STRUGGLES with the apparition.
But he’s clamped to the board. Facing down.
He JERKS. THRASHES. Then, a bit weaker. And weaker.
Slows. Stops. Bubbles rise.
ON THE SURFACE
the figure rises. Sits up on the board.
We see it’s Bland.
Permission to go ashore, SIR.
He starts paddling.
INT. SANTA MONICA POLICE HEADQUARTERS - SQUAD ROOM - DUSK
The detective room is empty. Except for Carrie Love.
Straddling a chair backwards. Staring at a computer monitor.
In walks BERNIE KEKO (40).
Armenian. Burly. Salt and pepper.
Jock gone to seed, but still hunky.
Think a greasy Mickey Rourke type.
Bitter. Full of swagger. Bravado.
What the fuck are you doing here?
If Lipshitz catches you, it’s your twat in a sling.
Can it, Keko. I was just getting some shit outta my desk.
You’re really loving this, aren’t you.
Well, let’s see --
after you LEFT ME for a BROAD,
kicked me out of MY FUCKING HOUSE,
you can EXCUSE ME for not being SYMPATHETIC
when you get FUCKING SUSPENDED.
Carrie lights a smoke. Eyes haunted.
(looking at the screen)
You know that female perp
caught on tape at the Venice beach cafe --
and then at the think-tank?
You’re confusing me with somebody who gives a shit.
And there’s no smoking.
That’s her. We had a fight this morning,
I walked out, and now -- this.
(points at the screen)
She just carjacked a Cadillac Escalade
on Wilshire and Third.
Take a look at this --
He squints at her monitor.
points her Magnum into the CAMERA.
stares. Shakes his head.
Broad’s got balls. But how did the victim get the pix?
On her cell phone.
Let your fingers do the felony.
I’m going to bring her in.
What? Did you join the Neighborhood Patrol?
I can still make a citizen’s arrest --
Don’t you have a carpet to go munch?
You’ve worked homicide what, ten years now?
Wouldn’t you like to just once,
nab a perp BEFORE they kill someone?
So you know she’s gonna kill somebody.
Yeah. I do.
And I suppose you know who.
PUSH IN ON Carrie. Fighting back tears.
INT. CADILLAC ESCALADE - MOVING - DUSK
Friday drives. Punches buttons on the stereo remote.
Radio stations fly by, snippets of classical, rap, country, classic rock, then --
Which ended in a shoot-out at the Lambert Institute.
Holy shit. I made the news.
Police have now identified the gunwoman as Friday Foster,
twenty-nine, an unemployed Venice screenwriter.
She is currently wearing a denim jacket,
sunglasses and a baseball cap.
You just described half the city.
If you see this woman, notify the police immediately --
but keep your distance. This is one dangerous lady.
You said it. Not me.
INT. CITY WEEKLY - EDITORIAL OFFICES - AT THAT MOMENT
A maze of cubicles. Messy, cluttered, very counterculture.
Sitting amidst a mountain of papers and file folders
is KELLY KLAVAN (32), thin, wild-eyed. Jittery with energy.
The very definition of the term ‘metrosexual.’
He looks at an imaginary spot on his tie.
Wets a finger, WHISKS it. Holds it up to the light.
A CHUBBY EDITOR
waddles by carrying a coffee pot.
You almost done with that story on the migrant leaf-blower union?
It’ll be done this afternoon.
Hey, Nico -- you know that story running on the IP wire
about the girl with the gun, the carjacking thing?
Nico stops. Looks at Kelly.
What about it? You fuck her?
If you must know, yes I did.
Probably the MOST memorable night of passion I ever had.
Crazy, intense chick. Funny.
Take my advice. Never date a bisexual.
What about her?
I want to do a story on her.
We don’t do that kind of story, you know that.
I’m sick of the small-time stuff, Nico.
I want to do a STORY.
Then go work for the Times Tribune.
Maybe they’ll let you cover a cat up in a tree.
(as he leaves)
And I need the piece on the school board budget vote today.
‘And I need the piece on the school board budget vote today.’
Kelly swivels his chair toward the computer.
Starts CLACKING on the keyboard.
Okay, Friday Foster.
Let’s do a little web search,
see what you’ve been up to --