Happy Friday, crime fucks. Are you ready for the weekend? I said, ARE YOU READY? Are youtalking TO ME? Well, ARE YOU? Then get ass in gear and behold the next blistering hot installment of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, right here on That Killing Feeling.
Onto today's episode, and this one is a doozy. You see, this story is a bit autobiographical. I used to work at New Line Cinema, a place where the PR was 'we love to buy screenplays written by our employees.' Well, guess what. At one point that was true, but by the time I got there, that myth had been mostly debunked. There was a new emperor in charge, and not only was he wearing no clothes, but he couldn't pick scripts for shit.
So, I started to imagine what it would like to take the movie studio hostage. At gun point.
Just like Friday Foster does in our story ...
EXT. ROBERTSON BOULEVARD - MORNING
Friday steps off the coffee shop patio, turns left.
Starts walking south. On a mission.
UP THE BLOCK
Bland comes FLYING down the sidewalk
toward the intersection.
saunters toward the corne.
Talking on his hands-free.
Listen to me.
Ashton Kutcher was BORN to play ‘Young Orson Wells’ --
Bland CRASHES into him, BANG.
The bike goes FLYING.
The suit CRACKS against a telephone pole.
Hits the ground. Out cold.
Bland gets up. Brushes himself off. People stop. Stare.
What are you looking at?
At ease, go about your business.
He pulls the PDA out of his pocket.
Looks at the blinking light.
Sees up ahead -- the coffee shop. Takes off.
UP THE BLOCK
Carrie’s wheels come flying down Robertson.
The Vespa close behind.
runs into the street.
sees it. SLAMS on the brakes. SCREECHING rubber.
tries to stop, but POPS A WHEELIE instead,
and IN SLOW MOTION
flies through the air --
and HITS the car’s rear window, CRASH.
Glass SPRAYS like water.
The back half of the Vespa sticks out the rear window.
Carrie lies on the roof. Dazed. She jumps off.
Dashes to the passenger side door.
Gets in. Kelly stares. Open-mouthed.
Don’t say a word. Just drive.
EXT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - AT THAT MOMENT
Bland comes outside. Looks around.
Carrie’s car pulls over the curb across the street. Parks.
There he is. Across the street.
(grabs the door handle)
C’mon, let’s go.
Where do you get all that energy?
I need -- to help her.
PUSH IN ON Carrie’s face. Eyes wet. Determined.
EXT. WHITE LINE PICTURES - MORNING
Men Without Hats’ scary-surreal cover of The Beatles’
I AM THE WALRUS crunches over --
Friday. Standing in front of the entrance.
She SLAMS through the doors. STOMPS through the lobby.
Behind the security desk, MR. GEORGE smiles toothily at Friday.
Shiny, beaming Jamaican face full of joy.
Meess Friday. Nice to see yoo. Yoo come for a visit?
Screwy rabbit -- visits are for kids.
Mr. George stares at her. Uncomprehending.
Carrie goes to the elevator bank. Presses ‘up.’
That’s right, I forgot. You don’t watch TV, do you?
No, ma’am. Ees all garbage.
Opiate of the masses.
Dulling our nation’s senses.
One show at a time --
THE ELEVATOR DOORS
open. Friday walks over. Steps in.
Yoo okay, Miss Friday? You acting kinda -- strange.
(as the doors close)
I’m a stranger in a strange land, George.
THE ELEVATOR DOORS
open. The sixth floor. Where the big boys live.
Friday walks out. Looks at a giant cardboard standee
of the studio’s action franchise. ‘DRIVE-BY 3.’
Two good-looking BLACK COPS stand back-to-back.
Brandishing shotguns. Grinning like the archetypes they are.
Move over, boys. There’s a new anti-hero in town.
She pushes open metal double doors, enters --
THE WAITING AREA
Surprisingly small. But then, this IS a mini-major.
Behind the front desk sits DEVRA, rotund, bespectacled receptionist.
Dickensian features light up when she spies Friday.
Friday. I can’t believe you’re here. You’re all over the news.
You, uh -- have an appointment?
(whips out Uzi)
THIS is my appointment.
I’ve got a date with destiny, baby.
Take me to your D-girl.
(off her shock)
Hey. Got a joke for ya.
How do you make love to four-hundred pound woman?
Roll ‘er in flour, and look for the wet spot.
But Devra is frozen. In shock.
A MALE VOICE laughs.
MALE VOICE (O.C.)
Thas’ fuckin’ funny! Ha ha ha ha ha ha --
Friday WHIPS AROUND to see --
JIMMY JOE JACK
(40’s) sitting on the couch. Indie Movie Star.
Hollywood outlaw. Big ol’ grin on his face.
Still a shit-kicker. Western wear a’la Rodeo Drive.
He chews tobacco. SPITS.
And she’s gotta gun. Whoah, Nelly.
You a method actress --
or did the studio fuck you in the ass too?
Hershey Highway. No lube.
(offers her hand)
Big fan, Jimmy Joe. ‘Fucking Christmas,’ best film of the year.
Thanks. So, what’s with the firepower --
you plan on shootin’ up the place?
Need any help?
GARY GILL (35) head of production ambles in.
Redheaded, pale, freckled.
A bloated barrel of lumbering, dull, pomposity.
Walks over to the desk. Squints at Devra.
Devra just blinks. Terrified. Nods at --
pointing the Uzi at Gary.
Hey, Gare. Remember me?
I did four years in this slime hole --
The SCREENWRITER that got
‘THE BEST COVERAGE YOU EVER READ?’
Sunday. What the fuck are YOU doing here?
Is that a real gun?
You bet your back end it is.
And it’s FRIDAY, you fucking tub of Mick.
(to him, Devra and Jimmy)
Okay. NOW. Into the conference room.
We’re taking a MEETING.