It Only Hurts When I Punch Someone

Happy Hump day, crime humpsters! Are you ready for another blast of hardboiled action? 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.

In today's action-packed chapter from the spy thriller NOWHERE GIRLS, Homeland Security agents Cherry Nation and April Street take cover in black ops spook Serge's safe house on wheels. Meanwhile, 'assassin to the stars' The Bagger is hot on their trail ... as is the FBI ...

EXT. VENICE BEACH BOARDWALK - NIGHT

Deserted at this hour.

Except for a few piles of humanity

wrapped in rags, dozing peacefully.

Serge, Cherry and April walk briskly

toward the parking lot at the north end.

CHERRY

(to April)

How’s your leg?

APRIL

Hurts like a motherfucker.

How’s your arm?

CHERRY

It only hurts when I punch someone.

SERGE

We’re almost there.

They get to the lot.

There’s a few old, trashy MOTOR HOMES parked at the end.

Ratty, painted with crude bright colors.

Blacked out windows. Graffiti. Weird shit piled on top.

Serge walks up to the largest one.

It has a sign on the window.

JESUS WAS HOMELESS.

SERGE

And here we are. Be it ever so humble --

He looks around. Satisfied that no one is following them.

Unlocks the door. Opens it. Beckons them inside.

SERGE

Entre, s’il vous plait.

Cherry and April exchange glances.

Shrug. Start up the steps.

INT. MOTOR HOME - CONTINUOUS

Breathtakingly beautiful. Plush carpet. Giant plasma screen.

State-of-the-art communications and computer technology.

New galley. Comfy furniture. The works.

CHERRY

Wow, this joint is THE BOMB.

APRIL

We be riding in STYLE.

Serge closes the door.

SPINS a wheel, LOCKS it, CLICK.

SERGE

We have rations for a month.

Global satellite tracking.

A complete arsenal, including heat-seaking missiles.

(smiles)

And it sleeps two comfortably.

Three is a bit of a squeeze,

but I think we can manage.

April blushes.

CHERRY

No time for shenanigans, kids.

We’ve got to get on the stick, pronto.

Uncle Sam wants our ass like grass.

(to Serge)

C’mon, let’s upload Bibi’s phone data and check out her intel.

Serge pulls Bibi’s cell out his pocket. Holds it up. Smiles.

SERGE

Let your fingers do the spying --

EXT. STREET CORNER - NIGHT

Down the street, Bugs’ SUV comes to a stop

where the street ends at the boardwalk.

INT. BUGS SUV - CONTINUOUS

The Bagger leans out the window,

looks through binoculars.

Turns and looks at Lemon.

BAGGER

Bingo. They went into that motor home.

LEMON

(looks)

One of those shitty homeless RV’s? Ew.

BAGGER

No, it’s brilliant. Perfect cover.

(opens the door)

C’mon, let’s go open us a can of vagina.

(turns to Bugs)

You come, too. The more the merrier.

BUGS

(big toothy smile)

Let’s rock-n-rolla.

(pulls out his weapon)

Lock, stock and two smoking BARRELS.

They pile out of the vehicle.

EXT. STREET CORNER - CONTINUOUS

The Bagger pulls out a 9MM Baretta with a silencer.

SHOOTS Bugs in the head. THWIP.

He falls into a row of shrubs, THUD.

LEMON

What did you do THAT for?

BAGGER

I fucking HATE Guy Ritchie --

EXT. BIBI’S SAFE HOUSE - AT THAT MOMENT

It’s a madhouse. Medical techs are taking away

dead FBI agents on stretchers.

Crime scene techs are sifting

through the rubble looking for evidence.

Sunday and Max stand nearby, watching.

Sipping coffee. Sunday is listening

to someone on her cell phone. She nods slowly.

SUNDAY

(on the phone)

Excellent, Monsterburg.

You get a gold star.

She CLICKS the phone shut.

Put it in her pocket.

MAX

It would seem that our plucky lasses

escaped by the skin of their teeth.

SUNDAY

Not so fast, super sleuth.

I just received word from HQ

that La Salle’s cell phone is still active.

MAX

Then that means --

SUNDAY

They’ve got it.

And we can track their tight, little asses with it.

MAX

(looks at hers)

Speaking of tight, little asses --