Onto today's juicy pulp scenario from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY. When we last left our story, wanted fugtive/screenwriter Friday Foster has stormed into her former place of work, White Line Pictures, with an Uzi submachine gun ... angry as hell, and not gonna to take it anymore.
Ladies and gentlemen, take your hostages, please ...
INT. WHITE LINE PICTURES - LOBBY - MORNING
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.
Friday pumps the magazine, KA-CHINK.
Or else I’m gonna fucking Abu Ghraib the lot of you.
Y’all better move it. I think the lady’s serious.
Gary, Jimmy Joe and Devra start moving.
They pass a row of ASSISTANTS, watching in horror.
You, too -- Hollywood Gatekeepers.
Put down your coverage,
I’ve got you surrounded.
IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM. NOW.
INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY
Friday’s hostages sit around the large lux table.
Bright morning sunlight streams in through wall-sized windows.
Gary. Close the blinds.
Don’t want the paparazzi
to get any shots of your imminent demise.
(puts his hands on the table)
Go fuck yourself.
Incensed, Friday BANGS the gun down on his hand.
You think I’m fucking around? DO IT. Now.
Before I shoot your TENT-POLE.
He gets up. Goes to the blinds. Closes them.
HANS WOLFE, (50’s) head of marketing,
stern-looking, designer specs,
puffy, pokes his head in. Grumpy. Quizzical.
Vat is zis? Some kinda in-house focus group?
DON GREY (60’s), grey-haired, grey-skinned, shuffles in.
Shoeless. Mismatched socks.
You’d never know from looking,
but he’s the head of the studio.
Indie maverick deluxe.
As usual, right now he’s nursing a nasty hangover.
What THE FUCK is going on in here?
Friday, you’re back.
Go get me a latte, NOW.
(whips guns at them)
Hello, boss -- or should I say SATAN?
It’s me, your worst nightmare,
back from the dead, and pissed as hell.
So why don’t you and HITLER
get your bony white asses in here?
You’re just in time for the climax of the story arc.
You -- have a gun.
Brilliant observation, Hansie-boy.
Now get your NAZI-ASS IN HERE.
They come in.
What the fuck do you want, money?
No. I have money.
She vants her deal back, Don.
Goddammit, are yoo fuckin’ stupid.
Shut up, Hans.
Shut up, Gary.
I’m in charge here.
Shut THE FUCK UP, all of you -- I’M in charge.
So, what -- you want to make a DEAL?
Who do I look like, Diablo Cody?
No, it’s too late for that.
Then what THE FUCK do you WANT?
Live. On TV.