Friday, August 26, 2011
Bigger Fish To Fuck
Hey there, crime kids. Happy fucking FRIDAY. 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.
In Chapter 10 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, after private eye Carrie Love identifies the dead body of her neighbor via his bloody toupee, she heads over to the TV movie production company where dead producer Harvey Flender used to work ... where we meet his employees, who are more than a little 'unusual' ...
INT. ASSHOLE’S JOINT - DAY
Bernie stands in front of an old, worn sofa bed.
Opened up, revealing a very dead KIP SLOBOTNIK.
Half his head, gone.
We hear RETCHING in the next room.
(to someone off-camera)
Are you okay in there?
Carrie comes out.
Wiping her face with a hand towel.
Too early in the day for brain chunks.
Or are you still with
the Bushmill’s for breakfast?
Dangle, bub. Put a sock in it.
(nods at the couch)
Think it was the bloody toupee.
The blast knocked it
clear across the room.
So that’s definitely him.
Yeah. I’d know that rug anywhere.
So what about his roommate?
Where is he?
Martune travels alot on business,
he’s a cigar rep,
always smoking those stinky fucks.
Well, I’m gonna have one of my boys
stake this place out until he comes home.
I’ve got bigger fish to fuck.
You see on the news
about that movie producer
who was shot in the face and left
on the Hollywood Walk of Fame?
No. But his wife just hired me.
What the fuck? That’s MY case.
Carrie goes to the front door.
Opens it. Turns.
Looks like we’re working together again, bucko.
See you on the set.
EXT. CARRIE’S CAR - MOVING - DAY
On the car stereo, Divinyl’s BULLET
spits shards of broken glass over Carrie.
Hot in leather. Cool in shades.
The car cruises the Main Street strip
in Santa Monica.
My father taught me how to be tough.
How to make it on your own in the world.
He taught me that life sucks,
and that sometimes you have to
shake off the shit that gets
shoved in your face and move on.
Like the day my mother
packed her bags and left.
He said it was just us now,
us against the world.
Until that morning he blew his brains out
with his service revolver.
Carrie stops at a light.
Lights up a smoke.
That’s what Slobotnik looked like.
Like half my father’s head
sprayed across his barcalounger.
The light changes.
Carrie HITS the gas.
Enough warm, fuzzy childhood memories.
I’ve got to get ready for my close-up.
EXT. WILSHIRE BOULEVARD - BANK - AFTERNOON
The big-band swoon of The Brian Setzer Orchestra’s
bourbon-drenched TOWN WITHOUT PITY
blares its seedy swing over --
A FAT, HOMELESS WOMAN in a wheelchair
festooned with a flag,
pinwheel whirling in the breeze.
Giant lobster-red legs scuttling
crab-like movements down the sidewalk past --
A 70’s-era red brick bank
in the no-man’s land just west of Bundy.
The SIGN reads ‘FI ST NATIONAL PHILIPPINES B_NK.’
CAMERA glides up the path
to the front entrance. Doors OPEN.
PIGGY SECURITY GUARD sits at the desk, a human hog.
Shakes his jowls. Let’s loose a HORRIFYING SNEEZE.
PIGGY SECURITY GUARD
He HAWKS UP a big glob of phlegm.
SPITS behind the desk.
It hits the bottom of the wastebasket
with a PING.
CAMERA moves left, revealing a GLASS DOOR.
YAVO/FLENDER FILMS, LTD stenciled in plain black lettering.
Underneath, a small, hand-lettered sign
in all caps reads ‘JUAN, PLEASE COME SEE ME.
I HAVE YOUR CHANGE.’
The right door OPENS. CAMERA glides in.
isn’t much to look at.
More like the front room.
Cheesy TV-movie posters abound.
We ZOOM IN on one.
A FADED TV-ACTRESS in a Santa hat brandishes a gun.
DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY.
CAMERA glides by --
In the corner, desk against the plate glass,
a HARRIED WOMAN, (30’s).
Winsome, dark-haired. Sleepy-eyed.
Cute in denim mini and red Ramones T-shirt.
She murmurs into her headset.
Stretch limo, smoking, with DVD player,
first priority hair and makeup?
CAMERA continues its journey, glides past --
AN OPEN DOORWAY
where we see a red-faced INTENSE GUY (30’s).
Persian good looks. Shaved head.
Bloodshot eyes burning with
self-important, bipolar rage.
Meet MODI FARAHT, head of legal.
He POUNDS on his keyboard.
BARKS into the phone.
ONE MILLION? Go fuck yourself!
We paid Marsha Day Wallace three-hundred-fifty,
and she’s an OSCAR WINNER.
CAMERA CONTINUES down a narrow hallway.
On the walls, FRAMED ONE-SHEETS
of Yavo/Flender’s TV movie masterpieces --
MURDER ON THE BELTWAY: FOR THE LOVE OF A SNIPER
BILLY! THE BILLY JOHN STORY
GUYS AND DOLLS: THE NEXT CHAPTER
CAMERA reaches the end, turns right, where we see --
A HORRIBLE, PIG-FACED WOMAN
sitting at a large work area.
Furiously CLACK-CLACKING on her keyboard.
A dead ringer for Anne Ramsey from
THROW MOMMA FROM THE TRAIN.
She speaks into her headset.
HORRIBLE PIG-FACED WOMAN
There’s more beer in the garage, Larry.
But I thought you were working today --
CAMERA MOVES past her, to another workstation.
Behind a computer sits an
ODD-LOOKING SAD-FACED MAN reading Variety.
I brought that margarine
in the squeeze-top bottle
I was telling you about.
HORRIBLE PIG-FACED WOMAN (O.C.)
That’s convenient --
A tiny, wild-eyed cigar-smoking FURIOUS MAN (60’s)
appears in his office doorway.
Meet ROLAND YAVO, the senior partner,
a bundle of manic energy. Bluster. Bravado.
And right now, last producer standing.
BETTY! Where THE FUCK is my conference call?
Pig-Face turns her head. Looks.
It got cancelled on account of --
WHAT? I’ve GOT to close this FUCKING DEAL.
We’ve had cops and media all over the place,
and nothing’s getting done!
I’ll see if I can get Izzy on the line.
You do that.
He storms back into his office.
The phone RINGS. Odd-Looking answers it.
Yavo/Flender Films. This is Fleming.
SPLIT SCREEN WITH:
EXT. WILSHIRE BLVD. - CARRIE’S CAR - MOVING - AT THAT MOMENT
Carrie drives, talks on her cell.
Wind WHIPPING her hair.
Hi. My name is Carrie Love,
I’m a private eye.
Gay Flender hired me.
Fleming looks at Betty.
Mouths ‘it’s a private detective.’
I’d like to swing by and talk to you.
All of you, actually.
Well, we’ve had a lot of visitors today.
Right now isn’t such a good time.
What if I gave you a hundred clams?
Come around six-o’clock.