EXT NIGHT. HOLLYWOOD AND HIGHLAND.
Outside the CHINESE THEATRE, a crowded premiere is wrapping up. Flash cubes are popping like fucking vaudeville. Moviegoers are rolling out of this HISTORIC FIXTURE of L.A. moviegoing.
THE LEXMAN, 41, wearing a cocked-sideways KC ROYALS FLAT-FRIM and CAMO SHORTS, WALLET CHAIN, tubby but awesome, ratty beard, is FIRING UP A WINSTON, looky-looing the exiting patrons, journos, and HIGH-ROLLERS.
WHOOSH CHYRON, JOHN STOCKWELL-TONY SCOTT STYLE ON FREEZE FRAME/GRAINVISION:
“LEXG. 41. INTERNET TROLL. FAVORITE CELEBRITY TO WHACK OFF TO = SCARLETT JOHANSSON.”
CAMERA SHUTTERS CLICK as starlets and wannabes exit in a Fellini-Stardust Memories surreal fantasia, like some wack calliope music ambient on the track, maybe like a MUSETTE or some fucking shit.
Then THE MAN OF THE HOUR rolls out, KEVIN SARACI, a doughy, DON CALFA-LOOKING movie blog stereotypical PC rodjob fucking nerd, 41, in a “PICARD OWNS” T-shirt covered in SAL’S PIZZZZA-REA stains, smugly smoking a cigarette with a PETER O’TOOLE cig holder, other TUBBY NERDS all over his dick waiting for his pompous pronouncement.
The CROWD SILENCES as MAESTRO SARACI looks to the divine to summon something PROFOUND….
It is a masterpiece.
WHOOSH CHYRON FREEZE-FRAME, READS “KEVIN SARACI. BLOWHARD MOVIE BLOGGER. FAVORITE CELEBRITY TO WHACK OFF TO = SAILOR MOON…..(pause, fades up) SECOND CHOICE, GLORIA STEINEM.
The crowd APPLAUDS and a little ZITHER RIFF plays on the track, THE CRITIC having deigned to give approval like a Roman King from ON HIGH….
Autograph hounds and Junket Whores SWARM Sir Saraci, but something to the side catches his attention.
He spies LEXMAN, leaning against the wall, cig in mouth, NIKE AIR ALPHA FORCE wedged up on the wall. SARACI knows this guy…
SARACI pushes aside the throngs of admirers and the DIN OF NOISE quiets on the soundtrack to surreal, ambient Michael Mann eerie silence….The bright lights in the background are in that SMEARY MIDNIGHT RUN VEGAS-SCENE-VISION….
Don’t I know you?
Yeah, you know me.
What do I know?
WHOOSH CUT TO:
INT NIGHT. BAY-LIT COMPUTER TERMINAL.
LEXMAN typing on a blog with a pic of a FAT GUY WITH HIS DICK OUT, JERKING IT.
“Your a fag!!! Eat my balls” – Lexman420
WHOOSH CUT TO:
INT. DAY. A WIDE, BRIGHTLY LIT POOL OUT OF A OLIVIER MEGATON MOVIE.
Classic music, the DUET FROM LAKME is playing, as SARACI is typing at a huge BANK OF SERVERS worthy of Hugh Jackman in fucking SWORDFISH.
SARACI reads the “your a fag” message, types into his text box.
“You are blocked, banned, and a sexist, racist, homophobe,” hits ENTER, then leans back with a knowing smirk.
A GREEK NYMPHET out of FELLINI’S CASANOVA feeds him grapes.
CUT BACK TO:
EXT. NIGHT. OUTSIDE THE CHINESE.
Same as before, read up motherfucker….
I know you hate me.
Nah, that’s just a shtick.
Wanna cause some fucking chaos?
Okay. Let’s do it.
LEXMAN steps off the wall, flicking the cig away, ROMERO in ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK style, as IN THE AIR TONIGHT kicks in on the track.
INT. NIGHT. PARKING GARAGE.
As the DRUM INTO KICKS IN, LEXMAN is BEHIND THE WHEEL of a 1990 BENZ, convertible, TOP DOWN, the lighting some TERMINATOR-BLACK MOON RISING vaguely ‘80s SOFT FOCUS shit…. SARACI riding shotgun, serious as motherfucking Rico Tubbs.
When the dialogue kicks in, it’s a little off….
Thought you were kind of a PC liberal pussy?
That’s just for those pussies upstairs.
PROFOUND PAUSE, COLLINS SWELLS. They fist-bump.
They roll up to the attendant and LEXMAN has the TICKET IN HIS MOUTH MCQUEEN GETAWAY STYLE…. The CASHIER is a ZOMBIFIED, bored chick in BLONDE RINGLETS ‘80s hair. That framing shit where it RACKS FOCUS to reveal her.
She CRACKS HER GUM.
In TANDEM, LEXMAN and SARACI put on some RAY-BAN WAYFARERS, and LEXMAN flicks a $20 at her with UTMOST contempt.
The ARM RAISES and from behind we see THE BENZ roll up, out of the lot, HANGING ON THE SHOT A BEAT TOO LONG in PURE MANN VISION.
EXT. NIGHT. HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD.
REFLECTIONS of NEON and STREETLIGHTS on the HOOD OF THE BENZ, CLOSED-UPS OF THE RIMS, front-bumper FRIEDKIN-ASS POV shots as they ROLL DOWN the BOULEVARD
A LONG PARTY LIMO pulls up alongside them, a HOT CHICK half out the window, flashes her rack.
LEXMAN and SARACI just GLOWER.
Awkward moment as the HIP-HOP droning inside the PARTY BUS drones as the HOT CHICK loses her smile, pulls her top down and slinks back inside. The fellas SHRUG.
Be more where that came from.
Pull up over there.
EXT. SUNSET BLVD. NIGHT.
The street is RAIN SOAKED inexplicably, the TRAINING DAY WELCOME TO THE OFFICE SCORE kicks in across a WIDE PAN of them ROLLING INTO….
INT. NIGHT. A LIQUOR STORE.
MIDDLE EASTERN SWAMI MUSIC is BLARING as a foreign man of indeterminate origin is behind the counter, in DIAMOND DAVE DISTORTO-VISION.
Shades on, LEXMAN and SARACI make a cursory run up the aisle as a customer buys a Slim Jim, then in ARONOFSKY SEPTIC TANK GREEN SHEEN AND FISH EYE, SARACI rushes up and WHIPS OUT A SILVER DESERT EAGLE.
Open the fucking drawer, Achnad!
Oh, it’s on!
WHOOSH SWING as SARACI swings around for backup and LEXMAN wheels out a SAWED-OFF, RACKS THAT MOTHERFUCKER THREE TIMES IN QUICK SUCCESSION in JAGGED THREE JUMP CUTS.
The CAMERA SWIRLS AROUND THEM in that BAY DEAL.
The CASHIER is COWERING IN TERROR as SARACI slams the coin jar across the register and pushes the gun in his face.
Fuckin’ do it, motherfucker!
You fuckin’ heard him, bitch! Open it!
An ELDERLY KOREAN WOMAN happens into the ENRANCE.
SARACI cocks his HAMMER.
Fuck out of here, Kim Hye-ja!
The ELDERLY KOREAN WOMAN mugs and begs off in some cartoonisly looped Uwe Boll-level stereotypical dialect….
SWINGS BACK TO THE CASHIER IN TERROR! WOOOOAH!
Empty your fucking drawer, Dev Patel!
I do it I do it!!!!!
He frantically empties the drawer, throwing billz at the SATANIC-EYED SARACI, who scoops it up in a frenzy….
LEXMAN surveys the liquor behind the counter….
And gimme a BOTTLE O’ ANYTHING!
CASHIER forks over a Fifth of Jack, the guys scoop up their treasure and race to the door, WHEN, chilled by the HOLLYWOOD AIR, a figure appears from behind BAMBOO CURTAINS….
FARIZ, the CASHIER’S wife, emerges, caught off-guard, seeing her store thrashed and robbed.
What is this????
She SURVEYS THE SCENE IN HORROR, and OPERATIC MUSIC KICKS IN, that shit they play in CASINO when the HOTELS TUMBLE DOWN IN DEMO, as she sees her husband felled by two lowlifes, and we CUT TO….
In HYPERKINETIC NOAH-ARONOFSKY VISION, we see FARIZ emerging from a VAGINA in a SACRED BIRTH in a FAR-OFF LAND, SEPIA TONE, FAST-MOTION, quick crazy cuts watching her grow up, a LOVING FAMILY EMBRACING HER in 8MM FILM STOCK, giving way to A WARLORD WITH A MACHETE, terrified reactions, the FATHER being HATCHETED TO DEATH, the mother with a RAG IN HER MOUTH WEEPING, FARIZ as a YOUNGSTER in PRISON GOWN being TORTURED with EL DOCTOR ELECTRODES, WHOOSH WHOOOSH WHOOSH SWIRL, she is ESCAPING ON SOME EPIC DUNES HORIZON, TRIUMPHANT MUSIC, NATIVES CHEERING, SHE RAISES A FIST ON A MOUNTAIN TOP, cut to her BEING FETED BY WORLD LEADERS AT THE U.N., Rocky FREEZE FRAME and NEWSPAPER CLIPPING “FARIZ NOBEL PEACE PRICE,” RAIDERS-STYLE MAP CARTOON WITH RED LINE OF HER FLYING FROM “THE MIDDLE EAST” to “LOS ANGELES,” footage of her FROLLICKING ON BEACH IN FAST MOTION, ATTENDING A COLLEGE – SNAPSHOT of her RECEIVING A DIPLOMA, SHOOTING A THUMBS-UP, WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH , she’s MARRYING THE CASHIER, WEDDING PHOTOS, HE’S CARRYING HER! CHEERING, WHOO! CUT TOOOO….
SARACI plugs her RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES.
REVERSE WHOOSH, THE WHOLE LAST MONTAGE REWINS in SPEED MOTION, CUTS TO BLACK, the sound of a FLATLINE RESOUNDS, her life is over, she is DEAD, all rendered meaningless.
INT. LIQUOR STORE.
Dude, what the FUCK?
SWOOP IN on Saraci….
She had to fuck with me.
Let’s go. Let’s go!
They race back to the car, some PUNK MUSIC BULLSHIT kicks in, THEY SPEED OFF! WHOO!
EXT. NIGHT. INSIDE CONVERTIBLE.
SARACI is now DRIVING, and LEXMAN is CHUGGING a KEROSENE CAN-sized JUG OF DEWARS. They’re HIGH-FIVING and the EXTERIOR SHIT switches to SPEED-UP Koyananisqati VISION, RACING DOWN THE BOULEVARDS OF HOLLYWOOD,
CUT IN with SLOW MOTION OF THEM LAUGHING IN GLOWERING THICK RED SATURATED HELL LIGHTING…..
They head down a SIDE STEET OFF SUNSET, PURE ROBERT ELSWIT VISION as they ROLL UP on a SUBURBAN HOUSE/
Fuck is this?
I got a buddy in here, can hook us up.
LEXMAN (dead inside)