Like Shooting Fish In Your Pants

Happy Thursday, crime freaks. Feeling angry? Frustrated? Life getting you down? Then why don't you swing on by to the joint where the chicks are hot, the drinks are cold, and the hardboiled action is sizzling ... over at That Killing Feeling.

Onto today's depraved episode from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY. This one is a personal favorite of mine, as it's genesis is in something that drives me fucking batshit crazy. Here in LA, the trendy coffee shops are filled with wannabe screenwriters, sitting there with their laptops, writing 'the great American screenplay' for the world to see .. and be impressed with. Bugs the shit out of me. For me, writing is a private thing ... I could NEVER do it in public. I only work deep down in my lair, where my imagination can roam free.

NOT in some fucking airbrushed, art-directed, overpriced Star-fucks.

Whoops. Almost got a little carried away with myself. But that's how I am. Passionate about my work.

So let's find out what happens when wanted fugitive/would-be screenwriter Friday Foster, about to go on her mission of revenge, takes a quick-pit stop in one of these joints ...

Because, you see, the joint she's about to terrorize doesn't open for fifteen minutes ...

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)

Uch. 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 (CONT’D)

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 (CONT’D)

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 (CONT’D)

Hey! Give that back!

FRIDAY

Hold on -- let’s just check this out --

(reads)

'Interior, dorm room. A beer blast 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.

P-Please don’t shoot me.

FRIDAY

Nice vocabulary --

and you’re supposed to be a writer.

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)

Thanks. That was fun.

(beat)

Silly rabbit, I wouldn’t shoot Little Willie.

I know you think with it.

She turns to leave.

A CUTE CO-ED

stares, wide-eyed.

Cell phone clamped against her ear.

Whispering into it.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)

Hey, Gidget. Shut off your security blanket.

Can’t you see you’re being terrorized?

COED

(on the phone)

And she’s got a gun --

Friday marches over. GRABS the phone.

SLAMS it on the floor. STOMPS on it.

SMASHES it to pieces.

FRIDAY

Whoops. Conversatious interruptus.

God, that’s satisfying, GRRRRRR. Cathartic.

She goes to the door. Opens it. Turns, looks at them.

FRIDAY (CONT'D)

You’re all lemmings.

Empty victims of marketing,

filling yourselves with shit.

(brightly)

Ciao, kids. Time for my nine-o’clock.

Wish me luck.