Who Do I Look Like, Diablo Cody?

So your wife left you. Your mortgage has been forclosed. You've been evicted. Your car got repoed. And you lost your job. Guess you'd be a little angry, too. Might wanna go grab a gun ... and get That Killing Feeling.

Onto today's juicy pulp scenario from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY. When we last left our story, wanted fugtive/screenwriter Friday Foster has stormed into her former place of work, White Line Pictures, with an Uzi submachine gun ... angry as hell, and not gonna to take it anymore.

Ladies and gentlemen, take your hostages, please ...

INT. WHITE LINE PICTURES - LOBBY - MORNING

FRIDAY

pointing the Uzi at Gary.

FRIDAY

Hey, Gare. Remember me?

I did four years in this slime hole --

The SCREENWRITER that got

‘THE BEST COVERAGE YOU EVER READ?’

GARY

Sunday. What the fuck are YOU doing here?

(beat)

Is that a real gun?

FRIDAY

You bet your back end it is.

And it’s FRIDAY, you fucking tub of Mick.

(to him, Devra and Jimmy)

Okay. NOW. Into the conference room.

We’re TAKING A MEETING.

Everyone stares.

Friday pumps the magazine, KA-CHINK.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)

Move it.

Or else I’m gonna fucking Abu Ghraib the lot of you.

JIMMY JOE

Y’all better move it. I think the lady’s serious.

Gary, Jimmy Joe and Devra start moving.

They pass a row of ASSISTANTS, watching in horror.

FRIDAY

You, too -- Hollywood Gatekeepers.

Put down your coverage,

I’ve got you surrounded.

IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM. NOW.

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY

Friday’s hostages sit around the large lux table.

Bright morning sunlight streams in through wall-sized windows.

FRIDAY

Gary. Close the blinds.

Don’t want the paparazzi

to get any shots of your imminent demise.

GARY

(puts his hands on the table)

Go fuck yourself.

Incensed, Friday BANGS the gun down on his hand.

SMASHING it.

GARY (CONT’D)

Ow!

FRIDAY

You think I’m fucking around? DO IT. Now.

Before I shoot your TENT-POLE.

He gets up. Goes to the blinds. Closes them.

HANS WOLFE, (50’s) head of marketing,

stern-looking, designer specs,

puffy, pokes his head in. Grumpy. Quizzical.

HANS

Vat is zis? Some kinda in-house focus group?

DON GREY (60’s), grey-haired, grey-skinned, shuffles in.

Shoeless. Mismatched socks.

You’d never know from looking,

but he’s the head of the studio.

Indie maverick deluxe.

As usual, right now he’s nursing a nasty hangover.

DON

What THE FUCK is going on in here?

(sees Friday)

Friday, you’re back.

(evil smile)

Go get me a latte, NOW.

FRIDAY

(whips guns at them)

Hello, boss -- or should I say SATAN?

It’s me, your worst nightmare,

back from the dead, and pissed as hell.

So why don’t you and HITLER

get your bony white asses in here?

You’re just in time for the climax of the story arc.

HANS

You -- have a gun.

FRIDAY

Brilliant observation, Hansie-boy.

Now get your NAZI-ASS IN HERE.

They come in.

DON

What the fuck do you want, money?

FRIDAY

No. I have money.

DON

Then, WHAT?

HANS

She vants her deal back, Don.

Goddammit, are yoo fuckin’ stupid.

GARY

Shut up, Hans.

DON

Shut up, Gary.

I’m in charge here.

FRIDAY

Shut THE FUCK UP, all of you -- I’M in charge.

DON

So, what -- you want to make a DEAL?

FRIDAY

Who do I look like, Diablo Cody?

No, it’s too late for that.

DON

Then what THE FUCK do you WANT?

FRIDAY

An apology.

(beat)

Live. On TV.