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.
It's been awhile since I posted a personal message before I started the next story on the blog. No excuses. I've just been so darn busy as of late, doing back to back writing gigs for hire.
Some of you have probably wondered why I keep posting the same dozen scripts over the last few years and don't post some of my newer work. Well, there's a reason for that. Most of the stuff I've been working on has been for hire, and I've had to sign a non-disclosure agreement, so I can't post them -- and then there's another, more pertinent reason. They don't fit the brand of this blog; namely, hardboiled crime/pulp stories. Also, this blog remains a way for me to promote my work, and the odd producer or director that stumbles upon this isn't familiar with my work like you are. Also, my latest project I'm keeping under wraps because it's a super-cool series that's a real game-changer. All I want to say now is that it's about the first standalone female anti-hero, and it's the best thing I've ever written.
Today, all that's gonna change. Today I'm gonna start posting a story that's never been on the blog before, and I must confess I'm more than a little excited. Some of you heard of FILLMORE, the ill-fated biopic I was hired to write a couple of years ago. It was gonna star Snoop Dogg and be directed by Hawthorne James (SPEED, THE DOORS, THE FIVE HEARTBEATS). The story was splashed all of the trades, I was gonna make big money writing it. It was my 'big break.' Well, I had a great time writing it, then rewriting it with Hawthorne, but there was one problem. The producers never came up with to money to pay me after my first payment. Lesson one in screenwriting jobs: NEVER take a job unless they have the money in the bank to pay you. It seemed like a no-brainer: Snoop had signed a letter of intent (but the arrogant newbie producers lowballed his offer, and turned him off), and they would pay me the rest of my fee (in the low six figures) after they raised the money.
But they didn't. They couldn't.
And guess who went bankrupt and lost her home?
But that's a story for a different time. (See the above-mentioned new series.)
Ladies and gentlemen, today I present FILLMORE, the story of a poor young man from Louisiana, who moved to San Francisco in the 70's and became a famed blues musician, and, without trying, the biggest pimp ever known.
In Chapter 1 of FILLMORE, we meet young Clarence Sims, who's snuck out of his home in the Louisiana bayou to sneak a peak at a roadhouse blues band ... until his mother Idola tracks him down and drags him back home ...
FADE IN:
ON A BLACK SCREEN
We hear a BABY CRYING.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. DELIVERY ROOM - DAY
IDOLA (30’s) lies in bed.
Holds NEWBORN BABY CLARENCE in her arms.
A pair of NURSES in scrubs (20’s)
stand nearby.
DOCTOR (40’s) nods,
walks out of the room.
PRETTY NURSE
That’s the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen.
SHY NURSE
He’s so beautiful.
IDOLA
Gonna break all the girls’ hearts.
PRETTY NURSE
He’s making a lot of noise.
IDOLA
That’s a colored boy
crying for his freedom.
(off her look)
He’s learning to sing the blues.
EXT. CITY STREET - DAY
From behind, we see a tall,
well-dressed MAN (30’s)
in a sharp suit and matching hat
with expensive shoes and
a guitar strapped across his back
walking down the street.
He passes various PEOPLE
that greet him.
IN MONTAGE:
A series of visual images.
WORKERS picking cotton with BLOODY HANDS.
CHOPPING sugar cane.
A BURNING CROSS.
A sign on a drinking fountain:
WHITES ONLY.
A young BOY shining shoes.
CHILDREN playing in the street.
An OLD WOMAN on her hands and knees,
scrubbing the floor late at night.
A man gets HANDCUFFED, dragged away.
A FOX chases a RABBIT.
THE WELL-DRESSED MAN
Gets to a street corner. Stops. Turns.
Looks in the camera.
We see it’s FILLMORE SLIM.
Blues singer. Man-about-town.
He brings the guitar around.
Starts playing, singing a song.
We PUSH IN ON his face,
and then --
DISSOLVE TO:
A YOUNG BOY’S FACE
Pressed up against a window.
CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal --
EXT. BAYOU JUKE JOINT - NIGHT
A shack on the outskirts of town.
gravel parking lot is packed
with old jalopies.
We hear MUSIC bleeding out from within.
It’s hot jazz, CRACKLING with energy.
INT. BAYOU JUKE JOINT - NIGHT
A JAZZ BAND plays on a small stage.
They’re smokin’ hot.
Ripping the joint apart.
The guy on the sax is ON FIRE.
It’s all the rest of the band
can do to keep up with him.
The place is packed.
It’s hot and sweaty.
The crowd is going wild,
dancing up a storm.
Lubricated with booze and music.
Gyrating and sweating in
a whirlwind of ecstasy.
Enjoying the night.
Not a care in the world.
EXT. BAYOU JUKE JOINT - SIDE ALLEY - CONTINUOUS
THE YOUNG BOY (10) watches in the window.
Fixated on the sax player.
Snapping his fingers.
Imitating his moves.
INT. BAYOU JUKE JOINT - CONTINUOUS
The song ends.
The crowd ROARS it’s approval.
The sax player nods.
Leaves the stage.
A GUITARIST (40’s), a big, tall,
good-looking fella in a suit
takes the stage.
Nods at the band --
And then fucking RIPS into a tight,
honey-drenched blues riff,
simmering with feeling.
Joy. Pain. Release.
The crowd is dead quiet.
The women, RIVETED.
OUTSIDE IN THE ALLEY
Young Boy sees what’s going on.
The women LIKE this music.
BLUES GUITARIST
(sings)
I went down to the crossroads,
fell down on my knees --
I went down to the crossroads,
fell down on my knees --
asked the lord above for mercy,
save me if you please --
He makes the guitar WAIL.
SPEAK to the people.
A YOUNG GIRL (18) sitting at a table
right in front of him stares.
Licks her lips.
He notices her. Smiles.
Returns his attention to the guitar.
RIPS off another SHRIEKING solo.
She nods toward the door.
Raises her eyebrows, a question.
He smiles. Nods.
She gets up out of her seat.
EXT. BAYOU JUKE JOINT - SIDE ALLEY - CONTINUOUS
Young Boy has been watching
what just went down.
YOUNG BOY
Damn.
Suddenly Idola appears
and GRABS him by the ear.
IDOLA
Clarence Sims.
What did I tell you about
sneakin’ out of the house?
You come home RIGHT NOW.
CLARENCE
Ow, Momma.
Let go of my EAR.
She starts dragging him down the alley.
IDOLA
And what the hell are you doin’ HERE?
It’s NO PLACE for a young boy.
Your Daddy’s gonna tan your hide --
Blues Guitarist appears a few feet away,
holding Young Woman by the hand.
They laugh and stumble
drunkenly into the night.
He SMACKS her ass.
She lets out a throaty, dirty laugh.
Clarence stares at them, wide-eyed.
Idola sees them, freaks out,
then DRAGS him away --
That's a great opening!
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