The Horrors Within

Happy Tuesday, 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 25 of RIDGEWAY, local ne'er do well hipster junkie Zeek Youngblood convinces his girlfriend Sugar Hart to score some heroin ... by having sex with a biker ...


EXT. SHITTY COTTAGE - DUSK
A tiny, grimy cottage
on a steep mountain road.

Filthy white picket fence.
Recycling bin filled with
empty beer cans.

Dense foliage hides
the horrors within.

Across the street,
a motley crew of
LOCALS drink beer and play
a game of horseshoes.

One hits the stake
with a CLANK.

INT. SHITTY COTTAGE - DUSK
Shades drawn. Piles of crap everywhere
that would do Hoarders proud.

A tiny boom box plays
twangy alt country.

A BOY (20) and GIRL (19)
sit on the bed, cross-legged,
sharing a smoke.

BOY
I’m sick, Sugar.
Need more brain damage.

Meet ZEEK YOUNGBLOOD,
mountain-punk-hipster.

Natty in faded denim,
Edwardian blouse and a bowler.

Greasy hair frames
an angelic face.

He wipes his nose,
rubs it on his leg.

SUGAR
But we just got a sack.

Meet SUGAR HART, striking in
artfully ripped black hose
and blue velvet minidress.

Mass of tangled black hair
down to her ass.

Pale as moonlight
and sweet as honeysuckle.

ZEEK
All gone, honey pie.
(smiles)
How bout you go down
to the Cathouse and do
one of them bikers again?

SUGAR
Aw, Zeek.
Those guys are nasty.
Still have bruises
from the last one.

ZEEK
Maybe go see Hoyt again?

SUGAR
Isn’t there a way to score
without me having
to fuck somebody?

ZEEK
Well, if you hadn’t
lost the gun --

Pause.

SUGAR
Alright, alright.
I’ll go see Hoyt.
(beat)
He smells so bad.

ZEEK
Hold your nose.
It’ll be over
before you know it.

SUGAR
He does come fast --

She gets up.
Goes to the door.

ZEEK
Attagirl. Go get ‘em.

Puts her hand on the knob.
Shoots him a look. Leaves.

He pulls out a cigar box
out from under the bed.
Opens it.

Pulls out a spoon, syringe
and a length of rubber tubing.

Takes a glassine envelope
out of his pocket.

Holds it up to the light.
FLICKS it with his finger.

Dumps some of it
on the spoon.

LIGHTS it with a
flick of his Zippo.

Smoke rises as the
magic powder turns
liquid, then bubbles.

He places a piece
of cotton on it.

Then expertly draws it
into the syringe.

Squirts it.
Taps it with a finger.

Ties the rubber hose
around his upper arm.
YANKS it tight.

Rolls up his sleeve,
revealing a junkie’s road map
of dead veins, boils and scabs.
Hunts for a spot. No luck.

Thinks a moment.
Takes off a shoe,
revealing a filthy, hairy foot
with long, yellow nails.

Takes a deep breath --
and PLUNGES it between his toes.
CRIES OUT in pain.