Thursday, August 25, 2011
Cue The Fuzz
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 9 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, born-again 'producer' Ken Rice shoots a most 'unusual' porno in a seedy motel room. Meanwhile, private eye Carrie Love gets grilled by her ex, homicide dick Bernie Keko about the dead hippie next door ...
INT. SHITTY MOTEL ROOM - DAY
One of those cheap flea-bag by-the-hour joints
on Sunset deep in the scuzzy bowels of Hollywood.
Weird, old disco plays on a large, ancient boombox.
IT’S GOT TO BE LOVE, indeed.
A small fan pushes gusts of air over --
A tall, BEAUTIFUL GIRL (19) poses for us.
Azure eyes. Legs for days. And weeks.
She moves with the music.
Coltish, a bit awkward. Which makes it sexier.
Behind the camcorder, Ken Rice adjusts the lens.
Lovely. Just lovely.
You have the face of an angel, Nikki.
Okay -- PLACES, PLEASE. And -- ACTION.
A door opens. In walks the MONSTER we saw at Scandals.
Meet RAT KODICK, West Hollywood’s answer to Ratso Rizzo.
Without the charm. A hulking, sweaty mass of useless flesh.
(to the girl)
Hey, baby. What’s cookin’?
(gives him the once-over)
Apparently, you are.
He walks over to her.
Places his hands on her ass.
I’d love to put something in your oven.
Mmmm. That’s funny, cause I’m awfully hungry --
A cell phone RINGS.
Nikki races over to a knapsack
on the kitchenette counter.
Pulls out a cell phone. Listens.
Oh, hi --
Stop! Cut! What are you DOING?
It’s my father. Hold on to your wig.
‘Nikki’ listens. Lights up a smoke.
I can’t talk, I’m in class right now.
Music? I’m in music class --
But I’ve got the rest of the year to --
Dinner? Well, I dunno --
I have this exam I have to cram for --
Alright, okay. See you then.
Nikki angrily CLICKS the phone shut.
STOMPS her foot.
Stupid old FUCK.
She pulls out a coke snifter.
HONKS a bump. Then another.
INT. CARRIE’S JOINT - LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER
The swinging, sultry bossa nova of Astrid Gilberto’s
So Nice (Summer Samba) on the mega-stereo over --
Carrie and Landon, spiffed up
in tight jeans and wife-beaters.
They’re splayed out on the large, sectional couch
sipping Coronas with lime wedges.
Carrie sports a bag of ice.
So tell me again why we broke up?
Uh, I met my boyfriend Zack?
Oh, yeah -- that’s it.
A loud KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK at the door.
Cue the fuzz.
In walks Bernie. Shaking his head.
He checks out the girls.
(nods at the beer)
Got another one of those?
You’re on duty.
Okay, we’ve got one dead hippie next door.
Clumsily hidden in a sofa bed.
That would be Kip Slobotnik.
Kip got capped three times in the face.
At EXTREMELY close range.
Actually, there’s not much of a face left.
Serves the greasy fucker right.
He made my life a living nightmare.
Up all night blasting bad music,
getting in my face, hitting on my chicks --
Looks like somebody might have a motive --
Can it, Bernie.
You think I killed Mr. Natural,
then knocked myself out in the alley
where I could be found?
Can you come and identify the body?
Okay. That’s my cue.
Gotta date with Zack.
See ya later.
And just where are
you two lovebirds going?
We’re gonna go see
the new Vin Diesel flick,
then go to ‘Hot Dog On A Stick.’
Bernie’s eyes light up.
ZIP IT, buster. Not a word.
But I was just gonna --
Ask her if they had --
Bearded clams on a bun.
Carrie shakes her head in disgust.
See? It wasn’t a dick joke.