Thursday, July 28, 2011
For Your Thighs Only
Happy Thursday, crime slicksters. It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where the girls are hot, the drinks are cold, and the hardboiled-pulp-noir action is non-stop, right here, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.
In Chapter 21 of LEGS, top level spooks at the Pentagon meet to decide what to do about demented snuff filmmaker Klaus Speer. They decide to send in 'The Bagger,' the world's most infamous hit man ... who we meet at his secret lair, making love to his 'girlfriend' ...
INT. PENTAGON - BRIEFING ROOM - NIGHT
A giant conference table. Filled with a vast
array of top-level SPOOKS.
We have to get in there, now.
Send someone else.
We have to apprehend Speer in the act.
WHITE LAB COAT AGENT
I need him alive -- for research.
We can’t send Lazenby.
He’s in deep cover in Iran.
What about MacNee?
Isn’t he done with that
waterboarding school in Fallujah?
WHITE LAB COAT AGENT
I suggest we send -- the Bagger.
The Bagger? Are you fucking kidding?
Have you been sampling the evidence again, Moore?
The agency hasn’t used him since Kennedy.
He's a time bomb waiting to go off.
Unreliable. Volatile. Completely insane.
The Bagger is the most twisted psychopath
to ever get a security clearance.
And your point is?
INT. THE BAGGER'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
An achingly romantic Euro-croon over --
A small and dark lair.
A bare red light bulb glows from above.
Moonlight spills in through the blinds.
THE BAGGER (55), a tall, gangly,
preying mantis-like Ichabod Crane of a man.
Right now he’s making love
with a WOMAN in bed.
Under the covers.
Blonde hair spills over the pillow.
A phone RINGS once.
He stops moving.
It RINGS again. Silence.
He WHIPS off the covers.
GRABS the phone.
We now see his lover.
An inflatable love doll.
Open mouth. Lipstick smeared.
What the fuck do you want?
Do you know what fucking TIME it is?
Name three celebrities the
American public doesn't know
Fuck you! I'm retired, goddammit!
I'm having a nice quiet evening
here with my woman,
minding my own business --
and you have the nerve to ask me
to just forget everything?
You stripped me of --
(listens, gets excited)
Klaus Speer? That knucklehead.
I haven't seen him in years.
I see. Just over the hill.
I can do whatever the fuck I want,
as long as I bring him in alive?
The stick-figure does
a little victory dance.
Oh, right. Let me see --
John Lennon -- Princess Diana --
and Sonny Bono.
He hangs up.
Looks at the doll affectionately.
Sticks his finger inside her.
Slowly pulls it out. Sucks it.
I'm sorry, baby.
Gotta go to work.
(takes her hand)
I'll be back before you know it.
Don't go anywhere, okay?
Keep the bed warm for me.
INT. CLUB CHERRY - NIGHT
David Bowie/T-Rex 70’s rock at an EAR-SHREDDING volume.
Very glam, very glitter. The packed club is jamming.
Smoke machines. Mirrored balls.
Go-go dancers on pillars.
Boys, girls and everything
in between writhe with abandon.
A COOL GUY and a HOT CHICK
twist and shake it.
The babe, (23), mod, waifish,
vibrates like a woman possessed.
Opens her eyes.
Pulls out her Blackberry.
CLOSE ON --
The LCD display.
"The geese are in flight.
Pack your lipstick. Love, Mom."
yells something in the guy's ear.
Bolts for the door.
EXT. CLUB CHERRY - CONTINUOUS
She FLIES down the outside staircase.
Six-inch platforms CLATTER, BANG-BANG
on the metal steps.
ON THE SIDEWALK
she fingers a number on her cell.
EXT. MULLHOLLAND DRIVE - NIGHT
A candy-apple red ‘65 Ford Mustang
convertible stops at a light.
Music blares on the stereo.
IN THE CAR
is the Bagger. Singing along.
His phone rings. He answers it.
Or is it Cindy tonight?
He lights up a Gitanes.
Cindy -- nice.
What are you wearing?
Wait, don't tell me.
I like surprises.
SPLIT SCREEN WITH:
INT./EXT. CINDY'S MIATTA - CONTINUOUS
We recognize 'Cindy' as the hot chick
from the club. Surprise.
I knew I shouldn't have
worn heels tonight.
The clock's running, girlie-girl,
no time to worry about that.
(sips from a flask)
You pack the trunk?
Honey, my trunk is always packed --