Friday Foster, an unemployed screenwriter, has just had her power, phone, heat and water shut off. There's an eviction notice on her apartment door, and her car has just been reposessed.
In a fit of despair, she steals an empty pizza delivery car left untended with the engine idling, and finds a million bucks in cold, hard cash on the front seat, along with a 9mm Browning.
She sets off on 24-hour rampage of revenge, which will culminate in her taking the movie studio who killed her big deal hostage, where she demands an apology. Live, on TV.
But she's arrived 15 minutes before they open their doors.
So she stops off for a cup of java ...
***
EXT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - DAY
A despicable, over-priced hangout for wannabe-trendies
who don't have a clue about ambiance. Style. Passion. Reality.
Friday walks up to the door. Stops. Looks at her watch.
FRIDAY
Fifteen minutes to go.
(looks in the window)
Yuck. The pause that depresses --
INT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - CONTINUOUS
Friday bursts in. SLAMS the doors open.
FRIDAY
Greetings, fellow consumers!
People look up. Quizzical. Except for a
GOATEED POSEUR
at a table with his laptop. Deep in his faux version of 'thought.'
Sips his latte. One-finger types on the keyboard.
FRIDAY
Like shooting fish in your pants.
She takes the table next to his. Puts down her stuff.
Poseur's phone RINGS. He answers it.
FRIDAY
This outta be good --
GOATEED POSEUR
'Lo. This is Tykey --
FRIDAY
'Tykey?'
TYKEY
Oh, yeah -- it's at Mark Wahlberg's joint.
S'gonna be a blowout --
FRIDAY
Joint? Who the fuck do you think you are, Spike Lee?
(off his look)
Yeah, you -- I'm talking to you. Can you speak a little louder?
Cause I don't want to miss a SINGLE DETAIL
about your FASCINATING LIFE.
TYKEY
Excuse me. This is a private conversation.
FRIDAY
No it's not, not when you're fucking broadcasting
it in a public place for everyone to hear.
A 'private conversation' is at home, or in the office --
but what you're doing is BOTHERING EVERYONE
with your STAR-FUCKING.
TYKEY
What is your problem?
FRIDAY
My PROBLEM is fucking POSERS like YOU,
showing off in public,
PRETENDING to write some PIECE OF SHIT studio CRAP,
when all you're REALLY DOING is trying to GET LAID.
TYKEY
Fuck you. Mind your own business.
She GRABS his laptop --
TYKEY
Hey! Give that back!
FRIDAY
Hold on -- let's just check this out --
(reads)
Interior, dorm room. A kegger is raging.
Pure shit, I knew it --
(punches keys)
Just let me -- erase this -- HA, done.
TYKEY
(leaps up)
You fucking CUNT!
Friday WHIPS OUT her piece.
SHOVES it into his crotch.
FRIDAY
WHAT did you call me?
TYKEY
Don't shoot! Don't shoot!
FRIDAY
I asked you a QUESTION, asshole.
WHAT did you call me?
TYKEY
A -- cunt.
FRIDAY
What did you say? I can't HEAR YOU.
TYKEY
A cunt, okay? I'm sorry. Please don't shoot me.
FRIDAY
Prepare to meet your maker. Eunuch time.
TYKEY
No, PLEASE.
A dark, WET STAIN forms on his cargo pant shorts.
FRIDAY
Hey, you peed your pants. Bonus points. You get to live.
(lowers the gun)
Silly rabbit. Cocks are for kids.
***
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