Desperate Whore-Wife

Hey there, crime kids. Happy Wednesday. 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 11 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, fugitive screenwriter Friday Foster realizes she needs wheels, so she hijacks a big, bright, shiny new Cadillac Escalade from a terrified trophy wife ...


EXT. WILSHIRE BOULEVARD - DUSK
The wind is kicking up.
Getting chilly.

Friday sees a Santa Monica
POLICE CRUISER pass by.
Quickly turns her head away.

FRIDAY
‘The Fugitive.’
(beat)
I’m gonna need some new wheels.
Nobody walks in L.A. Nobody.
Losers walk.

DOWN THE STREET
A PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
strolls out of Starbucks with her Machiatta.

Talks on her cell.
Shakin’ her Juicy Couture butt.

PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Don’t tell me, don’t tell me!
I Tivo’d it, I had to watch
‘The Biggest Asshole.’

FRIDAY
watches. Smiles. Evil.

FRIDAY
Bingo.

She falls into step behind
the coffee-sipper as she
nears her monstrous,
red Cadillac Escalade.

PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Blake Lively bleaches her sphincter?
No way.

Trophy pulls out her keys --
presses the autolock, THWIP.

She opens the passenger-side door.
Puts her bag on the seat.

And, as she walks around
to the driver’s side,
Friday HOPS IN.
Pulls out her gun.

The car floods with the
sickenly-sweet sounds of Coldplay.

Ms. SUV climbs in.
Doesn’t notice Friday, until --

CLICK-CLICK
She turns. Sees her. The gun.

PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Ohmigod. Don’t hurt me.
Please don’t hurt me.

FRIDAY
Shut that FUCKING BEIGE music OFF.
Coldplay fucking SUCKS.

Trophy does.
Shaking with fear.
Staring at the gun.

PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot!
I’ll give you anything you want --

She pulls out her wallet.

FRIDAY
That’s a good start.
Gimmee the bag, too.
Betcha got a lotta
cool stuff in there.
Real goody bag.

Trophy hands it over.

FRIDAY
Now your keys.

PNEUMATIC TROPHY WIFE
Oh, no, please --
my husband would kill me.
He just bought me this car
for my birthday --

Friday JAMS the Magnum
against the woman’s head.

FRIDAY
Correction.
Your husband will be
really pissed off,
but you’ll give him head tonight,
and he’ll buy you a shiny new toy.
I’M the one who’ll KILL you.
So hand over the keys,
desperate whore-wife.
(quiet)
Before I splatter the Corinthian leather
with your pretty pink brains.

Trembling, she hands
Friday the keys.

FRIDAY
Get outta the fucking car. NOW.

Trophy wife looks like
she’s about to freak out.

Shaking, she opens the door.
Slowly climbs out.

PUSH IN ON Friday’s face.
Having a ball.

FRIDAY
And gimmee that five-dollar COFFEE.