My Trunk Is Always Packed

Happy Friday, crime freaks! Are you ready for the weak-end? Then get your asses over to the coolest joint in cyberspace, where the drinks are cold, and the chicks are hot ... at That Killing Feeling.

Onto today's chapter of your favorite spy thriller NOWHERE GIRLS, where the going gets tough, and the tough get ... violent.

While the FBI have commandeered the local police headquarters in their search for rogue Homeland Security agents April Street and Cherry Nation, another assassin, 'The Bagger,' calls up his favorite 'junior assistant', Lemon, who rushes to the scene ...


EXT. SANTA MONICA POLICE HEADQUARTERS - NIGHT
A quaint, almost run-down building near City Hall.
The front drive is jammed with black SUV’s.

INT. SANTA MONICA POLICE HEADQUARTERS - CONTINUOUS
A swarm of FBI AGENTS IN BLACK SUITS
are clustered around the front desk.

A FEMALE AGENT (20’s), hot-as-hell,
severe in Armani, blonde and blue-eyed,
SHOUTS at the bug-eyed DESK SERGEANT.

GORGEOUS AGENT
I could give a SHIT about RULES OF PROCEDURE.
This is a matter of NATIONAL SECURITY.
We’re taking over the station, UNDERSTAND.
We’re FBI, and NO ONE fucks with us. GOT it?

Meet SUNDAY SILK (30's), task force chief.
Ruthless. Vicious. A hell of an agent.
Great legs. And, hey -- nice rack.

SCARED DESK SERGEANT
(reaches for his phone)
Let me call the chief --

A shorter, older AGENT (40’s) eyes burning with fire,
POUNDS on the desk with his fist.

OLDER AGENT
Now listen to me, you dumb FUCK.
Two rogue federal agents were just involved
in a security breach at THE WHITE HOUSE.
We haven’t got time to FUCK AROUND.
Now show us a room where we can
fucking SET UP OUR EQUIPMENT,
or I’ll have you checking parking meters in a SKIRT.

Meet MAX CARGO (50's), senior agent. Brusque. No-nonsense.
And right now, ready to punch someone’s lights out.

Scared Desk Sergeant gets up.
Points down the corridor.

SCARED DESK SERGEANT
R-right this way.

SUNDAY
You got a stick up your ass? MOVE IT.

SCARED DESK SERGEANT
(nods, starts walking)
Yes, sir. Uh, ma’am -- uh --

INT. SLEAZY CLUB - NIGHT
David Bowie/T-Rex 70’s rock at an EAR-SHREDDING volume.

Very glam, very glitter. The packed club is jamming.
Smoke machines. Mirrored balls. Go-go dancers on pillars.
Boys, girls and everything in between writhe with abandon.

A COOL GUY (25) and a HOT CHICK twist and shake it.
The babe, (23), mod, waifish, vibrates like a woman possessed.

THE CHICK
Stops dancing.
Opens her eyes.
Pulls out her BlackBerry.

CLOSE ON --
The LCD display.

THE GEESE ARE IN FLIGHT.
PACK YOUR LIPSTICK. LOVE, MOM.

THE CHICK
Yells something in the guy's ear.
Bolts for the door.

EXT. SLEAZY CLUB - CONTINUOUS
She FLIES down the outside staircase.
Six-inch platforms CLATTER,
BANG-BANG-BANG down the metal steps.

ON THE SIDEWALK
She fingers a number on her cell.
Jumps into her red Mazda Miata convertible.

INTERCUT WITH:

EXT. OCEAN AVENUE - NIGHT
Bugs’ Black Porche SUV idles curbs side.

INT. BUGS’ SUV - CONTINUOUS
The Bagger sits in the passenger side, talks on his cell.
Winks at Bugs. Fires up a smoke.

BAGGER
Lemon. It’s Poppa Bear.

LEMON
This is awfully last-minute notice, Baggy.
I’m wired on coke, completely shit-faced --
and I’m wearing six-inch heels.

BAGGER
The clock's running, girlie-girl,
no time to worry about that.
You pack the trunk?

LEMON
Honey, my trunk is always packed.

BAGGER
Solid. Then let’s make some lemonade.