Thursday, June 23, 2011
I Carry A Gun
Hey there, crime kids. Happy Thursday. It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where your most violent fantasies become sins of the flesh, right here, where the hardboiled action is non-stop, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.
Due to popular demand, I have decided to post the Carrie Love trilogy in it's entirety, in order. Part 2 of her story is LEGS (which is also the title of the drama pilot that's right now being shopped in Hollywood, but that's another story).
One last note. This was my second screenplay, written fifteen years ago, so it's a bit -- rough. But this is where I found my voice, and it will always have a special place in my heart. And in my holster.
When we last left Carrie, she had reunited with her porn star lover Laura Lang, but unfortunately, as does happen in crime stories, their relationship soon ends in a most despicable way ...
Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present Chapter 1 of LEGS ...
INT. SHITTY APARTMENT - NIGHT
Swanky music. A nasty, trashy go-go groove.
Somewhere deep in the heart
of the wrong end of Hollywood --
A tiny bedroom in an uproar.
A table lamp sits on the floor,
red light bulb spilling seedy ambiance.
LAURA LANG, (26), cruelly Grace Kelly beautiful,
sits at her vanity putting on her face.
Slowly. Expertly. Perfectly.
It's quite a vision.
Milk white skin caressing black vinyl.
Brutal tattoos. A nasty pout.
Eyes that have seen it all.
She paints her mouth a bloody red.
Blots her lips. Licks her teeth.
Kisses the mirror. Rises.
Stretches like a cat.
Laura slips on a motorcycle jacket.
A Gestapo cap. Silver mirrored shades.
Snaps chrome handcuffs onto her belt.
She appraises her ensemble.
Adjusts her hat, just so. Sneers.
AT THE DOOR
the goddess grabs a riding crop.
Storms out into the night.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - SIDEWALK - CONTINUOUS
Shiny black bondage stilettos
clack-clack on the pavement.
She stops. Cocks her head.
What was that?
A strobe flashes, blinding her.
A camera whirs.
Big, thick, dark hands
wrap around her neck -- and squeeze.
She struggles violently,
eyes bugging out.
The beauty thrashes,
pounds on her attacker, to no avail --
her eyes flutter, close,
as she sinks into blackness.
A WOMAN'S FACE
And a bit weathered
from a trip in the fast lane.
But still, her long chestnut hair,
caramel tan and pillow lips
make most men stare.
And more than a few women.
CAMERA pulls back to reveal --
INT. BEDROOM - DAWN
A brassy detective theme, ala PETER GUNN.
The first light streams in
through the blinds, to reveal --
CARRIE LOVE, (27), a tall, tight
drink of water
in an hourglass-shaped goblet,
asleep like the dead,
sprawled across her thrashed bed.
Mouth open. A trail of spittle.
REVOLVER, a cuddly cocker spaniel
sleeps at her feet.
My god, I look so peaceful.
But when I wake up, look out.
I gotta stop betting people
I can out-drink them.
'Cause I always win.
She starts coughing. Leans over.
Grabs a glass of water. Glugs it down.
Throws the covers over her.
Burrows back in.
I smoke too much.
My doctor tells me the only reason
I've gotten away with it for so long
is 'cause I work out every day.
The phone rings.
She yanks it off the hook.
SLAMS it down.
Fucking bill collectors.
Don't they know it's Sunday?
She whips off the covers,
seizes the phone --
and RIPS out the cord.
I've got this habit of
taking out my anger on appliances.
They love me at Radio Shack.
You shoulda seen what I did
to that toaster oven.
She slowly, achingly gets out of bed.
Tries to stretch. Ouch.
We see she's still dressed from her night out.
She unzips her skirt. Peels it off. Tosses it.
The name's Carrie. Carrie Love.
But everyone calls me Legs.
People say my legs are my best feature.
Comes from rollerblading ten miles a day.
Being five foot ten doesn't hurt either.
More legs per square inch.
INT. CARRIE'S BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS
She looks at herself in the mirror.
It's not a pretty sight.
I think my best features
are my ironic smile and my rapier wit.
But what the fuck do I know?
ost guys just stare at my boobs.
INT. CARRIE'S KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
Carrie watches the Mr. Coffee do its thing.
Ever see those guys
waiting for their methadone?
At least I get to have
more than a little paper cup.
She pulls off her top,
tosses it across the room --
revealing a black bra.
And a leather shoulder holster.
That's right. I carry a gun.
She reaches behind.
Grabs her piece.
Gingerly rubs her spine.
I'm a private dick.
I do Rockford Files kinda stuff,
Guys who cheat on their wives
hire me to prove their wives
are cheating on them.
I also do missing persons --
last week it was some
Beverly Hills asshole trying to
find his junkie son
who swiped his Humvee.
It pays the rent.
I've thought about bounty hunting --
I mean, that's where the real bucks are --
but I like breathing,
thank you very much.
EXT. PATIO - DAY
A view of the ocean,
lush with trees and flowers.
On the patio,
a big, old wooden hot tub.
IN THE HOT TUB
is a headless female body.
Red smears the green water.
A chlorine floater bobs
against an exposed breast --
with a tattoo of a hummingbird
feeding off the nipple.
I'm reasonably happy.
Being a low rent dick
keeps food on the table,
and I get a few thrills
every now and then.
I mean, what can I say?
I grew up on The Avengers.
EXT. PATIO - DOOR STOOP - DAY
Carrie squints in the sunlight,
cups her mug with both hands
like it's the Holy Grail.
Revolver runs out onto the patio.
Welcome to my life.
Hope you enjoy the ride.
She sips her coffee.
Looks at the ocean.
Smells the scent.
Another fucking beautiful day
The dog starts barking.
Carrie sees the body. Screams.
Her mug hits the ground -- pop.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!
Laura, Laura, Laura!
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
She clutches her chest -- and vomits.