Thursday, August 16, 2012
Soldier of Misfortune
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 4 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY,
INT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - DAY
Zvi looks out the window at the ocean.
The bright, blue sky.
People on the beach. Their freedom.
Bland stands a few feet behind him.
Gnarly waves, sir.
Can’t wait to get the longboard out tonight --
Shut up. You stupid FUCK.
Do you enjoy REMINDING ME I’m a PRISONER?
No, sir -- I, I -- I’ll shut up, SIR.
That’s right, you will shut up,
and stay shut up.
(pulls out keys)
He TOSSES it.
Bland CATCHES it in a big, calloused mitt.
Go. Now. Get MY MONEY.
And the laptop. If somebody finds it --
They get free Lolita-on-demand.
Get out. NOW.
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir --
And he races out of the room.
Zvi shakes his head.
Soldier of misfortune.
A pretty young ISRAELI NYMPHET (13) walks in.
Time for -- massage.
Ah. My desert flower.
He goes to the chaise.
Nymphet pads over.
Pulls out a bottle of lotion.
Zvi lies down.
Places a small sheet over his lap.
She squirts oil on her hands.
Starts working on his legs.
A small tent POPS UP in his lap.
Thank heaven, for little girls --
INT. ZVI’S GARAGE - AT THAT MOMENT
Bland stares at a yellow Volkswagon bug.
The new model. Cute.
Might as well just cut off my balls.
He walks over to a big, black, gleaming BMW SUV.
Now that’s a VEHICLE.
Pulls out a long strip of metal.
Thin, like measuring tape.
SLIDES it in the window. WIGGLES it.
The lock CLICKS open.
(opens the door, gets in)
Command to base, come in, can you hear
me? Ready to roll, sir. Let’s roll ’em.
He leans down.
YANKS out a pair of wires.
STRIPS OFF the ends.
PRESSES them together.
The engine ROARS to life.
(strange, loud voice)
Roll one up for ME, sir. Sir, YES SIR.
(guns the engine)
Sound off, one-two, fuck off, three-four.
INT. VENICE BOARDWALK - CRACKED EARTH CAFE - DAY
Friday sits at a table
with an ice tea and a salad.
Furtive in shades and baseball cap.
She works the laptop.
Damn, this fucker’s fast.
She HITS a button. BEEP.
Stares in disbelief.
ON THE SCREEN
we see a menu.
On it, a selection of UNDERAGED GIRLS (8-13).
A title reads PLAYGROUND PALS.
Holy shit, this is a jailbait dating website --
(reads off the screen)
‘Hi, my name is Becky,
and I’m a ten -- and I AM ten.
I like pizza, water sports, comic books,
scented lube and sticky bud.
C’mon, baby light my fire until I’m wet?
FEMALE VOICE (O.C.)
Is everything okay?
Can I get you anything else?
stands next to Friday’s table.
Holding a tray. Brittle with attitude.
Must be the asymmetrical hairdo.
Or the Yoga T.
Actually, everything is NOT okay.
And you can go fuck yourself.
A COUPLE at the next table look.
I was at this restaurant
a couple weeks ago,
and you served me.
And you weren’t very friendly.
In fact, you didn’t smile at me. Once.
Gee, I’m So sorry.
I didn’t realize --
Friday WHIPS OUT the gun.
Points it at Bitchy.
A woman SCREAMS.
So, I’m gonna ask you to smile for me.
With sugar on top?
A big, bright pageant smile?
The waitress DROPS her tray.
CLANG. Frozen, weird smile.
Now that’s more like it.
She stands. Closes the laptop.
Puts it under her arm.
Places the gun
against the waitress’s temple.
Bonus points if you pee your pants --