Monday, October 1, 2012
Take Me To Your D-Girl
Hey there, crime kids. Happy Monday. 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 28 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, fugitive screenwriter Friday Foster ambushes the executives at White Line Pictures with an Uzi, marches them into the conference room, and makes a most unusual demand ...
INT. WHITE LINE PICTURES - FOYER - EARLY MORNING
Friday pushes open the metal double doors, enters --
THE WAITING AREA
But then, this IS a mini-major.
Behind the front desk sits DEVRA,
rotund, bespectacled receptionist.
Dickensian features light up
when she spies Friday.
Friday. I can’t believe you’re here.
You’re all over the news.
You, uh -- have an appointment?
(whips out her Uzi)
THIS is my appointment.
I’ve got a date with destiny, baby.
Take me to your D-girl.
(off her shock)
Hey. Got a joke for ya.
How do you make love
to four-hundred pound woman?
Roll ‘er in flour,
and look for the wet spot.
But Devra is frozen. In shock.
A MALE VOICE laughs.
MALE VOICE (O.C.)
Thas’ fuckin’ funny!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha --
Friday WHIPS AROUND to see --
JIMMY JOE JACK
(40’s) sitting on the couch.
Indie Movie Star.
Big ol’ grin on his face.
Still a shit-kicker.
Western wear a’la Rodeo Drive.
He chews tobacco. SPITS.
And she’s gotta gun.
You a method actress --
or did the studio
fuck you in the ass too?
Hershey Highway. No lube.
(offers her hand)
Big fan, Jimmy Joe.
best film of the year.
Thanks. So, what’s with the firepower --
you plan on shootin’ up the place?
Need any help?
GARY GILL (35) head of production ambles in.
Redheaded, pale, freckled.
A bloated barrel of lumbering, dull, pomposity.
Walks over to the desk. Squints at Devra.
Devra just blinks.
Terrified. Nods at --
pointing the Uzi at Gary.
Hey, Gare. Remember me?
I did four years in this slime hole --
The SCREENWRITER that got
‘THE BEST COVERAGE YOU EVER READ?’
What the fuck are YOU doing here?
Is that a real gun?
You bet your back end it is.
And it’s FRIDAY,
you fucking tub of Mick.
(to him, Devra and Jimmy)
Okay. NOW. Into the conference room.
We’re taking a meeting.
Friday pumps the magazine, KA-CHINK.
Or else I’m gonna fucking
Abu Ghraib the lot of you.
Y’all better move it.
I think the lady’s serious.
Gary, Jimmy Joe and Devra start moving.
They pass a row of ASSISTANTS,
watching in horror.
You, too -- Hollywood Gatekeepers.
Put down your coverage,
I’ve got you surrounded.
IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM. NOW.
INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY
Friday’s hostages sit around the large lux table.
Bright morning sunlight streams in
through wall-sized windows.
Gary. Close the blinds.
Don’t want the paparazzi to get
any shots of your imminent demise.
(puts his hands on the table)
Go fuck yourself.
Incensed, Friday BANGS
the gun down on his hand. SMASHING it.
You think I’m fucking around? DO IT. Now.
Before I shoot your TENT-POLE.
He gets up. Goes to the blinds.
HANS WOLFE, (50’s) head of marketing,
stern-looking, designer specs, puffy,
pokes his head in. Grumpy. Quizzical.
Vat is zis?
Some kinda in-house focus group?
DON GREY (60’s), grey-haired,
grey-skinned, shuffles in.
Shoeless. Mismatched socks.
You’d never know from looking,
but he’s the head of the studio.
Indie maverick deluxe.
As usual, right now
he’s nursing a nasty hangover.
What THE FUCK is going on in here?
Friday, you’re back.
Go get me a latte, NOW.
(whips guns at them)
Hello, boss, or should I say Satan?
It’s me, your worst nightmare,
back from the dead, and pissed as hell.
So why don’t you and HITLER
get your bony white asses in here?
You’re just in time for
the climax of the story arc.
You -- have a gun.
Brilliant observation, Hansie-boy.
Now get your NAZI-ASS IN HERE.
They come in.
What the fuck do you want, money?
No. I have money.
She vants her deal back, Don.
Goddammit, are yoo fuckin’ stupid.
Shut up, Hans.
Shut up, Gary.
I’m in charge here.
Shut THE FUCK UP, all of you --
I’M in charge.
So what do you want, a new deal?
Who do I look like, Diablo Cody?
No, it’s too late for that.
Then what THE FUCK do you WANT?
Live. On TV --