Head Shot

Hey there, crime kids. Happy Hump Day. (Would you like one hump, or two?) It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where your most violent fantasies become sins of the flesh, right here, where the hardboiled action is non-stop, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.

In Chapter 3 of WILSHIRE BOULEVARD, TV-movie producer Harvey Flender is abducted while walking his dogs. Then we meet torture porn filmmaker Phillie Pfugg and his steroid-wife Chinette. Meanwhile, Bible-thumping wannabe producer Ken Rice sees the news about Harvey on TV and gets excited ...


EXT. SANTA MONICA HILLS - AT THAT MOMENT
It’s dark. Misty. With only the light of a half-moon.

A STRANGE-LOOKING MAN (40’s),
Ceasar ‘do’, bug-eyed, bowling-pin-shaped,
walks a pair of GOLDEN RETRIEVERS
on a leafy foot path.

He giggles. Fingers buttons on his BLACKBERRY.
The blackberry RINGS some sappy,
John Williams-like theme.

STRANGE-LOOKING
Ooh. Overnights are in --

The dogs STOP. Tense. GROWL.

STRANGE-LOOKING (CONT'D)
Summer, Autumn -- what’s wrong?

Just then a FIGURE in black GRABS
Strange-Looking from behind.

YANKS the dog’s leashes free.
SHOOTS into the sky.
BANG. BANG. BANG.

The dogs RUN OFF.
Strange is pulled into the dense foliage.

EXT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - DAWN
Mulholland Drive.
The peak of the land of dreams.

A white super-stretch-limo FLIES by
in a CRUNCH of gravel.

A FLESHY STARLET pops out the moon roof.
Drains a cocktail. YELLS.

FLESHY STARLET
Firecrotch!

She FLINGS her martini glass in the air at --
A rambling, black ranch manse hidden in the foliage.
It hits the front door, SMASH.

INT. BLACK RANCH MANSE - STUDIO - AT THAT MOMENT
The bubbly, Eurofemme decadence of
Felix the Housecat’s MADAME HOLLYWOOD over --

A cozy, dim, wood-panelled basement rec room.
Posters of Bunuel. Goddard. Russ Meyer.
Hershel Gordon Lewis.

A HULKING FIGURE (40’s)
leans over a computer monitor.
Tiny, piggy eyes. Hooked nose.

Kinky black hair in a mullet with bangs
trying to cover a receding hairline.

Meet PHILLIE PFUGG.
Right now rockin’ the Avid.
Cutting his masterpiece.

He grins. HONKS a large glob of phlegm
into his hand. Rubs it on his jeans.
Smiles at his work, pleased.

PHILLIE
This’ll make SAW
look like Pee-Wee’s Playhouse.

He rubs his crotch, gingerly.
Looks down. Winces.

PHILLIE (CONT’D)
Say hello to my big ‘fren --

IN THE KITCHEN
is CHINETTE PFUGG,
Phillie’s better half.

Cute face, but on the body of a dude.
Tiny steriod-breasts.

And hey, is that a five-o’clock shadow?
Right now she’s chatting on her cell.

CHINETTE
'Torture porn?' Are you fucking kidding me?
Phillie’s the next Scorcese.
‘Head Shot’ is gonna clean up
at the box office.

EXT. MULHOLLAND DRIVE - AT THAT MOMENT
A hundred yards down the road,
a large group of CYCLISTS form a human chain.
Dressed like the Tour de France.

Shouting excitedly to each other.
Laughing. FLYING by --

IN PHILLIE’S STUDIO
he looks at his watch. Smiles.
Goes to the window. Opens it.

Leans out. Grabs the end of a shiny steel cable.
FLICKS a switch on a small wooden box
mounted on the outside wall.

THE CYCLISTS
get nearer. Nearer.
Start to pass the house, as --

PHILLIE
YANKS on the wire,
pulling it up across the road,
up about three feet.

He hooks it around a big spike, and --

THE CYCLISTS
HIT THE WIRE!

They JERK, JOLT in mid-air, skid,
fall and SKITTER across the road,
causing the row behind, and the next,
and the next to WIPE OUT,
falling like dominos.

PHILLIE
giggles. Unhooks the wire.

ACROSS THE STREET
a spinning wheel WHIRLS,
pulls the cable back with a SNAP.

PHILLIE
grabs the box.
Closes the window, and the blinds.

Sits down with his prize. Opens the box.
Takes out a small camcorder.

PHILLIE
Won’t need any lube with THIS one.

EXT. WEST HOLLYWOOD - SANTA MONICA BOULEVARD - AT THAT MOMENT
A small strip mall. Dry cleaners. Burger joint.
Check cashing. And, at the end, a small concrete bunker.

Small sign in the window reads
‘Heavenly Pictures. By Appointment Only.’

INT. HEAVENLY PICTURES - CONTINUOUS
A pink-faced MAN (40’s) sits at a desk.
Boyish blonde haircut, parted.
Body, slug-like. Mouth a tight little smear.

Meet KEN RICE, bottom-feeder extraordinaire.
Right now he’s reading the Bible,
mouth slowly forming the words.

He hears something. Looks.
Eyes LIGHT UP. He PUNCHES a remote.

HIS COMPUTER MONITOR
shows a CNN news feed.
A smiling but grim anchor leans in.

ANCHOR
-- where Hollywood producer Harvey Flender
disappeared while walking his dogs --

KEN
smiles. His phone RINGS. He picks up --

KEN
David, hi. Yes, I’m watching right now --
(listens)
I know. Tragic.
(listens)
Probably someone else whose calls
he didn’t return --
(giggles)
You are AWFUL.
(listens)
Of course. We should meet.
(listens)
How about Scandals? Say around six?

PUSH IN ON Ken.
Eyes dancing with a mischievous gleam.