Head Shot

Happy Sunday, crime victims. A day of rest? Not for this hardboiled raconteur. No, siree. Gotta serve up another heapin' helpin' of that dark, depraved hostility ... I mean, hospitality. So get your asses in here. The plot is thickening ... or should I say ... congealing ...

Wish you could see the big fucking grin on my face right now. Just adopted a new doggie. Bobby, named after the two 'Bobby D's' - DeNiro and DuVall - is a 5 year old male Cocker Spaniel/Black Lab mix. Rescued him from a home deep behind the Orange Curtain where he was left alone most of the time. Welcome to the beach, babe. Mommy's gonna take real good care of you.

How do you like your martinis?

Screened CITY OF INDUSTRY last night, and since it was pretty much a piece of shit, I'm not gonna say much about it. Harvey Keitel, wasted in a 'shitty heist gone' wrong flick. James LeGross was suitably sleazy, and Famke Jansen was yummier than usual -- but -- it was one of those Tarantino-wannabes that was made shortly after PULP FICTION, and it HAS NOT aged well ...

Onto the good stuff. Gotta triple-feature for you today from WILSHIRE BOULEVARD.

First up, we meet shitty TV movie producer Harvey Flender, who is about to bite the bullet. Then, hit man/wannabe director Phillie Pfugg who is cutting his torture porn opus, and finally -- we hook up with Ken Rice, wannabe shitty TV movie producer Ken Rice, who is a closeted born-again Christian with a tase of ilicit flesh.

So let's do it.

***

EXT. SANTA MONICA HILLS - AT THAT MOMENT

It’s dark. Misty. With only the light of a half-moon.

A STRANGE-LOOKING MAN (40’s),

Ceasar ‘do’, bug-eyed, bowling-pin-shaped,

walks a pair of GOLDEN RETRIEVERS on a leafy foot path.

He giggles. Fingers buttons on his BLACKBERRY.

The phone RINGS some sappy, John Williams-like theme.

STRANGE-LOOKING

Ooh. Overnights are in --

The dogs STOP. Tense. GROWL.

STRANGE-LOOKING (CONT'D)

Summer, Autumn -- what’s wrong?

Just then a FIGURE in black

GRABS Strange-Looking from behind.

YANKS the dog’s leashes free.

SHOOTS into the sky.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The dogs RUN OFF.

Strange is pulled into the dense foliage.

EXT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - DAWN

Mulholland Drive. The peak of the land of dreams.

A white super-stretch-limo FLIES by in a CRUNCH of gravel.

A FLESHY STARLET pops out the moon roof.

Drains a cocktail. YELLS.

FLESHY STARLET

Firecrotch!

She FLINGS her martini glass in the air at --

A rambling, black ranch manse hidden in the foliage.

It hits the front door, SMASH.

INT. BLACK RANCH MANSE - STUDIO - AT THAT MOMENT

The bubbly, Eurofemme decadence

of Felix the Housecat’s MADAME HOLLYWOOD over --

A cozy, dim, wood-panelled basement rec room.

Posters of Bunuel. Goddard. Russ Meyer. Hershel Gordon Lewis.

A HULKING FIGURE (40’s) leans over a computer monitor.

Tiny, piggy eyes. Hooked nose. Kinky black hair

in a mullet with bangs trying to cover a receding hairline.

Meet PHILLIE PFUGG. Right now rockin’ the Avid.

Cutting his masterpiece.

He grins.

HONKS a large glob of phlegm into his hand.

Rubs it on his jeans. Smiles at his work, pleased.

PHILLIE

This’ll make SAW look like Pee-Wee’s Playhouse.

He rubs his crotch, gingerly. Looks down. Winces.

PHILLIE (CONT’D)

Say hello to my big ‘fren --

IN THE KITCHEN

is CHINETTE PFUGG, Phillie’s better half.

Cute face, but on the body of a dude.

Tiny steriod-breasts.

And hey, is that a five-o’clock shadow?

Right now she’s chatting on her cell.

CHINETTE

Torture porn? Are you fucking kidding me?

Phillie’s the next Scorcese.

‘Head Shot’ is gonna clean up at the box office.

EXT. MULHOLLAND DRIVE - AT THAT MOMENT

A hundred yards down the road,

a large group of CYCLISTS form a human chain.

Dressed like the Tour de France.

Shouting excitedly to each other.

Laughing. FLYING by --

IN PHILLIE’S STUDIO

he looks at his watch. Smiles. Goes to the window.

Opens it. Leans out. Grabs the end of a shiny steel cable.

FLICKS a switch on a small wooden box mounted on the outside wall.

THE CYCLISTS

get nearer. Nearer.

Start to pass the house, as --

PHILLIE

YANKS on the wire, pulling it up across the road,

up about three feet. He hooks it around a big spike, and --

THE CYCLISTS

HIT THE WIRE!

They JERK, JOLT in mid-air, SKID

and SKITTER across the road, causing the row behind,

and the next, and the next to WIPE OUT,

falling like dominos.

PHILLIE
giggles. Unhooks the wire.

ACROSS THE STREET

a spinning wheel WHIRLS,

pulls the cable back with a SNAP.

PHILLIE

grabs the box. Closes the window, and the blinds.

Sits down with his prize. Opens the box.

Takes out a small camcorder.

PHILLIE

Won’t need any lube with THIS one.

EXT. WEST HOLLYWOOD - SANTA MONICA BOULEVARD - AT THAT MOMENT

A small strip mall. Dry cleaners. Burger joint. Check cashing.

And, at the end, a small concrete bunker.

Small sign in the window reads

‘Heavenly Pictures. By Appointment Only.’

INT. HEAVENLY PICTURES - CONTINUOUS

A pink-faced MAN (40’s) sits at a desk.

Boyish blonde haircut, parted.

Body, slug-like. Mouth a tight little smear.

Meet KEN RICE, bottom-feeder extraordinaire.

Right now he’s reading the Bible,

mouth slowly forming the words.

He hears something. Looks. Eyes LIGHT UP.

PUNCHES a remote.

HIS COMPUTER MONITOR

shows a CNN news feed.

A smiling but grim anchor leans in.

ANCHOR

-- where Hollywood producer Harvey Flender

disappeared while walking his dogs --

KEN

smiles.

His phone RINGS.

He picks up --

KEN

David, hi. Yes, I’m watching right now --

(listens)

I know. Tragic.

(listens)

Probably someone else whose calls he didn’t return --

(giggles)

You are AWFUL.

(listens)

Of course. We should meet.

(listens)

How about Scandals? Say around 6?

PUSH IN ON Ken.

Eyes dancing with a mischievous gleam.

KEN

We'll toast to his demise.

(listens)

First round's on me --