The Pause That Depresses

Happy Thursday, crime slicksters. It's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where the girls are hot, the drinks are cold, and the hardboiled-pulp-noir action is non-stop, right here, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.

In Chapter 26 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, fugitive screenwriter Friday Foster arrives at White Line Pictures to get revenge, but realizes she's fifteen minutes early, so she terrorizes a nearby Starbucks ...


AZT WEBSITE - AT THAT MOMENT
A headline: FEMALE STUDENT TERRORIZES TEACHER WITH GUN.

A still image in the video box.
We see the ANGRY LITTLE GIRL
we met earlier surfing YouTube in a classroom.

Standing at her desk.
Pointing a 9MM GLOCK at the teacher.
The image SPRINGS TO LIFE.

ANGRY LITTLE GIRL
Bonus points if you pee your FUCKING PANTS.

The teacher SCREAMS.

EXT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - DAY
A despicable, over-priced hangout
for wannabe-trendies who
don’t have a clue about ambiance.
Style. Passion. Reality.

Friday walks up to the door.
Stops. Looks at her watch.

FRIDAY
Fifteen minutes to go.
(looks in the window)
Uch. The pause that depresses --

INT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - CONTINUOUS
Friday bursts in. SLAMS the doors open.

FRIDAY
Greetings, fellow consumers.

People look up. Quizzical.
Except for a --

GOATEED POSEUR
at a table with his laptop.
Deep in his faux version of ‘thought.’

Sips his latte.
One-finger types on the keyboard.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Like shooting fish in your pants.

She takes the table next to his.
Puts down her stuff.

Poseur’s phone RINGS.
He answers it.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
This outta be good --

GOATEED POSEUR
‘Lo. This is Tykey --

FRIDAY
‘Tykey?’

TYKEY
Oh, yeah --
it’s at Mark Wahlberg’s joint.
S’gonna be a blowout --

FRIDAY
'Joint?' Who the fuck
do you think you are, Spike Lee?
(off his look)
Yeah, you -- I’m talking to you.
Can you speak a little louder?
Cause I don’t want to miss
a SINGLE DETAIL about your
FASCINATING LIFE.

TYKEY
Excuse me.
This is a private conversation.

FRIDAY
No it’s not, not when you’re
fucking broadcasting it in a public place
for everyone to hear.
A ‘private conversation’ is at home,
or in the office --
but what you’re doing is
BOTHERING EVERYONE with your
STAR-FUCKING.

TYKEY
What is your problem?

FRIDAY
My PROBLEM is fucking POSERS like YOU,
showing off in public, PRETENDING
to write some PIECE OF SHIT studio CRAP,
when all you’re REALLY DOING
is trying to GET LAID.

TYKEY
Fuck you. Mind your own business.

She GRABS his laptop --

TYKEY (CONT’D)
Hey! Give that back!

FRIDAY
Hold on --
let’s just check this out --
(reads)
'Interior, dorm room.
A beer blast is raging.'
Pure shit, I knew it --
(punches keys)
Just let me -- erase this --
HA, done.

TYKEY
(leaps up)
You fucking CUNT!

Friday WHIPS OUT her piece.
SHOVES it into his crotch.

FRIDAY
WHAT did you call me?

TYKEY
Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!

FRIDAY
I asked you a QUESTION, asshole.
WHAT did you call me?

TYKEY
A -- 'cunt.'

FRIDAY
What did you say?
I can’t HEAR YOU.

TYKEY
A 'cunt,' okay? I’m sorry.
Please don’t shoot me.

FRIDAY
Nice vocabulary --
and you’re supposed to be a writer.
Prepare -- to meet -- your maker.
Eunuch time.

TYKEY
No, PLEASE.

A dark, WET STAIN forms
on his cargo pant shorts.

FRIDAY
Hey, you peed your pants.
Bonus points. You get to live.
(lowers the gun)
Thanks. That was fun.
(beat)
Silly rabbit,
I wouldn’t shoot Little Willie.
I know you think with it.

She turns to leave.

A CUTE CO-ED
stares, wide-eyed.
Cell phone clamped against her ear.
Whispering into it.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Hey, Gidget.
Shut off your security blanket.
Can’t you see you’re being terrorized?

COED
(on the phone)
And she’s got a gun --

Friday marches over.
GRABS the phone.

SLAMS it on the floor.
STOMPS on it.
SMASHES it to pieces.

FRIDAY
Whoops. Conversatious interruptus.
God, that’s satisfying, GRRRRRR.
Cathartic.

She goes to the door.
Opens it. Turns, looks at them.

FRIDAY (CONT'D)
You’re all lemmings.
Empty victims of marketing
filling yourselves with shit.
(brightly)
Ciao, kids.
Time for my nine-o’clock.
Wish me luck --