Happy Saturdaze, kiddies. Are you ready for a PUNCH in the gut? A swift KICK to the solar plexus? How about a CHOKING your throat so HARD you see stars? Then you've come to the right place, crime hipsters, a deep, dark place they call That Killing Feeling ...You might have noticed that I stopped posting film reviews here. There a couple of reasons for this. First, I've just gotten too friggin' busy these days, what with writing a drama series pilot during the morning and then a feature spec as a writer-for-hire in the afternoons. Add to that a new dog who needs at least four long walks a day, and this chick's dancecard is pretty full. The other reason -- well, let's face it, they weren't exactly great, incisive film comment. I was starting to feel like they were pretty lame, so I just pulled the plug on 'em. (And it now takes me 15 minutes instead of half an hour to write this damn blog.) Going forward, I might use this space pre-episode to shamelesslly self-promote my writing career.
But then I might not. A bit of mystery is always good, n'est pas?
Onto todays' joint from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY. This is one of my favorite moments in the film, and I don't wanna spoil it. Let's just say that Friday Foster can add armed carjacking to the list of crimes she's committed so far on her hell-bent for destruction vendetta of revenge ...
Oh, yeah. And Carrie Love finally just got laid.
EXT. MARINA PENINSULA - ALLEY - AT THAT MOMENT
A couple blocks south of the Venice pier. The cheap seats.
A set of decrepit wooden stairs leads up to a tiny apartment.
INT. ONE-ROOM APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
Shades down. Dust motes dance in the darkness.
TV on with the sound off across from a seedy couch.
The Thrill Kill Kult’s sleazy MONDO FEVER plays softly on a shitty stereo.
Carrie sits with Woman in Black on the couch. Loading a bong.
CARRIE
So what’s your real name?
WOMAN IN BLACK
Sinderella IS my real name.
Spelled with an ‘S’.
Get it? SIN-derella.
CARRIE
So what, you have glass bondage boots?
Sinderella looks up. Confused. Offers the bong.
SINDERELLA
Huh?
Carrie takes it. Pulls out her lighter.
CARRIE
Never mind.
(glances at the bong)
Nice skull -- lifelike.
She FIRES UP the pipe.
Takes a big hit.
Glances at the TV.
EXHALES a large cloud of smoke -- WHOOSH.
CARRIE (CONT’D)
Shit --
Carrie races to the set. CRANKS UP the volume.
ON THE TV
Friday points her GUN at the waitress.
NEWS ANCHOR (O.C.)
-- at the Cracked Earth Cafe, about an hour ago.
Witnesses on the scene say she drove off in a late model Nissan Sentra.
CARRIE
Friday, what have you done?
SINDERELLA
Who’s Friday?
CARRIE
SHHH.
FAT, WISECRACKING WEATHER GUY (O.C.)
Well, that’s a new one, Colin. Restaurant rage --
COLIN (O.C.)
Tell me about it. Wonder if she left a tip.
Carrie jumps up. Races to the door.
SINDERELLA
Where you goin’? I thought we were gonna
play ‘next of kin.’
CARRIE
I’m sorry, doll -- but I gotta go help someone.
SINDERELLA
After a hit of sticky purple kush?
CARRIE
It’s okay. I’m off-duty.
And she’s gone. Sinderella runs to the door. BOLTS it.
SINDERELLA
What the FUCK! Fucking COP?
EXT. WILSHIRE BOULEVARD - DUSK
The wind is kicking up. Getting chilly.
Friday sees a Santa Monica POLICE CRUISER pass by.
Quickly turns her head away.
FRIDAY
‘The Fugitive.’
(beat)
I’m gonna need some new wheels.
Nobody walks in L.A. Nobody. Losers walk.
DOWN THE STREET
A PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE strolls out of Starbucks
with her Machiatta. Talks on her cell.
Shakin’ her Juicy Couture butt.
PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Don’t tell me, don’t tell me! I Tivo’d it,
I had to watch ‘The Biggest Asshole.’
FRIDAY
watches. Smiles. Evil.
FRIDAY
Bingo.
She falls into step behind the coffee-sipper
as she nears her monstrous, red Cadillac Escalade.
PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Blake Lively bleaches her sphincter? No way.
Trophy pulls out her keys --
presses the autolock, THWIP.
She opens the passenger-side door.
Puts her bag on the seat.
And, as she walks around to the driver’s side,
Friday HOPS IN. Pulls out her gun.
The car floods with the sickenly-sweet sounds of Coldplay.
Ms. SUV climbs in. Doesn’t notice Friday, until --
CLICK-CLICK
She turns. Sees her. The gun.
PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE (CONT’D)
Ohmigod. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.
FRIDAY
Shut that FUCKING BEIGE music OFF.
Coldplay fucking SUCKS.
Trophy does. Shaking with fear. Staring at the gun.
FRIDAY (CONT'D)
So how exactly does that goddamn sticker
on the back of your gas-guzzler
support our imperialistic marauders overseas?
Aren’t you just supporting the flag-waving
ASSHOLES that SELL that CRAP?
PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
It -- what? But it, it --
(wheels spinning)
Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot!
I’ll give you anything you want --
She pulls out her wallet.
FRIDAY
That’s a good start. Gimmee the bag, too.
Betcha got a lotta cool stuff in there. Real goody bag.
Trophy hands it over.
FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Now your keys.
PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Oh, no, please -- my husband would kill me.
He just bought me this car for my birthday --
Friday JAMS the Magnum against the woman’s head.
FRIDAY
Correction. Your husband will be really pissed off,
but you’ll give him head tonight,
and he’ll buy you a shiny new toy.
I’M the one who’ll KILL you.
So hand over the keys, desperate whore-wife.
(quiet)
Before I splatter the Corinthian leather with your pretty pink brains.
Trembling, she hands Friday the keys.
FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Get outta the fucking car. NOW.
Trophy wife looks like she’s about to freak out.
Shaking, she opens the door. Slowly limbs out.
PUSH IN ON Friday’s face. Having a ball.
FRIDAY (CONT’D)
And gimmee that four-dollar coffee.
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