Happy Thursday, crime motherfuckers! It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, to a place so depraved, so evil, so wickedly dark, your most violent urges become sins of the flesh ... at That Killing Feeling.
In today's chapter from NOWHERE GIRLS, framed Homeland Security agents April Street and Cherry Nation search the basement of the mall for an escape route from the Feds. Meanwhile, sleeper-cell-assassin Irina Kolishnikov has just been activated, and is now on her way to try and kill them ...
INT. SHOPPING MALL - UNDERGROUND CORRIDOR - NIGHT
April and Cherry walk down a corridor. Get to the end.
See a door padlocked shut. April pulls out a small, felt bag.
Takes out a lock pick. Starts working the tumblers.
Once again I meet a great guy and he gets KILLED --
I know. I’m sorry.
Poor Simon --
Makes you wanna rethink your career path, huh?
The door CLICKS open. They walk into --
INT. EQUIPMENT ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Dark and dingy. Cramped with humming banks
of fuse boxes and phone relays. Air conditioning machines.
They both SNAP on their flashlights.
Start to walk through the room.
So what was the problem?
He was cute, funny.
Seemed like a great guy.
He was. But he was -- too clingy.
I had to tell him my every move,
which made doing my JOB kinda tricky.
You think we’ll EVER find someone?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Too smokin’ hot chicks like us?
Holy shit. Check it OUT --
April’s light shines on a SET OF STEEL RUNGS
on the cement wall that lead up into a opening in the ceiling.
Bingo. We can climb up to the roof.
But how will Rock be able to get to us?
If Honey and her cronies
orchestrated this whole fiasco,
I’m SURE her number two can figure it out.
C’mon, time to climb the espionage ladder.
Always with the witty repartee --
Hey, doll -- dialogs are forever.
EXT. BEVERLY HILLS GYM - AT THAT MOMENT
A tony, overpriced workout boutique on Rodeo Drive.
Lights blazing, even at this late hour.
INT. BEVERLY HILLS GYM - CONTINUOUS
Empty, except for IRINA and her client,
a slick, puffy, asshole AGENT (30’s)
wearing designer workout threads.
Right now he’s on the floor on his back,
being stretched out by Irina.
He GROANS as she slowly pushes his leg up.
Irina, baby. You’re killing me --
His BlackBerry ERUPTS with a shitty pop music ring tone.
Gotta go boom, gotta go boom, boom, boom -
Hold on. I gotta get that.
(reaches over, grabs it)
This is Hassig.
Well, you tell that fucking CUNT
we’re not paying a fucking CENT
over three-hundred grand, GOT IT?
Irina watches. Amused. Puts his leg down.
In your ASS. She’s SHARING a double-banger
with Little Miss Oscar Contender, GOT IT?
She BLINKS. Grabs her neck. Rubs it.
Her eyes glaze over.
Cocks her head.
Looks at Hassig.
Like I could give a FLYING FUCK.
If she doesn’t show up on set tomorrow morning,
we’ll fucking sue her liposuctioned ASS, GOT IT?
I have to go now.
She turns and walks toward the door.
HEY. Where the fuck do you think YOU’RE going?
We still have FIVE MINUTES.
Irina puts her hand on the knob.
Turns and looks.
Go fuck yourself, you sack of shit.
I have work to do.
And she’s gone.
The door SLAMS shut.
(into the phone)
I don’t fucking BELIEVE it.
My trainer just BAILED on me.
Oh yeah? Well, fuck you, TOO.
And your faggot-ass LAW FIRM.
He FLINGS his phone against the wall, CRACK.