You Talking To Me?

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 9 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, now that fugitive screenwriter Friday Foster has escaped from the clutches of Bland Loosener, she heads to Santa Monica's Third Street Promenade armed with her suitcase full of cash ... and starts fucking with the locals ...


EXT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - REAR ALLEY - DAY
Friday makes her way down the alley.
Carries two briefcases.

FRIDAY
Okay. I’m commuting.
Commuting home.
Leavin’ the think tank early --
(beat)
Too much thinking.
Not enough tanking.

She turns the corner, walks onto --

EXT. ARIZONA AVENUE - CONTINUOUS
A smattering of PEDESTRIANS.
Late afternoon on a weekday.

A wild-eyed FILTHY SKELL
stands a few feet away.

Long, matted hair down to his ass.
Like a big piece of butterscotch.

FILTHY SKELL
Do you know the answer? Do you?

FRIDAY
What?

FILTHY SKELL
I said, DO YOU KNOW THE ANSWER?

She glances at the sign he’s holding.
TALK TO JESUS.

FRIDAY
Shut the fuck up.
Stop shouting at me.

FILTHY SKELL
You need to TALK TO JESUS!

Friday blinks.
Cocks her head. Shudders.

Rears back a briefcase, SWINGS --
and CRACKS him in the head.
BANG. He goes down. THUMP.

FRIDAY
Jesus died for somebody’s sins,
but not mine.

EXT. THIRD STREET PROMENADE - DAY
All that’s scary and overpriced about consumerism.
Laid out in a string of overdone chain joints.
Main Street, not.

FRIDAY
Shopping. Let’s go shopping.
Cause when the going gets tough --
(beat)
The tough buy shit.

The liquid-cool sounds of
The Zombie’s SHE’S NOT THERE over --

IN MONTAGE
Friday drifts down the street.

Examining the bright, shiny faces
of shoppers with their bright,
shiny shopping bags.

FRIDAY
walks out of an expensive boutique.
Now dressed in funky urban chic.

Leather boots and hat.
Rubber jacket. Very ‘Mad Maxine.’
Twin leather saddlebags store the briefcases.

AT THE CORNER
the lemmings wait for the light. No cars.

Friday starts walking,
crosses the street.
Turns around. Laughs.

CAMERA follows her walking.
Now with a spring in her step.

She passes an OVERWEIGHT COUPLE
sitting at a sidewalk cafe
eating big, greasy cheeseburgers.

FRIDAY
Better hope Jenny Craig doesn’t catch you.

She passes a CLOWN
holding a bunch of balloons.

As she passes, she POPS one.
Startles him.

FRIDAY
Enough clowning around.
(beat)
What the worst part about
molesting a child in the woods?
Going home alone later.

Passes a BAD STREET MUSICIAN
playing some earnest folk song.

FRIDAY
Curt Cobain is spinning in his GRAVE.

Goes by a BEARDED MAN
sitting on the sidewalk.

Licking the remains of a
fast food clam shell. He BURPS.

FRIDAY
Ah. 'Dining el fresco.'
And with what joi de vive.
Zagat gives it a NINE.

Friday walks by an LEGLESS MAN
in a wheelchair. Holds a cup.

LEGLESS MAN
Help the homeless?

FRIDAY
'The Homeless?' All of them?
What -- are you an organized charity?
And what’s up with the term 'The Homeless?'
Sounds too noble, too PC.
What happened to Bum? Vagrant? Hobo?

She stops. Pulls out her smokes.
Lights one up. Exhales. Ah.

A battered-looking SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
eyes her from his perch on a park bench.

SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
Hey, lady. You gottan extra cigarette?

Friday stops.
Fakes being startled.
Looks around mockingly.

FRIDAY
You -- talking to ME?

SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
Yeah. You gottan extra cigarette?

FRIDAY
Wait. Let me think --
(beat)
Oh, shit -- that’s right.
I left the ‘extra cigarettes’ at home.
(holds up the pack)
These are for me.

SCUZZY YOUNG PUNK
Alright. You don’t have to be such a bitch --

FRIDAY
Nice rap you got, you little fuck.
First you beg, then you fucking INSULT ME?
Do you know how EXPENSIVE cigarettes are?
Do you honestly think I’m just gonna
GIVE ONE to some slacker little PUNK?
You’re young. You’ve got no excuse.
GET A JOB, make SOME MONEY,
and BUY YOUR OWN FUCKING CIGARETTES -- ASSHOLE.

Nearby, PEDESTRIANS stop. Stare.

FRIDAY
Now. If you’ll all excuse me.
I’ve got a meeting.
And I’ve got a lot of preparation to do.

And she starts sauntering on her way --

Where's The Funeral?

Hey there, crime kids. Happy Hump Day. 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 8 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, fugitive screenwriter Friday Foster eludes mercenary Bland Loosener, who gets persued by the cops in a high-speed car chase. Meanwhile, Friday's former squeeze Carrie Love has a most unusual 'close encounter' in a dive bar ...


EXT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - ROOF - day
Zvi lies on a chaise getting a massage from Nymphet.
He adjust his hands-free cell. BOLTS upright.

ZVI
WHAT did you say?

SPLIT SCREEN WITH:

EXT./INT. BLAND’S SUV - MOVING - CONTINUOUS
Bland SWERVES through traffic
on Ocean Avenue going south.

A CLUSTER OF SQUAD CARS follow.
Sirens BLARING.

BLAND
There were cops all over the fuckin’ place.
You said Santa Monica was LIBERAL.

ZVI
So where the fuck are you now?

BLAND
In the vehicle in a high-speed chase,
and they’re chasing ME.

ZVI
You stupid FUCK.
I give you a simple job to do --

BLAND
Don’t worry, I have a bomb up my sleeve.

He reaches into a bag,
yanks out a GRENADE.

Pulls the pin.
LOBS it up through the sun roof,
into the air.

THE GRENADE
lands in the middle
of a trio of PATROL CARS.

BANG. A massive FIREBALL EXPLODES
in a riot of orange fire,
black clouds of smoke --

INT. BLAND’S SUV - MOVING
He turns up the volume on his hands-free.

BLAND
I said, I’m going to have to charge you
for expenses. These are my personal explosives --

Bland LOBS a grenade at the Miatta -- BANG.

EXT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - ROOF - CONTINUOUS
Zvi pulls the earpiece out.

ZVI
Goddammit.
Stupid fuck’s gonna make me go deaf --

EXT. OCEAN AVENUE - DAY
The SUV races down the coastal boulevard.

UP AHEAD
is a ROADBLOCK.
Where did they all come from so quickly?

BLAND
slows down.
Looks to his right. Sees --

EXT. SANTA MONICA PIER - ENTRANCE - CONTINUOUS
He brakes hard, YANKS the wheel,
turns onto the pier --

Right into the middle of a
SWARM OF TOURISTS.

HONKS his horn.
YELLS out the window.

BLAND
Civilians, out of the way! Incoming!

JABS his Uzi through the open sunroof.
SQUEEZES the trigger --
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.

People SCREAM.
Start RUNNING.

The SUV speeds up,
pushes through the wake of fleeing bodies.

A bullet CRACKS through the rear window, and
POPS out through the windshield --

BLAND (CONT'D)
Fuck me, Private.

He turns around. Looks, sees --
More SQUAD CARS. Coming right at him.

BLAND (CONT’D)
Tactical maneuvers, SIR.

Bland JAMS on the gas --
and FLIES down the pier.

THE COPS
follow. Sirens BLARING.
Bullets FLYING.

BLAND
reaches into the bag.
Takes out a mouthpiece.
Like divers use for breathing underwater.

BLAND (CONT'D)
Dammit. I really like this vehicle --

EXT. SANTA MONICA PIER - CONTINUOUS
The SUV races down the boardwalk toward the water.

The cops SCREECH to a halt.
Start setting up another road block.

But the gas guzzler keeps going.
Reaches the platform at the end.
FISHERMEN dash out of the way.

INSIDE THE SUV
Bland POPS the clutch --

BLAND
One-hundred and first AIRBORNE, SIR.

And SLAMS his mouthpiece in.

THE SUV
JERKS, and sails up, into the air
over the edge of the pier.

And, in slow motion,
like a floating feather --
It HITS the waves like a diver. GLUG.

INT. DIVE BAR - AT THAT MOMENT
Unbelievably dark. Dank. Smoky.

Concrete Blonde’s SCENE OF A PERFECT CRIME
bleeds darkness on the juke.

The BARTENDER (40’S)
wipes off a glass with a rag.

Dead ringer for Lurch.
He leans back.
SPITS chewing tobacco.

Carrie sits on a stool.
Deep in thought.

Nursing a bottle of beer.
She raises two fingers.

Lurch grabs a bottle Kessler’s.
Pours two fingers. Carrie nods.

A WOMAN IN BLACK (24)
emerges from the ladies’ room.

Tall, gaunt, pale.
Still in last night’s outfit.
Tres Goth.

An extra from Nosferatu.
Slides onto her stool.
Next to Carrie.

CARRIE
Where’s the funeral?

WOMAN IN BLACK
Yesterday. I’m a model.
Mortuary brochure.
(itches her arm)
Got to keep the dress --

CARRIE
Was it -- open casket?

WOMAN IN BLACK
(sickly smile)
Only for -- next of kin.

CARRIE
Where’s the wake?

WOMAN IN BLACK
Back at my place.

Carrie drains her glass.
Smiles. Grim.

CARRIE
It’s your funeral --

Smash And Grab

Happy Tuesday, 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 7 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, unemployed screenwriter & wanted fugitive Friday Foster gets into a fist fight with her former boss at the think tank ... just as mercenary for the Israeli mob Bland Loosner arrives in the underground garage to try and capture her. But first, Bland has to deal with the cops ... while Friday hides in her car ...


INT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - CORRIDOR - DAY
Friday turn a corner into an area
with offices along one wall.
Big glass windows.

Two ASSISTANTS look up.

FRIDAY
You know what they say,
whatever doesn’t kill you --
makes you even more fucked up.
(sees the assistants)
Beverly, Fran -- how’s it shakin’?
They squeeze all the blood
from your stones yet?

BEVERLY, (60’s), surgically altered in Chanel,
red collagen lips in a permanent grimace,
nods like a bobblehead doll.

BEVERLY
Friday, Hi --

FRAN, schoolmarmish, ‘hip’ in designer specs,
skinny with a belly, almost SHRIEKS.

FRAN
FRIDAY. What are you doing --

FRIDAY
Here at the think tank?
Well, let’s just say that
my self-esteem got a bit too high,
and I thought it might be a good idea
to climb back up on the cross for a bit.
Do the martyr thing again.
Whattya think? Sound good?

BEVERLY
Friday.

FRAN
Ha ha ha ha ha --

FRIDAY
Now, if you’ll excuse me,
I’m here for my eleven-o’clock meeting
with a rascally little JEW-BASTARD.

Friday salutes, walks over to a dimly lit office.
PUSHES the door open. HOLLERS --

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Dann Israel. How THE FUCK are ya?

DANN ISRAEL
(50’s) looks up from his computer.
Beady eyes blink behind thick glasses.

Once rugged, now shrivelled.
But still bulky.

DANN
Friday. Hello. What are you -- ?

Friday WHIPS OUT the MAGNUM.
Aims it at him.

FRIDAY
That’s the question of the hour,
you little FUCK.
I’m here to get revenge.
A pound of flesh. Some kicks.
Are you ready to play ‘spin the Ph.D.?’

DANN
Put the gun down, Friday.
Let’s talk about this.

FRIDAY
No. Shut THE FUCK UP
and for once in your
pompous little life LISTEN TO ME.
You worked me to the bone
like a FUCKING DOG.
Well, now it’s payback time, bucko.
Karma comes back, and this time
she’s a pissed-off BITCH.
Now get down on the floor
and spread ‘em, motherfucker.
It’s apology time.

And like something out of
a martial arts movie,
Dann LEAPS UP and LUNGES at Friday.
GRABS her.

They TUMBLE to the floor.
GRAPPLE for the gun.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
No, Goddammit --

Dann tries to put Friday in a CHOKE HOLD.
Friday JABS her elbow into his rib cage.

DANN
Ow!

She FLIES away.
Rolls on the floor. LEAPS UP.

GRABS Dann’s Nobel Prize.
THROWS it against the wall.
SMASH. Glass SPRAYS.

DANN (CONT’D)
No!

FRIDAY
Whoops. Hope you have insurance --

Friday hears something.
Turns, looks, sees --

A PAIR OF ANGRY SECURITY GUARDS
running toward her,
far away down the long corridor.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Shit.
(as she runs out the door)
There will NEVER
be peace in the Middle East!

Friday races down the opposite corridor.
She reaches a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT.
SLAMS the door open.

A SIREN starts WAILING --

INT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - REAR ALLEY - MOMENTS LATER
Friday races into the alley.
Stops. Looks behind her. No one.

FRIDAY
Smash and grab. Too easy.

She runs to the end of the alley.
Cars WHIZ past.

Then, just as she’s about to
casually step into the crowd --

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Shit. My stuff -- the car.

INT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - PARKING GARAGE - AT THAT MOMENT
The alarm SHRIEKS.
Bland pressed against the wall.

Inches toward the Sentra.
Looks around. Tip-toes up to it.

A SWARM OF SECURITY GUARDS
race into the garage.

BLAND
points the Uzi at them.
CLICKS the trigger. Nothing. Jammed.

THE GUARDS
WHIP out their guns.
Start FIRING at him.

BLAND
runs to his SUV, JUMPS IN.
TEARS ASS out.

FLIES up the ramp.
Tires SCREECHING. Just as --

A TRIO OF SQUAD CARS
race down the incline.
Right at him.

BLAND
JAMS the truck into gear --
and PLOWS THROUGH THEM.

INT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - PARKING GARAGE - MOMENTS LATER
Friday creeps into the garage.
Shouting in the distance.

Creeps over to the Sentra.
Opens the door. Crawls in.

EXT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - ROOF - AT THAT MOMENT
Zvi lies on a chaise
getting a massage from Nymphet.

He adjust his hands-free cell.
BOLTS upright.

ZVI
WHAT did you say?

SPLIT SCREEN WITH:

EXT./INT. BLAND’S SUV - MOVING - CONTINUOUS
Bland SWERVES through traffic
on Ocean Avenue going south.

A CLUSTER OF SQUAD CARS follow.
Sirens BLARING.

BLAND
There were cops
all over the fuckin’ place.
You said Santa Monica was LIBERAL.

Hell-Hole

Hey there, crime kids. Happy Monday. 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 6 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, unemployed screenwriter Friday Foster has just lost everything and is having a nervous breakdown and stolen a pizza delivery car. Her first stop? To get revenge on her most recent 'boss from hell.' Meanwhile, Bland Loosener, mercenary for the Israeli mob, the owner of the car, is hot on her tail ...


EXT. THE LAMBERT INSTITUTE - GARAGE ENTRANCE - DAY
Friday drives the stolen Sentra down into the underground garage.

EXT./INT. MERCEDES SUV - MOVING - AT THAT MOMENT
Bland drives, talks on his hands-free cell.

BLAND
So where is it now?

SPLIT SCREEN WITH:

INT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - DAY
Zvi sits on the rooftop deck shirtless
in shorts and shades. Smoking a cigar.
Fingers busy working a PDA.

ZVI
(into his cell)
At the corner of Arizona and Fourth.
Just turned north on Fourth --
(beat)
Wait. It stopped moving. Bingo.

BLAND
(looking out his window)
I don’t see it. It must be parking --
(realizes)
Parking garage.

INT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - PARKING GARAGE - AT THAT MOMENT
Friday walks to the elevator. Presses ‘up.’

FEMALE VOICE (O.C.)
Friday. What are you doing here?

She turns, looks, sees --

SUNNY, the Institute’s archivist.
Friendly face framed by long, greyish-blonde hair.
Former hippie, still granola.

FRIDAY
Sunny, hey. Believe it or not,
I’ve got an appointment with Dann Israel.

The elevator doors open. They walk in.
Sunny swipes her key card on the security lock,
presses ‘3.’ The doors close.

IN THE GARAGE
Bland pulls the SUV into a parking space.
Sees the Sentra.

BLAND
Enemy is now in my sights, SIR.
Taking POSITION --

IN THE ELEVATOR

SUNNY
And one of your characters is a
Nobel Prize-winning Ph.D. in economics?

FRIDAY
How did you guess?

The door opens onto a wood-panelled foyer.
Very hunting lodge. Going for studious. Academic.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
You know what they say about
visiting your old high school,
how everything looks so much smaller?

SUNNY
Yes.

FRIDAY
Urban myth.
This looks even MORE self-important.

They start walking down a plush corridor.
Diffused light.

SUNNY
Well, I gotta say,
I admire your courage.

FRIDAY
My courage?

SUNNY
Sure. After quitting like that?

INT. LAMBERT INSTITUTE - WORK STATION - FLASHBACK - DAY
Friday sits in an assistant’s work area.
Harried. Almost unrecognizable in a suit.
Papers piled everywhere.

She gulps coffee.
The phone RINGS.
She PUNCHES a button.

FRIDAY
Dann Israel’s office.
(listens)
'Blachmed Vpni?' Can you spell that?
(listens)
Hold, please.

Another line RINGS.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Dann Israel’s office.
(impatient)
'Oaxa Stanislopopobottomus?'
Would you please spell that?
Over the intercom --

ACCENTED MALE VOICE (O.C.)
Friday? Who is that on one?

FRIDAY
Uh, Blachmed --

A fourth line RINGS.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Hold on a sec --
(pissy)
Dann Israel's office --
(listens)
'Helmut Fvohngenhoftner?'

She does a take. What?
Erupts into MAD LAUGHTER.

ACCENTED MALE VOICE (O.C.)
Friday. WHO is on the phone!

FRIDAY
There’s an Arab name Blachmed on one,
‘Oaxa the Greek’ on two, and a German,
Helmut Farfegnugen on three.

ACCENTED MALE VOICE (O.C.)
Which Blachmed? I know three --

Another line RINGS.

FRIDAY
And if they walked into a bar,
I could use it in my stand-up routine.
(answers)
Dann Israel’s office.
(listens)
I’ll be right down.
(over her shoulder)
Your lunch is here, Dann.

DANN (O.C.)
Well, then, go get it.
And when you get back,
we need to go over the schedule grid
for the global conference.
We still have twenty-four meetings to set up.

Friday stands.
Unhooks her headset.
THROWS it down.

FRIDAY
(brightly)
Can’t wait.

IN THE LOBBY
she walks up to the guard desk.
Standing next to it is an EAGER VEGAN CHEF.
Holds a stainless steel food container.

FRIDAY (CONT'D)
Autumn. Nice to see you.

AUTUMN
Friday. Greetings.
(gestures)
We have steamed cale
in a wheat grass reduction,
lentils in a brisk tofu stir,
and a brussels sprout compote.

BULKY GUARD
Mmmmm. Yummy.

FRIDAY
Took the words out of my mouth.
And the puke.

She turns on her heel.
Marches toward the entrance.

AUTUMN
Where are you going?
What about Mr. Israel’s lunch?

FRIDAY
(stops, turns)
The fuck OUT of this hell-hole.
And you can tell Mr. Pulitzer Prize
he can get his OWN fucking lunch.
(beat)
'Brisk tofu stir?'

God Is A Bullet

Hey there, crime kids. Happy Friday. 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 5 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, unemployed screenwriter Friday Foster goes on a mad tear through Santa Monica in her stolen pizza delivery car ... and then decides to get revenge on a former boss ...


EXT. VENICE BEACH - BACK ALLEY - DAY
Friday PEELS OUT of the parking lot
in a SCREECH of rubber.

HITS THE GAS -- and SPEEDS away.
Laughing her head off.

EXT. OCEAN AVENUE - DAY
The Sentra flies up the gorgeous coastline.
Way over the speed limit.
We see the pizza sign is gone.

INT. NISSAN SENTRA - CONTINUOUS
Friday rifles through a CD case on the seat.

FRIDAY
Please forgive me, God.
I’m not myself lately.
(chuckles)
So then, the question is --
(rifles through CD’s)
Ohmigod. I love it. Yes.

She SHOVES a CD in.
PUNCHES play. CRANKS it up.

The biker-snarl of Concrete Blonde’s
GOD IS A BULLET screams with a bullet.

Friday sings along,
POUNDS the steering wheel.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Shoot straight, shoot to kill,
blame each other, blame yourself!
You know god is a bullet,
have mercy on us everyone!

UP AHEAD
the light turns yellow.

FRIDAY
shifts the piece of crap into gear --

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Well, the light
was a little pink, officer --

And FLIES through the intersection.
Cars HONK.

A CITY BUS
SQUEALS it’s brakes.

A WOMAN
pushing a stroller LEAPS out of the way.
The Sentra CRACKS into it.

FLIPPING it into the air.
It lands, BANG --
to reveal it’s empty.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Two points!

She TEARS down Arizona.
Looks in the rearview. No one. Ha.
Stops at a red light at 4th Street.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
Hey. I got an idea.
(beat)
No. Not a good idea. They know you.
(beat)
But it would be SO delicious.
(beat)
Better not, you’ve
broken so many laws already --

The light turns GREEN.

FRIDAY (CONT’D)
I think a certain pompous,
little fuck-face needs to learn a lesson.

She turns left, heads north.

CAMERA passes storefronts.
Until, at the next intersection, on the corner --

EXT. THE LAMBERT INSTITUTE - CONTINUOUS
A lux, former bank on the corner.
Now a six-story think tank.

A gold-plated sign reads
THE LAMBERT INSTITUTE.

FRIDAY (O.C.)
(sings)
Whoah-oh-oh-oh,
I’m gonna tear your playhouse down ---

Soldier of Misfortune

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 4 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY,


INT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - DAY
Zvi looks out the window at the ocean.
The bright, blue sky.

People on the beach. Their freedom.
Bland stands a few feet behind him.

BLAND
Gnarly waves, sir.
Can’t wait to get the longboard out tonight --

ZVI
Shut up. You stupid FUCK.
Do you enjoy REMINDING ME I’m a PRISONER?

BLAND
No, sir -- I, I -- I’ll shut up, SIR.

ZVI
That’s right, you will shut up,
and stay shut up.
(pulls out keys)
Here.

He TOSSES it.
Bland CATCHES it in a big, calloused mitt.

ZVI
Go. Now. Get MY MONEY.
And the laptop. If somebody finds it --

BLAND
They get free Lolita-on-demand.

ZVI
Get out. NOW.

BLAND
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir --

And he races out of the room.
Zvi shakes his head.

ZVI
Soldier of misfortune.

A pretty young ISRAELI NYMPHET (13) walks in.

ISRAELI NYMPHET
Time for -- massage.

ZVI
Ah. My desert flower.

He goes to the chaise.
Starts disrobing.

Nymphet pads over.
Pulls out a bottle of lotion.

Zvi lies down.
Places a small sheet over his lap.

She squirts oil on her hands.
Starts working on his legs.
A small tent POPS UP in his lap.

ZVI
(sings)
Thank heaven, for little girls --

INT. ZVI’S GARAGE - AT THAT MOMENT
Bland stares at a yellow Volkswagon bug.
The new model. Cute.

BLAND
Might as well just cut off my balls.

He walks over to a big, black, gleaming BMW SUV.

BLAND
Now that’s a VEHICLE.

Pulls out a long strip of metal.
Thin, like measuring tape.

SLIDES it in the window. WIGGLES it.
The lock CLICKS open.

BLAND
(opens the door, gets in)

Command to base, come in, can you hear
me? Ready to roll, sir. Let’s roll ’em.

He leans down.
YANKS out a pair of wires.

STRIPS OFF the ends.
PRESSES them together.
The engine ROARS to life.

BLAND
(strange, loud voice)
Roll one up for ME, sir. Sir, YES SIR.
(guns the engine)
Sound off, one-two, fuck off, three-four.

INT. VENICE BOARDWALK - CRACKED EARTH CAFE - DAY
Friday sits at a table
with an ice tea and a salad.

Furtive in shades and baseball cap.
She works the laptop.

FRIDAY
Damn, this fucker’s fast.

She HITS a button. BEEP.
Stares in disbelief.

FRIDAY
Holy shit.

ON THE SCREEN
we see a menu.

On it, a selection of UNDERAGED GIRLS (8-13).
A title reads PLAYGROUND PALS.

FRIDAY
Holy shit, this is a jailbait dating website --
(reads off the screen)
‘Hi, my name is Becky,
and I’m a ten -- and I AM ten.
I like pizza, water sports, comic books,
scented lube and sticky bud.
C’mon, baby light my fire until I’m wet?

FEMALE VOICE (O.C.)
Is everything okay?
Can I get you anything else?

A WAITRESS
stands next to Friday’s table.

Holding a tray. Brittle with attitude.
Must be the asymmetrical hairdo.
Or the Yoga T.

FRIDAY
Actually, everything is NOT okay.
And you can go fuck yourself.

A COUPLE at the next table look.

BITCHY WAITRESS
Excuse me?

FRIDAY
I was at this restaurant
a couple weeks ago,
and you served me.
And you weren’t very friendly.
In fact, you didn’t smile at me. Once.

BITCHY WAITRESS
Gee, I’m So sorry.
I didn’t realize --

Friday WHIPS OUT the gun.
Points it at Bitchy.

A woman SCREAMS.

FRIDAY
So, I’m gonna ask you to smile for me.
Pretty please?
With sugar on top?
A big, bright pageant smile?

The waitress DROPS her tray.
CLANG. Frozen, weird smile.

FRIDAY
Now that’s more like it.

She stands. Closes the laptop.
Puts it under her arm.

Places the gun
against the waitress’s temple.

FRIDAY
Bonus points if you pee your pants --

Weapons Of Mass Distortion

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 3 of HIT & RUN HOLIDAY, having lost her home, her girlfriend and her car, unemployed screenwriter Friday Foster has a breakdown ... and steals a pizza delivery car, where she finds a gun, a laptop, and a briefcase full of cash. Meanwhile, Bland Loosener, Israeli mob enforcer, the owner of the car, has to report the theft to his crime boss, who is NOT happy ...


EXT. VENICE APARTMENT BUILDING - BACK ALLEY - DAY
A pizza delivery CAR idles.
A crappy, late model Nissan Sentra
with a cardboard triangle sign on top.

FRIDAY
shudders.
Something goes through her.

She tip-toes up to the car.
Empty. The door’s ajar.
She looks around. No one. Huh.

And, faster than you can
say 'pepperoni', she JUMPS in,

JERKS it into drive --
and TAKES OFF.

Just then, BLAND LOOSENER (27) appears.
Six feet of corn-fed muscle.

Spiky Mohawk. Combat fatigues.
Toking on a fattie.

He nods to the music on his headphones.
Takes a hit. Smiles.

BLAND
Nice. Weapons of mass distortion --
(looks around)
My car! My fucking car!
Somebody stole my fucking CAR!

EXT. VENICE ALLEY - DAY
Friday barrels down the alley
in her newly-stolen wheels.

Right behind the boardwalk,
behind the shops and drunks.

FRIDAY
Thirty minutes or less!
Or we take your FUCKING CAR.

EXT. VENICE APARTMENT BUILDING - SIDE ALLEY - DAY
Bland fingers a number on his cell phone. Listens.

BLAND
Zvi? It’s Bland.
We’ve got a problem.
Uh, someone stole my car.

INT. MARINA DEL REY - BEACH CONDO - AT THAT MOMENT
A large, burly, TANNED ISRAELI (45)
in white linen listens on the phone.

He’d be quite the catch,
gold chains, Rolex --

If it weren’t for the bright, shiny
electronic ankle cuff.

Meet ZVI BEN-ARUT,
international raconteur.

Sex broker. Under house arrest.
Right now pacing, furious. Red-faced.

ZVI
You stupid fuck.
You LEFT THE ENGINE RUNNING?
SPLIT SCREEN WITH:

EXT. VENICE BEACH APARTMENT BUILDING - CONTINUOUS

BLAND
Don’t worry, I’ll find it. I’ll find it.

ZVI
You better.
Or else you’re dead.
Understand? Go, now. Find it.
Use the tracking device
in your fucking laptop.

BLAND
The laptop’s -- in the car.

ZVI
You fucking JAR-HEAD.

BLAND
I’m sorry boss, I fucked up.
I know. I’ll make it right,
I promise -- I --

ZVI
What the fuck were you doing?
No, wait -- don’t tell me.
You were fucking SCORING DOPE.

BLAND
It’s medicinal, Zvi --
Gulf War Syndrome -

ZVI
I’ll fucking give you a 'syndrome.'
Get your ass over here, NOW.
(beat)
God help me, but you’re gonna
have to take one of my cars.
(to himself)
God-DAMit.

BLAND
Which one? The SUV? The BMW?

ZVI
Dumb fucking slab of ‘American war hero,’
NO. You take the bug.

BLAND
But that’s -- a girl’s car.

ZVI
Exactly.
(sneers)
Mission accomplished.

INT. NISSAN SENTRA - CONTINUOUS
Friday pulls the car into an alley.
Parks. Looks around. No one following her.
Heart pounding. What to do? Should I -- ?

She notices the pizza delivery cases
in the back seat.

Three of them.
Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner.

Her stomach GROWLS.
She reaches over, grabs one.

Puts it on her lap.
Opens it, to reveal --

A brand new Apple G-6 laptop.
It sparkles in the sunlight.

FRIDAY
Holy shit.

Friday turns it on.
Places it on the seat next to her.

FRIDAY
Can finally check my email --

She grabs another one.
Opens it. Her jaw drops.

The case is stuffed with
banded wads of HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS.

FRIDAY
Holy FUCK.

She quickly SNAPS it shut.
Places it under her seat.

WHIPS around. GRABS the last box.
FLIPS it open, to reveal --

A large pizza.
With pepperoni and sausage.

Steaming hot.
Friday grabs a slice,
wolfs it down hungrily. BELCHES.

FRIDAY
So ladylike.

Greasy hands. She needs a napkin.
Searches. Opens the glove box,
and finds -- A 357 MAGNUM. She GRABS IT.

FRIDAY
Come to Mama.

Just then A PATROL CAR creeps by.
Friday deftly slides
the gun under the seat.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The cop stops.
Classic stone-face.

He glances into the Sentra,
sees the pizza box.

FRIDAY
Hi, officer.
Is there a problem, sir?

Black aviator shades glare at her.
What’s he doing?
Looking up her license plate?

COP
Won’t you get in trouble
if you eat the pizza?

She realizes.
The pizza sign on the car.

FRIDAY
I get it to eat if it’s a no-show.
Must of been some kids, a prank --
COP

Nice perk. Have a nice day.

FRIDAY
Thanks. You too, officer.

He drives away.
Friday sits a moment.
Heart still pounding.

FRIDAY
To protect and shit my pants --