Happy Saturday, crime busters ... feel like taking a trip to the dark side? A place where the girls are hot, the drinks are strong, and the action never stops? Then get your asses in here, and indulge yourself in That Killing Feeling ...
Onto today's exciting chapter from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY ... where things are really heating up.
First up, we rejoin former Navy Seal/pot smoker deluxe Bland Loosener, who is explaining to his boss, international sex broker/white slave trafficker Zvi Ben-Arut what happened to his stolen car ...
And then we hook up with digruntled, unemployed screenwriter Friday Foster, who has just stolen Bland's car ... and finds a cool million in cold, hard cash on the back seat.
EXT. VENICE APARTMENT BUILDING - SIDE ALLEY - DAY
Bland fingers a number on his cell phone. Listens.
Zvi? It’s Bland. We’ve got a problem.
Uh, someone stole my car.
INT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - AT THAT MOMENT
A large, burly, TANNED ISRAELI (45) in white linen listens on the phone.
He’d be quite the catch, gold chains, Rolex --
If it weren’t for the bright, shiny electronic ankle cuff.
This is ZVI BEN-ARUT, international raconteur.
Sex broker. Under house arrest.
Right now pacing, furious. Red-faced.
You stupid fuck.
You LEFT THE ENGINE RUNNING?
SPLIT SCREEN WITH:
EXT. VENICE BEACH APARTMENT BUILDING - CONTINUOUS
Don’t worry, I’ll find it.
I’ll find it.
You better. Or else you’re dead.
Understand? Go, now. FIND IT.
Use the tracking device in your fucking LAPTOP.
The laptop’s -- in the car.
You fucking JAR-HEAD.
I’m sorry boss, I fucked up.
I know. I’ll make it right, I promise -- I --
What the fuck were you doing?
No, wait -- don’t tell me.
You were fucking SCORING DOPE.
It’s medicinal, Zvi -- Gulf War Syndrome -
I’ll fucking give you a syndrome.
Get your ass over here, NOW.
God help me, but you’re gonna have to
take one of my cars.
Which one? The SUV? The BMW?
Dumb fucking slab of ‘American war hero,’ NO.
You take the bug.
But that’s -- a girl’s car.
INT. NISSAN SENTRA - CONTINUOUS
Friday pulls the car into an alley.
Parks. Looks around.
No one following her.
What to do? Should I -- ?
She notices the pizza delivery cases in the back seat.
Three of them. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner.
Her stomach GROWLS.
She reaches over, grabs one.
Puts it on her lap.
Opens it, to reveal --
A brand new Apple G-6 laptop.
It sparkles in the sunlight.
Friday turns it on.
Places it on the seat next to her.
Can finally check my email --
She grabs another one.
Opens it. Her jaw drops.
The case is stuffed with banded wads of
HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS.
She quickly SNAPS it shut.
Places it under her seat.
GRABS the last box.
FLIPS it open, to reveal --
A large pizza.
With pepperoni and sausage.
Friday grabs a slice,
wolfs it down hungrily.
Greasy hands. She needs a napkin.
Searches. Opens the glove box,
and finds --
A 357 MAGNUM.
She GRABS IT.
Come to Mama.
Just then A PATROL CAR creeps by.
Friday deftly slides the gun under the seat.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The cop stops.
He glances into the Sentra,
sees the pizza box.
Hi, officer. Is there a problem, sir?
Black aviator shades glare at her.
What’s he doing?
Looking up her license plate?
Won’t you get in trouble if you eat the pizza?
She realizes. The pizza sign on the car.
I get it to eat if it’s a no-show.
Must of been some kids, a prank --
Nice perk. Have a nice day.
Thanks. You too, officer.
He drives away.
Friday sits a moment.
Heart still pounding.
Holy fucking SHIT.