Thursday, August 30, 2012
You Talking To Me?
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 HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, now that fugitive screenwriter Friday Foster has escaped from the clutches of Bland Loosener, she heads to Santa Monica's Third Street Promenade armed with her suitcase full of cash ... and starts fucking with the locals ...
EXT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - REAR ALLEY - DAY
Friday makes her way down the alley.
Carries two briefcases.
Okay. I’m commuting.
Leavin’ the think tank early --
Too much thinking.
Not enough tanking.
She turns the corner, walks onto --
EXT. ARIZONA AVENUE - CONTINUOUS
A smattering of PEDESTRIANS.
Late afternoon on a weekday.
A wild-eyed FILTHY SKELL
stands a few feet away.
Long, matted hair down to his ass.
Like a big piece of butterscotch.
Do you know the answer? Do you?
I said, DO YOU KNOW THE ANSWER?
She glances at the sign he’s holding.
TALK TO JESUS.
Shut the fuck up.
Stop shouting at me.
You need to TALK TO JESUS!
Cocks her head. Shudders.
Rears back a briefcase, SWINGS --
and CRACKS him in the head.
BANG. He goes down. THUMP.
Jesus died for somebody’s sins,
but not mine.
EXT. THIRD STREET PROMENADE - DAY
All that’s scary and overpriced about consumerism.
Laid out in a string of overdone chain joints.
Main Street, not.
Shopping. Let’s go shopping.
Cause when the going gets tough --
The tough buy shit.
The liquid-cool sounds of
The Zombie’s SHE’S NOT THERE over --
Friday drifts down the street.
Examining the bright, shiny faces
of shoppers with their bright,
shiny shopping bags.
walks out of an expensive boutique.
Now dressed in funky urban chic.
Leather boots and hat.
Rubber jacket. Very ‘Mad Maxine.’
Twin leather saddlebags store the briefcases.
AT THE CORNER
the lemmings wait for the light. No cars.
Friday starts walking,
crosses the street.
Turns around. Laughs.
CAMERA follows her walking.
Now with a spring in her step.
She passes an OVERWEIGHT COUPLE
sitting at a sidewalk cafe
eating big, greasy cheeseburgers.
Better hope Jenny Craig doesn’t catch you.
She passes a CLOWN
holding a bunch of balloons.
As she passes, she POPS one.
Enough clowning around.
What the worst part about
molesting a child in the woods?
Going home alone later.
Passes a BAD STREET MUSICIAN
playing some earnest folk song.
Curt Cobain is spinning in his GRAVE.
Goes by a BEARDED MAN
sitting on the sidewalk.
Licking the remains of a
fast food clam shell. He BURPS.
Ah. 'Dining el fresco.'
And with what joi de vive.
Zagat gives it a NINE.
Friday walks by an LEGLESS MAN
in a wheelchair. Holds a cup.
Help the homeless?
'The Homeless?' All of them?
What -- are you an organized charity?
And what’s up with the term 'The Homeless?'
Sounds too noble, too PC.
What happened to Bum? Vagrant? Hobo?
She stops. Pulls out her smokes.
Lights one up. Exhales. Ah.
A battered-looking SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
eyes her from his perch on a park bench.
SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
Hey, lady. You gottan extra cigarette?
Fakes being startled.
Looks around mockingly.
You -- talking to ME?
SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
Yeah. You gottan extra cigarette?
Wait. Let me think --
Oh, shit -- that’s right.
I left the ‘extra cigarettes’ at home.
(holds up the pack)
These are for me.
SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
Alright. You don’t have to be such a bitch --
Nice rap you got, you little fuck.
First you beg, then you fucking INSULT ME?
Do you know how EXPENSIVE cigarettes are?
Do you honestly think I’m just gonna
GIVE ONE to some slacker little PUNK?
You’re young. You’ve got no excuse.
GET A JOB, make SOME MONEY,
and BUY YOUR OWN FUCKING CIGARETTES -- ASSHOLE.
Nearby, PEDESTRIANS stop. Stare.
Now. If you’ll all excuse me.
I’ve got a meeting.
And I’ve got a lot of preparation to do.
And she starts sauntering on her way --