Take Me To Your D-Girl

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In Chapter 28 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, fugitive screenwriter Friday Foster ambushes the executives at White Line Pictures with an Uzi, marches them into the conference room, and makes a most unusual demand ...

INT. WHITE LINE PICTURES - FOYER - EARLY MORNING
Friday pushes open the metal double doors, enters --

THE WAITING AREA
Surprisingly small.

But then, this IS a mini-major.
Behind the front desk sits DEVRA,
rotund, bespectacled receptionist.

Dickensian features light up
when she spies Friday.

DEVRA
Friday. I can’t believe you’re here.
You’re all over the news.
(beat)
You, uh -- have an appointment?

FRIDAY
(whips out her Uzi)
THIS is my appointment.
I’ve got a date with destiny, baby.
Take me to your D-girl.
(off her shock)
Hey. Got a joke for ya.
How do you make love
to four-hundred pound woman?
(beat)
Roll ‘er in flour,
and look for the wet spot.

But Devra is frozen. In shock.
A MALE VOICE laughs.

MALE VOICE (O.C.)
Thas’ fuckin’ funny!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha --

Friday WHIPS AROUND to see --

JIMMY JOE JACK
(40’s) sitting on the couch.
Indie Movie Star.
Hollywood outlaw.

Big ol’ grin on his face.
Still a shit-kicker.

Western wear a’la Rodeo Drive.
He chews tobacco. SPITS.

JIMMY JOE
And she’s gotta gun.
Whoah, Nelly.
You a method actress --
or did the studio
fuck you in the ass too?

FRIDAY
Hershey Highway. No lube.
(offers her hand)
Big fan, Jimmy Joe.
‘Fucking Christmas,’
best film of the year.

JIMMY JOE
(shakes)
Thanks. So, what’s with the firepower --
you plan on shootin’ up the place?
(sly)
Need any help?

GARY GILL (35) head of production ambles in.
Redheaded, pale, freckled.

A bloated barrel of lumbering, dull, pomposity.
Walks over to the desk. Squints at Devra.

GARY
Any messages?

Devra just blinks.
Terrified. Nods at --

FRIDAY
pointing the Uzi at Gary.

FRIDAY
Hey, Gare. Remember me?
I did four years in this slime hole --
The SCREENWRITER that got
‘THE BEST COVERAGE YOU EVER READ?’

GARY
Sunday.
What the fuck are YOU doing here?
(beat)
Is that a real gun?

FRIDAY
You bet your back end it is.
And it’s FRIDAY,
you fucking tub of Mick.
(to him, Devra and Jimmy)
Okay. NOW. Into the conference room.
We’re taking a meeting.

Everyone stares.
Friday pumps the magazine, KA-CHINK.

FRIDAY
Move it.
Or else I’m gonna fucking
Abu Ghraib the lot of you.

JIMMY JOE
Y’all better move it.
I think the lady’s serious.

Gary, Jimmy Joe and Devra start moving.
They pass a row of ASSISTANTS,
watching in horror.

FRIDAY
You, too -- Hollywood Gatekeepers.
Put down your coverage,
I’ve got you surrounded.
IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM. NOW.

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY
Friday’s hostages sit around the large lux table.
Bright morning sunlight streams in
through wall-sized windows.

FRIDAY
Gary. Close the blinds.
Don’t want the paparazzi to get
any shots of your imminent demise.

GARY
(puts his hands on the table)
Go fuck yourself.

Incensed, Friday BANGS
the gun down on his hand. SMASHING it.

GARY (CONT’D)
Ow!

FRIDAY
You think I’m fucking around? DO IT. Now.
Before I shoot your TENT-POLE.

He gets up. Goes to the blinds.
Closes them.

HANS WOLFE, (50’s) head of marketing,
stern-looking, designer specs, puffy,
pokes his head in. Grumpy. Quizzical.

HANS
Vat is zis?
Some kinda in-house focus group?

DON GREY (60’s), grey-haired,
grey-skinned, shuffles in.
Shoeless. Mismatched socks.

You’d never know from looking,
but he’s the head of the studio.

Indie maverick deluxe.
As usual, right now
he’s nursing a nasty hangover.

DON
What THE FUCK is going on in here?
(sees Friday)
Friday, you’re back.
(evil smile)
Go get me a latte, NOW.

FRIDAY
(whips guns at them)
Hello, boss, or should I say Satan?
It’s me, your worst nightmare,
back from the dead, and pissed as hell.
So why don’t you and HITLER
get your bony white asses in here?
You’re just in time for
the climax of the story arc.

HANS
You -- have a gun.

FRIDAY
Brilliant observation, Hansie-boy.
Now get your NAZI-ASS IN HERE.

They come in.

DON
What the fuck do you want, money?

FRIDAY
No. I have money.

DON
Then, WHAT?

HANS
She vants her deal back, Don.
Goddammit, are yoo fuckin’ stupid.

GARY
Shut up, Hans.

DON
Shut up, Gary.
I’m in charge here.

FRIDAY
Shut THE FUCK UP, all of you --
I’M in charge.

DON
So what do you want, a new deal?

FRIDAY
Who do I look like, Diablo Cody?
No, it’s too late for that.

DON
Then what THE FUCK do you WANT?

FRIDAY
An apology.
(beat)
Live. On TV --